Magic Mansion (7 page)

Though Ricardo was deflated about his spectacular ring twirl going completely unnoticed, he didn’t allow his smile to falter. A card. Fine. Whatever. He grabbed it from the green-painted cart and flicked it over his shoulder with hardly a thought. The card, thrilled it wasn’t getting left behind after all, did a jubilant swan dive, rising and falling in a spiral that seemed to hover in front of the camera on its way down.

It settled on the pile of silks face-up. The ace of hearts.

“Weird,” Iain said. “That almost looked like we did it on the computer.”

Great. Leave it to the take he hadn’t been trying to do well to come out the best. “Card tricks really aren’t my specialty,” Ricardo said. “Did you see the ring? The light was hitting it just right.”

Iain ignored him, turned to the cameraman and said, “You got that card, right?”

“Pretty cool.”

Ricardo said, “I think the ring will read better on tape.”

“We’ll see what the graphics department ends up doing with it,” Iain said. “Have a seat.”

While Ricardo well and truly thought that if he wanted to pick his battles, a decision about what he would do in the opening credits might very well be a crucial skirmish to win, he sensed that any amount of dissension with The Big Important Producer’s wishes would only make Iain
more
likely to use the footage of the card-flick, not less.

Maybe the editors would pick the ring after all. It really had been a very cool twirl. Ricardo gathered his pride and turned back toward his seat—though when he took another look at it the props on the floor, he had to admit, the ace of hearts was looking pretty damn pleased with itself.

Chapter 8

THE ARRIVAL

On warm days when nights turned cool, mist would often gather in Hollywood’s canyons and valleys. Tonight, though, it received the help of three strategically placed fog machines. John’s driver sighed as he rolled through the mist for an exterior shot. A dozen town cars crept up the drive—which was undoubtedly shot in such a way that the tattered trampoline across the street didn’t show, nor the house with the pair of recliners on the front stoop, indoor furniture with stuffing hanging out of the cushions where they’d been picked at by birds. The mansion itself likely belonged to a “flash in the pan” who’d needed to sell off the land around it, then sell off the mansion itself once his or her heyday came to a close. And maybe the same thing had happened to whomever purchased it from them. And no doubt there were plenty of slapdash repairs inside done by set designers with the intension of those fixes holding only as long as the shooting schedule.

But even in the context of the neighborhood in which it sat, and even with the likelihood of its unfortunate history, the mansion, with its manicured lawn and dazzlingly lit exterior, did indeed look magical as John approached. A director on the lawn signaled, and the town cars filed past the cameras more quickly, then swung out the U-shaped drive, only to begin their approach yet again. Once the cameras had filmed them from dozens of angles, they coasted to a halt, and John’s window rolled down.

The scent of dry ice crept into the car. Marlene poked her head in and said, “Good to see you, Professor. Right now we’re getting shots of everyone stepping out of their car. Then we’ll put you over by the juniper while you wait. Just remember, the only time we want you to look directly into the camera from here on out is when you record your video journal. Other than that, pretend it’s not ever there.”

John glanced over her shoulder. Pretending the cameras weren’t even there was nowhere near as easy as it sounded. It seemed like everywhere he looked, there was a camera.

“Once you get over there with the other contestants, talk to whoever you want—your reactions are being taped—but make sure you greet Fabian Swan. Play it up a little, since you both run in the same circles. You two are our mentor-types, so make sure you act like the mansion is no big deal and nothing fazes you.” She glanced at John’s immaculate new suit and spotless white gloves, and added, “Not that it probably does.”

As the window whirred back up, Marlene retreated into the fog to debrief the next car, saying into her cell, “No flash paper, no open flames—no exceptions. I don’t care who’s asking. We do not have the liability coverage for it.” John allowed himself a small smile beneath the camouflage of the mist. Unfazed? Hardly. But he could almost hear Casey now:
You’ve got the world’s best poker face, babe. Make sure you work it to your advantage.

John was accustomed to performing live, not recorded, so the scrutiny of the three cameras when he exited the town car was definitely unsettling. Still, it wasn’t as if they would catch him smoothing his hair or picking lint off his sleeve. He was a professional, therefore, he did not fidget.

One of the cameras did a sweep around his face from a low angle. He could imagine how he might look in the shot, framed by fog and the night sky, and just as Marlene had warned him, he steeled himself from looking anywhere near the camera. Within the space of a few heartbeats, it almost seemed natural to just ignore the scurrying of the crew around him. Maybe he could actually get used to it, if only for a few weeks. He was a performer, after all. He was accustomed to being scrutinized.

The mist parted as he strode across the dewy lawn toward the juniper where a group of men and women in tuxes and sequins awaited. Magicians and their assistants…but one of the women was holding a child-sized ventriloquist’s dummy, and another wore a saucy top hat on her blazing red hair. He then realized that when he’d initially pegged them as assistants, it was really his age showing. That, and his life experience, because Rose Topaz could never have aspired to do her own act.
 

Though magic was a male-dominated profession, the Magic Mansion contestants wouldn’t all be male. This was prime time TV—and it looked like the ratio was half and half. The group he approached was not magicians with their assistants. Just magicians. And that was a relief.

It made John feel less alone.

But only slightly so. When he saw Fabian Swan in his dusky purple tuxedo, a sense of relief flooded him so profoundly, he suspected he wouldn’t have needed Marlene’s instruction to greet his contemporary warmly, though they’d never been formally introduced.
 

