—HOUDINI, after flying solo in Australia (1910)
CHAPTER 1
In San Francisco, where misdemeanors were mostly forgiven, if not welcomed, the penalty for posting bills on the sides of buildings was a startling thirty dollars. A boy paperhanger could never pay this; nor would his employers. With eight large theatres and dozens of smaller venues all booking acts and motion pictures and exhibitions, however, the paper, legal or not, had to be hung. From midnight until dawn, Tally’s Gulch and Market Street and the Tenderloin and North Beach were overrun with boys whose best qualifications were quick wits and stealth. Working in trios, one holding the heavy paste pot, another the sheet rolls, and a third working the brushes and hangers, they could cover a block in a few short minutes.
However: a poster put to the glue at midnight would undoubtedly be covered by another put up at 3 A.M., so the game was to wait as long as possible—but not long enough to be caught by the sun or the occasional predawn raid of the paddy wagon.
The first week of October 1923 marked the opening of fall season, so the streets were especially crowded. Touring companies of Elagabalo and Carmen were in town, the Sells Brothers Circus was setting up in Golden Gate Park, I’ll Say She Is, featuring the Marx Brothers, would open for two weeks at the Tower, and a dozen film companies were rushing out product to compete with the new Chaplin, a drama set in Paris. Even the grand lady herself, the Orpheum, which had fallen into disuse, a victim of the movies, had been booked for the first time in three years, though for what, no one was quite certain.
As it was the season, competition had a certain edge, for the police had raids nightly. The raids were inevitably scheduled for 4 A.M., as the local bakeries opened their doors to the constabulary shortly thereafter. Woe to the slow boy who was still on the streets after 3:45 A.M.
Thursday night’s performance of Elagabalo was the final one for the Italian company featuring the great tenor Cavelli, and though the performance ended at 11 P.M., the audience demanded encores, and when the opera house shut down for the night, the stage door entrance was packed with admirers who forcibly whisked members of the company to their homes or to speakeasies to hear them sing more. The boys on the sidewalk pasting up eight sheets of lion-tamers shared the streets with women in gowns and men in evening wear surrounding confused but happy Italians who sang like canaries as they ambled from the Lamplighter to the Four Sins Café.
Shortly before four, the streets were emptied of boys and the last stragglers from the opera, throats sore, had fallen into beds or behind sofas, and for a few short minutes, the theatre district of downtown San Francisco was absolutely silent.
At four o’clock exactly, a dozen policemen, including the chief himself, piled into the department’s newest wagons, excited and talking among themselves. They raced past the construction site at Geary and Hyde, the tremendously inviting south side brick wall of the Edison building, the planks and boards around the main library—in short the most attractive sites for bills to be posted. And at every site, working diligently, were fresh trios of boys who waved at them.
There were no arrests made.
At ten minutes past four, the wagons pulled up in front of the Olympic Club’s Doric columns, and the police, all in black tie, ran together—or as “together” as they could, for they were quite snockered—into the club, where they were treated to a light French meal, a brief and humorous message of appreciation from their host, Mister James Carter, and then a private concert by the finest tenor in all of Europe, Cavelli.
He began with “Oh, Lola,” a deft tune from Caruso’s songbook, and from there launched the police into the realms of joy via “Lunge Da Lei . . . De’ Miei Bollenti Spiriti” before an impassioned “Celeste Aida” that caused several grown men to bring out their handkerchiefs. Throwing back his shoulders, he rallied, getting them to clap in time as he sang “Evviva! Beviam! Beviam!” which he turned into a medley ending with the current Ziegfeld favorite, “I Love My Wife, But Oh You Kid!”
When the sun came up, the police spilled out of the club and onto the stairs, elated, in love with Cavelli, and Captain Morgan lit a cigar and said “It’s good to be alive.” They elected to visit a waffle house for breakfast and as they walked, the men noticed how their shoes made a kind of rhythm on the sidewalk, and two officers began to sing together, for they recognized exactly the time signature that echoed down the warming late-summer streets: the Anvil Chorus, from Il Trovatore.
