Magician

by Timothy C. Phillips

  “I can be at your place tomorrow morning.”

  “Yes, well, shall we say the later morning? Around ten? I have a business meeting at eight o’clock.”

  “That’s fine.” I disconnected with my thumb and dialed another number. Viv picked up on the third ring, her voice still sleepy.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Roland. I just wanted to tell you, it looks like I’ll have to be going out of town. To Arizona.”

  “Today?”

  “No, probably Friday.”

  “Well, the bed’s still warm, if you care to drop back by.”

  “You aren’t working today?”

  “I called in. I was up pretty late last night.”

  “Sorry to hear about that.”

  “If you were really sorry, you’d come tell me so yourself.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  * * *

  As I drove over, I thought about what Champion had said, and wondered if there really was a business meeting. He was an odd fish, that was for certain.

  I frowned at my own thoughts. Champion was a bit strange, and his personality was a bit on the conniving side, but perhaps his wealth necessitated that. But I had agreed to work for him, and to take this case wherever it might go, regardless. Besides, I had no way of knowing if this was the Horace Champion who had once had a daughter named Georgia, or if this was what was left of a man who had once been a proud father. I was no stranger to loss, or to the sudden U-turns that life sometimes makes.

  I had made a few such U-turns of my own. Some of them had been damned unpleasant. I had once been a happy young husband and idealistic detective. I had gotten lucky one night, and caught a madman. People had called me a hero. I had had a bright future ahead of me . . . until I had made a mistake.

  Unable to forgive myself, I had started drinking, and that had cost me everything: wife, future, career. But first and foremost I had lost my ideals. After a couple of years in the bottle, I had decided to dry out. It hadn’t been easy. But there was one moment, at the end of that dark time, that I will always remember.

  I had been standing in the washroom of the Brooks Building, just after opening the office there. I had been about to shave, and I had taken a long hard look at myself in the mirror.

  “You are not the same man, Roland Longville,” I had told myself.

  I was sure that in his own darkest hour, Horace Champion had probably looked at himself and thought that very same thing.

  My thoughts turned suddenly to Viv, and the night that we had spent together. She was a little young for me, maybe, but she was a smart woman who seemed to know what she wanted. If that happened to be a slightly older, recovering alcoholic, gumshoe detective, so much the better. Judging from her reaction on the phone, it seemed as though she had enjoyed my company as much as I had enjoyed hers.

  Chapter 12

  Viv’s apartment was a second story walk-up located near Five Points South, the touristy part of town, where there were dozens of yuppie bars and restaurants. It was located near a secluded back-alley drinking hole that was accessible only by a side street; it looked like a nice little tavern. If I still drank, that was one place I’d go to do it.

  Viv met me at the door, still in her nightgown. She embraced me and we held each other. She nibbled playfully my ear. “You look tired. Maybe you could use a nap.”

  I smiled and went along with it. “I’m beat. I’ve been up almost four hours.”

  She was unbuttoning my shirt. “Well, I would offer to let you stay in my bed, but I’m sure there’s somewhere you have to be.”

  I slipped one strap of her gown down over a shapely shoulder. “As a matter of fact, the rest of the day looks pretty open for me.”

  Her hands went down to my belt. “Well, now that you mention it, I’m sort of tired myself.”

  I pushed the other strap down, and caressed the milky brown skin of her shoulders. She drew close to me. “Guess you’ll find yourself a cowgirl out there in Arizona.”

  “I won’t have time. I’ve got to find my bad guy.” I bent to kiss her neck, and then we were walking together toward the darkened bedroom.

  “Lucky you ran into me, huh? Otherwise, you wouldn’t . . . have . . . a clue.”

  * * *

  The next morning, Viv was sleeping when I quietly climbed out of bed. We had spent most of the day being lazy, just enjoying each other’s company.

  Arizona lay ahead, after my meeting with Champion. I looked down at Viv, and wished that we did not have to be apart so soon after meeting. She was a special kind of woman, someone I could perhaps grow close to, given time.

