The Amazing Harvey

by Don Passman

  “Hard to say. You’re entitled to a speedy trial, but we have to prepare your case properly. Figure four to six months.”

  Six months?!

  I bit my lower lip. “When do I have to decide?”

  “In the next few hours. I have to stop her if you don’t want this. She’ll be pissed at me, but that has to be settled between the two of you.”

  * * *

  When I got back to my cell, the Samoan was gone.

  I sat on the bunk, let out a breath, and rubbed my wrists where the cuffs had been.

  I swiveled my butt around, threw my legs on the bed, and lay back.

  With the heel of my fist, I thumped the gray concrete wall. Hit it again. And again.

  Can I spend months here? Months? I’m this freaked out after just one night.…

  I pictured Mom scraping the last bits of tuna out of a can. I saw her standing in an art-supply store, digging through her purse, then looking sheepishly at the clerk. “Could you hold these brushes for a few days?”

  What happens if I stay in jail? It’ll kill my career. I finally got some momentum with that Vegas promoter. He offered me a thousand a week. Marty probably got him higher. With that kind of dough, I could start paying Mom back.

  Assuming the Vegas gig wasn’t derailed because I got arrested in front of the promoter.

  I rolled off the bed and paced the cell. The length was exactly four paces. What’s that, maybe twelve feet? I turned around and paced back.

  I peed in the steel toilet. The stream hitting the stainless steel rang loudly. How’re you supposed to sleep through that?

  Can I let Mom risk her house?

  On the other hand, she wanted to pay Nadler that kind of money. If I’d gone with Nadler, she’d have paid his fees and paid the bond on top. Look how much I saved her by using Hannah.

  Would Nadler have gotten me off without bail? He’s certainly a better-connected lawyer. Way more experienced.

  Nah. Even Clarence Darrow couldn’t have gotten it cheaper. Not with the DNA evidence.

  * * *

  A couple of hours later, lunch came in a brown paper bag. I sat on the bunk and crinkled it open. Bologna sandwich on white bread. Bag of corn chips.

  I peeled up the top slice of bread to look inside. The mayonnaise puckered against the meat. I leaned down and smelled the bologna.

  Without eating, I put the food aside and started pacing. I looked at the door. Through the open-grate ceiling, I heard two men yelling at each other in Spanish.

  How’d I get into this? How did someone get my DNA to the crime scene? How would I do it as a magician?

  I paced faster. I have a trick where someone signs a card with a felt marker; then I make it vanish and reappear, taped to the outside of a window. Since it’s signed, I obviously have to use the same card. Did someone plant my DNA at the scene? How could anyone have gotten it? Maybe I left some saliva somewhere. Even blood. But semen?

  Can you duplicate someone’s DNA? That sounds impossible. Even if you could, why me? Why not go for some obvious criminal type?

  I kept pacing. How would the great magicians of the past have done it? The ones who did the big tricks? Houdini’s were mostly escapes. What about the illusionists?

  Harry Blackstone. The wiry man with flailing hair. One of the greatest in the vaudeville era. He has a room dedicated to him at the Magic Castle. Blackstone once told an audience he was going to perform a trick so enormous that they had to go outdoors to see it. He guided them out, row by row. When they got to the street, they saw that the theater was on fire. His spiel—something we magicians call “patter”—had gotten them out safely.

  Blackstone did spectacular stage tricks. The Dancing Handkerchief that darted through the air, and still danced after being plugged inside a glass bottle. The Electric Cabinet, where he locked his assistant inside and speared her with lighted fluorescent bulbs. His signature trick: pretending to hypnotize a woman in a flowing gown, placing her on a table, without hiding her inside a box, and running a huge buzz saw through her midsection.

  Blackstone also did a trick where he made a woman disappear onstage, then had her instantly run down the aisle from the back of the theater. It stunned the audiences of the day. That trick’s still good for a few gasps. Yet it was one of his simplest. Because …

  I stopped pacing.

  Hang on.…

  Could that be it?