Soon, the rest caught the tune, and even if they didn’t know the words, they could shout along enthusiastically. It was a song sung by gypsies at work in the early morning, and the feeling of camaraderie was infectious. A lamppost made an excellent substitute for an anvil; one cop calmly removed the bullets from his revolver and used its butt as a hammer.
Chi del gitano i giorni abbella
Chi del gitano i giorni abbella
Chi? Chi i giorni abbella?
By now, they were just outside the Edison building, with its great brick wall now completely covered not with Chaplin posters, nor the circus, nor the work of anyone who’d come out before 4 A.M. Instead, every square inch of space was covered with three sheets and eight sheets and even one spectacular twenty-four sheet, all of them showing in various sizes exactly the same image: on a deep blue background, so blue it was almost black, a warmly colored man in turban and tails, his smile dazzlingly white, his right palm extended, and in it a box that displayed a futuristic-looking clear globe capped with a yellow and orange halo of flames. At the top of each poster, it said, “Carter the Great,” and at the bottom, “EVERYWHERE!”
The policemen were walking in several rows, with their arms around one another’s shoulder. When they passed the posters, they, to a man, stopped in their tracks, and they were dazzled. Immediately, they started addressing their song directly to the posters, gesturing to the giant figures of Carter, at once their benefactor and their best audience, some of them choking on laughter as they changed the lyrics to “Car-ter-is-ev’ry-where, Car-TER-the GREAT-is-ev’RY-where.”
Across the street, sipping from a paper cup of coffee, the real Charles Carter, who’d come to see the first public display of his posters for himself, went unrecognized. He watched the group of cops singing to his image and, as they disbanded, he felt a swell of pride. Such a good first reception felt like an omen and a blessing.
The cops noticed him and, using their billy clubs for emphasis, told him to move along. So Carter touched the brim of his hat and ambled down the street, humming the Anvil Chorus himself. There wasn’t much time left and there was a show to put on.
. . .
The posters were well noticed. Tickets sold with fair briskness for an act that had played the city but three months before. Also: more than one representative of the military (there was quite the permanent garrison at the Presidio) recognized in Carter’s hand something that looked peculiar, very much resembling a device they’d been told to look out for. Letters were written and cables sent, and soon after, Col. Edmund Starling had in his office a man he’d been keeping on call for several weeks, the way he once had kept the Spider on call. But this man was of more specialized talents, which he was happy to put to use in America after his extended journey through the African continent.
CHAPTER 2
CARTER SHOW REQUIREMENTS
Mister Carter and his Company will provide all equipment, security, personnel, promotional materials, etc, as per requirements of contract. In response, the ORPHEUM THEATRE will provide the following:
SCENERY DEPARTMENT
Five spot lines, one over center of each trap, other two explained.
Fifteen battons, one with eye arms.
Use house traveler in one. Three men on scenery.
ELECTRIC DEPARTMENT
Reds and whites in foots and borders—Replaces all blues with whites. No blues used. No side lights used. Display City permit for new wiring. One man on electric.
PROP DEPARTMENT
Runway over pit
—36 inches wide, steps to floor, steps painted white or covered with white cloth.
Platform under stage, 5 feet wide, 14 feet long, 7 feet below stage floor. This platform placed directly under center traps, reinforced for weight of elephant and equipment.
One bag sawdust.
For 500-gallon water tank: access to drain from stage to associated or main sewage line. Three mops and one mop wringer. One practical carpet sweeper.
Two men on props.
ORCHESTRA DEPARTMENT
Piano as near center of pit as possible with keyboard facing audience. It is essential we have drums and brass.
COMPANY COMFORTS
Three kitchen tables for props.
Changing room on each side of stage.
Seven hall trees and three chairs for change room.
One gallon springwater in Mr. Carter’s room.
(Pillow?)
James Carter
Company manager
The morning of November 4, standing in the wings of the Orpheum Theatre, James Carter stared at the “comforts” section, pen poised over the word pillow, which he had added not twenty seconds beforehand. Did Charlie want a pillow for his dressing room chair, and if so, what sort?
