by David Khalaf
“Harry,” Gray said.
“Yes. Harry Houdini.”
Chaplin added a big splash of cream to his cup. Gray’s mouth dropped low enough to drive a Chevrolet into it.
“Houdini—the magician?”
“The very one. Handcuffs, straightjackets, disappearing elephants.”
Chaplin took a swig of the tea.
“Harry was a friend and a mentor of sorts. He tried to organize us, and we rebelled. It cost him his life.”
A woman in a brightly colored bath robe popped her head in. She had sleek raven hair that cascaded around her high cheek bones. Her eyes locked on Gray.
“Who’s this?”
“A friend in need,” Chaplin said. “A friend indeed.”
“We have enough friends. Most of them want our money. Get rid of him.”
“Your hospitality, Paulette, is truly legendary.”
The woman gave Chaplin a contemptuous smile, then was gone as quickly as she had appeared.
“Never mind Paulette,” Chaplin said. “She’s a talented actress, though she can’t seem to master the role of wife.”
Chaplin hopped up and checked his pocket watch.
“Now, you can leave if you want,” Chaplin said. “Or you can stay and help me find your mother. We have a lot to do before we can face Atlas.”
He was giving his watch a few turns when he suddenly looked up.
“Speaking of. When Mary shot Atlas, did she wound him?”
Gray remembered the gunshots, the bullets flying into Atlas’s chest, and the crystalline barrier over the man’s flesh that glowed with energy when he and Gray made contact.
“The bullets hit him,” Gray said. “But they didn’t take.”
“Didn’t take?”
“They bounced off him.”
Chaplin closed his watch and pocketed it.
“That’s discouraging.”
“How so?”
“Atlas has always been tough,” Chaplin said. “But around you, he appears to be indestructible.”
CHAPTER
F OURTEEN
GRAY FELT LIKE a movie star; he hated the feeling. Riding in the back seat of Chaplin’s 1933 Pierce Silver Arrow, drivers and pedestrians alike turned to see who was being chauffeured in the slick luxury car. Gray sat low in the seat.
“Why don’t you have a driver?”
“Drivers are expensive.”
“But you’re rich!”
“I’m frugal. The truly rich usually are.”
Paulette had compelled him to buy the luxury vehicle, Chaplin said, because people expected it of him. The Silver Arrow was one of only five in the world.
“I much preferred my old Studebaker Standard Six,” Chaplin said. “I used to drive everywhere in it. To the beach. To the movies. To the orphanage. Would you like to guess what color it was?”
“Gray,” Gray said.
“Technically it was more of a silver,” Chaplin said. “But that doesn’t roll off the tongue, does it?”
Chaplin drove twice as fast as Pickford, but he had far better control of his car. With the warm October breeze hugging his face, it felt like flying.
They drove east on Sunset, then took the narrow Arroyo Seco Parkway north. It was Saturday morning and the traffic was light. They coasted east for what felt like forever, until the city finally gave up and yielded to acres of open land. Against the backdrop of the San Gabriel Mountains, Gray saw a narrow, white building surrounded by nothing, like a ship anchored in a dirt sea. Poking out from behind it was a large oval surrounded by grass. A racetrack.
“Do you like gambling?” Chaplin asked.
Gray shrugged.
“So long as I win.”
“Good! That’s what I’m best at.”
They entered the Santa Anita Race Track and walked straight to a members-only balcony. A man stood guard in front of a velvet rope. He unlatched it when he saw Chaplin, but stopped when he took in Gray and his tattered outfit.
“He’s my valet,” Chaplin said.
Chaplin took off his outer jacket and thrust it into Gray’s hands. The guard let them through with a wary look. Chaplin walked casually past, and Gray did his best to emulate him.
The balcony suite was a chromium-and-marble extravaganza, decorated with men in sharp suits and women in flowery, flowing dresses. Gray felt the threadbare elbows of his own jacket and quickly slipped into Chaplin’s, even though it was too large.