  Blackstone used twins. He made one twin vanish onstage, then had the other run down the aisle.

  Twins have identical DNA.

  In our first meeting, Hannah asked if I had a twin. I said no, but could I? Could I have been adopted? Separated from a twin brother?

  Mom’s always taking in foster kids.…

  Impossible. She wouldn’t lie to me all these years. No way.

  Would she?

  There’s no way she’d let me get arrested without telling me about a twin.

  Maybe she doesn’t know. Maybe I was adopted and separated from my brother at birth.

  A twin would explain everything. How my DNA got there. Why I looked familiar to the apartment manager.

  I walked over to the cell door and put my palms against the cold metal.

  I can’t stay in here. I gotta work on my defense.

  I’ll pay every penny back to Mom. I swear.

  Even if I have to sell my trick to Copperfield.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  They sprang me in the afternoon. When I walked out the door of the granite building, I stopped at the top of the concrete steps and squinted in the bright sun. Shielding my eyes with my hand, I watched people hurrying along the sidewalk. Do you people have any idea how incredible it is to just go wherever you want? I took a deep breath of the fresh air, let it out slowly.

  I felt someone touch my arm and jumped.

  Hannah said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  I took her hand and shook it. “Thank you.”

  She held on to my hand for a moment. “C’mon. I’ll give you a ride home.”

  We walked a few blocks to an open parking lot, then drove off in her blue hybrid.

  I said, “Would you take me to my mother’s house?”

  She nodded.

  After a few blocks, Hannah cleared her throat. She spoke with her eyes fixed on the road. “So. The woman who called me after you were arrested. Is that your girlfriend?”

  “How’s your boyfriend with the Mercedes?”

  She tightened her grip on the wheel. “He’s just a friend.”

  Hannah pressed the button to lower her window. A chilly wind rushed through the car.

  I said, “I think I figured out how my DNA might have gotten in … um, ended up at the crime scene.”

  Hannah looked over at me. “Oh?”

  “Maybe I have a twin.”

  “You told me you don’t.”

  “I know. I thought about it more in jail. Mom’s always taking in foster kids. Maybe I’m adopted.”

  Hannah screwed her mouth to the side. “You think she’d keep something like that from you?”

  “She didn’t tell me that she put up her house for bond money.”

  * * *

  We pulled up to the curb in front of Mom’s house. I opened the car door. Hannah kept the motor running.

  I got out of the car and said, “You want to come in?”

  “I have to get to the office. Obviously, you should take the day off.”

  She reached over, pulled the car door shut, and drove off.

  As I walked up the sidewalk, the family of plaster baby ducks stared at me. At least those babies know who their mother is.

  I felt my heart in my neck as I rang Mom’s bell. Ed, the seven-year-old foster kid, opened the front door. “Hi, Uncle Harvey.”

  I said, “Where’s Mom?”

  “In the backyard. Show me a trick.”

  “Later, okay?”

  “C’mon.”

  “Sorry. I really gotta talk to Mom.”

 
I hurried through the house, then out the back door. Mom was on her knees in the garden. She was daubing black paste on a twig that was tied to the gnarled branch of a bare-limbed shrub.

  I said, “Mom?”

  She looked up, sprang to her feet, ran to me, and grabbed me under my arms in a bear hug. Mom squeezed my ribs so hard that my hands involuntarily went out to the sides.

  I closed my arms around her and hugged.

  Has she always been this short?

  I said, “You shouldn’t have put up your house.”

  She looked up with shiny eyes. “That woman told you?”

  Yikes! “No, no.” Think, think.… “The, uh, bail bondsman told me.”

  Mom went back to squeezing my chest. “You weren’t supposed to know.”

  “And you weren’t supposed to do that. But thank you. I’ll pay back every penny.”

  “Shut up.” Mom’s chest heaved against mine. I could feel my shirt getting wet against her face.

  I looked over my shoulder. The three foster kids were in the back doorway, spying on us. When they saw me looking, they giggled and disappeared.

