Shell Game

by Carol O’Connell

  He pushed the ashtray to one side. „But that’s another story and another cigarette.“ He walked over to the wardrobe trunk. „Oliver’s memorial service is tonight. I recommend the white satin tuxedo.“

  „That’s customary for the death of a magician, isn’t it? But everybody keeps telling me Oliver wasn’t one.“

  „And they’re right about that. Hopeless bungler. There won’t be an elaborate service, not like the one we held for Max Candle. That was quite an event. Magicians came from all over the planet to give him a proper send-off. I haven’t heard of anything on that scale since he died. Anyway, Oliver’s already been buried. We’re just having a wake at a little place in your neighborhood.“

  „Futura said Oliver loved Louisa, too.“

  „He was devoted to her. Oliver never married, you know. Never cheated on her memory.“

  „And you’ve never loved anyone but Louisa?“

  He knelt down beside Mallory. „You’re still wondering – am I crazy, or is Louisa just part of the act? Do I carry her around for guilt or profit?“

  „I think you might’ve been legitimately crazy once. But now it’s just a routine. It’s getting harder to work the wires, isn’t it?“ Mallory pointed to the ashtray. „Her cigarettes keep going out. It’s almost over now.“ She smiled, and he took that as a warning, backing away from her.

  „This is my second trip to the basement this morning,“ she said. „I thought I found what you were looking for – an old letter stuffed in the toe of a shoe.“ That was where Mallory’s foster mother had hidden valuables to keep them safe from burglars – as if there had been a black market for bad poetry written by Helen’s middle-aged husband.

  Malakhai was hovering over her. „Was it a letter from Max?“

  „From Louisa. It was addressed to you. She probably thought you’d keep her personal effects if she didn’t make it through the night.“ Mallory glanced at the wardrobe trunk. „I always wondered why you didn’t.“ She looked down to inspect her fingernails, as if this transaction meant nothing to her. „I’ll trade you for the letter. When you fired that gun on Thanksgiving Day, which one of them were you aiming at?“

  He shook his head slowly to say, No deal.

  „I’ve got rules, Malakhai. Nothing is free. Tell me which one you were aiming at – or I destroy Louisa’s letter.“

  „So be it.“ There was no hesitation. He was not bluffing.

  Mallory stood up and walked over to the wardrobe trunk. „I know she wrote it the night she died.“ She pulled out the white tuxedo and draped it over one arm. „Louisa mentioned the confession in the park.“ She turned back to him. „Last chance. Was it Nick Prado? Was he standing near the float when you fired that rifle?“

  He looked down at the case of wine, head shaking from side to side. No deal.

  Mallory reached into the pocket of her blazer and drew out the single page. It was a fragile thing, yellowed and creased – such delicate paper. The ink was a faint flourish of violet lines, almost illegible. She walked back to him and put it in his hand as an offering – for free.

  He looked down at the aged paper, not quite believing in it yet.

  She turned toward the partition. Malakhai’s head was bowed as he read the faded lines of his letter. It was written by a woman who did not know how the night would end, if she would escape or be captured – live or die. ‘Dear Malakhai,’ it began, and the long goodbye followed after.

  Mallory had received a similar letter from her prescient foster father, written before his own violent death and delivered on the day of his funeral. Three generations of Markowitzes, all police officers, had written these letters to their families. The cop’s daughter understood the importance of the farewell.

  Walking close to the accordion wall, she headed for the side exit, never turning back for the chance to catch him crying.

  She had rules.

  Chapter 16

  Franny Futura listened for a noise to tell him that he was not alone. At last, he was satisfied that all the chorus boys and stagehands had left for their lunch break.

  He laughed out loud and did a little dance across the floorboards, tapping his feet and whirling in his own arms, hugging himself tightly, as if this might contain his joy. It did not. His grin was wide as he paused and bowed to the empty theater seats.

