Houdini's Last Trick (The Burdens Trilogy) (9 page)

Across the street, Fairbanks seemed determined to keep the audience’s attention. He had climbed to the top of the drapes, which were almost at the height from which Houdini was hanging.

“You want daring?” Fairbanks shouted. “You want danger? You’ll get all that and more in my new movie! I am, after all, America’s Hero!”

The crowd cheered for him.

“That’s enough, Douglas. Come down.”

The voice was hardly a shout, but Houdini recognized it as Pickford’s. He looked down and saw her standing by the car, arms folded tightly around her.

But Fairbanks, seemingly unsatisfied with being below Houdini, climbed up onto the vertical neon sign that read, “GRAUMAN’S.”

The man thinks he’s invincible.

Houdini, on the other hand, was all too aware of his mortality. He worked on getting the straightjacket off. His hands would need to be free to pull his neck out of the noose. He began squirming and yanking to free himself.

By now, the crowd’s attention was equally split. Fairbanks was near the top of the sign, grabbing the metal frame between the “G” and the “R.” Again, he let go with one hand and began pumping a fist into the air, riling up the crowd.

There was a sudden groan of metal, and the top of the neon sign snapped away from the wall. Fairbanks grasped the sign tightly, every ounce of bravado drained from him in an instant.

“Douglas!” Pickford screamed.

Houdini saw the actor clinging for dear life as the sign, bent now at an awkward angle, hung three stories above the sidewalk. Fairbanks clung with both arms and legs; he reminded Houdini of a koala he had once seen at the New York Zoo.

The man has charisma, but no courage.

Houdini freed himself from the straightjacket and dropped it to the spikes below. All he had to do now was free himself from the noose, climb up the rope, and then crawl down the arm of the crane to the safety of the rooftop.

Fairbanks’s situation was more dire. The metal groaned again, and Houdini heard the pop of bolts ripping out of concrete. The sign tipped even more, and Fairbanks’s legs slipped off. The actor was now hanging by only his hands over the traffic on the boulevard. He yelped once, and looked like a child who had climbed a tree and couldn’t get down.

“Someone help!” Pickford shouted.

A fat security guard tried to climb the curtain but couldn’t get more than a few feet off the ground before falling back down. Everyone else stared in paralyzed horror.

Pickford looked across the street at the magician.

“Houdini!”

The magician didn’t know whether it was a plea for help or an accusation. He pulled his head out of the noose, then hung from it with his hands. As he swung his legs up to climb the rope, one of his shoes flew off him. Slats must have thought it was a snack, because the beast let out a mighty roar and jumped up to catch it in its mouth.

Officer Stoker, who had been crouched by the edge of the roof, was startled by the lion’s sudden leap and stumbled backward, knocking the torch over. Burning kerosene splashed everywhere—the roof, the crane, the rope.

“The rope!” Houdini shouted. But Stoker had his own problems. The kerosene had also lit the officer’s sleeve on fire. He was dancing around the roof, trying to extinguish himself.

Houdini had no idea how long it would take the flame to burn through the rope; he hadn’t planned for that eventuality. His best bet was to crawl up the rope and get himself onto the roof as quickly as possible. Houdini followed the threads of possibility; if he crawled down, there wouldn’t be time to get over to Fairbanks. The man would fall.

There was another option, but it might kill them both.

A life of adventure doesn’t start until we take risks.

Houdini climbed up the rope and hoisted himself onto the crane. He then pulled the rope up behind him and slid the noose around his body, just below his chest. He shimmied a few yards down the crane, and tugged on the rope to see if it held. It did—for now.

A gray Studebaker Standard Six pulled up behind Fairbanks’s red Mercer. Charlie Chaplin got out and looked up.

“Douglas doesn’t usually start climbing the walls until after cocktail hour.”

“Clear a path!” Houdini yelled, parting the air with his hands.

Chaplin seemed to understand, and stepped out into the street to stop the oncoming traffic.

Houdini stood on the crane and dove out into the air as far as he could. There was a moment of weightlessness and Houdini muttered a prayer to anyone who would listen. The rope yanked taught. It held, and Houdini swung over the street toward Fairbanks and the tilting sign.

“Grab me!” Houdini yelled as he barreled toward Fairbanks. The actor reached out one hand and Houdini tried to grasp it, but they fell a good three feet short. Houdini swung back toward the crane, over the lion, over the spikes.

He turned his body and saw the flame climbing up the rope. Burnt, frayed strands of rope snapped loose where the fire had the most time to burn.

I’ve got once chance left.

As Houdini approached the crane, he tucked his legs into a horizontal crouch. When his feet made contact with the metal, he kicked off it as hard as he could. He got a good push, but he was now swinging upside down toward Fairbanks. As he saw the neon sign approaching, he realized he would get closer this time—but not close enough.

“Jump!” Houdini yelled.

Fairbanks hesitated only a split second, then hurled himself at Houdini. The magician caught him around the waist and hugged him tightly. They barreled back toward the crane, crashing into it, then swung back toward the street.

And then, a snap.

