John extended his gloved hand. “Fabian. Good to see you.”
Fabian took it. He wore gloves, also. Pale yellow, to set off the plum. “You too, Professor.”
It seemed they should banter a bit for the cameras—but John had never been good with small talk, and Fabian didn’t seem inclined toward chitchat, either. The cameras sensed their proclivity toward quiet contemplation as John and Fabian appraised each other wordlessly, and then they sidled away to focus on the women in the glittery makeup and low-cut gowns.
Good. John knew he shouldn’t think so—the more face-time he got, the more likely he would be to advance—but right now he needed to evaluate his competitors. Friend or foe? Ally or enemy? He looked into Fabian Swan’s eyes, and he searched.
While age was not necessarily an indicator of depth, and there could theoretically exist a twenty-year-old of profound complexity and a seventy-year-old just as profoundly simple, Fabian Swan’s years had certainly shaped him. In his eyes, John read a life filled with dark lows and dizzying highs. The struggle of poverty, the pain of loss, the intoxication of success.
The glow of a good man? Yes. But the spark of True magic?
No.
He hadn’t realized he was on the lookout for the Truth—not until he didn’t see it. “Are you ready?” he asked Fabian, to cover his disappointment.
“Will we ever be?” Fabian turned to watch the latest magician to embark from his town car.
Fog—both real and manufactured—billowed. The car door opened. A graceful figure in a traditional tux with tails and red cummerbund stepped from the mist. John was filled with gratitude that the cameras were not currently trained on him, since his infamous poker-face was nowhere to be found.
The man in the tux smiled, and his smile lit up the night.
Ricardo the Magnificent.
A small gasp escaped John. Fabian leaned toward him and said, “You know that guy?”
“He’s…very talented.”
“Good to know. I’ll keep an eye on him.”
While John’s arrival had been forgettably low-key, Ricardo made a splash. Several women in the crowd cheered at his appearance. They greeted him with delight, hugging like long-lost friends, and even kissing him on the cheek. But before John could envy the ease with which Ricardo flowed through the crowd, the generosity of his warmth and his smile, the Truth within him flooded John’s awareness, and it took all his focus to keep from knocking the other magicians aside and embracing him.
Ricardo worked the line—a handshake, a smile, a clap on the shoulder—until he looked up and noticed John. And then his smile went even broader, and he darted past Fabian Swan with two cameras trailing him and said, “Professor Topaz!”
“Ricardo.” John would have liked to sound warm. Mostly, though, he came off as a bit dazed.
Ricardo thrust his hand out for a handshake, and John took it. He squeezed firmly, and he stared deep into Ricardo’s eyes. How much can a man say with just a look? They never told me you’d be in the mansion. I’m stunned that you made it in. I’m overjoyed to see you again. I’ve been rehearsing what I might say to you for weeks, now, and come up with absolutely nothing. And I hope you’ll forgive me if I’ve made a complete fool of myself.
John narrowed his eyes to see if any of this had somehow managed to be conveyed.
Ricardo gave his hand an extra squeeze.
“What a surprise,” John said.
That seemed to sum it up about right.
One more squeeze, and then Ricardo pulled his hand away with a long parting look before he turned to Fabian, offered a handshake, and said, “Great to finally meet you. That’s quite a tux.”
Another town car rolled up, and the cameras flocked toward it.
Ricardo turned to John again, and now his expression seemed less polished, more genuine. Relief? Anticipation? What? John couldn’t very well have a heart-to-heart with him, not here, not now. A young blonde lady in pink lamé tiptoed over to keep her spiked heels from sinking into the turf, and slid her hand through the crook of Ricardo’s arm. “Come wait for the big greeting with us,” she said, a bit breathlessly. John wouldn’t have been surprised if, beneath that unforgiving dress, she had quite the girdle on. There was a certain naive sweetness to her, though of course that might have been just the image she was trying to project.
Ricardo gave John a parting look, and allowed himself to be drawn away by the girl in pink, and into the circle of women who’d evidently adopted him.
