Houdini's Last Trick (The Burdens Trilogy)

by Khalaf, David

  “My drink of choice already has a name. Water.”

  The bar was dark but Houdini thought Pickford smiled. It was just as well that he could barely make out her face in the candlelight; he couldn’t be mesmerized by her if he couldn’t see her.

  Houdini ran his fingers along the vertical metal bars that made a cage around their table.

  “This is an odd place. The Jail Cafe. Who wants to pay to be imprisoned?”

  “Does it make you nervous?” Pickford asked.

  Houdini shook his head.

  “If anything, I feel at home. I’m an escape artist, remember.”

  Pickford wrinkled her nose as the waiter walked by in a prison uniform.

  “I think it’s tacky,” she said. “But this is Hollywood, and everything has to be an attraction, I suppose.”

  For all of Pickford’s grumblings, it was she who brought them there. Their taxi driver had driven aimlessly for three or four miles until Pickford finally directed him to the hilly Ivanhoe neighborhood between Hollywood and Downtown. The entrance to the Jail Cafe was at street level on Sunset Boulevard, but to get to the restaurant, patrons had to walk down two flights of steep concrete stairs embedded into the hillside. At the bottom was a legitimate restaurant by day, and a speakeasy by night. The irony of them breaking the law in a prison-themed restaurant did not escape the magician.

  “I know why you like this place,” Houdini said. “Because it’s dark.”

  Pickford grabbed the stem of her cherry and swirled it in her drink.

  “Do you ever miss your privacy?”

  “At times,” Houdini said.

  Pickford let out a sigh so long and sad it was as if she were exhaling her very soul.

  “I grieve my privacy as if it were a child who died from a slow illness. It’s a terrible loss that no one warns you about when you go into entertainment. When I wake up each morning, there’s the briefest of moments when I forget that it’s gone. I feel normal; I feel free. Then I roll over and see Douglas snoring, and I remember who we are. What we are. And I remember that my privacy is dead, and no amount of longing shall ever bring it back.”

  Houdini didn’t relish his fame, nor did he resent it. It was a necessary part of being a magician, just as danger was.

  “You didn’t have to go into acting,” he said.

  “That’s true, but also untrue,” Pickford said, finishing her drink and beckoning to the waiter for another. “With a face like mine I was put on the entertainment track as a child. And once that train picks up speed, it’s difficult to jump off.”

  Pickford’s next drink came quickly. She snatched it from the waiter before he could set it down.

  “And Fairbanks, how does he fare with the attention?” Houdini asked.

  Pickford barked a laugh.

  “Douglas eats it up. He was made to be famous; it’s part of his very being. After all, how can someone with charisma express his force of presence if no one is there to appreciate it?”

  Houdini hadn’t considered the truth of that insight. If Fairbanks’s charisma were as much a part of him as introspection was to Houdini, the actor couldn’t help but be the center of attention. The notion gave him second thoughts about stealing the spotlight from Fairbanks on one of the most important nights in his career.

  “I’m sorry for my stunt,” Houdini said. “There were opportunities to call it off, but I became prideful. And I wanted to punish your husband after what he did to me. Pride and vengefulness, these are ugly qualities I’m ashamed to own.”

  Houdini sipped his brandy again even as his body told him not to. His head was becoming fuzzy.

  “Douglas never apologizes,” Pickford said. “You and he, you’re polar opposites. Everything about him is external. All of his energy flows outward. It’s part of what I love about him, and part of what drives me crazy.”

  Another gulp of her drink.

  Is that her second, or her third?

  “You, all of your energy turns back in on yourself,” she said. “Every action is questioned, reasoned, analyzed. Everything about you is internal. Douglas lives in the world. You live in yourself. It’s quite refreshing.”

  “How so?” Houdini asked.

  “You don’t need any attention from me,” Pickford said. “You’re perfectly self-sustaining. I don’t have to be Mary Pickford around you. I don’t have to be your audience. I can be nobody. I can simply be…nothing.”