Houdini’s heart dropped as he felt the rope become slack. He closed his eyes tightly, preparing to be impaled on the spikes.

Dark must die.

The magician hit ground hard, knocking the breath out of him. He and Fairbanks rolled together until they hit a curb.

They had landed in the street in front of the theater, and Houdini lay there a moment, allowing the adrenaline in his body to stop pumping. He took three deep inhales before sitting up.

Cameras began flashing all about them, and Houdini was momentarily blinded. He shook Fairbanks’s shoulder to rouse him.

“Fairbanks, are you alive?”

The man jolted up and took in his surroundings with wild eyes, as if he had blacked out and was unaware of where he was.

“Are you hurt?”

“This is your fault,” he croaked.

“My fault?” Houdini said. “I saved your life.”

“You’re trying to ruin my career!”

Pickford ran up to Fairbanks and threw her arms around him.

“You’re all right, darling!”

“I’m fine.”

Fairbanks stood and smoothed the locks of hair that had fallen out of place.

Pickford crouched by the magician.

“Are you hurt, Mr. Houdini?”

She held out her hand to help him stand.

“Don’t you dare help him!” Fairbanks said. “He ruined our movie premiere!”

Pickford ignored him and helped Houdini up.

“It’s what he had to do,” Pickford said. “He wouldn’t have done the stunt if you had just agreed to go to New York.”

“You’re taking his side?” Fairbanks said.

“I’m not taking anyone’s side,” she said, placing her hand on Fairbanks’s arm. He shook it off.

“I think you are. If you won’t take your own husband’s side, then what’s your purpose? To just stand there and look pretty? Is that all you’re good for?”

Houdini stepped in-between them.

“Now, now. This isn’t her fault in the slightest. I take all responsibility.”

Fairbanks turned on Houdini.

“You,” he said poking the magician with his finger, “have outworn your welcome. Now please get out of here!”

Houdini’s ears tingled and he felt the compulsion to obey Fairbanks’s command. But he knew now where that place of resistance was in his mind. He quickly found it and held onto it.

Fairbanks looked at him curiously. The actor composed himself and smiled with as much charm as he could muster.

“I said go away, Mr. Houdini. Get out of this town, and don’t ever come back.”

It took effort to resist, but Houdini focused internally and held his ground.

Fairbanks turned bright red, and his eye began to twitch.

“Damn you!” he yelled, and stormed off down the street.

Chaplin put his hand on Pickford’s arm.

“I’ll go talk to him,” he said. “His ego’s been wounded. He just needs some time to cool down.”

Pickford nodded and squeezed Chaplin’s arm. He then ran off after Fairbanks. The actress turned away from the crowd. She tried hard to keep a strong face, but tears escaped her eyes. Houdini wanted to place a comforting hand on her but thought better of it.

“Do you want me to send these people away?”

Pickford shook her head. She exhaled all the hurt and frustration in one big breath, and when she inhaled a smile appeared in their place. It was, Houdini thought, a trick as good as any he could pull.

She turned back to the crowd that had witnessed the whole ugly scene.

“My apologies for the unrehearsed spectacle,” Pickford said. “We’re actors; we’re not used to going off-script. Please stay, and enjoy the movie.”

Pickford turned away. Houdini saw her hands were shaking.

“Would you like to get a drink somewhere?”

She nodded. Houdini grabbed her by the elbow and ushered her into the nearest taxi. They drove down the boulevard in silence.

Houdini didn’t know whether his stunt was a miserable failure or a resounding success. He supposed by tomorrow he’d find out one way or another.

C
HAPTER
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HIRTEEN

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his brandy, Houdini could feel the alcohol traveling in his bloodstream, through his heart, into his brain. If he concentrated hard enough, he’d be able to feel the ethanol connecting to nerve receptors and releasing dopamine.

But alcohol dulled his introspection. The more he drank, the less he’d be able to sense how the brandy was affecting his body. Every sip made things worse. Every sip made things better.

“You act as if you’ve never had a drink,” Pickford said.

“Not one like this,” Houdini said.

Not one with you.

“What are you drinking?” Houdini asked, nodding to her bright pink cocktail.

“The Mary Pickford, of course,” she said, taking an undignified swig that left a dribble on the side of her cheek. “White rum, pineapple juice, grenadine, and maraschino.”

“You have your own cocktail?” Houdini asked.

“Don’t you?”

Houdini shook his head.

“My drink of choice already has a name. Water.”

The bar was dark but Houdini thought Pickford smiled. It was just as well that he could barely make out her face in the candlelight; he couldn’t be mesmerized by her if he couldn’t see her.

Houdini ran his fingers along the vertical metal bars that made a cage around their table.

“This is an odd place. The Jail Cafe. Who wants to pay to be imprisoned?”

“Does it make you nervous?” Pickford asked.

Houdini shook his head.

“If anything, I feel at home. I’m an escape artist, remember.”

Pickford wrinkled her nose as the waiter walked by in a prison uniform.

“I think it’s tacky,” she said. “But this is Hollywood, and everything has to be an attraction, I suppose.”