  „Broadway.“ He spoke this name, holy of holies, as he was rising on his toes. Then, soft as a prayer, „Thank you, Oliver.“

  True, this patch of the road was far uptown, but he had never expected to come so close to an old dream, the Great White Way. Franny knew his place among magicians. They had dubbed him a living museum, a compendium of tired old tricks that amazed no one. However, come Friday night, he would perform a Max Candle illusion to a sold-out crowd. In this theater, he would be the headliner. On the marquee outside, his name was writ larger than all the other magic men on the bill.

  He walked over to the long black table supporting his glass coffin. The transparent panels were edged in dark lines of lead. And lead molding marked the midsection where the two halves of the coffin joined together.

  Holding on to the pewter handles, he separated these independent boxes, and they slid back easily along metal tracks embedded in the table. He patted the large pumpkin at the center of the bed. It was held in place by a metal brace so the razor would not knock it to the floor with the first swing. He had chosen this seasonal fruit over Max’s burlap dummy because it would bleed. Though the juice was pale in comparison to blood, it was miles better than sawdust.

  Four feet behind the table, a narrow rectangle of black wood rose from the floorboards to the catwalk. It was decorated with functional springs and toothy wheels that resembled bright clockworks strung out along a giant velvet jeweler’s box. At the top of this mechanical base, two metal arms reached out to support the pendulum, a thin stalk of steel ending in a crescent razor.

  He tap-danced toward the wings with a soft-shoe shuffle and climbed the ladder to the catwalk. When he walked across the narrow wood planks of the suspension bridge, it even swayed the same way Faustine’s had done. He gripped the rails and smiled. Just like the old days.

  This theater was no mere re-creation; it was Faustine’s revisited. He had come full circle – home again.

  Franny looked down and imagined Max Candle lying in the glass coffin, bound hand and foot, screaming well-rehearsed lines to tell the audience that something had gone wrong with the pendulum, that the machine was going to kill him – night after night.

  From the dark of the wings stage right, smoke was curling forward into the footlights. „Emile?“

  The only reply was a knock on wood, and now he knew his visitor. How many years must he put behind him before that sound would cease to make him afraid?

  Nick Prado said, in a badly disguised sotto voce, „Suddenly there came a tapping.“

  Franny’s hands tightened on the rail as the man walked into the light of center stage. Nick stood beneath the catwalk and looked up as he slaughtered the poet’s line. „Who’s that rapping at my door? Franny, you must try to work something of Poe into the act.“ Nick’s gaze traveled down the long stalk of the pendulum to the razor-sharp crescent. „I heard a rumor that you hired six chorus boys.“ He looked up again. „Say it isn’t so.“

  Franny leaned over the rail. He could hear a shrill note in his voice, too high, too loud. „It’s a slow buildup. I didn’t think the act would hold the attention of a modern audience. The dance routine is really very good.“

  Nick made a stagy shiver of distaste. „Are you coming down? Or must I keep shouting?“

  It was an effort for Franny to loosen his grip on the rails. He felt safe on the catwalk, but what reason could he give for remaining here?

  None.

  He dragged his feet to the end of the suspension bridge and slowly descended the ladder. Perhaps there were no safe places. He had not found one yet, not in all the years of a lifelong quest.

  Nick ran his hand along the
top of the coffin. „A pity you can’t do it Max Candle’s way. You’re competing with big spectacles downtown. Lots of high-tech acts. Now if the public thought there was a chance to see you die – “ He walked over to the base and pressed the lever to set the pendulum in motion. „It was such a beautiful illusion.“

  Now the men stood side by side and watched the gears mesh, wheels spinning wheels, setting springs in motion, ticking, ticking. Nick flashed him an evil grin. „I hope this isn’t the apparatus Oliver made.“

  „No,“ said Franny. „I was afraid he might’ve botched that one too. Charles loaned me Max’s old props.“

  Nick watched the pendulum swing in a small arc. „Any problems calibrating the mechanism? It would be a crime to shatter the original coffin. It belongs in a museum.“

  „No, Emile helped me. Well, he did it all, really. It swings between the boxes, very precise. Never varies more than half an inch.“

  Nick looked up again as the pendulum gathered momentum and its razor described a wider arc. „Lovely machine. All Swiss gears and balance, you know. Only millionaires like Max and Oliver could’ve built them. I can’t persuade you to do it Max’s way?“

  Franny said nothing. He only watched the pendulum. It was dropping lower, swinging over the divided glass coffin.

