"What a lovely touch!" she said, as the children scooped up a toy puppy each. One very happy customer.
Byron drove straight home, giggling. His only concern was that what had happened might be temporary. This fear seemed to be justified later when, after magically producing various small mammals in the bathroom and the front room, he found he couldn't do it any more. He had gone cold. He didn't think he even wanted to go on living without this new power. Magic was real, just like he'd imagined when he got his first magic set, aged seven. It couldn't be taken away from him! He had stumbled out to the yard in the moonlight and knelt in the same spot, hardly daring to breath in case what had happened was a one-time deal. He felt the energy buzzing almost immediately and wept with relief.
Now, just eight months later, he was the best-known, busiest, and wealthiest magician in Australia. No more kids' parties for Byron. He walked out of the stage door, past the fans who'd lined up four deep behind the ropes to get a close look at the miracle worker. They never screamed, shouted, called out or asked for autographs. They were too much in awe of him. It was enough just to see him. Deep down, they all knew what they had just witnessed was no trick.
Byron climbed into the two-seater Mercedes. The cream leather squeaked as his bulk settled into it. The engine made that slightly angry roar he loved as he turned the key. He headed home, Col's last words still echoing in his head.
"America, Byron. Europe. Royalty, film directors, musicians, actors. They all want you. Think about it."
He wished he could go. But he knew all his power would be gone within a day or two unless he could get back to his yard. He sighed and tapped the steering wheel, lowering the automatic roof to enjoy the balmy evening. He had booked himself a little "entertainment" for the rest of his evening. He might not be able to leave his native country, but being fabulously wealthy brought some compensations.
After he had been home an hour, he'd checked his watch in frustration, then called the agency.
"Where the hell is she?" he said, when they picked up. He listened as he walked through to the kitchen and opened the fridge to get a beer. Alcohol didn't seem to affect him the same way these days, but you couldn't beat a cold one.
"Yeah, well, I don't care how reliable she is normally, she isn't here now and-," Byron stopped talking and looked out into the yard. In the moonlight stood a naked woman. An incredible looking naked woman with the most amazing body he had ever seen. She was beckoning him. He licked his lips.
"Never mind," he said into the phone. "She's here."
Out in the yard, he shivered slightly. He looked hungrily at the naked woman. Other than the perky nipples, there was no evidence that she felt cold. She smiled at him coquettishly.
"Going to show me some magic, Brian?" she whispered.
"It's Byron," he said, angrily, his excitement waning rapidly. The agency was supposed to make sure the girls were submissive. He had had enough lip from Marjorie to last a lifetime, thank you very much. He moved closer to the naked woman. She was still smiling at him. Perhaps the back of his hand would make her a little more respectful. He drew himself up to his full height. The heeled shoes he'd taken to wearing made him nearly five foot nine, but this woman was still an inch or two taller.
"I can see I'm going to have to teach you some manners," he said. She looked at him and laughed. Laughed.
"Oh, dear," she said, her perfect breasts bobbing disconcertingly as she chuckled. "What a waste. All that potential, all that power, and such a silly little man."
Enough was enough. The agency charged a fair bit more if he bruised the merchandise. Byron decided tonight was going to be expensive. He slapped the woman across the face. Hard. She laughed again, shook her head, then held up a wagging finger, tutting at him.
"My turn," she said. She swung her hand toward his neck. He had time to see the hand darken and change shape, the nails elongating and sharpening to become micro-thin and razor-like, before the blow neatly decapitated him. His head retained consciousness long enough to see his body fall backward into the yard. As the scene dimmed and disappeared, he realized she had been right about him being a silly little man: his last thought was, "ta-da!".
Chapter 11
Between Los Angeles and Albuquerque
Present Day
As Seb opened his eyes, the floor beneath him moved and he lurched to one side, his arms coming up to stop him falling. He grabbed a handrail and steadied himself. He was in the bathroom of a train. There was a shower attachment on the wall and a round mirror over the tiny basin. He ran some cold water and splashed it on his face. Looking at himself, something seemed wrong. He frowned, trying to work out what it was before he realized.