For all of Pickford’s grumblings, it was she who brought them there. Their taxi driver had driven aimlessly for three or four miles until Pickford finally directed him to the hilly Ivanhoe neighborhood between Hollywood and Downtown. The entrance to the Jail Cafe was at street level on Sunset Boulevard, but to get to the restaurant, patrons had to walk down two flights of steep concrete stairs embedded into the hillside. At the bottom was a legitimate restaurant by day, and a speakeasy by night. The irony of them breaking the law in a prison-themed restaurant did not escape the magician.

“I know why you like this place,” Houdini said. “Because it’s dark.”

Pickford grabbed the stem of her cherry and swirled it in her drink.

“Do you ever miss your privacy?”

“At times,” Houdini said.

Pickford let out a sigh so long and sad it was as if she were exhaling her very soul.

“I grieve my privacy as if it were a child who died from a slow illness. It’s a terrible loss that no one warns you about when you go into entertainment. When I wake up each morning, there’s the briefest of moments when I forget that it’s gone. I feel normal; I feel free. Then I roll over and see Douglas snoring, and I remember who we are. What we are. And I remember that my privacy is dead, and no amount of longing shall ever bring it back.”

Houdini didn’t relish his fame, nor did he resent it. It was a necessary part of being a magician, just as danger was.

“You didn’t have to go into acting,” he said.

“That’s true, but also untrue,” Pickford said, finishing her drink and beckoning to the waiter for another. “With a face like mine I was put on the entertainment track as a child. And once that train picks up speed, it’s difficult to jump off.”

Pickford’s next drink came quickly. She snatched it from the waiter before he could set it down.

“And Fairbanks, how does he fare with the attention?” Houdini asked.

Pickford barked a laugh.

“Douglas eats it up. He was made to be famous; it’s part of his very being. After all, how can someone with charisma express his force of presence if no one is there to appreciate it?”

Houdini hadn’t considered the truth of that insight. If Fairbanks’s charisma were as much a part of him as introspection was to Houdini, the actor couldn’t help but be the center of attention. The notion gave him second thoughts about stealing the spotlight from Fairbanks on one of the most important nights in his career.

“I’m sorry for my stunt,” Houdini said. “There were opportunities to call it off, but I became prideful. And I wanted to punish your husband after what he did to me. Pride and vengefulness, these are ugly qualities I’m ashamed to own.”

Houdini sipped his brandy again even as his body told him not to. His head was becoming fuzzy.

“Douglas never apologizes,” Pickford said. “You and he, you’re polar opposites. Everything about him is external. All of his energy flows outward. It’s part of what I love about him, and part of what drives me crazy.”

Another gulp of her drink.

Is that her second, or her third?

“You, all of your energy turns back in on yourself,” she said. “Every action is questioned, reasoned, analyzed. Everything about you is internal. Douglas lives in the world. You live in yourself. It’s quite refreshing.”

“How so?” Houdini asked.

“You don’t need any attention from me,” Pickford said. “You’re perfectly self-sustaining. I don’t have to be Mary Pickford around you. I don’t have to be your audience. I can be nobody. I can simply be…nothing.”

An alarm began to sound in Houdini’s head, but it was distant and muffled, and with so much brandy he couldn’t understand what it was warning him about.

“We should get you home,” Houdini said.

He paid the tab and had the bartender call two cabs. He then walked Pickford back up to Sunset Boulevard, holding her arm as she stumbled up the steep staircase. The street was empty, both directions wandering off into blackness broken only by a string of street lamps.

It was so quiet Houdini couldn’t believe they were in the middle of a city. The air was mild and pleasant, and it carried the faint smell of sage and other native plants that were foreign to him. Cloaked in darkness, Pickford’s face and body were reduced to intertwining curves of purple, blue and black.

“You can take the first cab,” Houdini said. “Your husband will be worried.”

“I can’t go home,” Pickford said. “Not until Douglas sleeps it off. He’ll be all apologies tomorrow.”

“A hotel then,” Houdini said.

Pickford shook her head.

“They’d recognize me. It would be the gossip of the town for weeks. We can’t afford that publicity, not America’s perfect couple.”

“Where, then?” Houdini asked.

“Wherever you are staying.”

“No,” Houdini said. “It isn’t smart.”

“Douglas says I lack smarts altogether,” Pickford said. “Please, I can’t be alone.”

“No.”

Houdini knew right then and there he should turn and retreat down the street, without waiting a second more for his cab to arrive. He should turn away and never lay eyes upon Mary Pickford again. But he chose not to.

Pickford pulled them under the closest street lamp and removed her hat. Her golden locks flowed about her. In his mind, Houdini scrambled for all of the tools meant to defend against a situation like this: steadfastness, forbearance, faithfulness. But they felt awkward and slippery in his head, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t quite grasp them.

“Please,” she said. “I want to be nothing. I want to be no one. Just for a night.”

All he could do was stare.

I can’t. I won’t. I want to.

He felt every cell of his being turn toward her, offering his full attention. His full submission. This was the inescapable brunt of her beauty. Hers was a trap from which there was no escape.

“Kiss me,” she said.

He did.