Though the sound was slightly muffled by the draperies, James could hear the opening monologue. He knew it by heart. He had memorized the act as it would actually occur, as it was written down, as it had been explained to the press, and as disseminated to certain members of the company who couldn’t quite be trusted—in short, it was a layer cake frosted with levels of truth and deception. It was a measure of his exhaustion that while he stared at the stage, witnessing the opening salvo of card tricks, he almost called out, “Are you sure you want a pillow?”
Rather than contribute to the nightmare this show was becoming, James walked quietly through the double side doors, past security, and into the massive house. Two thousand seats in crushed velvet had been recently cleaned and the aisles vacuumed and scrubbed. Cinnamon-scented incense from Chinatown burned in urns scattered about the house. The expenses had only begun there: along with programs and posters, they’d printed decks of promotional playing cards. Carter had outdone himself in coming up with new effects on his limited budget—at least, James suspected he’d remained close to budget, but as soon as the final invoices rolled in, he was prepared to yell at his brother for going somewhat over. He prayed it was only “somewhat,” as every penny counted, and every seat for the next two weeks had to be sold to avert disaster. At the moment, with the magician onstage, exactly twelve seats were occupied.
This would have been catastrophic had it been showtime, but it was still early morning, a rehearsal, and the man onstage was not Carter, but Carlo, his stand-in, and his delivery of the patter sounded, as usual, awful. James grimaced as Carlo hammed up the end of a small bit, rhythm all wrong, “How do I know then that you are not my con-fed-er-ate?” All around Carlo, men performed eleventh-hour repairs, down to restitching the grand drapery, the velvet teaser at the top of the stage, and the tormentors at its sides.
By the time James found the third gallery, a sheen of perspiration had broken out on his forehead. “I’m beginning to understand,” he gasped, dropping into a seat next to his brother, “why you respect the paying audience that has to sit up here.”
Carter brought a finger to his lips. He squared his shoulders toward the stage, his arms crossed. He wore a mask of concentration. “Carlo isn’t projecting well.”
“That’s because Carlo is an idiot.”
Carter mused, “He’s probably memorizing the patter so he can sell it tomorrow morning to the highest bidder.”
“I’m glad you realize that, Charles.”
“You know, I’m imagining the man who will be sitting right here in seat 3C42 tonight, a paying man, disinterested but ready for entertainment,” he whispered, “and I hope that the five-foot-nine-inch idiot he’ll see onstage will be engrossing. More engrossing than the five-foot-nine-inch idiot I’m seeing right now.”
“We’re down to the absolute final preparations—”
“So we are.”
“Do you want a pillow for the chair in your dressing room?”
Carter looked away from the stage, where the monologue continued with strange Italian inflections. “A pillow?”
“Thurston’s rider requires a pillow.”
“Find out how big it is, and get me a larger one.”
“Excellent. Silk tassels?”
“Let’s not—Hold!” Onstage, Carlo froze in position. Carter walked from one end of the balcony to the other, patting the railing. Finally, he called out, “Lighting! Bring up the spot on the stage, and we’ll sweep the audience with it. Can you get the axis to rotate this high? The people back here should have a chance to raise their hands and be seen.”
When it was arranged that, yes, the spotlight could indeed swivel to the third gallery, Carter returned to sit next to James, who was writing that Carter wanted a large, tassel-less pillow in an attractive but not overwrought fabric, perhaps velvet, but not to bother with imported silk.
This took a great deal of time to write. He was aware that his brother was watching him.
“You’ve gone mad,” Carter said quietly.
“Why do you think Thurston needs a pillow so badly he puts it in his contract?”
“Are you suggesting a medical condition that requires the use of unguents?”
As Carlo droned on, James and Carter were reduced to holding back snickers like children during a sermon.
“I am so tired,” James said, wiping his eyes. “Unguents.”
Carter half-sang, “Un-guents,” imitating the awful Carlo.
