I Lie for Money

by Steve Spill

  In anticipation of his weekly magic trick demonstrations as many as a dozen boys in my age group would gather around the magic counter. On top of the glass counter was a spinning rack of practical jokes. Fake Dog Doody, Squirting Flowers, Hand Buzzers, Fart Candy, and a little viewer that promised to show a photo of a naked woman that left a black smudge around your eye. Under the glass were trick cards and coins—Svengali Decks, Marked Cards, Folding Quarters, and Double Headed Nickels. On shelves behind the counter were bigger tricks made of plastic, plywood, glass, or tin—or a combination of all of those things: Egyptian Water Boxes, Zombie Balls, Chinese Sticks, Strat-O-Spheres, and more!

  Each and every Saturday afternoon, when the crowd was at its peak, Femia would demo all the marvels. His presentations were peppered with jokes that would appear dated now, and arguably even back then, but he would still convulse us into helpless laughter with tricks that looked better than they sound—like the one with the funnel that looked empty which in fact had double sides filled with water that he held under a boy’s ear. After the kid’s arm was pumped up and down for a bit, water would apparently start trickling out of his ear.

  “Boys, gather around, all five of you, and you Steve, that makes six,” he’d say. “The world famous Dagger Chest completely encases my head. Ugh, this is a heavy sucker. Solid oak. Get ready, I’m gonna open the doors.”

  Femia opened the doors on the front of the box so we could clearly see his face.

  “Peek-a-boo, now you see me. Now you don’t.”

  On the word “don’t” he closed the doors and started shoving tin swords through the box. The swords looked like they were going through his face, his skull, and his brains! When he opened the front doors, you could see the sword blades going through the box, but Femia’s head was gone! He had no head, but we still heard him say, “Any questions?”

  I could never afford a Dagger Chest. Like most of the other boys, every once in a while I’d buy a small pocket trick with magic coins or cards. But there was this one kid, Kevin Grant (name changed to protect the . . . innocent), who got an allowance that would support a family of five for a year in a third world country. He always had a sweaty fist full of cash.

  “Mr. Femia, here’s the money, gimme the Dagger Chest.”

  “Okay Kevin, let me show you how it works.”

  “I don’t need no instructions, I’m a master magician. Here we go! I’m a blockhead!” As he shoved in the first sword we heard a bloodcurdling scream, “Aaaahhh! Help! Guys get this thing off me!”

  The doors flew open and the secret mirror smashed on the ground. Tears, mixed with blood from a small forehead abrasion, mixed with saliva drooling from Kevin’s mouth. We were definitely laughing at him, not with him. Kevin was a terrible magician. If he were really smart he would have called himself a comedy magician.

  One Saturday Kevin turned his attention to me.

  “Steve, I’m going on tour. Last week I headlined show and tell at my school. I was sooo good. My teacher arranged for me to tour all the other classrooms. It’s like ten gigs!”

  “So what’s in your show?”

  “You’ve seen all the stuff I’ve bought—The Egyptian Water Box, Strat-O-Spheres, Confetti Cans, and everything in between. My standing ovation encore is the Dagger Chest.”

  “Kevin, be sure to have some iodine and bandages handy.”

  “Plus my dad is printing posters. A lot of important people go to my school, and once everyone knows about me, I’ll be starring on the Ed Sullivan Show.

  “Ed Sullivan? Kevin, you’re only ten years old!”

  “Did you see The Jackson 5 on Sullivan last week? The lead singer is only eight years old. It’s now or never, there’s no chance if you haven’t made it by ten!”

  At the time I was almost eleven. Later, at home, over dinner, I was a wreck.

  “Mom! I don’t have any money to buy a Dagger Chest and an Egyptian Water Box so I can be on Ed Sullivan! It’s now or never!”

  She responded to this shocking announcement by studying my physical contortions, then felt my forehead. “Good gracious, Steve! You really are ill! Eat your broccoli; do you want more potatoes?”

  “Kevin Grant has a super solid half hour of mystery that’s gonna get him on Ed Sullivan. How am I going to buy all those big tricks when my allowance is only one dollar a week?”

