Magician

by Timothy C. Phillips

  I looked around the apartment one last time, then walked out, closing the door behind me.

  Found you, didn’t I, Magician.

  Chapter 20

  Tiller stepped out of the restaurant, picking his teeth. Now, that, Tiller old fellow, was a steak. He had dropped Roland off earlier, further uptown, where the Brotherhood of Magicians held their meetings. The plan was to be in place early, in case Fain decided to put in an appearance at one place, before moving to the other.

  Tiller pulled the program from his jacket pocket and opened it. The three magicians who were to perform that evening were all from the Four Corners area.

  Tiller’s mind churned: It’s a cinch that if Fain’s not one of them, they know him. If not by his real name, maybe as Christian Cain, or maybe some other.

  Tiller planned to approach each conjurer individually, and pretend he had seen Fain’s act at an earlier date, and was interested in finding him for possible employment. Then he’d pump them for information. If Fain was in the show or the audience, he’d have him arrested based on the evidence of the photo album and the box of jewelry, which he had in his possession. It seemed like a good, simple plan.

  Tiller sighed. He’d go kill some time at the library, and dig for some more clues on Fain. Then, he’d go see a magic show. I don’t know how much these guys make, but it sure seems like an iffy way to make living. Of course, some people might think that about police work.

  * * *

  The Great White Lodge was just that. It was totally out of place in its surroundings, a strange, incongruous structure. It was of course, solid white, and shaped vaguely like a pyramid, its walls sloping as they went up. Two vast oaken doors were the only apparent entrance. The doors were eight feet tall and flanked on either side by sphinxes with female faces and breasts. Some passing Michelangelo had drawn nipples on the breasts with a red crayon.

  What next, I thought, shaking my head. I pushed against the doors. They were quite heavy, but unlocked. I walked into a cool, gloomy interior. I heard vague activity. Once my eyes were adjusted to the gloom inside, I saw that I was in a narrow hall, that opened onto a large central room.

  The hall was lined on either side with portraits, pictures of people in purple and black robes. All held things in their hands: upturned top hats, crystal balls, doves, mirrors. I cautiously approached a woman, standing with her back to me, setting up candles on a table. She had shoulder length straw-colored hair in a pageboy cut. She whirled suddenly and scowled at me, like I had disturbed the casting of some arcane spell.

  “Who are you? This is a private building.”

  “I’m sorry to startle you. My name is Roland Longville. I was just trying to find a friend of mine, who’s a member.”

  The woman was probably fifty. Her eyes were red, and she looked slightly confused. Her voice was slightly slurred, also. To my nostrils wafted the vague odor of gin.

  “Oh . . . .” She seemed to lose her train of thought for a second. “What did you say your name was?” Her eyes narrowed.

  “Roland. Roland Longville.”

  “And you’re a magician?”

  “No. My friend, Christian Cain, he’s a magician.”

  “Oh, I get it. Well, I think I might have heard that name. What’s his act?”

  Careful, she might be tipsy but she seems like a suspicious character.

  “Well, I haven’t seen him in a while. He’s originally from Birmingham. He was doing children’s’ magic shows there.”

  “That’s nice. Steady work in that. The adults always want something new. Most of us just put an act together and stick with it for the kids. Steady work is a good thing.”

  “So, you’re a magician?”

  “Sorry.” The look of slight confusion came back. “My name is Joan Young. I’m president of the Douglas Brotherhood of Magicians.”

  “Well, I think you would remember Christian if you met him.”

  “Do you think he’s one of our members?”

  “The last time I spoke with him, he sure seemed interested in the Four Corners magic scene,” I lied.

  “Well, tell me a little about him.” She walked to a nearby chair, weaving slightly, then sat down carefully.

  “He’s a big man, shaves his head. Like I said, he mostly does children’s—”

  “Gray.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Gray here knows most everybody in the Brotherhood. Isn’t that right, Gray?”