  I said, “Mom…”

  She let go and stepped back, wiping her eyes. “Yes?”

  “I want to … I mean…” Maybe I’d better ease into this twin thing.

  I gestured toward the twig she’d been daubing. “What were you doing down there?”

  She looked at the shrub, then back at me. “Grafting a plum tree. You cut a notch in the bark of a root stock, then slant-cut the branch from a young tree, tie them together, and paint the joint with a grafting sealant. They’ll grow together and I’ll get a strong plant. You hungry?”

  “No.”

  She bent down to pick up her knife and the bottle of dark paste she’d been daubing. When she straightened up, she said, “What’s eating you? I mean, besides the arrest.”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  She tightened the cap on the paste bottle. “Yes. But it’s not all that’s on your mind.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I’m your mother, and mothers know these things. Spit it out.”

  I shifted my weight. I glanced at the back door. The kids’ heads disappeared.

  I stared at the branch she’d been grafting and said, “I got to thinking about my DNA at the crime scene. I mean, how it could have gotten there.”

  She put the knife in the pocket of her jeans. “And…”

  “See, magicians sometimes use twins in their act. So I thought, well, maybe I might have a twin. That would explain the DNA.”

  She screwed her mouth to the side, like she wasn’t sure if I was joking. “A twin?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let’s see.…” She squinted her eyes and put the tip of her index finger against her lips, in a mock thinking gesture. “I’m sure I would’ve remembered a second kid coming out.”

  “Mom, I’m serious.”

  She furrowed her forehead. “No, Harvey. You don’t have a twin.”

  I cleared my throat. “Am I adopted?”

  Her head jerked back. “What did you say?”

  “Am I—”

  “You think I wouldn’t have told you something like that?”

  “Well, I … I dunno. I mean, yes, of course I’m sure you’d have told me, but maybe you were worried about my feelings or something?”

  Mom shook her head.

  I said, “It doesn’t matter if I am. I love you. But if I was separated from a twin—”

  “It’s been two generations since they separated twins for adoption.” Her eyes teared. “You think I lied to you all these years?” The bottle of paste fell out of her hand.

  “No, no, of course not.” I retrieved the paste bottle and handed it to her. “It’s just … just that I’m getting desperate.”

  Mom snatched the bottle from me. Still frowning, she said, “It took me two years to get pregnant with you. Two years.”

  “Mom, I’m—”

  “Come with me.”

  She stomped into the house, scattering the foster kids like frightened geese. I followed behind. When we got to the kitchen, Mom motioned her head toward the table. “Sit.”

  She left the kitchen.

  I sat down slowly.

  From her bedroom, I heard some clanking. A few moments later, Mom came back with a gray metal lockbox and clunked it hard on the table. She stuck a key in the lock and turned.

  Mom opened the lid with a squeal. The insides smelled like old paper. She pawed through, took out a few photos, and shoved them at me.

  I looked at the top picture. Mom, with her legs in hospital stirrups, her face beaded with sweat. A doctor was pulling a mucus-covered baby’s head out of her. She said, “Harvey Allen Kendall, age ten seconds.”

  I dropped the picture. “Eeeew. Yuck. Mom, that’s gross.”

  “You believe me now?”

  I pushed the photo away. “I believed you before.”

  Mom threw the pictures into the box and slammed the lid.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  After Mom dropped me off at my apartment house, I trudged up the stairs. Were the steps always this hard to climb?

  In my mind, I still had a vivid image of my gross birth photo.

  Do those things fade with time?

  Who shows something like that to their kid?

  As I walked down the hall to my apartment, I wondered if I’d find a sheriff’s lock on the door. Don’t they, like, have to take you to court before they can evict you? Is there an excuse for being in jail?

  I unlocked the door, shoved it open, and started to walk in.

  I stopped in the doorway.

  The living room floor was covered with open books, CDs, clothes, and couch pillows. Looking through the bedroom door, I saw that my bed had been stripped and the linens were in a messy pile on the floor. My dresser drawers were pulled out.