  My father knew just what to say, as he peered into my eyes. “There’s more than one way to skin a cat. Remember Liberace? On Sullivan he drove a Rolls Royce on stage, wore a mink cape, and had a candelabra decorated with precious gems . . .”

  “Could I please have the same allowance he gets?”

  “And right after Liberace was Bob Hope. He didn’t have anything but himself.”

  “I love Bob Hope.”

  “That’s my point. Hope is funny. You like being funny. Plus you’re good with your hands. Maybe you could do more with your Svengali Deck?”

  Suddenly I was inspired like never before and cherished those tricky cards as though they were precious jewels. Two Saturdays later at Femia’s I wowed the boys with my new Svengali Deck routine.

  “I need someone who is handsome and brave to shuffle the cards. Okay, okay, I’ll false shuffle them myself while I’m blindfolded. Now, without the sense of sight I’m going to impale the card Kevin just selected on the end of this screwdriver. Is that it Kevin? Now all the cards change to Kevin’s card, but wait, now his card is gone, but here it is in my fly. And, oh, hey, it’s still warm.”

  My new Svengali Deck routine was a smash success. Everyone laughed, applauded, and loved it, especially Kevin Grant. And I knew he was sincere, because he invited me to his birthday party, and he didn’t invite even one of the other magic boys. Just me. And I knew what to do to make him happy on his birthday.

  At Kevin’s party, one by one the gifts were opened—an electric guitar, a leather jacket, and from me, a brand new Svengali Deck. Attached was a rolled-up parchment paper. With an old-fashioned fountain pen and India ink, in calligraphy, I had handwritten my entire Svengali Deck routine. I spent a week composing it, in which I confided several tidbits of information having to do with my super secret methods of handling the cards. I disclosed, among other things, each and every moment from what the audience sees, how to do it, and what to say, with a lot of personal tips, suggestions, and comments. I had poured my heart into that document and clearly remember the way the ink strokes ran in the many pen drawings of cards and hands. I wish I had that parchment today. It was a beautiful work of art.

  The following Saturday, with triumphant pride I marched into Femia’s. The store went silent when I stepped through the door. Even though all the usual suspects were there, no one greeted me, except for Kevin, who greeted me as if I had leprosy. He laughed in my face and, in front of all the magic boys, yelled “Don’t invite Steve to your birthday party, he’ll give you a fifty-cent deck of cards!” It was a comment that invited response, and had I had my wits about me, I should have said, “Go to hell you spoiled brat. You should have felt lucky I even came to your stupid party.” But I didn’t say a word. My tongue froze solid in my mouth.

  I turned on my heels and marched out of Femia’s, a little shriveled inside, jumped on my bike, popped a wheelie, then pumped the pedals for the ten-block ride home. Dad said, “This isn’t a great tragedy. Get over it. You’re okay.” Mom sat me down with a toasted cheese sandwich, and I accidentally dribbled a little melting goo on my Svengali deck.

  “You told me yourself, Kevin looks foolish doing magic tricks. No matter how much they cost, if he can’t do those big tricks well, they aren’t worth fifty cents. But writing a good story, painting a beautiful picture, or creating the ultimate Svengali Deck routine can make you feel like a million dollars.”

  That day way back when, I started feeling like an eleven-year-old millionaire.

  Kevin, if by chance you happen to be reading this, I’d like you to know that fifty-cent deck of cards took me around the world.

&n
bsp; THE FIRST TIME I ADVERTISED MY MAGIC SHOW

  It was 1966 and I was a paperboy. Every day at the crack of dawn I’d get up, and I’d fold and rubber band seventy-four San Fernando Valley Green Sheet newspapers. I loaded the papers into two canvas bags that hung on the butterfly handlebars of my bike, a lime green Montgomery Ward version of the Schwinn Sting Ray complete with knobby tires, banana seat, and sissy bar. I then peddled like a mad man around my Tarzana neighborhood, throwing papers onto people’s lawns, driveways, and porches. Then I’d ride my bike to school.

  Some mornings, in addition to folding and rubber banding seventy-four papers, I was required to add an advertising supplement to the mix. While stuffing flyers for Jake’s Jug, a neighborhood liquor store, it occurred to me that stuffing newspapers with a flyer advertising a certain boy magician would be a good idea. A perfect scheme, almost perfectly executed . . .