  I looked out the window at the rain, which was coming down heavily now.

  With any luck, she would be waiting when I returned from Arizona.

  If you return, the little voice in the back of his head reminded me.

  So it’s liable to be dangerous. What of it. I’ve been to more dangerous places.

  I rose quietly dressed, then shrugged into my overcoat. Champion would be waiting in his empty palace. I caressed Viv’s cheek, and she smiled in her sleep. I crept out of the door.

  Chapter 13

  Champion was overjoyed to see me. He’d had his maid lay out sandwiches and a variety of beverages on a table in the sitting room. He was on the couch, beaming. I winced; I hadn’t envisioned a buffet. Champion rose from his chair as I entered, and greeted me with a vigorous handshake.

  “Mr. Longville, I cannot begin to voice my joy.” He gestured toward the table. “Please, make yourself at home. You must be hungry.”

  “Sorry, I just ate. Look, Mr. Champion, I don’t know if you’re reading me clearly on this. I think that I have a lead, and I believe that it is a good one. But I really don’t understand why you are so happy.”

  Champion nodded and opened his arms expansively. I thought the man was about to embrace me. “You’re right of course, Mr. Longville. I’m being a bit premature. But I can’t help getting excited. I mean, it might not be long, after all.”

  “What might not be long, Mr. Champion?”

  “Why, Georgia’s homecoming . . .”

  I stood silently regarding Champion for a few seconds. The man’s face wore an expression of utter tranquility, evidence of a disturbing inner calm.

  “Mr. Champion. You have to accept the possibility that Georgia is dead. That might just be what I find out.”

  But Champion hadn’t heard me. “There are several kinds of sandwiches, and fruit juices and soft drinks. If you do discover that you have an appetite, please do not hesitate to help yourself.”

  “Mr. Champion.”

  Champion held up a hand in his favorite dismissive gesture. “Regrettably, I must take an important phone call, so I will be unable to stay any longer. In this envelope, Mr. Longville, you will find sufficient funds, I am sure, to carry you forward to the next stage in your investigation.” He held out a manila envelope. “Please, notify me the instant you require more.”

  Champion retreated backward, bowing. The doors closed after him. I stood staring after him. I opened the envelope and looked inside. There were stacks of hundreds in there, ten of them . . . $10,000. I turned and looked at the drinks and sandwiches, and shook my head in wonder.

  A loaf of bread, the Walrus said, is what we chiefly need.

  BOOK TWO

  I want some magic to sweep me away

  I want some magic to sweep me away

  Visit on this starlit night

  replace the stars, the moon, the light, the sun is gone

  Fly me through this storm

  and wake up in the calm

  I fly right through this storm

  and wake up in the calm

  — Lou Reed, Magician

  Chapter 14

  The plane, climbing skyward at a steep angle out of Birmingham, banked slightly as the pilot turned and pointed the nose of his aircraft west. As the city fell away beneath us, I looked out over the North side, which lay shrouded in rain.
Next to me, Tiller had his nose buried in an Arizona travel guide. I smiled to myself.

  Too bad we won’t be stopping in New Orleans

  As if sensing my thoughts, Tiller laid the travel guide down, and turned to me.

  “So this is your first time out this way, eh, Roland?”

  “That’s right,” I answered without turning from the window.

  “You mind telling me just how somebody who does a four year stint in the United States Army never travels west of the Mississippi river?

  I shrugged, my gaze still on the clouds that streamed by. “Easy. I did my basic training in Missouri, and my A school, for Military Police, in Virginia.”

  “Well, what about your duty station?”

  “Germany for two years, Italy for another. Then it was back home to Birmingham, when I decided not to reenlist. No mystery there. At least I got to see Europe.”

  Tiller harrumphed. I turned finally and looked at the older man. “What about you, Tiller? Have you been everywhere?”