  An alarm began to sound in Houdini’s head, but it was distant and muffled, and with so much brandy he couldn’t understand what it was warning him about.

  “We should get you home,” Houdini said.

  He paid the tab and had the bartender call two cabs. He then walked Pickford back up to Sunset Boulevard, holding her arm as she stumbled up the steep staircase. The street was empty, both directions wandering off into blackness broken only by a string of street lamps.

  It was so quiet Houdini couldn’t believe they were in the middle of a city. The air was mild and pleasant, and it carried the faint smell of sage and other native plants that were foreign to him. Cloaked in darkness, Pickford’s face and body were reduced to intertwining curves of purple, blue and black.

  “You can take the first cab,” Houdini said. “Your husband will be worried.”

  “I can’t go home,” Pickford said. “Not until Douglas sleeps it off. He’ll be all apologies tomorrow.”

  “A hotel then,” Houdini said.

  Pickford shook her head.

  “They’d recognize me. It would be the gossip of the town for weeks. We can’t afford that publicity, not America’s perfect couple.”

  “Where, then?” Houdini asked.

  “Wherever you are staying.”

  “No,” Houdini said. “It isn’t smart.”

  “Douglas says I lack smarts altogether,” Pickford said. “Please, I can’t be alone.”

  “No.”

  Houdini knew right then and there he should turn and retreat down the street, without waiting a second more for his cab to arrive. He should turn away and never lay eyes upon Mary Pickford again. But he chose not to.

  Pickford pulled them under the closest street lamp and removed her hat. Her golden locks flowed about her. In his mind, Houdini scrambled for all of the tools meant to defend against a situation like this: steadfastness, forbearance, faithfulness. But they felt awkward and slippery in his head, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t quite grasp them.

  “Please,” she said. “I want to be nothing. I want to be no one. Just for a night.”

  All he could do was stare.

  I can’t. I won’t. I want to.

  He felt every cell of his being turn toward her, offering his full attention. His full submission. This was the inescapable brunt of her beauty. Hers was a trap from which there was no escape.

  “Kiss me,” she said.

  He did.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE PHONE RANG as if from inside Houdini’s head. It vibrated along the fissures of his brain and felt as if it were ripping them apart. He opened his eyes, attacked by morning sunlight, and quickly shut them again.

  But the phone wouldn’t stop. By the ninth or tenth ring, he was up from his bed and stumbling across the room to the wall-mounted phone. He picked up the receiver and was about to speak into the mouthpiece but was interrupted before he could start.

  “What were you thinking, saving Fairbanks from his stupid antics?”

  Louis B. Mayer spat out the words, as if he couldn’t stand to have them in his mouth.

  “What was I supposed to do,” Houdini asked, “let him die?”

  “You were supposed to steal the spotlight away from the movie, that’s what. Instead, you let Fairbanks join in on your shenanigans and suddenly it’s the most elaborate publicity stunt for a movie ever. Have you seen the papers?”

  Houdini rubbed his temples.

  “I’ve been sleeping.”

  “It’s the headline of every newspaper, with a photo
of you and Fairbanks swinging across Hollywood Boulevard like Tarzan and Jane. Just listen to this crap!”

  Houdini heard the rustling of newspaper.

  “The Los Angeles Times says ‘Houdini Rescues Fairbanks Before Movie Premiere.’”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad,” Houdini said.

  More rustling.

  “The Examiner calls it ‘a stunt as dangerous and daring as The Thief of Baghdad promises to be.’ The Daily News says, ‘United Artists steps up its game by bringing the action of their movies to the streets of Hollywood.’ Everyone is giving them credit!”

  Houdini opened and closed his fist.

  “I did exactly as you asked. I can’t help what the press says about it.”

  “You shouldn’t have allowed Fairbanks to get involved. That’s where you messed up.”

  “Very well,” Houdini said. “Give me my pay and I’ll be gone this same day.”

  “Pay you?” Mayer let out a mirthless laugh. “It’s United Artists who should be paying you. Fairbanks told the New York Times the stunt was all part of their movie premiere. He said they hired you to entertain the waiting crowds. You won’t get a penny more from me. If you want a paycheck, ask them!”

