Psych: Mind Over Magic

by William Rabkin

  “Of course you could, Balustrade,” the small man said patiently. “And all of America would flock to Vegas to see you practice your card tricks.”

  Now Gus realized who the heavyset man was—the same magician who had slipped the five of hearts into his sock. But the cherubic look was completely gone, replaced by a visage of pure fury. He looked like a different person. He was, Gus realized, a much better performer than he had given him credit for.

  The man in the red suit pushed his way to the front of the crowd. As he got closer, Gus could see that the suit wasn’t just shiny; it was made of vinyl.

  “At least we perform our illusions honestly.” The red-suited man shouted his words over the other man’s head, which wasn’t hard to do.

  Gus caught a glimpse of gold out of the corner of his eye and turned to see the man in the jumpsuit standing at the edge of the crowd. “That’s right! I don’t use computers and video screens and high-tech gadgets to fool a gullible public into thinking I have talent.”

  “There’s no computer in the world that’s that good, Sludge!” a drunken voice called out from the back of the room.

  A wave of laughter passed through the room, which only infuriated the laméd man further. “It’s Rudge,” he shouted. “You all know it’s Rudge. Barnaby Rudge.”

  Rudge jolted forward as if to take on the green giant in a fistfight, and the crowd whooped in anticipation of a bloody, if extremely short, fight. But he quickly dived back into the crowd, and Gus could see that the only reason he’d stepped forward was because he’d been pushed. It took Gus a moment to realize where he’d seen the woman who’d shoved Rudge, because he didn’t immediately recognize her without knife handles protruding from her eye sockets. Now that he was closer to the woman, he could see that she wasn’t wearing a brightly patterned blouse after all. She had on a simple black vest; the colors that ran up and down her arms and covered her upper chest were all tattooed there. And they weren’t just colors—they were snakes and lizards and, Gus was pretty sure, slugs.

  “Isn’t anyone going to stand up for our art?” the woman called to the crowd. “Or are you all going to take little Benny Fleck’s side because he’s rich and you think he’ll stake you to a show when his pretty boy flames out?”

  “Pretty boy?” Gus whispered to Shawn.

  “It’s all relative,” Shawn said. “Consider who’s talking.”

  “P’tol P’kah does not flame out,” said the small man, who Gus realized must be Benny Fleck, whoever that was. “Unless you are referring to his newest illusion, in which he will be consumed by a pillar of fire, transforming himself into a cloud of smoke. The cloud will then rain down on the stage and the puddle of rainwater will then rise up in the unmistakable form of P’tol P’kah, the Martian Magician!”

  An excited buzz ran through the crowd, and members of the Fortress began to shout out questions. Mostly the magicians wanted to know when this new trick was going to premiere, but at least two were asking how they might buy tickets.

  “And he’ll do that on a stage fifty feet from the nearest member of the audience so no one can see what a fake he is,” Balustrade said. “Real magic isn’t like going to see The Matrix at a movie theater. It’s up close. It’s personal. It’s real.”

  “It’s three shows a night at the Budget Buffet Dinner Theater,” Fleck said. “That’s what you mean, isn’t it? Real magic is what you do, the way you do it, and nothing else counts?”

  Another wave of laughter rippled through the crowd. Balustrade’s face was getting redder by the second. He sputtered and spit, but he was so enraged, his tongue couldn’t form words.

  The tattooed woman didn’t have the same problem. “We all know what stage magic is supposed to be, and we know where the art of it lies,” she shouted to the crowd. “All of you, fellow magicians, have spent years perfecting your art, mastering your craft, honing your skills so that what you do is seamless. Perfect. So that you can stand right in front of your audience and they will never be able to figure out your illusion. But this man might as well be George Lucas, casting digital shadows on a wall. He is not worthy of your respect, or of the name magician.”

  Gus looked around the room and saw that the woman’s impassioned plea had actually begun to move some of his listeners. Benny Fleck apparently saw the same thing, because he lifted his arms high in the air—high for him, anyway, which brought them roughly to the level of Gus’ nose—and spoke in a serious voice.

