The Ambitious Card

by John Gaspard

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Reader’s Discussion Guide

  About John Gaspard

  Henery Press Mystery Books

  THE AMBITIOUS CARD

  An Eli Marks Mystery

  Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection

  First Edition

  Digital Kindle edition | August 2013

  Henery Press

  www.henerypress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Copyright © 2012 by John Gaspard

  Cover illustration by Kendel Flaum

  Author photograph by Bill Arnold

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-938383-51-9

  Printed in the United States of America

  For the magicians who have touched my life

  in amazing and wonderful ways:

  Ardan James, Tina Lennert and Suzanne.

  But mostly dedicated to the brilliant Bill Arnold,

  despite the fact that this dedication will annoy him.

  Or maybe because of it.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to the folks who helped me get this idea down on paper: Jim Cunningham, Amy Oriani, Larry Kahlow, David Fogel, Amy Shomshak, Joe Gaspard, Steve Carlson, Dodd Vickers, and Richard Kaufman.

  “My object is to mystify and entertain;

  I wouldn’t deceive you for the world.”

  Howard Thurston

  Prologue

  Ask anyone and they’ll tell you I’m generally a positive person. But even I had to admit, this was a bad situation.

  After the heavy wooden door closed behind us with an unforgiving finality, I’d come to a sudden insight—when it comes to being in the dark, there’s dark-dark and then there’s inside-a-cave dark.

  We were definitely in the latter.

  I’d never been in a place so dark, where the blackness of the space jostled up against us like an aggressive, surly crowd on a subway during rush hour.

  My head was spinning from the lack of oxygen and even though I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face, I was starting to see spots in front of my eyes. My lungs ached with each breath I took, the carbon monoxide that filled the cave a poor substitute for the oxygen I’d foolishly taken for granted until this late point in life.

  We shuffled and slogged through the inky darkness. My foot slipped on a loose rock, hurdling me forward, where a stalagmite—or is it a stalactite?—connected with my forehead, breaking my fall. My head was now covered with small scrapes and contusions, and in the darkness I couldn’t tell whether it was blood or sweat running down my face. I imagine it was a pretty even mixture of both.

  Oh, and did I mention the bats? Well, I don’t know how I could have forgotten them.

  The flurry of winged pests had been just as surprised to encounter us as we had been to encounter them, leaving us the warm and sticky recipients of a rich shower of bat guano. It covered our hair and shoulders, a warm stream that slithered down my spine, making me wish I could actually remove my skin and send it out for cleaning. And as luck would have it, moments after the first battalion departed to points unknown, we were hit with yet a second wave of bat pee, the furry winged bastards slicing across the tops of our heads while their piercing screeches whizzed past our ears.

  Even though I had more pressing concerns at the moment, I once again rebuked myself for getting us into this situation. It could have been avoided, I really think it could have.

  Things would have turned out quite differently, I’m convinced, if I’d closed my act with something other than The Ambitious Card.

  Had it been the cups and balls or the linking rings or a cut and restored rope or any of a hundred other tricks, I might be sitting home in front of the television right now happily munching popcorn, instead of asphyxiating in a cave while marinating in bat pee. But, as they say, hindsight is twenty/twenty, a lesson I appear to be learning and re-learning every day—even in the deadly pitch blackness of this stupid cave.

  Chapter 1

  “I find it puzzling, don’t you? The rabbit, I mean. Very puzzling.”

  As a magician, I’m accustomed to people asking me about rabbits. However, in this particular instance, I wasn’t being queried about your standard pink-nosed adorable bunny, suitable for producing out of a hat. My uncle was instead gesturing toward a large statue of a rabbit reclining on the grass. Perhaps five-feet tall, the dull bronze artwork gazed out at the cars as they passed by on the Minnehaha Parkway, a look of Mona Lisa-style contentment on its large, metallic face.

  “Explain this to me, if you can,” Uncle Harry continued without waiting for any response from me. “Is the statue meant to represent an oversized version of a normal-sized rabbit? Or, was the artist instead attempting to create a normal-sized depiction of a freakishly-large rabbit?”

  I sorted through his questions in my head. “I guess I’ve never thought about it,” I finally answered.

  Harry clucked his tongue. “If we understood the context within which he—or she—was working, then I imagine we’d have a handle on it. It’s never about what they’re doing. It’s always about why.”

  He gave the rabbit one more penetrating look as we drove past. “As a professional magician, these are the questions you should be thinking about,” he added in his professorial tone.

  Perhaps it’s my imagination, but as he’s gotten older, Harry’s list of the questions I should be thinking about has grown exponentially. And to be honest, given recent events, I must admit that I haven’t really made any attempt to keep up with his list. At this point, I am probably hopelessly behind.