  I turned around. There was a young-looking man standing behind me, as if he had materialized there without a sound. A black carry-all bag was slung over his shoulder. He was well-muscled, and lean and thin, and had bright eyes that had probably given him his name, since they were gray in color.

  “Can I help you?” he asked in a pleasant baritone.

  “My name is Roland Longville. I was trying to get in touch with an old friend of mine, from Birmingham. His name’s Christian Cain.”

  “Oh, I know the guy you’re talking about. Big guy, shaved head?”

  “That’s him.” I fought to keep the elation out of my voice.

  “Yeah, he was actually supposed to be here tonight, but he called last week to say that he wouldn’t be able to make it.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “Yeah, he’s working the lights for a show over at the Oak Room Lounge. A friend of his needed some help, I think. Hey, mister, where are you going?”

  I took the steps down two at a time; there might not be much time to lose. Tiller would be looking in the audience or on the stage for Samson Fain, and all the while Fain would be above and behind him.

  As I exited the Great White Lodge, I noticed three Sheriff’s Office cars, parked across the street. A deputy stepped out of one of the vehicles and approached me.

  “Hold it right there! Don’t make any sudden moves.” It was another voice, from behind him. I raised my hands very slowly. I recognized Deputy Cale’s voice.

  Cale came up behind me and grabbed one of my wrists and pulled it down behind my back. He cuffed it and grabbed the other.

  “Mr. Longville, I’m arresting you for interfering with a police investigation.” Cale spoke in a smug tone that made my blood boil. I gritted my teeth.

  I’m too close to Fain. I don’t have time for the rap that goes with assaulting an officer of the law. Not now.

  Cale guided me to his squad car and opened the door.

  “Inside.”

  I slid in and stared out the window, as the door was slammed behind me.

  I wondered what Tiller was doing.

  Chapter 21

  Tiller went back to the car, shaking his head. People out here are a damned sight different.

  He had seen it all before: women sawed in half, people disappearing from one box and appearing in another, men pulling various things out of thin air. He was really sort of disappointed. He’d expected more, somehow.

  Aw, knock it off, Tiller, you’re just sore because Fain didn’t show. In all likelihood, Roland and the police probably took him into custody an hour ago.

  Tiller looked around, cautiously. The magicians and their helpers were leaving the lounge by a side door, men carrying large cases and pretty girls in skimpy costumes, just chatting.

  It takes all kinds.

  It was then he caught sight of a large figure across the street, loading two large speakers into the back of a black van. Tiller’s heart leaped into his throat. The man was dense, six and a half feet. A pale, bald head gleamed in the sunlight.

  Fain. Mother of God.

  Tiller had never seen him, aside from the old photo that Roland had gotten from Fain’s aunt. Furthermore, the way the man was standing, his face wasn’t visible. But it was him. Tiller knew it like he knew his own name.

  Holy Mary, Mother of God. Now what am I going to do?

  Trying his best to not to look in Fain’s direction, Tiller crossed cautiously to the rental car. His heart thudded in his chest. He wondered if his face was beet red. Fain had p
arked right behind him.

  Or had the van been there earlier? Had it been there all along? Had I just failed to notice?

  He couldn’t remember. He cursed himself for making such a rookie mistake.

  Well, it’s there now, Tiller old boy.

  Fain finished his loading and got into the van. Tiller cranked up and slid the car into gear.

  Wherever you’re headed, I’m going there too, big boy.

  He thought suddenly of Roland, and their planned meeting in Inspiration.

  He knows that I wouldn’t have failed to show without notifying him. I hope.

  He looked through the windshield at the van. That was him, all right. Big bastard, too. Roland’s height, but much more dense. There was some fat weight on the middle of him, but his torso and arms looked like iron.

  Fain was getting ready to leave. Tiller bit his lip. He couldn’t risk leaving to go to a phone, and he couldn’t very well attempt to subdue Fain by himself. Even if he could, the arrest would never hold up. He was quite a ways out of his jurisdiction. Most problematic of all, Fain wasn’t wanted for anything.

