by Jeff Strand
“I saw a picture of a shark jumping into the air. You don’t want to mess with those things when they smell blood.”
“Safety is my first priority.”
“How does a shark get delivered to you?”
“I don’t know. There are a lot of details left for me to figure out. I’m still in the idea stage right now. I may end up going with a hundred cats instead.”
“When you get out of the idea stage, let me know,” said Peter. “I’m good at building stuff. I’ve never built a shark tank, but I bet I could do it. I’d make sure it was safe. You know, like if the shark went berserk, it wouldn’t crack the glass.”
“Really?” asked Marcus. “What kinds of things have you built?”
Peter shrugged. “Chairs. Couple of bookshelves. A robot.”
“A robot?”
“Yeah.”
“What did it do?”
“It didn’t really do much of anything. But it looked like a robot.”
“That’s cool. Yeah, I might be able to use your help. Thanks. Anyway, like I said, I’ve got to get going.”
“When a magician turns something into a bird, how do they hide the bird without suffocating it?”
“I can’t reveal that.”
“I’ve just always wondered.”
“Anyway—”
“Sorry,” said Peter. “Don’t mean to keep you. Can I say one last thing?”
“Sure.”
“I know I didn’t do anything when those guys were bugging me today, but if they come after you tomorrow and I’m not around, let me know about it. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again. Okay?”
That sounded more sinister than Peter probably intended. “Uh, okay. Good. Thanks,” said Marcus. “See you at school tomorrow.”
“See you.”
Marcus went into the living room and then peeked out the window one last time to make sure Ken, Chris, and Joe weren’t lying in wait. He didn’t see them, so he bid Peter farewell and went outside.
Well, that had been unusual.
But maybe Peter could be a valuable resource.
Wow. Peter, Kimberly, and him. Marcus practically had a team.
10
After he finished his homework, Marcus did tank sketches until it was time for dinner. He didn’t tell Mom and Dad about the shark idea, but he did tell them about his afternoon adventure while they ate fettuccini Alfredo with chicken.
“Should we call the school?” Mom asked. She sounded extremely concerned.
“Nah, it’s fine,” Marcus assured her, hoping his decision wouldn’t turn out to be a fatal one. “I can handle the bullies.”
“You shouldn’t punch people in the stomach,” said Mom.
“I know.”
“I agree with your mother,” said Dad. “But it’s better than you getting punched in the stomach.”
“Dale!”
“It’s true! If three older kids are bothering my son and one of them gets punched in the stomach, I’m not going to lose any sleep hoping the kid’s tummy doesn’t hurt.”
Mom looked at Marcus. “You shouldn’t punch people in the stomach…or anyplace. There’s no good place to punch somebody. If you have to punch someone, punch him with your words. But don’t insult people. That’s not considerate either.”
“I’ll never do it again,” said Marcus.
After they finished eating and Marcus loaded the dishwasher, he asked if it was okay to ride his bicycle over to Grandpa Zachary’s old apartment. He wanted to start going through his possessions to put things in the keep and the donate piles.
“I thought we were waiting until this weekend,” said Mom.
“Yeah, but I feel like doing it now. Just an hour or so. It’ll inspire me.”
“That’s fine with me,” said Mom. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“Nah, I wasn’t going to go through the pictures or anything.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want you to be there alone if you get upset.”
“I’ll be fine. I mean, I’m not trying to keep you away, but if I get really sad, I’ll call you to come over.”
“Promise?”
“Yep.”
“All right. Don’t stay too long.”
Grandpa Zachary’s apartment was about three miles away. “Come over whenever you want,” he’d always told Marcus, “but don’t be surprised if my place is filled with ladies!” Marcus rode over there all the time, though it was never filled with ladies.
The apartment complex was not particularly luxurious, but it was clean and safe. Grandpa Zachary had moved from the second to the first floor a couple of years ago when the stairs finally became too difficult for him to manage.
Marcus unlocked the door and stepped inside.
He immediately wanted to cry, but he stopped himself. He was there to surround himself with inspiration, not to be sad. Marcus closed the door so that the neighbors wouldn’t hear if he did start bawling, and then he walked around the apartment.
Grandpa Zachary’s apartment was a shrine to magic. Posters of all the greatest magicians decorated the walls. Shelves were filled with books about magic. (“Every one ever written!” Grandpa Zachary had said proudly, although this was probably an exaggeration.) Framed pictures of Zachary the Stupendous performing amazing illusions were hanging all over the place.
Marcus didn’t really want to think about it, but by the end of the month, they’d have to figure out what to keep, what to sell, and what to donate. For now Marcus just wanted to be surrounded by Grandpa Zachary’s things, basking in the environment. He sat down on the sofa and took a deep, relaxing breath.
Then he started to cry.
Grandpa Zachary hadn’t been like a father to him. Dad filled that role just fine. But Marcus liked to believe there was a closeness between Marcus and his great-grandfather that went beyond their shared love of magic. Even when Grandpa Zachary hadn’t been in a good mood, which happened quite often, there was nobody Marcus would’ve rather spent time with. He didn’t know anybody else who even knew their great-grandparents, much less had this kind of bond.
