Magic Mansion (2 page)

He turned back, eager, heart filled with hope.
 

The administrator held out his hand, and said, “We’ll need you to return our scissors.”

_____

The stairs to John’s apartment seemed narrower than they had on his way to the hospital. The overhead lights, dimmer. The smell of cigarettes and sweat and cooking grease, more pervasive. Sorrow made the world a darker place.

Music throbbed from the apartment beneath his. He could knock and tell them to turn down the TV set…but what difference did it make? In the scheme of things, how much did the annoyance of a soundtrack blasting through the floorboards really matter? Besides, perhaps it was a comfort to know he wasn’t entirely alone—even if those other persons dwelled below him, and referred to him as “that asshole who should just turn up his own TV.”

He let himself in and hung his suit coat carefully in the closet, then slid the knot of his tie all the way down and stepped into the apartment’s living room. Framed posters in lavish colors filled the room—mere inches apart—so the slivers of wall that showed between them seemed more like an accent, disguising the fact that the rest of the place was painfully austere. Ringleaders. Clowns. Acrobats. But mostly, magicians.

Friends.

Most of those from his mother’s generation, great showmen from the sixties and seventies, had passed. And most of those from John’s generation had retired. They encouraged him to do the same—and so he was unlikely to call any of them for moral support over the incident at the hospital. They’d tell him he was wasting his time, and that it was too expensive to live in California, and that if he moved to Florida he’d be deluged by wealthy widows who’d be so grateful for a private performance that he could start living the high life again.

He might remind them that while he had nothing against the company of ladies, he’d never been inclined to get romantically involved with them. And depending on which one-time illusionist or retired emcee he was speaking to, they would encourage him to stop being so picky—because at our age it’s more about the companionship than the sex, anyway—or they would drop the subject entirely and find a quick reason to get off the phone.

Even though he didn’t expect to hear anything that would lift his spirits, John considered who he might call and glanced at the phone.

It rang.

Providence? John crossed the room and looked down at his caller ID. No, not providence…his agent. He picked up the phone.

“Hello, Dick.”

“Guess who I just got off the line with,” Dick Golding said. John sighed, quietly, to himself. Dick didn’t wait for an answer. “Saint Mary’s. You know what they told me?”

“I’ve already spoken with—”

“They said you showed up today and talked the nurse on duty into letting you perform. Gratis.”

“I did.”

“Hell, John. Not only is this hospital circuit the kiss of death, but now you’re doing it for free?”

John considered the question, then said, “Apparently, not anymore.” A commercial, much louder than the TV program itself, blasted through the floor. Windows, siding. Tax incentive. Free installation.

“Look, popular magic these days—it’s all about the young kids. The Criss Angels. The David Blaines. What you need is a steady gig with a more mature clientele. I’m not saying you’ve got to move to Vegas, but a long-term gig there, four months, might change your mind—”

“I’ve lived here all my life. I have no desire to move to Las Vegas.”

“The cost of living there, compared to L.A.—”

“No desire whatsoever.”

Dick sighed, then. And not to himself. “I’m not gonna lie to you, John. We’re pals, and I keep you on for old time sake, but you need to start living in the present. If you won’t take a gig in Vegas, and you won’t consider the cruise line I pitched last week, then you might need to look into something…edgier.”

“Edgier.”

“You and Casey—maybe it’s time for a book. A memoir. Casey Cornish and Professor Topaz: Behind the Curtain.”

John glanced at Casey’s last promo shot. Rakish, blond, sparkling eyes and a broad smile. He’d been sixty-two at the time—but he looked as dazzling as he had in his late forties.

“You two could be the next Siegfried and Roy,” Dick suggested.

“We never performed together.”

“So it’ll be a big revelation that the two of you were an item.”

“Roy Horn was mauled by his own tiger onstage. Casey was hit by a car on the way to the post office. I doubt that will sell nearly as many copies.”

“Focus on your love life. Cater to the gay crowd. I know you’re capable of stringing a few sentences together. Open up your word processor and just start anywhere—we’ll hire an editor to clean it up later. Easy peasy.”