The fog parted, and this time the young man who emerged was not wearing a tux. His clothing was likely just as expensive, though, from his stiff jeans to his baseball cap with its brim at a 45-degree angle. Diamonds glittered from his ears, his fingers, his belt buckle, and his heavy gold necklaces. His eyes were hidden by mirrored shades.
Beside John, Fabian sighed and said, “Bling just looks so wrong on white kids.”
John made a noncommittal noise in reply. He’d spent his life in suits. Street wear was hardly his forte.
The gangsta-style magician sauntered past the women and Ricardo and approached Fabian Swan first, with the greeting, “’Sup, man? I’m a huge fan—massive. Kevin Kazan.”
He didn’t offer a handshake, John noticed.
“Thank you,” Fabian said with no particular enthusiasm.
“Pro-fess-or,” Kevin said, nodding at John. “Kickin’ it oldschool.”
John supposed that was a compliment. “Pleased to meet you.”
Without acknowledging any of the other magicians, Kevin Kazan slipped into the group beside Fabian Swan as if he plainly deserved a position at his idol’s right hand, and then turned to watch the arrival of the next magician.
The technicians freshened up the fog, which was beginning to dissipate as the ground cooled, and Jia Lee stepped from the billowing mist in a floor-length red silk gown with a butterfly clasp at the high mandarin collar and a deep teardrop cutout over her cleavage. A black dragon embroidered in shimmery thread undulated down the dress’ right side. Each stride she took toward the group revealed a thigh-high slit in the skirt. Her hair was knotted in a sleek bun, and her Oriental makeup was flawless. Her look was traditional, yes, but also edgy in its severity. She nodded calmly to the group, then took her place by John’s side without a word.
Interesting, he thought, how she hadn’t gravitated toward the other women—though he wasn’t entirely sure what it meant, if anything. Quite possibly, she wished to align herself with the other “name” magicians, like John and Fabian. Certainly, she was the most well-known of the three of them, with her recent theatrical success. She only came up to John’s shoulder, and was probably a third his age. Not that it made her any less intimidating.
The fog released two more “name” magicians: Ken Barron, a middle-aged escape artist who was able to dislocate his fingers and shoulders at will, and Chip Challenge, who’d been working the comedy clubs for years with his Elvis-impersonator magic act. They gravitated toward Jia, though John wouldn’t say she’d ever actually met their eyes. And so the magicians sorted themselves, the unknowns at one end, with Ricardo among them, and the successful performers at the other.
John knew he should have felt grateful to count himself among the successes. Recent conversations with Dick might have suggested otherwise. But with Ricardo just a few feet away, he found it difficult to even care which end of the spectrum he occupied.
Cameramen took a few sweeps of the group, twelve magicians in all, while Marlene called out, “Look at the mansion—look lively,” but all John could think about was Ricardo. If the cameramen captured some fleeting expression of yearning in his eyes when they swung past him, the sight of the mansion was not its cause. Ricardo was.
Marlene said, “Step over here, folks, and arrange yourself around the front steps in a semicircle. If you’ve found a buddy, feel free to whisper to them, hold hands, what have you. The viewers thrive on seeing the chemistry between the contestants.” John glanced down at Jia, who stood rig
idly, staring straight ahead. He couldn’t imagine holding hands with her any more than he could imagine high-fiving Fabian. He glanced down the line at Ricardo, who was captive in the middle of a chain of women—the young lady in pink lamé on one side and a pair of middle-aged women on the other. Ricardo met his eye, and gave a small “what can you do?” shrug.
It was good he had allies. Too bad they weren’t the same allies John had somehow begun to cultivate by the mere act of walking across a lawn. He supposed the sight of him holding hands with Ricardo wasn’t quite what the producers had been looking for anyway. Personally, it would have been a huge thrill to make such a bold statement…but professionally, it would have been a disaster. No doubt both magicians could be re-cast in the morning, with hardly a blip in the production schedule, for even attempting such a stunt.