  “Just about, it seems. I was CID, in the United States Navy. Got to travel a whole hell of a lot, saw a lot of crazy things, too. I went in when I was sixteen, and by the time I turned twenty I’d been to most of the countries in Europe. When I retired at the still young age of thirty-six, I’d seen the world—or at least, Europe, Asia, and both coasts.”

  “So how long have you been a Birmingham cop?”

  “Oh, about twelve years. Think about it, that’s a lot of detecting.”

  “You certainly have me beat.”

  “Right, I got it. In other words, I’m an old fart.”

  I chuckled and then we fell silent for a time. Finally, Tiller murmured in a quieter voice, “You know, I’ve been thinking about this Fain character. We know that he won’t be expecting us, so that might make him pretty easy to find. But have you given any thought to what we do when we find him?”

  I nodded grimly. “Plenty. Right now, all I want to do is ask him some questions. Like where he was on Georgia Champion’s ninth birthday. And maybe what was in those drinks he passed around the year before. And why.”

  “You start off like that, this thing could get weird. Christ, the freak might put the cops on us.”

  “He wouldn’t chance that, if I’m right at all about him. No, our major worry will probably be keeping our eye on him, so that he doesn’t pull another disappearing act.”

  “Well, I certainly hope you’re right. I like your plan. Anyway, in my experience, which you have so kindly noted is great in terms of years, there are always things that come up that aren’t in the plan.”

  “Yeah,” I said, my gaze drifting back out the window. “I know.”

  But I was thinking to myself: Samson Fain, here we come.

  Far below I could just make out the roads and houses of the countryside, lurking beneath the thin cloud cover. I thought about Vivian. She would be at work today. I’d talked to her last night, and it seemed that the dinner they had shared had also set well with her, and especially everything that had happened after that.

  I’ll have to see her again, when I get back. Whenever that is.

  I glanced at Tiller, who was already dozing. I pulled out my ticket. Arrival at 4:00, Arizona time. That would make it a five and a half hour flight. Thirty minutes of that was changing planes and sitting on the field in San Antonio.

  I pulled out the picture of Samson Fain, or the young man he had once been. He was staring out into the world, his smile a little forced. Maybe there was something in his face, a pain, an awareness that he didn’t quite fit in. It was impossible to really say. I wondered what strange thoughts had been lurking behind those quiet brown eyes.

  The stewardess spoke over the P.A., startling me. I realized I’d been staring at the photograph.

  “We want to thank you again for choosing our airline. It is now permissible to move around the cabin. Our estimated time in flight is four hours and forty minutes.”

  I put the picture away and decided I’d try to get a little rest, too.

  * * *

  The early winter of Birmingham was far behind us. By contrast, summer had lingered long in Tucson. Tiller and I both gasped as we stepped off the plane.

  “Might take a while to get acclimated to this heat,” Tiller rasped.

  I only grunted in response. Tiller looked around at the gathering twilight.

  “Are we staying in Tucson tonight?”

  I shook my head. “I’m afraid not. We’re staying in Douglas, about an hour and a half to the southeast. I made reservations at a hotel there, because it’s closer to the Chiricahua monument. There should be a car waiting on us at the terminal. I’ll drive.”

  Tiller went to secure the luggage while I picked up our rental car. It was a blue dodge sedan, but I figured it would do.

  “You call that a car?” Tiller jibed when he arrived, puffing, the luggage in tow.

  I nodded and smiled wryly. “It’s no Buick, that’s for sure.”

  A few minutes later we were heading away from the airport.

  “Highway 191 takes us almost all of the way to Douglas,” Tiller volunteered. “My friend, when we get to Douglas, you can see the blue hills of our dear southern neighbor, Mexico, smoldering in the distance.”

  “Sounds nice. Maybe we’ll take a dip in the Rio Grande.”

  “Not likely. Anyone swimming in the Rio Grande nowadays is invariably crossing it in a northerly direction. Plus, most of it is on the western side of the border wall. Perhaps the hotel will have a pool.”