  Using carbon paper, I made four smeary purple ink copies at a time, until I had seventy-four flyers with the following headline:

  FAMOUS BOY MAGICIAN AVAILABLE FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS.

  As luck would have it, I got a call.

  “Yes Mrs. Lewis, this is Steve the famous boy magician.”

  “Darling, I’m having a Beauty on a Budget party. It’s like a Tupperware party, but I sell beauty products. It’s my first party and I really want to impress the ladies and I think magic tricks would be great. Sweetheart, how much do you charge?”

  Which brought us to our spirited negotiation. For some reason her question had caught me by surprise, and after a momentary pause, with a minimum of confidence, I spit out two words, “Three dollars.”

  “Honey, it’s a deal.”

  And just like that I was on the road to fame and fortune.

  The three giggly women and their hostess seemed amused with my tricks and they gave me a sitting ovation. When I tried to leave, Mrs. Lewis took me aside and whispered, “Darling, wait until the party’s over. I’ll pay you from the cash I get selling my beauty products.”

  So I’m waiting, the women are having a ball putting different lipsticks and mascara on each other, squirting each other with perfume and painting over the dark circles under their eyes. Then one said, “Oh girls, look at the time, gotta go.” And quick as that the party was over.

  Suddenly I was alone with Mrs. Lewis. She thanked me and started to clean up. When I asked for my three dollars she looked me right in the eye and said, “Darling, the ladies didn’t buy anything, so I don’t have the cash to pay you.” Then she put her arm around my shoulder as she escorted me to the door.

  “I think my work should be paid for. Don’t you?”

  “I am amazed! Truly amazed! Why, my dear child, Jesus never asked for money.”

  “But it’s only three dollars.”

  “Look Honey, just take this rouge, if you want.”

  “What do I do with this?”

  “Oh Sugarpie, you are in showbiz now, you need professional makeup! Please also take this foundation and eyebrow pencil with my compliments.”

  What a rip off! And, the makeup gave me a rash.

  THE LEGEND OF CARDINI LIVES ON

  In sixth grade I was a regular at a secret magic store in Hollywood. Not a street-level store with a sign—it was hidden upstairs in an office building. I took the world’s oldest elevator to the second floor, then down a threadbare hall to Joe Berg’s Magic Shop. That’s where the late great Harry Blackstone Senior fooled me with a card trick, and where I first heard of Cardini, the superstar vaudeville magician.

  The store’s owner, Joe Berg, was a pudgy little man that never drank, never smoked, never wore a hat, and was a very clever inventor of magic tricks. He really cared for his customers, but at the same time he seemed to be the world’s worst businessman. I’d often hear him say things like:

  “I’m sorry, that’s not for sale.”

  “No, this just doesn’t fit your personality.”

  “. . . beyond your skill level.”

  “. . . isn’t for you . . .”

  I wanted a lit cigarette dropper, a device that hung under your coat and secretly fed lit cigarettes into your hand. It was a rusted used prop, covered in dust, but Joe wouldn’t sell it to me because he thought I was too young to play with lit cigarettes.

  Joe said, “No, no, no Steve. No can do! Eleven-year-old boys don’t smoke cigarettes. It’s wrong for you. Forget it. Go with this Appearing Bouquet of Feather Flowers.”

  “I’m not a girl. I don’t want feather flowers,” I think I said. “I want the lit cigarette dropper.” After a few minutes of pleading, it was apparent Joe wouldn’t change his mind, but I had a plan.

  Every once in a while Joe had to take his wife to the doctor, or for some other reason couldn’t be at the store. And then Joe’s son, Ronnie Berg, was in charge. Ronnie would sell anything to anyone at any time. After a million visits, one day I walked in and Ronnie was minding the store. Here’s how the conversation went with the man who introduced me to the brilliant work of Cardini.

  Ronnie said, “. . . perfect for you Steve. When a young boy smokes it makes him look more mature and sophisticated, like a man of the world! And this lit cigarette dropper is in a class by itself! It’s a handcrafted masterpiece created by an English artisan for Cardini. Cardini! The highest paid ever, superstar vaudeville magician. It’s the only one of its type in existence.”