Something rustled in the closet.
Marcus sat up straight.
Did Grandpa Zachary own a pet that he’d somehow failed to mention all of these years?
Another noise came from the closet. It sounded like something fell off a hanger.
Then somebody let out a muffled curse.
Marcus stood up. “Who’s there?”
The closet door opened. A man stepped out. He was very old, but it wasn’t Grandpa Zachary back from the dead. The man wore a black suit, and his hair was disheveled as if he’d used Albert Einstein as his fashion guide. He held a magic wand.
“Well, the falling coat was unfortunate,” the man said. “But at least it spared me standing in there all evening listening to you weep. Who are you?”
“Who are you?” Marcus demanded. Then he squinted at him. “No, wait. I think I’ve seen a picture of you before.”
The man smiled, revealing two gold teeth and two silver teeth in addition to the white ones. “Have you? Well, I’m honored.”
“Are you Sinister Seamus?”
“Yes! One point for you! And you must be Aloysius.”
“No.”
“I kid. I kid. I assume you’re Zachary’s great-grandson, Mark.”
“Marcus.”
“Left off the -us. My apologies.”
“Why were you in his closet?”
“Because I didn’t want you to see me. That should have been obvious, I’d think.”
“I’m serious,” said Marcus, trying to sound brave, even though he wasn’t feeling that way. “Tell me why you’re here, or I’ll call the police.”
Sinister Seamus held up his wand. “Withdraw that threat, or I’ll turn y
ou into a frog.”
“Say what?”
“I kid again. I kid again,” said Seamus with a smile. Then with one quick motion, he slid off the casing of the wand, revealing a long knife blade. His smile disappeared. “But I’m not kidding now.”
Marcus took a frightened step backward.
“Don’t move,” said Seamus. “If you try anything, I’ll cut you to ribbons. And I don’t mean the festive, colorful kind. I mean red ribbons. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I don’t like to kill people, especially young ones who have so much to look forward to in life. But I’ve been put in many a situation where I’ve had no choice. And I know how to hide a body. Yours will never be found, Marcus.”
Marcus tried to force himself to relax. “You’re joking, right?”
“I already said I wasn’t kidding. How quickly you forget.” Seamus chuckled. “Actually, that’s not entirely true. I’m seventy-seven years old, and you’re…twelve? Thirteen?”
“Fifteen.”
“You’re young and spry. I doubt very much that I could slit your throat before you ran away or subdued me. The wand-knife is really just for show. But this isn’t.” Seamus reached into the inside pocket of his suit and took out a pistol.
Marcus didn’t immediately pass out from terror, so he considered that a win on his part. He’d naturally assumed that being threatened by three bullies would be the most dangerous part of his day, but the world was filled with surprises.
“Obviously, the problem with shooting you is that it will make a loud bang. This will alert the neighbors and make my escape more difficult. So it’s in both of our best interests that I don’t have to use this pistol. Do you agree?”
“Yes,” said Marcus. “Very much so.”
“Excellent. Our relationship is off to a harmonious start then. I feel like our time together is going to end without me having to kill you, and that makes me happy.”
“Can I leave now?” asked Marcus.
“No. Once you’re out of immediate danger, you’ll call the police. That doesn’t suit me.”
“I won’t tell anyone.”
“Of course you will. Only a complete idiot would walk out of here and not call the police. I’d call the police if I were you. No, this is going to be a bit more complicated than that. Why are you here?”
“We have to empty out Grandpa Zachary’s apartment before his lease expires. I was going to sort through his things.”
“How convenient. I was going to do the same thing.” Seamus smiled. “Perhaps we should work together.”
“Ummmm…okay?”
“Are you staring at my teeth?”
“No, sir.”
“You should. They’re interesting teeth. Some people like their teeth to be all the same color, but not me. I’ve got gold, silver, and four different shades of yellow.”
No matter how long he stood there, Marcus did not think he’d ever have an appropriate response to that comment, so he said nothing.
“Anyway, there’s something here I need,” said Seamus. “I’ll give you the medium-length version of the story. When Zachary and I were first starting in the world of magic, we competed in a contest that was judged by the legendary Quincy Q. Warluck. Have you heard of him?”
“Of course. Grandpa Zachary talked about him all the time.”
“Did he tell you what the Q stood for?”
“Quincy.”
“Right. His name was Quincy Quincy Warluck. Try saying that five times fast.” Seamus chuckled, but then his expression darkened. “I said, try saying that five times fast.”
“Quincy Quincy Warluck. Quincy Quincy Warluck. Quincy Quincy Warluck. Quincy Quincy Warluck. Quincy Quincy Warluck.”
“Very good. I don’t see why people think that’s so hard. Anyway, there were about twenty young magicians in the contest. Some were immensely talented, and some…well, let’s just say that a rabbit got its ears set on fire.”
“That’s horrible,” said Marcus.
