The Bullet Catch

by John Gaspard

  “Hello?” I said tentatively as I made my way slowly up the stairs, wondering how I could turn the movie poster tube into a makeshift weapon on short notice.

  “Buster,” a voice said and I recognized it as Harry’s, but he sounded uncharacteristically tired. “I tried to call you, but your phone was off.”

  “Oh, yeah, sorry,” I said. “We have to turn it off on the movie set and I forgot to turn it back on.”

  “That’s all right,” he said softly. “It runs in the family.”

  I reached his doorway and looked up at him. “Are you locked out? You know there’s a spare key in the store.”

  He shook his head. “No, I’m not locked out.”

  I continued up the steps toward him, noticing he looked very small and alone on the narrow staircase. “Is everything okay?” I climbed two more steps and we were now eye to eye.

  “Buster, your Aunt Alice taught me,” he said quietly, “when you have to give someone bad news, you must warn them first.”

  “Okay,” I said, not at all sure where this was headed.

  He ran a hand across his face and it continued across his head, doing nothing to calm his unruly hair. He looked me in the eye. He had clearly been crying at some point in the evening.

  “Max,” he said finally. “Max died.”

  Chapter 22

  The wake for Max took place two days later at Adrian’s. The bar had been such a long-time hangout for the members of the Minneapolis Mystics it seemed the appropriate place to gather and say goodbye. I didn’t see much of Harry during those two days; he spent every waking hour organizing the event. I think having the various tasks to focus on helped him to deal with the sudden loss of his friend.

  Due to the advanced age of most of the Mystics, it was decided an afternoon memorial would allow for the largest turnout. The owners of the bar were happy to pitch in and a sign on the door announced the entire establishment was ‘Closed for a Private Event.’ Not having an official function, I planted myself near the front door, acting as the informal greeter. This allowed me to either steer people toward Harry, or if he looked too busy with other guests, to steer them toward the bar and the food.

  “I told you there’d be food.”

  The voice was as familiar as her sentiment. I turned to see a tiny, white-haired woman pushing her way through a bottleneck that had formed by the front door. She was dressed for winter even though it was close to ninety degrees outside.

  “And I also told you it would be freezing in here,” Franny continued, shouting over her shoulder. She spotted me and we both broke into bittersweet smiles.

  “Eli, boychick!”

  I bent down to hug her and she buried her face in my neck. “How is Harry doing?” she whispered.

  “He’s holding up,” I said. “He’s doing good.”

  “Good,” she said, stepping back and giving me the once over from head to toe. “I had another ping about you the other day. I don’t often get twinges off the line, but this one was solid and it was about you.”

  “Another ping about me?” While I wouldn’t go so far as to label myself a believer, Franny’s predictions hit more often then they miss, even if they do land left of center from time to time. Her last prediction that “the man who got shot was the man who got shot but he wasn’t” seemed a fair, if garbled description of what had happened to Jake on the film set. So I always kept my mind as open as I can for Franny’s pings.

  “Yes, I washing the dishes last week and I suddenly got an image of you and the words, ‘Stick to the lobby level.’ Does that make any sense to you?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes it does.”

  “Well that’s nice, because I couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Now, I know I smelled food,” she continued, perching on her toes in a failed attempt to see over the crowd. Even in a room full of tiny, old people, Franny’s diminutive stature still put her at a disadvantage. I pointed toward a table which had been set up by the far end of the bar.

  “There’s food back beyond the bar,” I said. “Help yourself. There’s going to be a short program starting in about five minutes.”

  “Quick, let’s get food and find a seat before both are scarce,” she barked over her shoulder. Her companion had been trapped in a bottleneck of walkers and canes by the door and at that moment was finally able to maneuver her way into the room.

  It was Megan.

  We spotted each other at the same instant and so were spared that fleeting moment of hesitation of what to do before the other person sees you. We stood frozen in place for a second, and then simultaneously took a step toward each other.

  “Eli,” she said softly.

  “Megan.” We each took one more step, eliminating the small distance between us. We then negotiated a hug, with each of us turning first one way, then the other, until we managed to execute what had once been a simple and frequent action. We held each other for a moment longer than I expected, and so I used the extra time to get a quick waft of her hair. We then stepped back, standing closer than strangers but not quite as close as lovers.

  “Your hair smells the same,” I finally said when no other thought was able to make the short jaunt from my brain to my lips.

  “It does?” she said, suddenly self-conscious. “Well, I suppose it would. Still using Johnson & Johnson baby shampoo.”

  “If it ain’t broke,” I said. “As they say.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Another awkward pause.

  “It was nice of you to come,” I finally said.

  “I liked Max,” she said. “And I wanted to be here for Harry. How is he?”

  “He seems to be doing okay. He’s spent the last few days organizing all this,” I said, awkwardly gesturing to the bar around us, “Which I think has been good for him.”

  “And how are you doing? You knew Max a long time.”