I haven't shaved in three days.
He rubbed a hand over his baby-smooth, stubble-free chin, frowning. His hands looked manicured, the nails short and clean. Backing up as much as he could in the cramped room, he saw that he was wearing a dark suit with a white shirt, unbuttoned at the neck.
Nice outfit, he said to his reflection. Where'd ya get it?
He pulled on the lapels, straightening the jacket over his shoulders. He frowned again. There was something in his pocket. Reaching into the jacket, he pulled out a cardboard folder and his wallet. He opened the folder first. Tickets from LA to Albuquerque. Superliner bedroom. Seb opened the bathroom door. Sure enough, he had his own sleeper, small but private, with a seat by the window and a couch/bed. Well, Seb, whatever the hell else is going on, the good news is, you're doing it in style.
His stomach growled and he checked his watch. Dinner time.
The dining car was busy and noisy. At first, Seb thought there were no spare seats, but when he moved to one side to let a waiter through he realized he had squeezed into an empty bench. He had to look twice, as he was sure he'd seen a figure dozing there, leaning against the window. No - the seat was definitely empty. On the other side of the table, a man nursing a large red wine waved the glass in Seb's direction.
"It's free," he said, "join me."
Seb slid gratefully onto the seat. The man opposite pushed a menu across toward him.
"Steak's overpriced, but passable," he said. "If you're hungry." Seb was hungry. Really hungry. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten properly. He glanced at the menu. The steak was more than $25. He would normally pay with plastic, but if Seb2 was right, he was going to have to rely on cash, which he generally didn't carry much of. He took out his wallet and glanced at the bills, flicking through them.
What the hell? There were 20 $50 bills neatly folded in his wallet. Seb guessed the magic money came from the same place as the magic suit and the magic tickets.
"One piece of advice," said the man opposite. He looked to be in his early fifties, well groomed, gray hair, an expensive dark blue suit. His tanned features were set off by warm, intelligent brown eyes. He had the look - and Seb could find no other way of putting it - of someone who knew something you didn't. A whole bunch of things.
"What's that?" said Seb.
"Don't bother with the house wine if you have the steak. Help yourself to a glass of this." He tapped the bottle next to him. Seb read the label.
"Screaming Eagle?" he said. "Sounds...interesting. I'm sorry, I know nothing about wine."
The man smiled and put out his hand. "I'm Walter Ford. Walt." Seb shook his hand.
"Seb Lewis," he said, momentarily smug as he'd remembered to give himself a false surname. Varden was unusual - might easily be remembered. He stopped feeling smug when Walt raised an eyebrow in polite disbelief.
"Nice to meet you, Seb," said Walt, smiling. Seb swallowed, shaking his head slightly. No point being paranoid. There was no way this guy could know he was using a false name.
"Screaming Eagle is one of the better Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignons," said Walt, pouring some for Seb. "Try it." He raised his glass and drank as Seb did the same.
"Yeah, it's good," said Seb. "Smooth," he added, feeling slightly ignorant. Walt nodded.
"I think it's undervalued," he said. "Save some for your steak." His eyes flicked up to the waiter who'd just appeared. Seb ordered a rare steak with an extra portion of fries.
"So where are you headed?" said Walt.
"Albuquerque," said Seb.
"Business?" asked Walt.
"No, just wanted to do some traveling," said Seb.
"Can't say I blame you," said Walt. "There's so much of this country that most of us never see. Some of the most unlikely places can take your breath away but you'll never find them sitting on your ass."
"Guess that's true," said Seb.
"Of course, it's also possible to see more of life than 99% of the population by doing nothing other than sitting on your ass." Walt began carefully folding his napkin.
"What do you mean?"
" 'Without going out of my door I can know all things on earth,' " said Walt.
