The Houdini Escape

by Clifford, Riley

  “We want what’s best for you, and for the family,” his mother added. “I know performing is your dream, but it’s time for you to start thinking about your future.”

  Grateful that his parents couldn’t see his flushing cheeks in the half light, Harry mumbled a hurried good night and headed to the room he shared with his brother Theo. His mother was right. As much as he hated it, he needed to take responsibility. He wouldn’t go back to Coney Island next weekend. Instead he would ask the foreman if he could take extra shifts at the necktie factory.

  As he tossed and turned in bed, he could hear his parents whispering in the parlor, their voices wavering between anger and fear. Harry strained to listen, but he couldn’t make out their words until nearly an hour later, when his father spoke while passing his room: “It’s my debt, Cecilia. I have to pay it one way or another.”

  Harry’s scissors snipped, and the shape of a tie emerged from the striped cloth. He laid it carefully on the cart and grabbed another sheet of fabric, deftly maneuvering the blade until another tie appeared. Harry placed it on the cart, and waved one of the younger boys over to deliver the pile to the sewing table.

  The air in R. H. Richter’s tie factory was a symphony of production. Scissors snapped, carts squeaked, and from the other room came the lilt of the seamstresses’ gossiping. He had liked it better when he was younger, pushing carts from room to room to keep the production flowing. He’d even carried a pack of cards with him to entertain the younger cutters when he had a free moment and the foreman wasn’t around to yell at him.

  But the idea of spending the rest of his life here filled Harry’s stomach with dread. Day in, day out, he cut the same shape out of fabric. Every few weeks, the color or pattern of the material would change. Today, it was black and gold stripes. But there were no new challenges, no opportunities to use his imagination, or even his brain. The sun gleaming through the dirty windows seemed to creep across the sky more slowly each hour. And whenever he looked at the older men and women who had spent their lives in the factory, he could almost see himself in their weathered skin and resigned expressions.

  It was a small mercy, but at least he had his friend Jacob next to him, scissors snipping out a monotonous counterpoint to Harry’s own. “I’ve got your book,” Jacob whispered when the foreman turned his back to them. After saving up for weeks, Harry had finally been able to buy a secondhand copy of a book written by the greatest magician of the modern world, Jean-Eugène Robert-Houdin. Harry had stayed up all night reading about Robert-Houdin’s accomplishments: He read minds, brought orange trees to life, and even suspended his son in midair. Before Robert-Houdin, magicians had been limited to performing at fairs and on street corners, but he had raised magic to an art. He had owned his own theaters, performed for kings and queens, and had even been sent to Algeria by Napoleon III to use his magic to discredit a gang of con men gaining influence with faux-magical abilities.

  The book had opened Harry to the world of possibility, to the chance that magic could be his ticket out of the soul-crushing tedium of factory life. But that had been nothing more than a child’s foolish dream. “You can keep it.”

  “What are you talking about? It’s your prized possession.”

  “I’m not doing magic anymore,” Harry said flatly. “I need to focus on helping my family.”

  “You can’t,” Jacob exclaimed, then glanced around, relieved to see that the foreman wasn’t looking their way. “Not after all the work we’ve put in. And besides, I’ve seen what happens when you perform. You become a completely different person, Harry. It’s what you were meant to do!”

  The two had been practicing magic in their spare time for a year now, performing together at various sideshows. When Harry’s father had become too ill to work, a spot in the factory had opened up, and Harry had convinced the foreman to hire Jacob as a cutter.

  Harry turned away. “I’m just not good enough at magic to support my family.” He finished a tie and carefully laid it on the cart.

  “How many times have you told me how you want to be just like Robert-Houdin?”

  “We’ll never get the money to build illusions like he had,” Harry said, struggling to keep his voice low. “He used magnets and clockwork and had a crew of assistants, a carpenter, and a mechanic. He could make an orange tree blossom!”

  “But what about the metamorphosis trick we talked about?” Jacob asked. “It requires a special prop, but we could afford it if we saved up.”

  “You don’t get it,” Harry snapped. “I’m done. I have to help my parents provide for my family. I can’t spend money on magic boxes.”

  The foreman’s heels clicked at the end of the hallway and the boys returned to their work. Harry’s hands had learned the motions long ago and could cut out a necktie almost automatically.

  Maybe one day, if he got a promotion and his father got better and came back to work, he would be able to afford to build a great trick. The thought of performing the metamorphosis filled him with new energy as he imagined the look on the audience’s faces as they realized that he and Jacob had “magically” switched places while one of them was locked in a box.

  Harry’s mind raced as he thought about how the trick would work. Were there ways to make the switch faster? There were definitely ways to improve on the design of the box. If only he could talk it over with a carpenter . . .

  A hand clamped on Harry’s shoulder, and as he snapped back to reality his scissors slipped, cutting too far into the fabric. “What are you doing?” Harry yelped, before turning to see who it was. “You ruined this tie!”

  The massive foreman loomed over him ominously. He looked like he belonged in a construction crew, or at the head of a Roman legion, instead of working in a tie factory. But Harry knew that he had been wounded during the Civil War, and hadn’t been able to move easily in over two decades.