  I made a left turn on Chicago Avenue and we headed away from Minnehaha Parkway, driving the final two blocks home in reflective silence. I pulled into an open parking space across the street from the small shop that serves as both our abode and our business. Chicago Magic is the store and, surprisingly, it’s a good 350 miles from the Windy City, nestled instead in a cozy neighborhood in South Minneapolis. The shop has been a fixture near the corner of 48th and Chicago for nearly fifty years. I’ve called the apartments above it my home—on and off—for just over twenty years, or since I was about ten. For those of you unwilling or unable to do the math, that would put me in my early thirties.

  Uncle Harry gathered up the plastic shopping bag that slumped at his feet. The bag was filled to near-overflowing with candy bars of all varieties. And not the dreaded Fun-Size candy bars, which Harry loathes. (“Where’s the fun in a candy bar the size of your thumb? That’s about as much fun as a poke in the eye, if you ask me.”) No, these were genuine, full-sized bars and they would join the other, equally-large bag we purchased two days earlier in anticipation of the supposed hordes
of trick-or-treaters Harry was convinced would be visiting us that evening.

  Harry is a man who does not like to be caught unprepared and Halloween fuels his already competitive nature. For years he has ranted about our business neighbors—the movie theater on one side of the store and the bar on the other—and their alleged stinginess in the matter of dispensing Halloween candy to the neighborhood children.

  “Any business that charges an arm and two legs for a bag of popcorn,” he would often say of the movie theater, “and then turns around and hands out miniscule candy bars at Halloween…that to me is a business with a heart the size of a gumdrop. And don’t get me started with that bar,” he would gesture toward what is actually a favorite hangout of his. “I swear to God, those cheap so-and-so’s are handing out ice cubes instead of candy. I’ve seen them do it. They hold a bowl of something high enough over the kids’ heads so they can’t see inside of it, and then—plop, plop, plop—they toss ice cubes into the poor youngsters’ bags, saying, ‘Enjoy your Snickers bar and happy Halloween kids.’ That, if you ask me, is lower than low.”

  Halloween had been a favorite holiday for Aunt Alice, and because this was the first occurrence of the holiday since her passing, I think Harry was over-compensating. I got the sense he was using the delivery of treats to random, roaming costume-clad kids as a sort of living memorial to her and their fifty-plus years together. But I sympathized with the feeling. So when he had insisted on making yet another run to the store that afternoon for more candy, I quickly agreed and even offered to drive.

  As soon as the car came to a stop across from our shop, he opened the door and got out, turning back to reach in and pick up the bulging bag of candy bars. “Aren’t you coming in?” he asked when he recognized that I hadn’t turned off the engine.

  I shook my head. “I’ve got that show in St. Paul to get to,” I said, picking up a Snickers bar that had escaped from the bag. I handed it to Harry and he skillfully slipped it back into the bag, making it vanish from his hand. It was a good trick, but he did it without even realizing he had done it. Force of habit, I guess.

  “Oh, that’s right,” he said, giving the side of his head a slight tap with his index finger. “Thanks for covering for me on that show. I’m just not up to it.”

  “I understand, no problem,” I said, not wanting to make a big deal out of it.

  He started to close the car door, then ducked his head back down for one last comment. “Give ’em hell, Buster.” And then he closed the door.

  I watched him as he waited for a couple of cars to pass and then tentatively made his way across the street to our shop. He glanced up at the sky as he slipped the key into the front door lock, looking to see if the snow that had been threatening for the last couple of days was any closer to becoming a reality. A few moments later the door was unlocked and he disappeared inside. And two seconds after that, a hand turned the sign that hangs in the window around so that it now read Open.

  Chicago Magic was open for business and ready for trick-or-treaters. And I had to get to a psychic showdown—a mental cage match, as it was being advertised—in St. Paul.

  But before I go, I thought, where’s the harm in a quick interlude?

  I pulled the car forward about thirty feet, which put me directly across from the shop on the corner—a mere four doors down from Chicago Magic. I pretended to be very interested in something on the car’s dashboard, adjusting an invisible knob. And then slowly, oh so slowly, I turned my head to the left and looked across the street.

  Bingo. I spotted her immediately, standing by the cash register and talking to a customer. Her face was slightly obscured by her curly brown hair—then she laughed and tossed her hair back, revealing that sweet, lovely face. She was gorgeous. It was evident even from this distance, clear across the street and through a fog of incense that hung around inside the store like, well, a fog.

  I watched her for several long moments, with what I’m sure was a look of puppy dog infatuation on my face, until I reached a point where I was even starting to creep myself out. I said her name softly, like a sigh, “Megan,” then put the car in gear and headed over to St. Paul.