The thought of parading his relationship with Casey in front of the world in print, especially for the sake of money, made John ill—even when he realized that Casey himself might have encouraged him to do it. Casey had been the affable half of the couple, and he’d always said that any publicity was good publicity.
 

Unfortunately, the likelihood of Casey and John being the next Siegfried and Roy was minuscule. Siegfried and Roy were stunningly popular; they’d been top-ten in the highest paid performers in the United States when Roy had his accident. Casey had been unemployed and up to his neck in credit card debt when he was killed.

The downstairs TV noise grew even louder.

“Once that book comes out,” Dick said, “think of all the doors of opportunity that’ll open up to you. Piano bars. Gay cruises. You can make double, triple rates if you specialize—you’re still a good-looking guy, you’ll get top dollar.”

As distinctly as if the set had been playing in his own living room, John heard the words, “Lights…camera…magic.” He lowered the handset from his ear, with Dick still going on about how he should cash in on his homosexuality while gays were “hot,” and focused instead on the commercial downstairs. The voicework was hastily produced, a local spot with too much audio high-end and no background music, which made the words carry right through the floor. “Do you live in the L.A. area? Are you a professional magician? If so, Magic Mansion is looking for you. Call 888—”

The channel changed. An inane laugh track swelled, then fizzled. Theme music piped in. John could hardly pound on the floor and tell the neighbors to change the channel back. Not only would they misinterpret the knocking as a complaint about the noise level—the number would be long gone. John raised the phone to his ear again, and found Dick saying, “…you never know. If you start getting out more, maybe you’ll meet someone.”

“Dick,” John cut in. His agent fell silent. “What do you know about Magic Mansion?”

Chapter 2
 

THE AUDITION

It had been years—hell, maybe more than a decade—since Ricardo Hart actually felt nervous before a show. Nervous enough to make his hands sweat. And while perspiration-slicked palms were the bane of any performer, for a stage magician, sweaty hands were the absolute kiss of death.

He placed his palms flat against his thighs and tried his best to look objectively at his situation. True, a quarter of a million dollars was at stake, and the young lady currently onstage was cute…but she was clumsy. Though she might have the advantage of being able to work the judges in high heels and fishnet stockings, Ricardo could score better on posture alone, as well as stage presence, audience banter, and overall execution.

He shifted in his seat and touched his props for comfort. When he hefted one of his silver linking rings, however, the smooth metal slid in his sweaty grasp, which did nothing to alleviate his nerves. All week long he’d been picturing himself acing the audition, confidence being ninety percent of the game. But now? Now he was so terrified he could only hope to get through his act without embarrassing himself.

“And that, my good judges, is the Bottomless Gibeciere.” She pronounced gibeciere strangely, as if she’d never heard it spoken—and maybe she hadn’t. Nowadays, magic could be learned online. There was no such thing as the Internet when magic first called to Ricardo. He’d picked up the craft from magazines like Genii Magazine, honed it in a magic and circus skills course at summer camp in Minnesota, and finally perfected it by apprenticing several working magicians in L.A. From the tender age of ten to his most recent thirty-fifth birthday, a quarter century, Ricardo had trained as a performer. The e-gician on stage shouldn’t pose any threat to someone like him.
 

Although she did look really, really good in fishnet.

A production assistant with a clipboard and a headset microphone approached the back of the theater where the remaining magicians waited their turns. He flashed a penlight on his clipboard, and Ricardo tensed, wiped his palms on his slacks, and waited to hear his name called. “Okay…so we’re running overtime, and this place is booked to shoot an infomercial in just a couple of hours….”

Ricardo felt his heart stutter. Running overtime? How could that possibly be? He pleaded with his eyes, well aware that the very worst thing he could do would be to act desperate, but he was unable to stop himself.

Turning away from the row of hopeful magician faces, the producer murmured into his headset, then turned back and said, “So here’s what we’re gonna do. You guys’ll be performing two at a time.”

Not only did Ricardo’s heart stop again…it felt as if it dropped within his chest cavity to lie there like a taxidermy prop dove. He was a one-man act. There was no way he’d share the stage with one of those amateurs.