  Leave it to Megan to ask the question no one else had raised, even me. Everyone had been so concerned about how Harry was taking the death of his friend, no one had thought to ask how I was feeling about it.

  “To be honest, it hasn’t settled in yet,” I said. “I’ve known Max forever. He taught me my first double-lift, then spent the next twenty-five years criticizing me for the way I did it. Max was someone who was always, I don’t know, always there. So it will take a while for me to get used to a world where he’s not.”

  Megan was nodding along as I spoke and I noticed tears had begun to form in her eyes. She closed the gap between us and gave me another hug, this one much more intense than the first. She then stepped back, wiped a tear away and looked around the room.

  “I’d better find Franny,” she said hoarsely.

  “Find the food and you’ll find Franny,” I said.

  She smiled up at me. “I’ll see you later,” she said and then began working her way toward the far end of the bar.

  “Not a bad turnout.”

  I was adding more chairs to the back row, due to the surprisingly steady flow of people who were streaming into the bar. I looked over to my left and was surprised to see Deirdre. She pulled a chair off the stack in the corner and handed it to me to add to the new back row I was attempting to create.

  “Why did Harry decide to have the memorial here in the bar and not in the theater next door?”

  I placed the chair she had given me and made room for the next one she was handing me. “Because there are too many seats next door at the theater.”

  “Excuse me?”

  I set the chair and turned to her. “It’s a show business thing. Most performers would rather play to a small full house than a large house with empty seats. Harry always said ‘magic is more magical in a packed house.’ I’m surprised to see you here,” I continued, straightening the row Deirdre had helped me create. I quickly calculated if it would be possible to add another row behind this one
.

  “Max performed at our wedding,” she said, handing me another chair and readjusting my work to accommodate more people. “He was a crank, but a sweet crank.”

  “That he was,” I said. I leaned on the chair for a moment. “You know, I had forgotten that he was one of the performers at our wedding. How many magicians performed all together? Eight?”

  “Ten. And a mime.”

  I smiled at the memory. “Deirdre, you were very patient to have that many magicians perform at your wedding.”

  She shrugged. “That’s the price you pay when you marry a magician. And speaking of marrying a magician, I saw your old girlfriend across the room. Is your new girlfriend coming as well?”

  “What new girlfriend?”

  “The widow Lasalle.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend,” I said, my voice nearly cracking.

  “I’d keep it that way if I were you, until all the evidence is assembled.”

  I took another chair from her but didn’t set it down. “Is Trish actually a suspect? I mean really?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. If you’re wondering do we have enough evidence to book her, the answer is no, because if we did, we would have by now.”

  “But in your mind, she’s still a suspect.”

  Deirdre took the chair out of my hands and set it in place at the end of the new row. “Her biggest problem right now is what I call The Last Man Standing syndrome. When just about everyone in her small circle is dead and there’s not a scratch on her, that doesn’t look good for her.”

  “What about Mr. Lime? Did you track him down?”

  She shook her head. “The house where you met him is currently unoccupied and has been for months. The title search shows ownership belongs to about twenty different dummy corporations, set up like Russian nesting dolls, with nothing but air in the final doll.”

  “But he exists,” I said, a little more emphatically than I had intended.

  “Eli, I don’t doubt he existed when you met him, but he’s vapor now. For all we know, he’s as dead as Dylan Lasalle and Howard and Sylvia Washburn.” She made an unnecessary adjustment to the final chair. “Anyway, I’m going to go sit down.”

  I recognized her tone from the latter days of our marriage, with her body language basically screaming, “I’m done talking about this.” She walked to the other side of the room, even though we had jointly created two new, empty rows in front of us.

  I waved some latecomers in as Abe Ackerman took the small stage and began the process of us all saying goodbye to Max.

  * * *

  I don’t think I’ve ever felt so sad and laughed so much at the same time. I have only vague memories of my parents’ funerals, and the service for Aunt Alice had been a somber occasion indeed. But for nearly an hour, performer after performer had taken to the small stage in the back of the bar and regaled us with their stories of Max Monarch, the man and the legend. Max even had the best seat in the house: his simple brass urn sat on a chair, front and center.

  I was late to get seated and thought I might end up standing in the back when an arm waved me over. Megan had saved me a place on the aisle. I slid into the seat and whispered a thank you. She nodded and I looked to see that Franny was next to her and Harry had taken a seat on the other side of Franny. He turned and gave me a wry smile and then we all turned our attention back to the stage.

  The stories were personal, profound and profane and, because they were being recounted by performers with decades of stage experience, each story was a small, polished gem. There were stories of USO tours where Max clashed with Bob Hope, standing ovations at the Magic Circle in London, and late-night card sessions with Orson Welles at the Magic Castle in Los Angeles.

  The final presentation came from the ventriloquist Gene Westlake. He took to the stage with his long-time puppet companion, Kenny. Neither one said anything for a few moments, and then Kenny nodded to someone offstage.

  Recorded music began to play and Gene and Kenny started singing Shuffle Off to Buffalo, each taking a verse and then, amazingly, harmonizing on the chorus. While they sang, photos of Max appeared on the screen behind them.