" 'Without looking out of my window'," continued Seb, " 'I can know the ways of heaven'."
"Lao Tzu," said Walt, almost simultaneously with Seb's "George Harrison."
"Who?" they both said at once. Both men laughed. Seb took another sip of wine. Walt pushed his napkin between his hands, making a loose ball.
"5th Century BC Chinese philosopher, reputedly the founder of Taoism," said Walt.
"Are you seriously telling me you've never heard of George Harrison?" said Seb. "Paul McCartney? John Lennon? Ringo Starr? The Beatles?"
"They were a band popular in the sixties, right?" said Walt.
"Popular in the sixties? Popular? Yeah, I guess you could say they were popular. You're kidding me, right?"
Walt carefully placed the napkin on the table in front of him.
"I was busy in the sixties," he said. He put his hands in front of him, palm down, about ten inches above the napkin. "Wanna see some magic?"
"Busy?" said Seb. "Busy enough to miss The Beatles? Man, you've got some catching up to..."
Seb's voice trailed away. Walt's napkin had begun to move, swelling and receding in an eerie sinuous motion that reminded Seb of a TV show he seen once when a pregnant woman had shown the baby moving under the stretched skin of her stomach. Walt slowly closed one hand into a fist and the napkin mirrored the movement, closing in on itself until it was a tight ball. Then Walt opened his hand again, and as the napkin unfolded itself, he began moving both hands as if he was a puppeteer. The napkin responded to every move of the older man's hands, dancing gracefully side to side, then slowly pirouetting. Seb was entranced, although he knew the secret must be some kind of ultra-fine thread. Even knowing how it was done, it was hard not to be impressed by the convincingly lifelike movement exhibited by the napkin, which was now rising upwards. Seb caught Walt's eye and smiled.
"Hmm," said Walt. "Not really impressed, I see."
"The opposite, actually," said Seb. "I mean - wow - it's amazing. I love close-up magic. Really."
"It's ok," said Walt, "you're not supposed to be impressed yet." Slowly, deliberately, he folded his arms and sat back in his chair. The napkin very slowly folded in on itself and curled back onto the table.
"Seriously," said Seb, "you've got some chops. Fantastic."
Walt held up a finger. It seemed a casual gesture, but Seb detected the crowd-controlling skill of a long-time performer. He looked at Walt. The man's face had taken on an aspect of absolute concentration. He was staring at the napkin. Seb had once read that a magician was actually an actor playing the part of a magician. If that was true, this guy was De Niro. He looked utterly composed, focused and serious - the look on his face was that of an athlete about to attempt a world record. Seb felt a palpable sense of power and he could swear the space around Walt's face was shimmering like a heat haze. He looked at the napkin just as it began to unfold itself again. It seemed to coil itself into a crouching position, one white cotton corner pointing toward Seb. Then it began to move. Not a dance this time, more the purposeful, quiet movements of a predator. It crawled slowly across the table, each step hinting at some kind of ancient, instinctive, deadly intent. Seb tried to swallow, but found his throat suddenly dry. Absurdly, he couldn't tear his eyes away from the thing long enough to reach for his wineglass. He was aware of Walt's presence opposite: he wasn't moving a muscle - there was no way this was being controlled by threads.
Some sort of animatronic exoskeleton? Wires sewn into the napkin itself? Even as he forced himself to be logical, a deeper part of him registered what was actually happening. This was real. Walt was somehow imbuing the napkin with its own physicality. Not only was it real, it was dangerous and it was headied straight for him. He tried to move, but his fascination seemed to have locked his arms and legs in place. The thing rocked back, muscles rippling under the surface of the napkin.
Oh, God, it's going to spring. It's going to attack me. He braced himself for the inevitable pain even as a tiny part of him tried to dismiss the whole scenario as ridiculous. Just before the creature could move, a hand appeared on top of it. His view momentarily obscured, Seb managed to look up.