“Next up, Ricardo the Magnificent…”

No. He wouldn’t do it. Couldn’t do it. His act depended on focus from the audience. No way could it happen with someone else performing on the same stage, at the same time.

“…and Professor Topaz.”

In the next row, a figure rose. Even from behind, Ricardo knew him by the regal set of his broad shoulders and the silhouette of his impeccably-styled hair. Ricardo had never seen him from anywhere but the audience. He was even taller in person than he looked onstage.
 

The
Professor Topaz had been a few yards away from him this entire time? Ricardo’s heart imploded like a star gone supernova.

“You don’t need a table,” the producer asked Ricardo, “right? It says here you don’t need a table.”

“No table.” Ricardo’s voice came out husky.

“Okay, let’s get that table moved stage left.” Stagehands swarmed out from behind the curtains and began re-positioning the set. The production assistant turned back toward Ricardo and Professor Topaz. “Remember, guys, Magic Mansion isn’t only about your parlor tricks.” He seemed bored, like he’d given those instructions one time too many. “That’s the premise of the show, but the real reason people watch reality TV is to see how the contestants interact with each other.”

Professor Topaz turned. The motion made his velvet cape flare gently, and the stage lights framed him with backlighting. All Ricardo could see of his features was the glint of the ambient light off his eyeballs as he donned his top hat. “Break a leg,” he said solemnly.
 

Then again, he said everything solemnly. That was part of his act.

The thought of sharing the stage with Professor Topaz transported Ricardo from the state of simple nervousness to that of all-out, mind-numbing panic. Did he even remember how to breathe? It seemed as if he might not. In. Out. There was the trick of it. Now, hopefully, he could keep going with it while he forced himself through his act.

“You may begin,” Topaz said quietly. He’d opened a case and needed just a moment to set up his props. Ricardo recognized the cage-like box immediately. Square circle, a classic. Ricardo had seen him do the trick at the Humboldt county fair. He’d been very solemn about it.

Ricardo’s silver linking rings didn’t need any prep. He glided to the front of the stage and launched into his act without hesitation. Prepare to be amazed, et cetera, et cetera. His act wasn’t about the metal rings, though, and it wasn’t about his banter. It was about poise and grace. He rolled one of the rings along the top of his arm, then allowed it to teeter on his fingertip for a moment before he flicked it onto his wrist. He’d done the move so many times before—thousands of times—that it went off like clockwork. His palms had even dried. Ricardo hadn’t realized sheer terror would do that for a guy.

He shifted his weight and rolled out the second ring. If he’d been working a bachelorette party, he would have brought his hips into the act. Here, though…he had no idea what the producers were looking for to populate Magic Mansion. Did they want a player? Or did they want a serious magician? Not that one couldn’t be both. And besides, the whole hip-grinding thing was just part of the act. Like fishnets.

The third ring, some light juggling, just a bit of hip action, and finally, Ricardo struck the rings together. Once, twice, metal chimed against metal, and then he allowed the upper ring to slip through the hidden gap. Presto—the rings were linked.

With a flourish, he ceded the stage to Professor Topaz. His pulse was pounding so hard he wondered if the judges could see veins throbbing in his forehead, and he glided back from the spotlight to deflect the attention from his own nervousness.

Professor Topaz turned his riveting gaze toward the producers and put himself through the paces of his illusion, timeless steps, like a waltz. He didn’t move around the stage as Ricardo had; he was thirty years older, and no longer needed to grind his hips to hold an audience’s attention.

Not that Ricardo could have pictured Topaz prancing around like a gigolo. Even thirty years ago.

No, Professor Topaz could bring a hush to a room with a flick of his cape, a glance of his flashing, dark eyes. When his voice swelled and he intoned, “Behold, the canister is no longer empty,” Ricardo couldn’t tear his gaze away from those graceful hands. Silk scarves fluttered from the loaded chamber, floated on the air, buoyant and ephemeral, framing the commanding form of Professor Topaz, who stood among them like a figure from a dream.

He’d looked exactly the same, back when Ricardo was a teenager, the first time he saw Professor Topaz perform. Only now he had a shock of silver at his temple. A stunning shock of silver that Ricardo ached to run his fingers through.