  Don’t think that I want to take him all by my lonesome. I’ll just follow him and give Roland and the cops a call from wherever it is we end up.

  The van pulled out and headed down a side street. Tiller tried shadowing from a street over, but ultimately the streets diverged and Tiller was forced to fall in behind the van. Fain took turns down obviously less-traveled streets.

  This is one crafty son of a bitch. Never lets his guard down for a minute.

  Soon there were no other cars on the road. The van came to a stop beside a low metal warehouse. Fain got out and went over to the building, and unlocked a side door and entered. Tiller pulled up across the street, where he spied a telephone booth.

  Tiller got out of his car, and keeping the van and building in his view, called the hotel. He cursed when no one answered the phone. The message service came on, and he thought quickly.

  “Roland, this is Tiller. I’m across from 6134 Highland, and I am looking at a black van. Fain was driving it. He has entered the building. As soon as he comes out, I’m going to continue following him. I will call you back when I get a chance.”

  He hung up and exited the phone booth. He slid into the car. Still no sign of Fain. Tiller wondered what he had in that warehouse.

  Maybe a few young victims. I’ll have to keep my eyes open around this guy. He may look like a big lummox, but he’s pretty damn quick.

  Tiller looked at his watch. It sure was taking Fain a long time, whatever he was up to. He picked up the program and read the names.

  Well, there’s no use going to this thing now. The cat is all but in the bag. Now just to work out the fine points on how to apprehend the big bastard.

  A sudden doubt began to nag Tiller’s mind. What if he knows I’m out here. What if he isn’t just cautious. What if he made me back at the Oak Room. Maybe he saw me before I saw him.

  It was possible that Fain had made him. Tiller hadn’t actually tried to follow anyone in years. What if Fain had exited the back of the warehouse and made his escape? That would be a catastrophe. All of the work they had done for nothing, because he, Tiller, had screwed up.

  Maybe i should call the cops.

  Nothing doing. I’m too close. By the time they got here he’d be long gone, and I’d be the one they took in for questioning. I’m going to have to go take a look.

  With an air of grim resignation, Tiller climbed out of the car again. As he did so, the van began to move. It rolled slowly down the front of the warehouse, its engine off, and turned lazily into the alley beside it. Tiller stood gaping, unsure how to react.

  There’s no one in the damned thing. How could it move? Maybe Fain accidentally left it out of gear.

  Suddenly, it came to him that something was very, very wrong, and that maybe his lurking fear had just been confirmed. And maybe some others, that he had not dared to consciously think, as well.

  I took my eyes off the place for a couple of seconds, that’s all Fain needed. Remember, sleight of hand is what he’s best at. Misdirection.

  Tiller ran across the street, his hand sliding of its own accord inside his jacket, and the snub nose .38 that rode there in its holster. Whatever he had told Deputy Cale notwithstanding, there was no way Detective Sergeant Amos Tiller was going hunting for a psychopath without some heat.

  He put the gun in his pocket, with it still in his hand, and crossed to the alley. The van had moved to about halfway down, and slowed to a stop. The hairs were standing up on Tiller’s neck. He had a creepy feeling that he couldn’t shake. He felt eyes watching him, and he believed the owner of those eyes knew everything he was thinking.

  Don’t do it! You shouldn’t do this alone!

  Tiller ran up to the van and peered inside. There was no one in the cab. He knew he was committed, now. Any second Fain could come out of the warehouse door, would come out, and it was all confusing and not going right.

  He’s in the back. Open the back. Now.

  It was an old style van, a 1970’s Chevy, with no windows in its black sides. His hand reached for the handle. The blood was racing through his ears.

  Oh, God help me, this is getting out of hand.

  His left hand was trembling as he reached for the handle on the back door. The gun in his right hand gave him little confidence. He turned it suddenly, and yanked the door open, and jumped to the side, gun out.

  Conrad, the redheaded dwarf who’d been singing at the Proscenium Ballroom, sat between two speakers, laughing. He was pointing at Tiller and laughing uproariously.