To the right was a bar and a string quartet playing soft music, the kind good for filling awkward silences but not much else. On the left was a sweeping balcony with an unobstructed view of the track, where horses were being trotted out for inspection.
“Ain’t anyone interested in the horses?” Gray asked.
“These types are more interested in refilling their champagne flutes,” Chaplin said.
A stocky man with thinning white hair and round spectacles approached Chaplin and slapped him hard on the back.
“Hi there, Charlie. Don’t see you here often. How’s that little studio of yours? Still afloat?”
The man was smoking a cigar and tapped the ash on Gray’s shoe.
Chaplin stiffened but he gave the man a gracious smile.
“Oh, you know us, Mr. Mayer. United Artists is no powerhouse like MGM. I’m afraid we’re too creative; we just don’t have MGM’s mainstream sensibilities.”
Mayer poked Chaplin in the chest with his fat finger.
“What you need is more action. More special effects. Folks love that stuff. Maybe some Technicolor. Color is the new sound!”
A conspicuously young woman approached them and slipped her hand around Mayer’s arm. Her dark hair was parted down the center and it flowed into dark curls.
“Which horse is yours, Mr. Mayer?” she asked. She had a crisp European accent.
“Mayer’s Majesty,” he said.
Mayer pointed down to a great white stallion being led back to the pen. It was a massive beast, the kind whose image would be cast in bronze for the public square of some Soviet city.
“Charlie, this is Hedy Lamarr,” Mayer said. “She’s going to be the next big star at MGM.”
“Oh, Mr. Chaplin!” Lamarr said. “I’ve been such a fan of yours, ever since I was a little girl.”
“Since last year?” Chaplin asked.
“Oh, what I wouldn’t give to see a bit of your act!”
“I’m afraid I’ve left my mustache at home,” Chaplin said. “But I could use a drink.”
Chaplin picked up an empty champagne flute someone had set down nearby. He began swaying back and forth on his feet.
Chaplin bowed deeply to Lamarr, so deeply in fact that he fell over into a somersault, landing on his rear end with his legs splayed out in front of him. Other people turned to watch. Chaplin himself hiccupped. The champagne glass rolled onto the floor.
“That fella’s spifflicated,” someone said.
Chaplin’s hat had fallen away from him, underneath a large woman at the buffet who was stacking a Tower of Pisa’s worth of finger sandwiches on her plate. Chaplin crawled underneath the woman and bumped her legs. She let out a gasp and yanked off her giant sun hat to beat him. Chaplin scurried backward, with the woman’s hat still on his head. People began to giggle.
Gray recognized Chaplin playing the Inebriate Swell, his famous vaudeville character who drinks so much he can’t seem to keep himself upright.
Half blinded by the woman’s giant hat, Chaplin tried to pull himself up. But he slipped and grabbed a passing waiter for support. What ensued next was an awkward dance as the waiter twisted and struggled to keep his tray of hors d’oeuvres from toppling over. The waiter slipped on the fallen champagne flute, but Chaplin leapt through the air and caught the waiter’s tray, landing gracefully on one knee in front of Lamarr. He held it up.
“Shrimp cocktail?”
Everyone roared with laughter.
That’s when Gray saw it. The giggles and guffaws quivered through the air. They
looked like tiny, buzzing molecules, as if he could see the air itself. Only Gray appeared to notice. The laughter vibrated everything around them. The people, the balcony, even the horses down below. It was as if everything within earshot had been struck like a tuning fork.
Everyone began clapping for Chaplin; Gray was surprised to find his hands doing the same.
“Final bets!” a man shouted to everyone in the balcony.
“This will be our race,” Mayer said. “You going to bet, Chaplin? My horse is a winner.”
“I’ll take that bet,” Chaplin said, straightening his suit.
He tugged at Gray’s arm.
“Now’s our chance.”
He dashed toward the betting counter. Gray followed.
“What was that?” Gray asked.
“What was what?”
“The air kinda buzzed. Everything around you seemed to vibrate when people laughed.”