  “P’tol P’kah has heard the complaints of his fellow practitioners, and it has hurt him deeply,” Fleck said. “Although he is not a native of this planet—”

  “Oh, knock it off for five minutes,” Rudge moaned from his new spot deep in the crowd.

  Fleck glared at Rudge, then started over. “Although P’tol P’kah is not a native of this planet, as so many of you know, he has adopted Earth as his home. And he feels closer to you, his brethren, than to any other humans. All he desires is your respect.”

  “And the hundred K a week he pulls down at the casino,” the man in red vinyl muttered.

  “For many, many months he has heard these complaints,” Fleck continued. “That he performs too far from the audience. That somehow he cheats with technology. That he is not a real magician. And his desire for privacy has only inflamed the rumors. But tonight, he has come here to put all this to rest. Tonight, P’tol P’kah has come to the Fortress of Magic to prove to his fellow magicians that he belongs not only among your number, but at the top of your profession.”

  “It’s a profession now?” Shawn whispered to Gus. “Does that make three-card monte a career path?”

  Gus waved him off, fascinated by the argument going on in front of him.

  “I got a deck of cards, if he wants to start with a few basic moves,” Balustrade said.

  “We’ll dispense with the sleight of hand,” Fleck said. “P’tol P’kah has come to the Fortress of Magic to prove that he does not need a special stage or lighting to perform his miracles. He has come to you tonight to perform for you the keystone of his act.”

  A woman in the crowd gasped. “The Dissolving Man?”

  “The Dissolving Man,” Fleck confirmed. “In front of your eyes, P’tol P’kah will immerse himself in a tank of water, and the lid will be locked. And then in front of your eyes, he will become one with the water. He will dissolve into a cloud of bubbles. And then he will rematerialize outside the tank. I tell you all the parts to this performance now so you can watch at every step for chicanery.”

  A spontaneous burst of excited applause broke out in the room.

  “If this demonstration is of interest to you, I invite you to come into the main showroom now,” Fleck said. “Or you can stay here and count how many people have the five of hearts in their shoes.”

  Fleck made a theatrical turn and led the way down the hallway. Chattering excitedly, the crowd of magicians, bachelor partyers, book club members, and other guests followed. Lyle Wheelock was at the head of the crowd, and he was pushing past his guest of honor to be among the first to get into the showroom.

  “I don’t think your father’s present can compete with the Dissolving Man,” Gus said, gesturing down at the wrapped gift that was still in Shawn’s hand.

  “You’re right. Let’s go home.”

  Shawn started toward the door. Gus grabbed his arm. “What do you mean ‘home’?”

  “Generally I mean that place where I keep my clothes and my toothbrush,” Shawn said. “Although in this case I think I really meant anywhere that doesn’t have magicians in it.”

  “You don’t want to see how a seven-foot-tall Martian dissolves in a tank of water?”

  “I’ve got a package of lime Fizzies in my kitchen,” Shawn said. “Probably pretty much the same effect.”

  “Only if the Fizzie can reconstitute itself into a tablet across your kitchen. Come on, you can’t tell me you’re not the slightest bit curious about how he’s going to pull this off.”

  Shawn sighed he
avily. “Because it’s impossible, right?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “See, that’s the problem,” Shawn said. “He’s telling you he’s going to do something that’s impossible. Which means he’s figured out a foolproof way to make it look like he’s doing the impossible, while he’s really backstage, making out with a showgirl or something. So who cares?”

  “I do.”

  “Only because you haven’t thought it through.”

  “That could be,” Gus said. “But there’s something you haven’t thought through.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve got the car keys.”

  Gus turned and followed the last of the crowd down the hallway. Shawn cast a longing glance at the front door, then followed him toward the showroom.

  Chapter Six

  The tank was simple, a glass rectangle ten feet tall and four feet across with steel brackets reinforcing the corners and a metal lid on the top. It towered over Benny Fleck in the middle of an empty stage that was raised three feet above the showroom’s threadbare rug.