A handsome young man off to the side read from a sheaf of papers while a stylist powdered his brow and arranged his blond hair. A producer spoke with him briefly, then he slipped into the mansion’s front door. That door hadn’t seemed terribly large from a distance, but up close, with a man beside it for scale, it looked easily twelve feet tall. At the sight of that door, the enormity of this strange adventure upon which John was about to embark came clear.
He might not be the hand-holding type, but he did exchange a look with Fabian before the doors swung open, and the handsome young man strode back out and announced, “Welcome, magicians. I’m your host, Monty Shaw, and this…is Magic Mansion!”
Chapter 9
FIRST CHALLENGE
Cameras zoomed in on the host. Still more cameras swooped past the line of magicians. Sue Wozniak, the gift shop girl, squeezed Ricardo’s right hand. Bev Austin, the Math Wizard, squeezed his left. Spiritualist Muriel Broom held on to Bev’s other hand, completing their clique—four strong, a full third of the players, bonded over the horrific morning they’d spent in front of the green screen. This was it—their big break. From here on out, they’d all be TV personalities…worst case scenario, only for one hour. But even then, they’d play on the intro for six more weeks, twirling and smiling and flinging cards and summoning spirits and writing with a pretend piece of chalk. Even that brief exposure would be enough to give any of their careers a meaningful boost.
“Welcome, magicians.”
Sue squeezed Ricardo’s hand so hard he began to worry she might strain a ligament. He gave her a quick double-squeeze and she let up. A bit.
“Twelve very different performers will enter these doors, but only one will emerge with the coveted title of Grandmaster Magician. Are you up for the challenge? Let’s find out. I’m your host, Monty Shaw, and this…is Magic Mansion!”
“One more time,” Marlene called out. “Softer on the A’s.”
Monty went back into the mansion, then exited again and repeated his lines. They did five takes, and then moved on to the next segment. By then it was after ten. The sky was dark, and the air had turned chill. Comfortable tuxedo weather, but not so comfortable ballgown weather. Sue was looking very…perky. No doubt it would only endear her to the male viewers in the eighteen to twenty-four group.
“Let’s form a cluster here.” Marlene indicated the front patio. “Taller magicians toward the back—Jia, you come up front. You too, Faye. Stand on that mark, Monty, and announce the challenge.”
Both Sue and Bev hauled on Ricardo’s hands, as if to say, What challenge? He gave them each a smile as reassuring as he could make it—because surely they wouldn’t make him eat worms or roll around on the ground in his new tux.
Would they?
He felt very alone as his cohorts filed to the front of the group, but the feeling was short-lived. Professor Topaz took Sue’s place—holding his hand? No. But pressing into him from elbow to shoulder?
Oh, yes.
Ricardo restrained himself from throwing back his head and whooping with glee.
He hadn’t been able to dig up much on Professor Topaz’ life. It wasn’t as if the Professor kept a Facebook page where he traded LOLs with his fans and blogged about whether he’d had the patty melt or the tuna on rye for lunch. So Ricardo tried his best not to presume the Professor was available, or even openly gay. The thing that had happened between them—the warning to Ricardo about keeping his real magic under wraps that took an unexpected turn—was quite possibly just some fluke, a reaction to the stress of the audition, a way to let off steam.
But in case it wasn’t, he’d had a little spiel prepared about how he was hoping for a chance to get to know the Professor better—though he’d somehow failed to prepare for the camera hovering beside him. He’d developed a lengthy and persuasive explanation about how he completely understood if the Professor was not in a position to develop that particular sort of relationship with Ricardo, and if so, it would still be totally awesome to get to know him as a mentor. And, hopefully, a friend. But with the camera there and the other magicians all around them, instead he condensed it down to, “It’s really good to see you, Professor.”
The Professor held his gaze for a long moment, then said, “Call me John.”
Magical words? Hardly. But they made Ricardo’s heart soar nonetheless.
“Everyone look excited,” Marlene told the group as the cameras orbited around them. “Monty just greeted you. You’re seeing the mansion for the first time. And you’re thinking to yourself, I might really win this thing.”
Ricardo had never entertained the notion that he might actually win the competition. But Professor Topaz—John—seemed happy to see him. And that made him feel even giddier than the prospect of being on TV.