“Interesting,” Chaplin said, but he didn’t elaborate.
The man at the betting counter smelled as if he were already halfway through his second pack of cigarettes.
“Good morning,” Chaplin said. “What are the worst odds in the next race?”
The man pulled out a packet of paper and began flipping through them.
“Mayer’s Majesty is running in it, and he’ll destroy anyone he’s up against.”
He scanned the list.
“Ah, here. Big Boy. Eighteen to one.”
Chaplin pulled out his wallet and slapped down a ten-dollar bill.
“Excellent. Give me ten on Big Boy.”
After making the bet, they took a seat in the cushioned balcony chairs, just as the horses were trotting out for the next race. Gray looked for the horse with the number twelve on it. That would be Big Boy. He was an attractive horse, glossy and black, but nothing like his name. He was noticeably smaller and leaner than the other horses.
“You bet on that hayburner?”
“Don’t be so negative,” Chaplin said. “I enjoy rooting for the underdog. I’m with you, after all.”
Chaplin pulled out a pen and a blank betting sheet.
“Now, what has Mary told you about us? The Burdens.”
“Not much. There’s sixteen of you. You each have a different talent.”
“The pure essence of a talent,” Chaplin said. “Have you ever squirted concentrated chocolate syrup in your mouth?”
“No.”
“Not only is that a crime,” Chaplin said. “But my analogy is wasted on you. Suffice it to say, the effects of having talent so concentrated are sometimes unpredictable and rather, for lack of a better word, unnatural.”
Chaplin drew two ovals on the sheet, one larger than the other, centered on the page. He then connected each of their wider ends with a line. The result was something roughly conical in shape, like an ice cream cone with the tip sliced off.
“While our talents are all exceptional on their own, when we’ve happened to collaborate, we’ve come up with some souvenirs that are quite wondrous.”
A bell rang throughout the stadium. The gates burst open and the horses charged. Mayer’s Majesty was already a head and neck in front of everyone else. Big Boy had the outside lane, his shorter legs struggling to keep up with the others. Gray watched anxiously.
“Ain’t you concerned about the race?”
“Hm? Oh, not really. Although I am always interested in the how.”
“How what?” Gray asked.
“You’ll see.”
The horses passed in front of them. Further down the balcony, Mayer and Lamarr cheered on the white stallion.
“Burdens of the past, our ancestors of sorts, sometimes paired up and together created a variety of inventions,” Chaplin said. “We call them Artifacts. One of the most powerful Artifacts we’re aware of is Newton’s Eye, created by Sir Isaac himself.”
Chaplin drew some shading on the cone to give it dimension. It looked a bit like a toy kaleidoscope.
“This is what Houdini gave your mother for safe keeping years ago. I only saw it once. She hid it away from all of us, either to protect us from the knowledge or to protect the Eye from being stolen.”
The horses were just beginning to enter the first turn. Mayer’s Majesty muscled his way into the inside spot.
“She didn’t trust you?”
“Mary doesn’t trust anyone. Except maybe you.”
On the straightaway, a brown horse nearly the size of Mayer’s Majesty tried to pass him. They fought back and forth for the number one spot. Big Boy was trailing dead last.
Chaplin drew a little stick figure looking into the small end of the object.
“The Eye, it can replicate our gifts into another person. If we’re a bottomless well of talent, it’s like giving someone a good, long drink.”
He drew multiple stick figures on the other side of the object.
“Imagine a hundred men of Darko Atlas’s strength. Or maybe a thousand. Now add to that the speed of his talented knife-throwing sidekick. What do you think he’d make with that?”
One Atlas was already too much for them to take on. A thousand of them would be invincible.
“An army,” Gray said.
“That,” Chaplin said. “Or a world-class rugby team.”
The horses entered the second turn. The brown horse was on the inside, which gave it an advantage. But the jockey on Mayer’s Majesty bullied him, crowding the brown horse roughly against the inside rail.
“Houdini, was he somehow talented as well?”