“Well,” James took a cleansing breath, “now the pillow business is settled, I believe the show is ready.”
“Hmmm,” Carter said after a moment. “Well . . .”
Carlo had gone silent; the opening was over.
Carter clapped his hands. “Thank you. I’m coming down. Men, please rehearse the scenery changes in act one, and I’ll be there shortly.” Carter took James by the shoulder. “Join me, I need to address the company about a detail.”
“Oh?” James ran through a list he had long ago filled with checkmarks: costumes, orchestration, the lion, the elephant, all the motorcycle licensing, briefing the ushers. “I thought we had everything in hand except for final rehearsals.”
“Yes and no.” He showed James the way to the main stairs and took them himself two at a time. “There’s one last thing.”
“The permit for the water tank? We got it last night.”
Carter was now a dozen steps ahead of his brother, and he swung around the next set of stairs, disappearing. James slowed to an irritated stop. Carter popped his head back into view. “The posters. They show me with a television box in my hand?”
“Yes . . .”
“We have neither the plans nor the equipment to produce that particular illusion,” he said, as if discussing how mild the weather was.
James could feel heat rise in his chest. “We don’t have . . .”
“Not exactly.”
“The single most important illusion?”
“Yes, that one. It’s a minor detail,” Carter smiled. “But thank you for the pillow.”
. . .
Five minutes later, Carter trotted onstage in a newly pressed shirt. He clapped his hands and directed everyone assembled to pay him attention. “Ladies and Gentlemen, we’re going to put on a show this evening,” he said, without breaking stride. Behind him, a fidgeting James stopped at the act curtain, beside a little table with a pitcher and six water glasses. He poured himself some ice water and waited. His brother never referred to note cards during these preshow rallies, he never stammered, he spoke in complete sentences as if he’d rehearsed (James never saw him rehearsing), and he could, if needed, discuss thirty items that wanted improvement without skipping or repeating. It was an odd group of forty that he addressed—centermost was Carlo, who lay on th
e stage, feet in front of him, resting on one elbow as if a dryad would soon feed him grapes. To his left was the stone-faced Willie, shy and frequently cast as the villain, as he had mottled red skin and a turned-in eye.
Also: Albert and Esperanza, a married couple of acrobats, both of them lithe and handsome; then Scott, an apprentice magician whom Carter hoped to promote one day to an in-one interval performer. To the back was Cleo, a statuesque woman who was for some odd reason wearing her Egyptian costume hours before she needed to, and four other box jumpers whom Carter had drafted from the Golden Gate assembly. And then there were electricians, grips, stage runners, the conductor and the lead orchestra players, six men clothed in black, Ledocq (who spent the whole time doing a crossword), prop men, carpenters, the box office crew, ushers, and crafty men whose job was to look nondescript as they sat in the audience.
After a general praising of all the talents he saw before him, Carter said he would make no hyperbolic predictions of how well the show would be received; understatement, he hinted, was the code word—the less promised, the more astonished the audience would be at what was actually delivered. He had instructions, and he dismissed groups as he spoke, for there was no reason for ticket takers to know more about the show than that it would start promptly; there would be no late seating; mind that no one swiped the window cards.
Soon, he was down to the core of his company, the ones who appeared onstage or worked the effects behind it. With the departure of each group, Carter had drawn closer, and spoken more quietly, causing those who’d hugged the edge of the stage to approach so they could hear his increasingly hoarse instructions. The air grew intimate, as they all had high hopes and, James knew, a slim chance of solvency. Surveying them, he had a vision of a group of shipwreck survivors drawing around a campfire.
“Friends,” Carter said. He cleared his throat. “You are the only people in the world who know the entire performance. You’re all going to be quite marvelous.” He looked from face to face. “Frankly, I need to ask for some help. To discourage some of my more ambitious competitors, I’ve allowed the plans for the ‘Everywhere’ illusion to be stored in a location that needs to be visited, oh, immediately.” He smiled, “And tactfully.”
Carter Beats the Devil Page 45