A teleprompter off to the side of the magicians began to scroll words, and Monty read, “From Harry Houdini to Criss Angel, magicians have long been known for getting out of tight spaces. But tonight, we’re going to see how long you can stay in.” He lavished a bright white smile on them. “I hope no one’s feeling claustrophobic.”
Marlene signaled to the crew. “Okay, that’s plenty of tape. Let’s load up the golf carts and take the talent over to the fishtanks.”
At the front of the group, Sue whispered to Muriel, “Did she say fishtanks?”
“Maybe they’re full of Jell-o,” Muriel suggested.
Ken Barron, the escape artist, grumbled, “I just bought this suit.”
At least now Ricardo didn’t need to say it himself.
Golf carts pulled up, and it seemed as if Ricardo would get a moment alone (well, off-camera, anyway) with John. Was there any one part of his speech that he could do justice to on a three-minute drive to the other end of the estate? While he considered if it would sound noble without any context to let John know he was valued as a mentor as well as anything else, or if it would sound more like a weird brush-off, a familiar hand slipped into his, and pink lamé rustled against the side of his tux. “I didn’t know there’d be a challenge tonight,” Sue whispered. “This dress is held up by double-stick tape.”
While Ricardo’s attention was on Sue, Iain shuttled John onto a golf cart with one of the other magicians, and the need to sort through the Professor-speech for a key point evaporated.
Maybe that was for the best. Ricardo suspected he needed more than three whispered minutes to explain where he was coming from.
The group reassembled in the east garden of the mansion, where floodlights bathed four fish tanks on platforms in harsh halogen glows. Since escapology was involved, Ricardo had been expecting coffin-sized tanks, but despite all the tubes and hoses hooked up to them, these were small and unassuming.
The animal wranglers beside them in tall rubber boots, though, were not.
The cast was assembled, the teleprompter rolled, and on Marlene’s cue, Monty addressed the group from beside the four platform tanks. “Magicians, tonight you’ll be competing for the right to pick your teammates. And the top winners will receive a special reward—so you’ll want to do your very best. Most people can hold their breath for two minutes or so, but certain types of extreme athletes have been known t
o go far longer without air.”
Marlene said, “Stroll around the fishtanks now.”
Monty strolled. “The world record for holding your breath without loading up on pure oxygen first is eight minutes, fifty-eight seconds. But in Magic Mansion, you can beat that record—because we’re adding a little twist.”
Marlene said, “Stand beside the tank stage right.”
Monty stopped beside a tank. “Should I point to it, or…?”
“Don’t point. Don’t gesture. This isn’t The Price Is Right. Do you even have that in Australia?”
“When I was a kid.”
“Well,” Marlene said, “don’t be a showcase model. Just hold your arms naturally and talk. And repeat the last line. Make the twist sound ominous.”
Ricardo felt a camera lingering on him as he swallowed hard. He’d always thought of a “twist” as an ironic dance on the beach, or a slice of lime in his cosmo. A “twist” in the context of a challenge sounded plenty ominous already, thank you very much, without any additional effort on Monty’s part.
Monty smiled for the camera, then repeated, “But in Magic Mansion, you can beat that record…because we’re adding a little twist.”
It definitely hadn’t needed any help sounding more ominous.
“For your first challenge, your head (and only your head) will be sealed in these tanks, and the timer will start once the oxygen is removed. On the console in front of you is a red stop-button that will open the box immediately—but that button will also stop the timer.”
Presuming the buttons even worked. They must work. Right? They had to. Off-camera, an EMT lounged on the edge of a fountain. He had a crowbar and a sledgehammer within easy reach. Ricardo trusted the sledgehammer even less than he trusted the button. But he supposed brain damage was brain damage, no matter how you managed to achieve it.
“You’ll receive one point for each second you hold your breath,” Monty said. The magicians, as a group, looked up at a scoreboard-style timer. “But if you really want to pump up your score, hit the yellow button on the console in front of you. Turbo-charge your challenge, and we’ll pump in some water.”
Magic Mansion Page 6