  Houdini stopped on something Mayer said.

  “The New York Times reported on this?”

  “Are you kidding me?” Mayer said. “This story has gone international. It’s the top headline from Hollywood to Hong Kong. The Chinese are probably reading about me right now, laughing rice out their nostrils.”

  The plan had worked, then.

  “Pack up and get off my studio lot,” Mayer said.

  The phone went dead.

  Now it was just a matter of waiting. How long would it take Atlas to reach Los Angeles? Two days? Three? There would be plenty of time to prepare himself.

  He pulled up the bedspread and jumped when a dark thing tumbled out of it. For a moment he thought it was a rat. But it sat there motionless, a dark blue blob of fabric. It was Pickford’s hat.

  His stomach dropped like a bag of rocks thrown into the sea.

  What have I done?

  Memories of the previous night came flooding back into his mind, a tidal wave frothing with regret.

  Was it the drink that caused him to falter? Was it Houdini’s loneliness in this strange city? No, it was something more. It was Pickford’s beauty. It was mesmerizing. It was supernatural.

  Beauty was the one talent men had fought and died for since the beginning of history. It brought the Achaeans to the gates of Ilium. It cost Samson his strength. Houdini had underestimated its power.

  At first he couldn’t bring himself to touch the hat. Nor could he pull his eyes away from it. He stood there a long time, warring with the quiet piece of felt.

  Finally, he picked it up and smelled it. Light traces of Pickford’s floral perfume remained; he smelled bergamot, lemon, neroli, and orange. He could see her face, feel her long golden curls in his hand. It was alluring and sickening at the same time.

  I am a weak man, growing weaker by the day.

  The magician pulled the hat away from his nose and stuffed it in his pocket. It was his mistake, and he had to make things right. Not only because it was the right thing to do, but because he couldn’t face Atlas on his own. He felt his chest to make sure the Eye was safely around his neck. It was time to gather the others together; he would need them all. He pushed away the question that continued to nag at him.

  After what I’ve done, will they even help me?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  HOUDINI’S FIRST STOP was to a post office on Wilshire Boulevard. In his mind, he had written a long and detailed explanation of everything he had done, and everything for which he would beg forgiveness from Bess. But he knew his wife, and she didn’t have patience for long explanations or flowery apologies.

  In the end, his letter was simple:

  My dearest Mrs. Houdini,

  I have let you down in every way imaginable. I have betrayed your trust and our covenant. There are no excuses for my actions. Sometimes even knowing oneself is no safeguard against oneself.

  After I face my pursuer, I will make my way to you. How we proceed after that is up to you.

  Your husband,

  HHH

  He mailed the letter. It wasn’t as good as a confession in person, but he wanted to make sure she would know the truth in case anything happened to him when Atlas arrived.

  Twenty minutes later, he was in a taxi, climbing up the windy roads above Beverly Hills. Like a forest of pine trees on a mountain, the houses were thick at the base of the hills but grew increasingly sparse as they gained elevation. This land was on the outskirts of Los Angeles and difficult to access. He couldn’t imagine anyone who would want to live in a place as remote as Beverly Hills.

  As they entered the gates to Pickfair, the native shrubs of the California hillside vanished, and in their stead grew acres of pristine grass, as flat and uniform as a putting green. From the taxi, Houdini saw tennis courts, stables, and even a private in-ground swimming pool. He had never seen such a thing.

  Pickfair sat at the peak of the highest hill in the area, a queen on a throne overlooking her subjects. Houdini had heard that the property was a renovated hunting lodge, but if it were, there was nothing left of its former life. The house was massive, with more windows than the magician could count. He resisted calling the giant structure a house, but it didn’t feel like a mansion either; the green roof and striped awnings were homey and inviting.

  The taxi drove under the porte-cochère and dropped him off at the front door. Fear radiated from Houdini’s chest, rippling throughout his body. He took a deep breath, focused all of his attention on it and shrunk it down to the size of a pinhead. He then put the fear in a glass jar in his mind and screwed on the metal lid.