  Guess the cops finally got around to searching my apartment.

  Shit.

  I let out a sigh and took a step inside. My magic trunks were open. The tricks were strewn on the carpet. Did you figure out the secrets, you assholes? If you damaged one single trick, I’ll sue the shit out of you. I took a few steps toward the kitchen. The cabinet doors were ajar. The shelves were empty. Dishes, silverware, and cereal boxes were scattered on the counter.

  I turned and walked slowly through the living room. Is this what a battlefield feels like after a war?

  I went into my bedroom and saw Lisa standing on the dresser. When she saw me, her eyes went red. She screeched and tried to fly to me, flapping off feathers as she fluttered to the carpet. I picked her up and stroked her chest. Her expression was a mixture of Thank God you’re back and Where the hell have you been, you sonofabitch?

  I put Lisa on my shoulder. She sidestepped close to my neck. I sat on the bare mattress and looked around. The open dresser drawers were empty. Everything had been dumped on the floor.

  They poked through my most private things? Even the ancient condoms? Did you get a good laugh when you saw they hadn’t been used for years? My head throbbed.

  I really ought to clean this up.

  I put Lisa on my finger, laid back on the bed, and closed my eyes. I’ll just rest for a few minutes.…

  * * *

  I dreamed I was swimming in dark water. In the distance, something was chirping. It grew louder. I tried to swim toward it. Can’t see. Am I moving? Am I going backward?

  I opened my eyes. The chirping was my phone’s electronic ring. Lisa was standing on the mattress near my head, pecking at the ticking. I picked up the bird, groaned off the bed, and answered the phone.

  Hannah said, “How are you doing?”

  “Fabulous. Best day of my life.”

  Silence.

  I said, “When I got home, I found my apartment had been redecorated by the Los Angeles Society of Interior Cops.”

  She blew out a breath. “I’ve seen their work.” I heard Hannah shuffling papers. “I
’m meeting your friend David Hu as soon as he gets back in town. We need his alibi to have any shot at reasonable doubt. I want to make sure he’s solid.”

  “He will be.” I sincerely hope.

  Hannah said, “I hate to bring this up now, but I got a call from the DNA lab. They said your bill hasn’t been paid.”

  I grimaced. “I know. I’m a little short.” I started pacing.

  Hannah let out a breath. “I’m willing to ride with you on my fees, but we can’t put on much of a defense if we can’t pay the lab. They may not tell me the results if there’s an outstanding bill. And if they find a glitch in the DNA, we’ll need someone from the lab to testify, which won’t be a small number.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “How?”

  I raised my voice. “I’ll take care of it.”

  She hung up.

  I looked at the dead phone.

  Called Hannah back.

  Got her voice mail.

  After slamming down the phone, I checked my answering machine.

  No messages.

  Over two days?

  My agent, Marty, knew where I was, so I guess he wouldn’t have called. Wouldn’t Carly call to see how I’m doing? She probably doesn’t know I’m out of jail. Why didn’t she leave a message, you know, for when I was back?

  I checked my cell phone. No voice mails. No missed calls.

  I dialed Carly’s number. When the voice mail answered, I said, “I just wanted to say thanks for calling my lawyer. I’m so sorry you had to see that. It was all a mistake and I’m at home now. Please call me.”

  I called Marty’s cell. He answered right away.

  I said, “What’s up with the Vegas gig?”

  I heard the sound of traffic in the background.

  I said, “Marty?”

  He spoke evenly. “Do you, by any slight chance, remember that you got arrested while Bernie was watching?”

  “Hang on. Lemme see.… Oh yeah. I did get arrested, you flaming asshole.”

  “Getting hauled off by the cops didn’t exactly inspire his confidence.”

  I shook my head. “It was just a misunderstanding. Besides, what’s that got to do with the Vegas gig? Bernie said he loved me.”

  “He did. He’s just a teensy bit concerned that if he books you into one of his rooms, you could become, shall we say, ‘indisposed’?”