  “You ruined it before I got here, Weiss,” the foreman rumbled.

  Harry glanced down. Sure enough, he had cut straight across the fabric rather than at an angle, leaving the tie with the stripes going straight across. He gulped. The whole batch was unsellable.

  “I’m sorry,” Harry said meekly. “My mind must have wandered.”

  “Weiss,” the foreman growled. “Look at your cart.”

  Harry looked over at the cart. His heart sank. Every single one of the ties was cut at the wrong angle. The room filled with a busy silence as the other workers stared intently at their task, pretending not to listen.

  “You immigrants are all the same,” the foreman said, his lips curling with disgust. “You always want a job, but you never want to work. You know the rule: You don’t pay attention, you don’t get paid.” He shook his head and pointed to the door. “Get out of here. And don’t bother coming back.”

  Jacob looked up for a split second, catching Harry’s eye with a panicked look. Then he turned and bent back to his cutting. They knew from experience how quickly the foreman’s anger could shift focus.

  “But my family —” Harry protested.

  “I said get out,” the foreman spat. “You’re lucky I’m not making you pay for all this wasted cloth. You better leave before I change my mind.”

  Harry stood up in a daze, and took a step before realizing that he was still holding his scissors. The foreman held out his hand and Harry automatically handed them over. He walked out into the sunlit street, still bewildered by what had just taken place. In less than twenty-four hours, he’d managed to lose two jobs. He wasn’t cut out to be a magician, and apparently, he didn’t even have what it took to work in a factory.

  “Watch it.” Harry stepped to the side as a woman holding a large basket brushed past him, shooting him a nasty look. The street was packed with people rushing in all directions, but Harry simply stood and stared. Normally, the crowds and the noise filled Harry with a sense of excitement, but
today, they just made him feel terribly alone.

  Shops and pedestrians flashed by as Harry jogged up Broadway. He didn’t have money for a horsecar, and running was the only way to loosen the knot of guilt and fear that had started growing in his stomach as he left the tie factory.

  He’d spent the first few hours wandering around the garment district. Racks of clothes lined the streets, made by immigrants like Harry, and sold to the middle-class women who could afford new clothes for their families. The salesmen stood outside, each trying to drown out the others with their promises about supplying the latest fashions for the lowest price. There were black and gray waistcoats for the men, and long ladies’ dresses edged with ruffles and frills. For the more daring, there were special ladies’ costumes for bicycling, complete with pants.

  He’d looked to see if any of the stores were hiring, but every one seemed full up. Finally, he’d decided that there was nothing left to do but to head home and tell his family what had happened. He walked the first few miles until the factories and shops gave way to crowded apartment buildings and crumbling houses, and then he began to run. He’d learned the hard way what happened to immigrant boys who dashed through the fancy residential areas — once he’d been stopped by a policeman who thought that Harry was a thief escaping from the scene of a crime.

  With a few detours, it was a perfect five-mile course from the garment district to his family’s home on 113th Street in Harlem. His dedication had made him a champion runner at the Pastime Athletic Club, and he had even won a medal last year in a citywide competition. When he’d been asked to pose for the local paper after his win in the cross-country meet, he’d bought a handful of medals from a trinket shop on Coney Island and stuck them across his uniform. The reporter had seemed skeptical, but the photographer ate it up. Being a stage performer had taught Harry that making an impression mattered. And it wasn’t like Harry had actually said that he won the medals. People saw what they wanted to see — it wasn’t his fault if they made assumptions that weren’t true.

  As Harry turned the corner onto his block, he saw three men knocking on the door of his family’s town house. By the time he ran up the steps, they had already been let inside and Harry could hear them talking with his father. He entered quietly and stopped a moment in the foyer, allowing his eyes to settle on the wooden staircase that had once been finely crafted, but was now chipped and worn. As Harry paused a moment, reluctant to go up and face his parents, his father’s voice filtered down the stairs.

  “You must understand, I’ve been trying,” his father was saying. “I’ve fallen a bit ill. But I am resting, and I have faith that it will pass.”

  The man at the other end of the conversation said something softly. It sounded like he had a Hungarian accent, but Harry couldn’t make out the words. He knew he shouldn’t eavesdrop, but he couldn’t force himself to go up the stairs or back out the door.

  “I just don’t have the money,” his father continued. “We’re close to losing the house as it is. . . .” His father’s voice faltered.

  Harry felt like he’d been punched in the gut for the second time in one day. His father owed these men money. Harry knew how these debts were accounted for in Coney Island — you either paid up, or someone would have to fish your body out of the harbor.

  And this, of all days, was the day that he had lost his job.

  “I have paid on time for years. Just give me a few extra weeks, and you’ll have your money.” Harry could hear the pleading in his father’s voice.

  There was silence from above. Harry hoped that it was the men reconsidering their position, but his hopes were dashed as he heard the Hungarian-accented voice speak in low, threatening tones.

  “I understand,” Mayer Samuel answered, his voice thin and reedy.

  Harry heard the floorboards squeak as the men walked toward the stairs. After they’d left, Harry opened the door, slipped out, and began hurrying down the street.