  “As you can see, P’tol P’kah has nothing to hide,” Fleck said as the audience crowded the edge of the stage for a better view. “And more important, he has no place to hide. He will perform this astonishing feat directly before your eyes.”

  Gus and Shawn stood at the back of the room, nearly forced against the rear wall by the crowd of spectators.

  “Figured out how he’s going to do it yet?” Gus said.

  “You really think this is something special, don’t you?” Shawn said.

  “Five minutes ago you were cowering in fear because the defrosted Frankenstein monster was going to eat you,” Gus said. “So don’t act like you’re better than everyone else here.”

  “I wasn’t afraid,” Shawn said. “I saw that you were enjoying the experience, and I decided to enhance the moment with a small performance of my own.”

  “If your performance was any bigger, you’d have to change your pants.”

  “It’s about committing to the moment,” Shawn said. “Now that moment is over, and all that’s left is some fugitive from vaudeville who’s painted himself green to trick the rubes into thinking he can do magic.”

  “If it’s so obvious, go ahead and tell me.”

  Shawn studied the tank on stage, examining the way the theatrical lighting refracted through the water in the tank, sending ripples of light across the room.

  “All an illusion,” Shawn said. “There probably isn’t even water in that tank.”

  The crowd fell silent as P’tol P’kah’s heavy boots rocked the stage. He stomped up beside the tank and surveyed the crowd.

  “Is there anyone who doubts?” the green man said, his filed teeth bared in a grin that would cause most people to give up any suspicions very quickly. “Is there anyone here who wishes to challenge me?”

  Gus nudged Shawn. “This is your chance. Go up and expose him.”

  “Bear. Den,” Shawn said.

  “Cow. Ard,” Gus said.

  “I challenge you, you giant zucchini!” There was a bustle in the crowd and after a moment, Balustrade heaved his body onto the stage. “What are you going to do, throw me off this stage to keep me from investigating your tank?”

  “I welcome your attention,” P’tol P’kah said. “You may study every inch of it.”

  “You bet I will,” Balustrade said, walking around the tank. As he passed behind it, Gus could see his distorted image through the water. Balustrade finished his circumnavigation and appeared at the front. He rapped on the glass, and the sound was a damp, heavy thud.

  “Are you satisfied?” boomed P’tol P’kah.

  “Satisfied that you’re a fake,” Balustrade said.

  “Would you like a closer inspection?”

  “Do you have to ask?”

  P’tol P’kah stomped off stage and came back wheeling out a set of metal stairs, the kind they used at airports too small to build Jetways. He wedged the steps against the side of the tank and motioned to Balustrade. “After you.”

  Clutching the handrails, Balustrade climbed up the stairs. At the top, he peered down suspiciously at the tank’s lid. “I suppose you won’t let me open this.”

  “You may do as you wish,” P’tol P’kah said. “Although I warn you, you may not be happy when you do.”

  “Yeah, I’m the one who’s going to be unhappy,” Balustrade said. He knelt down on the top step, opened a latch, and, groaning under the weight, pulled back the lid. When he looked down into the tank, his face fell.

  “Would you like a closer look?” P’tol P’kah had climbed the stairs behind Balustrade, and now, even standing two steps below the magician, towered over him.

  Balustrade suddenly looked nervous. “No, I—”

  “I insist,” the green man said, giving Balustrade a shove that knocked him off balance and sent him tumbling into the tank.

  Balustrade sunk slowly to the bottom, his ponytail floating up behind him. Flailing desperately, the magician tried to turn himself right side up, but the tank was too narrow to maneuver in. His face reddening, cheeks puffed out with his last breath of air, the magician pounded feebly on the inside of the tank as if he hoped to break through.

  The green man put his hands on his hips and let out a booming laugh. “Do you think he’s had a close enough look?” he shouted to the crowd.

  A couple of people in the audience laughed, but most were silent as they watched Balustrade struggle to bring himself back above the water.