"Your steak, sir," said the waiter, plucking the napkin from the table, shaking it out with one hand, then draping it efficiently across Seb's lap. Seb flinched as it landed, then he grabbed it and kneaded it with his fingers. No wires, no threads.
"Are you all right, sir?" said the waiter, placing a steaming plate in front of him, followed by an extra bowl of fries. Seb reached for his wine and took a long swallow.
"Fine, thanks. Yes. Fine."
The waiter nodded and left, dodging his way through a family coming the other way with an ease borne of years working the railroad. Seb looked at Walt, feeling suddenly embarrassed as the fear he had just experienced dissipated.
"Didn't think you could bring your own wine on board," he said. Walt smiled and raised his glass.
"We have an understanding," he said. "Don't let your steak go cold."
"That...trick," said Seb. "I've never seen anything like it."
Walt sipped at the wine, twirling the stem of the glass slowly through long fingers.
"I've loved magic all my life," he said. "I'll tell you about it while you eat. Bon appetit."
Seb noticed that Walt didn't ask him whether he actually wanted to hear his story, just assumed he did. He was right, of course. Seb had always slightly envied those who seemed so sure of themselves, of their place in the world. That sense of entitlement. Some people just seemed to have it, while others had to nurse a sense of self-worth so fragile, it sometimes seemed barely present. Seb picked up the steak knife and cut a huge slice, washing it down with the Cabernet Sauvignon, which was beginning to taste better with every mouthful.
"I grew up poor in Chicago," said Walt. "I'm not looking for sympathy, I didn't know anything different. Where I grew up, rich meant you got meat more than once a week. There was no education worth the name - I was expected to earn my keep as soon as I was able. For me, that meant running errands for the local mobster. Well, not for him directly. I was so far down the food chain, I didn't even qualify as bait. I got all the jobs no one else wanted - taking messages, picking up parcels, but mostly cleaning up, fixing drinks. Sometimes, I got to hear things I shouldn't hear, see things I shouldn't see. Passing information like that to the right pair of ears could get you some real money. I was smart enough not to take sides and careful enough not to get myself killed. I had no loyalty to these thugs. They were dangerous and - worse - they had no style, no finesse. They were short-sighted, greedy. Not one of them had the sense to know when to stop, to know when they were attracting too much attention. So their life expectancy was pretty short. Luckily, I developed an instinct for that kind of danger and was always long gone before the inevitable hit the fan.
"In my teens, they let me join the protection run once a week. We were assigned a street and had to collect protection money from the owners of the businesses. 'Business' is too grand a word for what these people did - struggling to make ends meet in one of the hardest periods this country has ever faced."
Seb wondered what period Walt meant. There was no way he was any older than sixty. More likely mid-fifties, which would make him a teenager in the sixties. A teenager in the sixties who hadn't heard of The Beatles.
"The cut we took from these shopkeepers kept them just above the breadline," continued Walt. "I didn't much like it, but I needed to feed myself. And - by that time - it was all I knew. Until one day I realized we were avoiding one of the businesses. Nothing special about it, just a small florist. Bernbaum Flowers. Not only did we never get any protection money, we just pretended it wasn't there. No one ever mentioned it. One day I plucked up the courage and asked why. Manny - who headed up the protection boys - told me Sid Bernbaum was an old friend of the boss. I started to ask another question, but the look he gave me stopped me dead in my tracks. 'We don't talk about it, ok?'. I kept my mouth shut but I already knew I was going to find out more."
Walt paused while he filled up both glasses. Seb looked at the bottle. It was still half full, although he was sure they must have drunk it all by now. Another mystery.
"By this time, I'd learned a few useful skills. Late one night, I picked Bernbaum's lock so I could search the shop. Didn't know what I was looking for, couldn't even have put into words what drove me to do it, but I knew I didn't want to spend the rest of my life as a middle-ranking mobster and I'd half-convinced myself this guy might know something that would help with my career progression.
World Walker 1: The World Walker Page 8