“He had the gift of introspection,” Chaplin said. “That’s what made him a successful magician. He explained to me once that he was so in tune with his body that he could actually see himself from the outside. You can imagine how helpful that would be while picking handcuffs behind your back.”
The horses were finishing the second turn with Mayer’s Majesty pushing the brown horse into the railing. A pack of horses was following closely behind. The brown horse fought to keep up speed but had no room to move. The jockey on the brown horse tried to push back, but his horse’s hooves got tangled with those of Mayer’s Majesty.
In a split second the horses went down hard, the jockeys both thrown off. The other horses had no time to react and went crashing down upon the fallen ones. They covered the full width of the track. It reminded Gray of a ten-car pileup he had once seen on Hollywood Boulevard.
Only the slowest three horses were far enough back to stop in time. Two of the horses weaved back and forth, trying to pick a way through the mess. Big Boy, however, was small and lean and had no problem tiptoeing through. With only about a hundred yards left, Big Boy and his rider found themselves with the track all to themselves. The horse ran past the finish line.
Chaplin seemed amused but unsurprised.
“That’s the how.”
Gray watched in wonder.
“You knew that was going to happen?” Gray asked.
“I had no idea. I only knew I was likely to win.”
“Why…how…”
Gray watched the horses and jockeys getting up. None of them seemed injured, just shaken. Chaplin stood.
“Humor changes the mood of a space. It has a way of turning the tables in your favor. Well, in my favor.”
Down the balcony, Mayer cursed in anger and threw his booklet over the ledge.
“Mr. Mayer did say he wanted more action,” Chaplin said.
He folded the drawing of Newton’s Eye and handed it to Gray.
“I believe you are in a unique position to help us find Newton’s Eye and rescue your mother. These Artifacts are dangerous. Men have stolen, cheated, and killed to get them.”
Gray pocketed the paper.
“And what makes you think I can find this Artifact thing?”
“Because,” Chaplin said, “I believe you are one.”
CHAPTER
F IFTEEN
DARKO ATLAS WATCHED the blood drip down Pickford’s cheek. It was beautiful.
The ste
el rod had hit her just above her temple, causing a nasty gash. Marco had given her a fraction of an elephant sedative, then bandaged her head and stitched up her forearm.
Atlas ripped a piece of roasted meat off a bone as he watched the unconscious woman. He could stare at her all day long. Was it the supple, creamy skin? The plump, naturally vermillion lips? Pickford didn’t have the statuesque, refined features of Lucile Littlefield or the sultry, seductive looks of Nina Beauregard. She was, instead, the girl next door—the one whose smile you longed to see each day, the one who was both a best friend and a lover. She was the one you were lucky to settle down with.
Atlas hadn’t given any credit to beauty as a useful talent, but last night changed his mind. Someone like Pickford could capture people’s allegiance in a way forcible strength never could.
Beauty to gain people’s loyalty; strength to keep it.
What an unstoppable pair we could make.
Pickford sat slumped against the back side of the cage. It was a standard wooden circus pen with thick metal bars on the long sides. It sat two feet above the dirt, on large wagon wheels. She smelled of moldy straw and old bear droppings, and yet somehow even that was endearing about her.
“Don’t forget to blink from time to time.”
Sugar had approached Atlas from behind.
“Don’t be jealous,” he said. “What do you expect? She’s the most beautiful woman on Earth.”
She reached through the bars and caressed the side of Pickford’s face.
“She is pretty,” Sugar said. “But pretty skin cuts just as easy as any other kind.”
Atlas grabbed Sugar’s arm.
“You will not touch her. Not until we get the answers we need.”
“And then?”
Then I will marry her.
Then I will kill her.
“Get Deda,” Atlas said.
The tents were set up in a rough circle, in a clearing Atlas had made in the center of a vast orange grove. The few dozen trees he had ripped from the ground now lined the edge of the clearing, a rudimentary barrier to hide them from anyone who might wander off the dirt road a mile south of them. Now that they had captured Pickford, there was no need to continue with the charade of a circus.