  The bluffs that border the riverfront, across the waterway from downtown St. Paul, are famous for their caves—miles of caverns and circuitous tunnels that cut deep into the tall, rocky hills. The best-known of these caves, and the only ones open to the public, are The Wabasha Street Caves, which began their career as a mining site for valuable sandstone before becoming a private Prohibition-era nightclub. The Caves have gone through several permutations since that time, finally evolving into a rental space for parties and events. I’d only been there once previously, years before at a spooky magic show presented by a student of my uncle’s. Although the event taught me nothing new about magic, I did learn one thing about The Caves that night that has stuck with me ever since—when the lights go out in a cave, it’s dark. I mean dark-dark. Stygian darkness. Darker, as my uncle was fond of saying, than the inside of a nun.

  It was immediately apparent that darkness wasn’t going to be an issue inside The Caves that evening as I stepped into the steady flow of people making their way through the large wooden doors that framed the front entrance. The inside of the place was lit up like a crystal chandelier, with extra lighting courtesy of a TV crew that had moved in and completely taken over the main room.

  Inside, t-shirted crewmembers with headsets and clipboards scurried around, as staff in charge of crowd control moved the people from the foyer into the rows of folding chairs that had been set up in the main room. I was instantly reminded that this was a Halloween event when I recognized that many in the crowd had come in costume, ranging from something as simple as a funny hat to one fellow who was dressed like the Gorn Captain, that shabby, shambling lizard from the old Star Trek series.

  As the crowd slowly shuffled forward around me, I spotted a young woman wearing a black PBS t-shirt, blacker lipstick, a headset, and a determined expression.

  “Excuse me,” I said as I lightly tapped her on the shoulder, making the assumption that she wasn’t in costume but was, in fact, in uniform.

  She turned and looked at me, holding up one finger on her right hand while she pressed her headset closer to her head with her left, trying to hear above all the conversations in the cramped, echoing space. “Uh huh,” she said into the mouthpiece. “Roger that.” She lowered her right finger, giving me the go-ahead to speak. “Yes?”

  “Hi. I’m Eli Marks. I’m in the show tonight.”

  She quickly paged through the stack of multi-colored sheets on her clipboard, then spoke into the mouthpiece again. “I’ve got the Debunker with me. Where should I put him?”

  “Actually, the term Debunker is not one—”

  She held up that one finger again as she listened intently to her headset. She nodded and then turned and pushed her way through the crowd, glancing back over her shoulder as she did.

  “Follow me,” she yelled, and then she dove further into the throng. I excused and pardoned my way through the packed foyer, as I did my best to keep the crewmember in sight. As we neared the entrance to the main room, she veered to the right, past the restrooms, and then made a left, bringing us into a new room that was, literally, cavernous.

  A long bar ran against one wall, and the far end of the room revealed an archway entrance to another, similar room. If I was remembering correctly from my one visit to The Caves, that cavern connected to another cavern, which in turn connected back to the main cavern, which connected to the foyer we had just left, creating a circle of interconnected caverns.

  This particular space was currently unoccupied, with the exception of a tall, rail-thin woman with spiky red hair standing by the bar. She was digging through what looked like a large fishing tackle box. Next to her were two lights on stands, which were directed at a high, canvas-backed chair. Ricky Martin screamed Living La Vida Loca from a portable iPod speaker system on the bar.

  “I’ve got one who
’s ready for make-up,” the crewmember barked over the music. “He’s on last, so no rush.”

  “Great,” the spiky-haired woman said. “What’s the time?”

  The crewmember looked at her watch, which hung on a braided lanyard around her neck. “We go live in twenty-five minutes,” she said as she spun around and headed back the way she had come. As she left the cavern, her hand went up to the headset on her ear and I could hear her say, “Debunker’s in makeup.” And then she was gone.

  “I’m Lauren,” the spiky-haired woman said, taking a makeup bib off the chair and gesturing for me to have a seat. Her voice was husky and rich, the distinctive sound of a former or current smoker.

  “I’m Eli,” I said as I settled into the chair. She fastened the bib around my neck, yanking and tugging it until it was positioned to her satisfaction.

  “So, Eli, what’s a Debunker and why do you hate that term so much?” She ran a warm hand quickly through my hair, and then turned and began rummaging through the tackle box. From my new vantage point I could see that instead of hooks, worms, and bobbers, the box was full of makeup supplies. Powders, eyeliners, lipsticks, brushes, tubes, and small bottles I couldn’t identify were neatly arranged in the box’s tiers.

  “How do you know I hate that term?”

  She gave a little laugh. “Body language. They say that ninety-five percent of human communication is done via body language.”

  “Really?”

  “Well,” she shrugged, “I made up the number, but I stand by the concept.” She turned back from the makeup case, having found a shade of powder that pleased her. She placed one hand over my eyes while the soft, feathery brush in her other hand gave my face a quick dusting. The song on the iPod speaker switched from Ricky Martin to an aria from an opera that I almost recognized. This was either an eclectic playlist or the machine was set on shuffle. “So, what’s a Debunker?” she asked again.