  The door opened before he could even knock. The housekeeper stood there, built like a bulldog with the face to match. She had a full apron tied about her.

  “Good morning,” Houdini said. “Is Mr. Fairbanks here?”

  “No,” she snapped, folding her thick forearms as if in challenge.

  “What about Mrs. Pickford?”

  “You’re not welcome here.”

  Her accent was thick; she was French, or maybe French Canadian. Houdini looked past the woman and thought he saw a shadow move inside.

  “But I didn’t even introduce myself.”

  “I know who you are. We don’t want your silly tricks here, Mr. Houdini.”

  She spat out his name like a curse word. Obviously she was under orders not to let him in. But by whom?

  Houdini peeked again past her, taking in the freshly polished marble floors of the foyer and the brightly buffed handle on the door of the coat closet. Everything was immaculate.

  “You run a tight ship,” Houdini said. “And yet you’re a bit sloppy yourself.”

  The bulldog raised an eyebrow.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your apron is off-kilter,” he said. “It keeps slipping, doesn’t it? It’s because of the knot you use. It comes undone too easily.”

  She tugged at her apron self-consciously, straightening it out.

  “There is nothing wrong with how I tie my apron.”

  “If you’d allow me, I could show you a better knot.”

  Houdini slid behind her quickly and pulled her apron strings loose.

  “Excusez-moi!” she said.

  She reached her hands behind her to swat Houdini away. In one swift move Houdini threaded the apron strings around her wrists, binding them together in a bowline knot. Before she had time to pull away, he took the remaining slack and tied a cow hitch knot to the handle of the closet door. It would hold her for a minute or two, maybe longer if she wasn’t willing to rip the handle out of the door.

  She pulled against her restraints.

  “Nom de bleu!” she said. “How dare you!”

  “Just one of my silly tricks,” he said. “I’ll be back.”
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  The kitchen had all the charm of a converted English farmhouse: exposed wooden beams, pale yellow cabinets with antique fixtures, and a rustic table that looked like it had been hewn from Lebanese cedar from the days of Solomon.

  Reading a newspaper at the table was Douglas Fairbanks, sporting a casual navy blazer and white pants. There was a red handkerchief in his breast pocket and his hair was slicked with pomade in a way that looked like the wind was blowing it back. He could have been on the cover of Country Gentleman.

  Fairbanks turned at the sound of Houdini and smiled as if the man were a house guest.

  “Good morning.”

  He then returned to the newspaper. Houdini stood there a moment, unsure of what to say. It wasn’t fear holding him back, but something else: His pride resisted apologizing to the ungrateful man whose life he had saved.

  An honorable man owns his mistakes, regardless of who he has wronged.

  “I’ve come here to apologize,” Houdini said. “I’ve wronged you terribly.”

  Fairbanks refused to look up from his paper.

  “I know.”

  “You do?”

  Houdini was at a loss of what to say.

  “Of course,” Fairbanks said. “All this talk—about you wanting to team up to use our talents for the greater good, to thwart those who would use their gifts for evil. But then you attempt to ruin the greatest artistic achievement of my life.”

  “You’re talking about the movie,” Houdini said.

  “Of course I’m talking about the movie! For all your mischief, you’ve failed to humiliate me. I’m going to use your stunt to my advantage. We’re reshooting parts of the movie today. There’s going to be a wonderful scene in which the hero is being hanged for larceny in the palace courtyard. Hungry lions pace below, waiting to devour his body. But the thief escapes his death by unbinding his hands, pulling himself out of his noose, and then using the rope to swing across the temple courtyard and slide down one of the grand palace banners. Sound familiar?”

  “It’s very clever of you,” Houdini said.

  “Yesterday’s stunt will all seem intentional. Except for the part where you took too long to escape, and left the star of the movie hanging from a sign, about to plummet to his death. How very unprofessional of you. I doubt anyone will want to hire you again.”