  It was miraculous, watching a man’s life pass before our eyes, morphing from a fresh-faced teen with a cowlick to a skilled and sophisticated performer. Without even turning toward me, Megan handed me a tissue and then pulled another one out of her purse and passed it to Franny. I dabbed at my eyes and when I set my hand back down, Megan took it and gave it a squeeze.

  She turned to me and smiled a sad smile, which I returned. I looked past her to see that Franny had gently taken Harry’s hand and was rubbing it delicately. The two hands, with their matching age spots, looked good together.

  After all the performers were through, Harry stood up and walked slowly to the stage. He looked a bit wobbly and I almost jumped up to help him make the final step up to the platform, but he made it okay on his own. He stood center stage for a long moment, squinting up at the stage lights I had set up that afternoon, and then he finally spoke.

  “The first words Max Monarch said to me were, ‘You know, you’re doing that wrong.’” This produced a knowing chuckle from the crowd. Harry waited for the laugh to subside and then continued. “I, of course, disagreed with him, and we continued that argument, in one form or another, for nearly fifty years. I will miss it. And I will miss him.”

  Harry reached into his coat pocket and produced a magic wand. Even from where I was sitting, I could see this wand had some miles on it and would have benefited from a new coat of paint and some spit and polish. As he held the wand in front of him, I suddenly realized what he was going to do.

  “This is the Broken Wand ceremony,” I whispered to Megan next to me. She nodded, although I suspect she had no idea what I was talking about.

  “The magic wand,” Harry began to recite, holding and turning it for the audience, “is one of the oldest known totems. Primitive cave paintings have been found showing early man holding wand-like objects. In the world of conjuring and conjurors, the wand is considered to be an extension of the magician, part of him and part of his magic. When the magician dies, so does the magic in the wand. It ceases to hold meaning and becomes what it once was—a simple piece of wood.”

  With a sudden move, Harry snapped the wand in half. The action was so unexpected several people in the audience gasped.

  “Today we will lay our friend Max to rest and with him will go the remains of the wand, which is also now, finally, at rest. It is our sincere hope Max, wherever he may be, is at peace.” Harry looked down at the urn in the front row. “Goodbye, my friend. Looks like you found the one and only way to win our ongoing argument.”

  Organizing the funeral procession took longer than expected, due in part, I think, to the advanced age and diminished driving skills of many of the attendees.

  Eventually, though, all the cars were lined up and ready to go, although to the casual observer most of the cars appeared to be driverless. It was only after looking more closely that you’d spot the gray hairs, oversized glasses and squinting eyes creeping up from behind the steering wheels.

  Once everyone was ready, Harry sat next to me in my car, with Max’s urn on his lap. The motorcycle cop who was to lead the process surveyed the group and started to mount his cycle, suggesting we were finally ready to go.

  “Wait a second, I almost forgot,” Harry yelled as he unsnapped his seat belt. “Buster, I can’t believe I almost forgot,” he repeated as he shoved Max’s urn into my lap. I struggled to grasp it as Harry opened the passenger door and quickly climbed out.

  Once out of the car he waved to the motorcycle cop and ran toward him. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but Harry handed the cop a sheet of paper and then executed a series of gestures. He pointed at the paper, he pointed at the street ahead of us, he pointed at the procession behind us, and then again pointed at the piece
of paper. It must have made sense to the cop, for he nodded and then sat for a moment studying the paper while Harry returned to the car.

  “What was that all about?” I asked as Harry climbed back in and shut the door.

  “I worked out a special route for the procession,” Harry said as he snapped his seat belt in place. “In honor of Max.”

  I handed the urn back to him. “What’s so special about the route?”

  “Funeral processions get to run red lights,” he said, smiling for the first time in two days. “So I worked out a route that would allow us to run the maximum number of red lights between here and the cemetery. I thought Max would get a kick out of it.”

  The motorcycle cop gave us all a wave and the procession pulled away from the curb and began our short journey to Lakewood cemetery. In all, we ran seventeen red lights. I suspect Max would have loved it.

  Chapter 23

  I think I share the same sentiment that most people have toward bagpipes. I wouldn’t say I hate them, but I can’t imagine going to an evening of bagpipe selections. Not even if they were performed by the equivalent of Jascha Heifetz on the Stradivarius of bagpipes. If such exists.

  Harry is the rare exception who can’t get enough of bagpipes. However, he is also a realist who recognizes his is clearly the minority position. That being said, I know he really wanted a bagpipe rendition of Amazing Grace at the cemetery as a final tribute to Max.

  To appease all parties, he landed on an elegant solution. As Max’s urn was lowered into the ground of the plot he shares with his late wife, Irene, we were treated to the distant strains of Amazing Grace. Harry had instructed the musician to stand on a nearby hill, about two hundred yards from the small hill we were perched on. The music was haunting and evocative, but most importantly it was distant. Blessedly distant.