  “Help him!” a woman in the crowd shouted. “He’s drowning in there!”

  The green man peered out into the audience to see who was talking to him, cupping an ear to suggest that he couldn’t hear what was being shouted.

  “What’s he doing?” Gus said to Shawn.

  “Proving I was wrong,” Shawn said. “There really is water in there.”

  “There’s a guy in there, too,” Gus said. “We should help him.”

  “And mess up the trick?” Shawn said. “I’m shocked.”

  “This isn’t part of the trick.”

  “Isn’t it?” Shawn said.

  Shawn pointed to the stage where the green man was reaching his hand up behind the proscenium arch and pulling down a sturdy cable with a noose at the end. He dropped the noose into the water and looped it around Balustrade’s ankle. Then he gave the cable a sharp tug and it retracted quickly, like a cheap roll-up window blind, pulling Balustrade straight out of the tank.

  Gasping and coughing, the magician hung by his ankle, high above the stage. The green man closed the tank lid, then took the magician gently by the hand and pulled him along as he went back down the stairs. When he reached the bottom, he settled Balustrade on the stage, then unhooked the cable from around his ankle. The magician flopped on the floor, gasping like an angelfish scooped from its tank by a curious kitten.

  Benny Fleck emerged from the wings. “Let’s have a round of applause for our gracious volunteer,” the small man said as he helped the still-coughing Balustrade to his feet. A small spate of confused clapping came from various corners of the room as Fleck led the magician off stage.

  “Volunteer?” Gus asked Shawn. “Is that a regular part of the act?”

  “I don’t know, but I bet the green guy never gets a second heckler,” Shawn said. “Besides, it accomplished its purpose.”

  “To humiliate Balustrade?”

  “That was a bonus,” Shawn said. “It was to keep you watching Balustrade so you wouldn’t pay attention to whatever the green giant was doing.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “Something he didn’t want you to notice.”

  Gus waited for more details, but Shawn didn’t have any to offer. He turned his attention back to the stage, where the green man had climbed back up the stairs and reclosed the hatch, bolting it shut. He faced the audience, hands on his hips.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the moment where we must take our leave from each o
ther,” he said. “If all goes according to plan, I will see you shortly. In fact, I will be right there.”

  He pointed to a spot exactly in the center of the showroom. Unconsciously, the crowd edged away from his destination, in case he was planning to materialize inside of them. The three nondampened magicians who had challenged the green man in the lobby all moved a little closer.

  “But it is possible that I will not return at all,” the green man continued. “To dissolve one’s molecules is difficult, but to reintegrate them is much harder. If I fail, then I will forever remain a cloud of dust suspended in a tank of water. And if that is to be my fate, then so be it!”

  The green man took a deep bow, then unlatched the lid and threw it open. He stretched to his full height and stepped off the platform. Weighted down by the heavy boots, the Martian Magician sunk to the bottom of the tank. For one long moment, he stood absolutely still, staring out through the glass at the audience.

  Gus knew this was a trick. He understood that everything Shawn had said was right. But as he watched the green man standing patiently at the bottom of a tank of water, he could feel the pounding of his heart, the thin trickle of sweat on his palms. His lungs began to ache for air, and he realized he’d been holding his breath since P’tol P’kah slipped under the water.

  “This can’t be part of the trick,” Gus whispered to Shawn. “There’s got to be something wrong.”

  “That’s what you’re supposed to think,” Shawn said.

  “Well, I’m not the only one here who’s good at taking instruction.” Gus gestured at the crowd of bachelor partyers. They were staring, transfixed, worry on their faces. Even some of the magicians in the room were beginning to look concerned.

  “We should do something,” Gus said.

  “You’re right,” Shawn said. “If we left now, we could beat the rush to the parking lot.”

  Before Gus could respond, there was a gasp from the audience. He turned back to the stage to see that the water in the tank had changed. Before it had been perfectly still. Now it bubbled and frothed like a glass of cheap champagne. As Gus stared, he realized that the bubbles were coming from the green man’s body.