  I didn’t answer. I had turned south on 191, per Tiller’s instructions, and the storied beauty of the desert evening was already taking hold of me. The sky was the deepest blue I’d ever seen, and the horizon wore a thick band of many shades of red, orange, and yellow.

  “Pretty.”

  Chapter 15

  The drive down in the cool desert was uneventful. I ran the window down and listened for the voices of coyotes; I was disappointed when I heard none. Tiller had brought along a portable reading light and was poring over a paperback history of the area.

  “This is all Pima and Chiracahua Country,” he lectured as I drove. A lot of Indian War battles were fought around here. It’s a very historic district. Why, we’ll be close to the Tombstone Courthouse. You know, Tombstone? That’s where the O.K. Corral is. They have reenactments of gunfights there. You want to go have a look?”

  When I smiled and didn’t answer, Tiller shrugged. “It was just an idea. I’m on vacation, you know.”

  The land was mostly flat, but there was a slight rise on the way to Douglas. The town was visible for miles before we arrived. As I was used to the rolling green hills of Birmingham, I found the enormity of the landscape disconcerting.

  A medium-sized town, Douglas was remarkably well-manicured for a desert town. A tumbleweed blew across the street in front of our searching headlights, and both of us shared a chuckle.

  Tiller gestured suddenly. “Hey, there’s a diner. I sure could go for some coffee.”

  I pulled into little restaurant’s parking lot. There was only one other vehicle, a battered old truck. We got out of the car and walked up into the diner. When we entered, a little bell over the doorway made a tinkling sound. We were greeted by a woman behind the counter.

  “How are you gentlemen this evening?”

  A man sat at the end of the counter, the remains of his dinner pushed away from him. He sipped coffee and eyed the two of us warily.

  I nodded and gave the woman behind the counter a smile. She was a well-built woman in her early thirties, with strong features and thick black hair tied back in a bun. Her name tag said her name was Lois.

  “Two coffees, please,“ I said.

  She poured two cups of strong smelling black coffee. “Sugar and Cream are on the counter. Been driving a while?” She arched an eyebrow my way.

  “Not really. Just down from Tucson.”

  “That where you’re from?” The expression on her face was coy.
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br />   “Guess that you can tell we’re not. We’re from Birmingham.”

  “Both you fellows from ‘Bama, huh?”

  Tiller sipped his coffee and cleared his throat. “Actually, I’m originally from Byhalia, Mississippi.”

  “What brings you two out to these parts?” the man at the end of the counter put in. I turned to face him. He was a weathered-looking man in his late forties, thin and wizened. He had a decidedly neutral air about him.

  “I’m trying to find someone. Maybe you’ve seen him. A big man, bald as an egg. Looks kind of like Mr. Clean. Likes to work as a magician, maybe even a clown. You know anyone like that?”

  The man looked at him expressionlessly. I thought he wasn’t going to respond, so I turned back to my coffee.

  “You must be looking for them folks out at Hanging Gap. That’s where your man would be, if he’s in these parts.”

  “How do you figure?” Tiller said, suddenly interested.

  “Because your man sounds like a real weirdo, and Hanging Gap’s where the weirdoes in these parts like to congregate.”

  “What is this Hanging Gap?” I asked, feigning ignorance.

  “It’s a place where artists go to work on their projects,” Lois, the ever-helpful waitress, put in. “We’ve had some pretty famous writer types turn up out there. A painter or two, they say, but of course I’m not up on art. But it’s not like that so much any more. It’s mostly the circuses and the carnivals winter out there, now.”

  “Sounds good for business,” I said.

  “You bet it is. I’ll tell you what, mister, during the tourist season, this place really comes alive. What with the Old West ghost towns and the Indian lands nearby, we see our fair share of tourists.”

  “How far to the Chiricahua monument, my dear?” Tiller asked, flashing Lois a big grin.

  “Oh, that’s not far from Hanging Gap, maybe seven, eight miles. A lot of the tourists come to see the Indian sites, and stay here in Douglas.”