“Don’t worry. The bunny’s fine. I mean, was fine. That was almost sixty years ago. I’m not here to talk about bunnies. What I’m saying is that the contest came down to three finalists—me, your great-grandpa, and some other guy.”
“Who was the other guy?” Marcus asked.
“I don’t remember. It doesn’t matter. Why do you even care?”
“To be completely honest, I thought if I proved I was listening to your story, you’d be less inclined to shoot me.”
“Oh,” said Seamus. “That’s not bad logic. But don’t ask any more questions, or I’ll shoot you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So I did a spectacular magic trick where I turned a paper clip into progressively larger paper clips. By the end of the trick, oh, you’d never seen such a big paper clip! You could have clipped thousands of pages with it, and they wouldn’t have fallen apart. I can promise you that! Guess what trick Zachary did. Go on. Guess.”
“Will a guess count as a question?” Marcus asked. He winced, wondering if “Will a guess count as a question?” also counted as a question.
“No.”
“Ummmm, he also turned a paper clip into progressively larger paper clips?”
“No, no, nothing like that. If that had happened, I assure you he’d be dead now. I mean, he’d have been dead sooner. You know what I meant. Guess again.”
“He did a card trick?”
“No.”
“He did a coin trick?”
“No.”
“He did a leaf trick?”
“Why would anybody do a leaf trick?”
“I don’t know,” said Marcus. “It’s hard to make good guesses when you’re pointing a gun at me.”
Seamus lowered the gun. “He did a trick where he pretended to stick his magic wand in one ear and it came out the other. Does that sound impressive to you?”
“A little.”
“Does it sound more impressive than the paper clip trick?”
Marcus shook his head. “Definitely not.”
“I know, right? Anybody can do a wand through the head. I’ll do a wand through the head right now.” Seamus held his wand up to his ear but then suddenly remembered that his wand was in fact a knife. He lowered it again. “The demonstration is unnecessary. All I’m saying is that Zachary’s trick wasn’t as good as mine. But who do you think won? Go on. Guess!”
“Grandpa Zachary?”
“No, it was the third guy.”
“Oh.”
“In the short version of this story, I would have left that part out. But when the contest was over and the guy rode off on the pony he’d won, Quincy Quincy Warluck walked over to Zachary, and what do you think he told him?”
“That his magic trick sucked compared to yours?”
“Ha! If only! He told him that his trick was the second best! Can you believe that?”
“Whaaaaaat?” Marcus said, pretending that he was very, very shocked by this revelation.
“He did!”
“That’s a bunch of garbage,” said Marcus. “You should have gone over there and knocked him out with your biggest paper clip.”
Seamus frowned. “Are you just humoring me?”
“Not at all. It was an appalling miscarriage of justice.”
“Don’t humor me. The only thing I hate worse than being humored is electroshock therapy.”
“Sir, I’m just trying not to get shot.”
“Back to my story. Warluck the Wiener—that’s the name I gave him later—told Zachary that he saw great potential in him and handed him a small white envelope. And then he said—wait, let me see if I can get his voice right.” Seamus cleared his throat and then spoke in a high-pitched squeaky voice. “Within this envelope is the secret to all magic. Read it, keep it
forever, and never share it with anyone.”
“I don’t know anything about the envelope,” said Marcus. “Grandpa Zachary never mentioned it.” Marcus was kind of surprised by this, even though the anecdote ended with a very specific rule that he should not share the story with other people. Of course, it was possible that this was the kind of story that was completely made up by an insane person, such as, oh, let’s say the man standing there with a knife and pistol.
“The envelope is somewhere in this apartment,” said Seamus. “We’re going to tear this place apart until we find it. And if we don’t find it, I’m going to tear you apart.”
11
“That wasn’t a very clever threat,” Seamus admitted a few seconds later. “Going from the concept of tearing this place apart to the concept of tearing you apart—that wasn’t up to my usual standards.”
“It’s okay,” Marcus assured him.
“No, it’s not. You may very well die tonight, and you deserve better threats. You deserve threats that make your blood run cold and your hair stand on end.”
Marcus ran his hand through his hair. “It is. See? That was the scariest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“You’re humoring me again.”
“No, I think you’re overestimating the number of times people have said they’re going to murder me. I’m a fifteen-year-old aspiring magician. My demographic doesn’t get a lot of death threats.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Seamus. “Now if you were an envelope, where would your great-grandfather have hidden you?”
“In a book?”
“Yes! We are going to rip every page out of every book in his apartment until we find it! Well, no, we’ll start by flipping through the pages. No need to ruin perfectly good books. But if we flip through the pages and find nothing, don’t think I won’t rip those books apart to find hidden compartments! And if we rip those books apart and don’t find anything, I will—” Then he interrupted himself. “I can’t believe I almost did that same threat again.”
“I think you’re just tired,” said Marcus.
“That has to be it,” said Seamus. “I had to take a bus halfway across the country to get here, and the lady I sat next to was just yap-yap-yap-yap-yap about her cult. I got maybe three hours of sleep the whole trip, and of course, my dreams are always about an endless black void, so they weren’t restful. I should’ve gone to a motel and come here in the morning.”