  Tiller faltered for a second, and lowered his gun.

  “What . . . how did you . . . ” And suddenly he knew he’d made his second big mistake. Something struck him from behind. As he faded into the darkness he realized it was a fist; the fist of someone very big, and very strong.

  Chapter 22

  I knew that I had been sitting in the cell for hours. It was impossible to know for certain how many, but I estimated it was anywhere from one to three in the morning, now. They had taken my watch, and there was no wall clock.

  They had also taken my shoes, my belt, and anything else that they found the least bit interesting. The jail reminded me of ones I’d seen previously only on television, old-fashioned, complete with vertical round iron bars you could look out through, and see the other cells.

  The cell across the corridor from my own was occupied by a man sleeping so soundly on a cot, that I couldn’t even hear him breathe.

  The door opened suddenly, and a tall, respectable looking man entered. Deputy Cale walked behind him, and regarded me smugly. I focused on the older man. He had short, iron gray hair that showed from beneath his gray suede cowboy hat, which he now removed. He was wearing a western-style shirt, complete with a six-pointed silver star that read “Sheriff” above the left pocket. He looked every inch the mythical Western sheriff. When he spoke, the impression was reinforced.

  “Mr. Longville,” he said pleasantly in a deep baritone voice that bespoke of authority. He grabbed a wooden chair from along the wall, dragged it over in front of my cell and took a seat.

  “I’m Sheriff Larry Payne. How are you doing?” He asked without irony, and calmly waited for my response.

  “Well, Sheriff, I’m in jail.”

  The man grinned for about half a second and put his hat back on, and tilted it back on his head. “So you are.”

  “So I am.”

  “Maybe this will teach you about interfering in official police business,” Deputy Cale snarled.

  “What’s this idiot talking about? Interfering with what investigation?”

  “Why you—” Cale growled, murder in his eyes.

  “Easy there, Cale,” Sheriff Payne interjected. He calmly turned back to me.

  “You too, Longville. You’ve been asking some pretty strange questions around town. Getting folks excited. Questions about girls disappearing and so forth.”r />
  “I am involved in a perfectly legitimate investigation, regarding the disappearance of a young girl from Birmingham. There’s nothing strange about that. And as far as I know, making people nervous isn’t against the law.”

  “Birmingham, eh?” Sheriff Payne rocked back on the two rear legs of his chair. “Nice city. I was there back in the eighties. Still a big steel town with lots of big-boned good old boys and good looking women?”

  “Not really. The women are still just as pretty, but the rest has changed. Now it’s a bunch of Internet companies and yuppies in SUVs.”

  “Ah. Like every damn place nowadays.”

  “I’m sorry, Sheriff, but I don’t see where I’ve broken any laws.”

  Payne sat rocking on the legs of his chair, then leaned forward, his hand out.

  “Do you know this man?” There was a photo in Payne’s hand.

  I took it, and looked at it for a moment. It was the landlord from Viscount Apartments. Someone had hog-tied him and beaten him to a pulp, and left him in his own bathtub to drain. His face was a mass of red tissue. I recognized him from his clothes. He couldn’t have been killed too long after Tiller and I saw the man.

  “Yeah, I know who he is.”

  “He was found about three hours ago. You have to understand, Mr. Longville. I have it from reliable sources that you and Mr. Tiller were talking with this man shortly before he was discovered dead.”

  “So what? You think that we killed him?”

  “Mr. Longville, no one is accusing you of murdering this man. But I think you realize that the man you’re looking for might have. I’d like to know more about your investigation. You’re a private investigator from Birmingham, and that’s fine with me. You want to conduct an investigation in the state of Arizona, that’s fine with me, too. But now a man is dead, so things are no longer fine with me. We have to talk.”

  “We’re talking. What kind of information did you have in mind?”

  “Well, Mr. Longville, from what Deputy Cale here has learned from certain people you spoke with, and as you just confirmed, your investigation centers around a little girl that’s missing. That, too, interests me considerably.”