  Nick clapped him on the back. „Forget I mentioned it, old man. The original machinery would make it too chancy. It’s so old. Do you really trust it?“

  „Emile says it’s in perfect condition.“ Franny watched the razor drop a little lower to slice through the partitions of the box. „What on earth is that doing there?“ Nick pointed to the bright orange fruit inside the coffin.

  „The pumpkin? It’s a variation on Max’s dummy. I want the audience to see that it really does cut into – Oh, no!“ Franny’s head moved in sync with the pendulum swing. Seeds and slop were stuck to the crescent razor. Pale yellow pumpkin blood was dripping on the floor and spreading over the interior of the coffin. More drops of liquid flew out over the footlights with the widening of the arc.

  „Brilliant.“ Nick took out his glasses and put them on to survey the mess. „Shot in the dark – is this your first rehearsal with the pumpkin?“

  Franny ran to the backstage room where the cleaning supplies kept company with his sound equipment. When he returned to the stage, Nick was standing at one end of the coffin, staring at the interior. He looked up at Franny. „No pumpkin guts on the microphone, but you probably should test it again. If it’s ruined, the audience won’t hear the screams from the box. That is what you’re planning, right?“

  Nick walked around the back of the coffin and shook his head as he examined the somewhat clumsy cable outlet leading under the hinged side. „There’ll be critics in the audience on opening night. I went to a lot of trouble to make that happen, Franny. You don’t want to screw it up, do you?“ He glanced at the cloth squares neatly folded on the floor beside the coffin. „So you’re going to cover the boxes while you make your exit.“

  „Of course. There’s no other way.“

  „Well, there’s Max’s way. He stayed in the coffin, screaming for help, watching the pendulum drop lower and lower. I could tell you how he pulled it off.“

  Franny shook his head slowly as he mopped the inside of the coffin with a towel.

  Nick smiled. „You’re using breakaway cuffs, right? We can adjust the pendulum so the lowest part of the arc swings in front of the coffin.“ He gestured to the panel of gears. „That’s why the table and the base are painted black. You couldn’t see where Max’s tuxedo cummerbund left off and the backdrop began. Of course there’s a risk with every mechanical thing. But you could perform the best trick of the festival.“

  After cleaning the seeds and juice on the coffin bed, Franny looked at the microphone, dry as a bone. „I don’t think so, Nick.“

  „They’d talk about it for years and years if you risked your life – just a little.“

  Franny looked at the seeds on the floor. The cleaning crew would take care of the rest of this mess. He wadded up the towel and threw it into the wings.

  „I’d give my eyes,“ said Nick, „for the chance to see it done right, just one more time. It was so hypnotic – and terrifying.“ He walked all around the coffin, inspecting the lead-rimmed holes at both ends. „I can improve on your version. Nothing risky. We could put a mechanism in the box where your legs are supposed to be. Something to break the glass so it looks like you’re in there trying to kick your way out. Max kicked out a pane in every performance. Just a touch of violence to startle the audience. That’s all you need. I’ll take care of the preparations for you.“

  „No – sorry. I mean – thank you, but Emile is giving me a hand. He’s coming back. In fact, he’ll be here any minute.“ Why had he said that?

  „We have to go now, Franny. We’ll leave Emile a polite note at the front office.“

  „Where? Go where?“

  Nick rapped on the wooden table. „Maybe – just before you go on stage – we could have a raven fly out. He could perch on the platform. And the knocking.“ He rapped on the wood again. „Oh, definitely. We must have knocking. New York has a literate theater crowd. I know they’d get it.“

  Franny shook his head.