  When he was a few paces behind the men, he slowed to a walk, taking care to stay to the side in case they turned and he needed to duck into an alley. All three men wore expensive suits, but the one leading the way was carrying a silver walking stick, and his black hair was slicked back with oil. He had the erect posture that Harry associated with the elegant ringmasters who performed in the big circus tents at Coney Island. They made his own boss, ringmaster Thaddeus, look like a small-time crook. Which wasn’t far from the truth. The man wrinkled his nose and walked more quickly as they passed two grubby boys playing in the gutter.

  The men swaggered down the street, not bothering to look around, and Harry found himself following them. He had only intended to get a quick look, but as Harry replayed his father’s words in his head, he grew desperate to find out who these people were. His father was a man of principle — how had he gotten mixed up with men who would break into his house and destroy his family’s valuables?

  The sun was setting, and Harry was easily able to trail them without raising suspicions. When they hailed a passing hansom cab, Harry jogged behind the plodding horse, keeping a safe distance and trying to stay in the shadows.

  The cab wound through the edges of the city as the moon rose, passing factories that had emptied for the day, and a few that had electric lights installed. Finally, they turned down to the docks. For a moment, he thought he had fallen too far behind and lost them, but he turned a corner and saw the three men disembarking and the cab heading back into the city.

  Harry slunk through the shadows as the men walked closer to the water, toward the smell of fish, coal, and garbage. The wooden piers that stretched out into the river were so long that they seemed to disappear into the night.

  They had been met by a larger group of what looked to Harry like six policemen. For a hopeful moment Harry thought that the men were about to be arrested. If they were in jail, surely his family’s debt wouldn’t matter. But the two groups were simply talking, and Harry’s heart sank as he saw the distinctive man with a bow tie, handlebar mustache, and beard who seemed to be in charge.

  It was Police Chief McKane, the corrupt and despotic man who was behind every shady deal on Coney Island. He was also the fire commissioner, schools commissioner, public lands commissioner, superintendent of the Methodist Church, and head tenor in the church choir. He even played Santa Claus in the yearly Christmas pageant. Nothing went down in Coney Island without McKane’s approval. He had been on trial multiple times, but the state authorities could never get the charges to stick.

  McKane was speaking to the man with the slicked-back hair, whose name was apparently Zoltan. They were discussing a business deal that had evidently gone sour, for McKane was shouting, and his face had grown red. Occasionally, Zoltan would interject a few low words, but mostly he remained impassive, watching the police chief with an amused smile. Tension mounted between the observers, and finally, McKane reached for his gun.

  Harry held his breath as the scene turned into a flurry of activity. Zoltan lunged for McKane, while his companions flew at the other policemen. For a moment, the sound of footsteps, shouts, and cracking bones echoed through the night air, but they soon gave way to a faint chorus of groans and labored breathing.

  Zoltan had the police chief in a headlock and was holding a gleaming blade to his throat. His companions were standing over the pile of injured policemen on the ground. Harry gasped and took a few steps back into a shadowy alley. When he peered out again, he saw McKane involved in a very different sort of negotiation — one that had him pleading for his life.

  Harry pressed his back against the wall and tried to make himself as small as possible. Following men like this was suicidal. They were obviously trained killers, and if they could take out a band of policemen, there was no knowing what they’d do to an unarmed kid.

  Zoltan smiled and said something Harry couldn’t hear. The terrified-looking police chief dug an item out of
his pocket, shoved it into Zoltan’s hands, and ran off into the night.

  A few moments later, Harry heard the footsteps of the three men coming toward the alley. He ducked down as low as he could, trying to hold his breath despite the rank odor of the trash he was using as cover. Their pace slackened as they passed him, and Harry’s heart felt like it slowed as well. Finally, the footsteps receded, and Harry waited a minute before he stood up.

  He gingerly stepped over the trash, trying to avoid getting dirtier than he already was, then stretched his legs, which had fallen asleep from the combination of running and crouching.

  Harry felt a brush of air, and before he could react an arm was wrapped around his chest and a knife was at his throat. A voice whispered in his ear, gravelly and threatening. “Who are you, boy?” He couldn’t turn his head to see the man behind him, but he could smell the pungent oil in his hair. Down the street, he could see the other two men returning.

  “I’m Harry,” he blurted, catching himself before he gave away his last name.

  “Why were you watching us?”

  “I didn’t — I wasn’t —” Harry stuttered. The cold blade of the knife dug into his skin, and he could feel a drop of blood making a trail down his neck. “I was just sleeping there,” he lied. “I got kicked out of my house.”

  “You chose a bad spot for a nap,” the man growled in his ear. He drew away and shoved Harry into the arms of the other two men. “Come.”

  His two companions grabbed Harry and dragged him forward. Harry tried to pull away, but they just gripped his arms tighter.

  Harry’s legs were shaking as he looked back and saw one of the policemen lying on the ground, moaning in pain. He should never have followed these men. It had been foolish to think that he could do anything to help his family. All he’d done was make things infinitely worse. And now, it looked like he might have to pay for his mistake with his life.