  I had no idea who Cardini was, but I was very excited. Cardini owned this, and he was a superstar! He touched it and then I touched it. Soon I’d be the highest paid superstar of magic. Then Ronnie elaborated.

  “The late great Cardini was friends with my father, and on his deathbed, Cardini gave Joe this treasure. I wish we had another one so you could get a spare. But this is the one and only one on the face of the Earth.”

  When the deal closed I was trembling! I possessed Cardini’s Very Own Personal Lit Cigarette Dropper! Cardini, the former vaudeville superstar! I thought, It’s like in the movies!

  Twenty-five years later at a Magic Castle swap meet I saw another lit cigarette dropper, identical in every way to the one I owned. And the guy said, “There’s a great story that goes with that . . .”

  “Let me guess, on his deathbed, Cardini gave Joe Berg this lit cigarette dropper. There’s not another one like it.” We both cracked up when I told him I got the same Ronnie Berg story. That Cardini must have been awfully busy on his deathbed.

  What’s even funnier and more significant to me is the fact that Ronnie gave me the deathbed story in 1967, but Cardini didn’t actually pass away until 1973. When I think about it now, this incident was not only a valuable magical lesson on how to lie to someone’s face, but it was also an inspiration for the title of this book. Of course, my lies are the lies that fool people into perceiving what I do as defying the laws of nature, not the lies used to profit from the sale of super secret gizmos.

  The one and only time I used the cigarette dropper was when I was about thirteen. I had somehow gotten in with a group of guys who were a little older than I was, and more sophisticated. They knew a lot of teenage girls, and through them I got invited to a party at the house of the most popular one around. The girls were all several years older than me and I had secretly hoped that a cute female would fall insanely in love with me. Instead a cute girl asked me if she could bum a smoke.

  Inside the dropper was a little battery with a glow plug that kept cigarettes burning so that when you made one appear you could instantly puff on it and real smoke would come out. I had the dropper hidden under an open vest above my waistband.

  My left hand provided the perfect misdirection as my right hand secretly reached for a lit cigarette.

  At the same fraction of an instant, with a deep breath I sucked in my stomach; as a result, a space opened at the top of my trousers, the gimmick jiggled, I fumbled, and the red-hot burning cherry of a lit cigarette fell down my pants and lodged itself in my underwear.

  My privates were burning, I was uncomfortably wiggling
around, and smoke was coming out of my pants. I was embarrassed, but fortunately the girls laughed and seemed to think my smoking pants and wiggly little dance were all part of the act. I had never had a more attentive or appreciative audience in my young career.

  Not unlike my fiasco with the fake finger and hanky, again I survived a major gaffe. But the fact is, later I suffered with a big bubbly blister that stung when it popped. I guess Joe was right. I was too young to play with lit cigarettes.

  PART THREE

  BECOMING MYSELF

  THE MAGIC CASTLE

  Mom: “How did the audition go at CBS?”

  Dad: “Hard to say.”

  Mom: “Every no just moves us closer to the next yes.”

  Dad: “When the casting director saw on my resume that magic was one of my special skills, he hooked me up with a guy that’s opened a Hollywood nightclub for magicians. It’s called The Magic Castle.”

  Mom: “I know what you’re thinking, but we don’t have money for nightclubbing.”

  Dad: “Put on your best dress. Tonight we’re meeting the owners of the Magic Castle.”

  Halfway through seventh grade at Portola Junior High in Tarzana I got the news we were being downsized to a smaller home. Although my parents had recently sold a script to the cowboy series Death Valley Days—and had written, directed, and cast themselves as well as my sister Susan and me as a family magic act in an industrial film for the Revere tape recorder company—it wasn’t enough to keep us in our Tarzana house.

  Hey, we’re in showbiz! Me and my magic family in an industrial film.

  Again we moved one town west, to Woodland Hills this time, north of Ventura Boulevard on Keokuk Avenue near that old revered institution, Pierce College. I resumed seventh grade at another old revered institution, Parkman Junior High in Woodland Hills. I had been unable to find satisfaction in academic life. This, of course, was not the fault of the school, but all I ever wanted to do was get out of there. The fault lay within me, within my confused and magic-obsessed nature. I felt like a complete outsider, the only one of my kind.