  Nick shrugged. „Overkill? I suppose it would be a bit much. But we should definitely have a talk about those chorus boys. You need help with this act.“

  „Emile will – “

  „Emile can’t help you now, Franny. He’s doing Max’s hanged man illusion downtown, remember? I hope Oliver didn’t botch that one too. When I left Emile, he was still testing his props. I don’t think he’ll make it up this way for quite a while.“

  Franny pressed the lever to raise the pendulum again. „My assistants are coming back soon. I should – “

  Nick shook his head slowly. „We had an agreement, Franny.“

  „I never told Mallory anything.“

  „Because I had Faustine’s death to give her.“ He looked up at the razor hanging in the air. „My sources tell me Mallory’s in charge of the case now. It’s an official inquiry into Oliver’s death.“ He stopped a moment to listen to the ticking of the gears.

  Franny turned his eyes toward the catwalk where he had been safe.

  „Maybe we can amplify that sound with a small microphone,“ said Nick. „Tick, tick, tick. More suspense, don’t you think?“ He turned around to look at the lobby door, then glanced at his watch. „Mallory will come for you soon, Franny. Relentless child. She’ll drag you into the police station. You know what happens in those places. You won’t get out again until you fold and tell her everything.“

  Would she come at night?

  „Ah, what a creature,“ said Nick. „She has the coldest eyes I’ve ever seen – on a living woman.“

  „Did you really think Oliver was – “

  „Oliver is dead. He’s not the problem, Franny. Now what shall we do with you? Can’t leave you here.“ He stood up and waved toward the exit light. „Shall we?“

  „What about Malakhai? He’s already talked to her.“

  „What of it? He’s the best documented lunatic on the planet.“

  Though there was no gun, no raised fist, not even the hint of force, Franny walked toward the exit sign. He was not a willing companion, yet he offered no resistance. In his own private world, the storm troopers had never left. Shadow soldiers marched behind him as he passed through the stage door and into the street. He could almost hear marching footsteps traveling along with them as he and Nick walked down Broadway. Franny squinted in the noonday sunlight. There were pedestrians on the sidewalk.

  Two policemen rolled by in a patrol car. There were many people he might have cried out to. But he went quietly, crying only a little – afraid to make a scene in public.

  Every old thing was new again.

  The walls echoed that theme with murals depicting the Prohibition era of speakeasy flappers and bathtub gin. On the low stage, musicians were playing vintage
jazz. And best of all, there were ashtrays on the tables. Detective Riker sat in his own cloud of smoke and stared at the gardenia on the windowsill. He could swear it had not been there a moment ago.

  The bar crowd was very young, except for the few gray heads of magicians he recognized. He had avoided them for the past half hour, not wanting to begin the interviews until Mallory arrived. She was late again, and this worried him. There was a time when he could have set a watch by her appearance.

  Charles Butler was rushing the door, and this was Riker’s first clue that Mallory had arrived, for he could only see her blond curls and bits of white satin between the bodies of other patrons.

  Wait. Satin?

  And now he caught the flash of golden strappy heels where running shoes should be. His only good view of her was the reflection in the window. A white tuxedo floated in the night-dark glass. Elegant lines of material flowed over her body and threw off sparks of reflected light. She was carrying a purse instead of her knapsack.

  He had been robbed; this was not his Mallory. She was late, the way a woman is late, and she was even dressed like a woman. There was no blouse worn beneath her jacket, and he had a vague feeling that it would be wrong to stare at that reckless neckline – almost incest. He had never mistaken NYPD for real family, but Mallory had always been a source of confusion. And now the kid was changing her rigid patterns and her style.

  He hated change.

  Riker put the blame on her new habit of sharing wine with suspects. Well, that would have to stop. This was what happened when amateur drinkers were set loose in bars and liquor stores.

  She draped her leather trench coat over Charles’s arm, as though he were a living coat tree – not that he appeared to mind. His face was so happy and hopeful. Now Charles raised his empty hands, perhaps as a prelude to peacemaking, assurance that he came to her unarmed. Suddenly, a gardenia appeared in his right hand.

  Mallory’s smile was strained, and Riker guessed that she was damn sick of tricks.