Fabian was a black man of sixty or so, with iron gray in his hair and mustache. He was medium height, though he projected an air of authority that made him seem taller. And while he wasn’t known for boisterous displays of good cheer any more than John was, when he saw John approaching him through the crowd of tittering magicians young enough to be their children, his gaze softened into what, on him, passed for a smile.

John extended his gloved hand. “Fabian. Good to see you.”

Fabian took it. He wore gloves, also. Pale yellow, to set off the plum. “You too, Professor.”

It seemed they should banter a bit for the cameras—but John had never been good with small talk, and Fabian didn’t seem inclined toward chitchat, either. The cameras sensed their proclivity toward quiet contemplation as John and Fabian appraised each other wordlessly, and then they sidled away to focus on the women in the glittery makeup and low-cut gowns.

Good. John knew he shouldn’t think so—the more face-time he got, the more likely he would be to advance—but right now he needed to evaluate his competitors. Friend or foe? Ally or enemy? He looked into Fabian Swan’s eyes, and he searched.

While age was not necessarily an indicator of depth, and there could theoretically exist a twenty-year-old of profound complexity and a seventy-year-old just as profoundly simple, Fabian Swan’s years had certainly shaped him. In his eyes, John read a life filled with dark lows and dizzying highs. The struggle of poverty, the pain of loss, the intoxication of success.
 

The glow of a good man? Yes. But the spark of True magic?

No.

He hadn’t realized he was on the lookout for the Truth—not until he didn’t see it. “Are you ready?” he asked Fabian, to cover his disappointment.

“Will we ever be?” Fabian turned to watch the latest magician to embark from his town car.

Fog—both real and manufactured—billowed. The car door opened. A graceful figure in a traditional tux with tails and red cummerbund stepped from the mist. John was filled with gratitude that the cameras were not currently trained on him, since his infamous poker-face was nowhere to be found.

The man in the tux smiled, and his smile lit up the night.

Ricardo the Magnificent.

A small gasp escaped John. Fabian leaned toward him and said, “You know that guy?”

“He’s…very talented.”

“Good to know. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

While John’s arrival had been forgettably low-key, Ricardo made a splash. Several women in the crowd cheered at his appearance. They greeted him with delight, hugging like long-lost friends, and even kissing him on the cheek. But before John could envy the ease with which Ricardo flowed through the crowd, the generosity of his warmth and his smile, the Truth within him flooded John’s awareness, and it took all his focus to keep from knocking the other magicians aside and embracing him.

Ricardo worked the line—a handshake, a smile, a clap on the shoulder—until he looked up and noticed John. And then his smile went even broader, and he darted past Fabian Swan with two cameras trailing him and said, “Professor Topaz!”

“Ricardo.” John would have liked to sound warm. Mostly, though, he came off as a bit dazed.

Ricardo thrust his hand out for a handshake, and John took it. He squeezed firmly, and he stared deep into Ricardo’s eyes. How much can a man say with just a look?
They never told me you’d be in the mansion. I’m stunned that you made it in. I’m overjoyed to see you again. I’ve been rehearsing what I might say to you for weeks, now, and come up with absolutely nothing. And I hope you’ll forgive me if I’ve made a complete fool of myself.
 

John narrowed his eyes to see if any of this had somehow managed to be conveyed.

Ricardo gave his hand an extra squeeze.

“What a surprise,” John said.

That seemed to sum it up about right.

One more squeeze, and then Ricardo pulled his hand away with a long parting look before he turned to Fabian, offered a handshake, and said, “Great to finally meet you. That’s quite a tux.”

Another town car rolled up, and the cameras flocked toward it.

Ricardo turned to John again, and now his expression seemed less polished, more genuine. Relief? Anticipation? What? John couldn’t very well have a heart-to-heart with him, not here, not now. A young blonde lady in pink lamé tiptoed over to keep her spiked heels from sinking into the turf, and slid her hand through the crook of Ricardo’s arm. “Come wait for the big greeting with us,” she said, a bit breathlessly. John wouldn’t have been surprised if, beneath that unforgiving dress, she had quite the girdle on. There was a certain naive sweetness to her, though of course that might have been just the image she was trying to project.

Ricardo gave John a parting look, and allowed himself to be drawn away by the girl in pink, and into the circle of women who’d evidently adopted him.

The fog parted, and this time the young man who emerged was not wearing a tux. His clothing was likely just as expensive, though, from his stiff jeans to his baseball cap with its brim at a 45-degree angle. Diamonds glittered from his ears, his fingers, his belt buckle, and his heavy gold necklaces. His eyes were hidden by mirrored shades.

Beside John, Fabian sighed and said, “Bling just looks so
wrong
on white kids.”

John made a noncommittal noise in reply. He’d spent his life in suits. Street wear was hardly his forte.

The gangsta-style magician sauntered past the women and Ricardo and approached Fabian Swan first, with the greeting, “’Sup, man? I’m a huge fan—massive. Kevin Kazan.”

He didn’t offer a handshake, John noticed.

“Thank you,” Fabian said with no particular enthusiasm.

“Pro-fess-or,” Kevin said, nodding at John. “Kickin’ it oldschool.”

John supposed that was a compliment. “Pleased to meet you.”

Without acknowledging any of the other magicians, Kevin Kazan slipped into the group beside Fabian Swan as if he plainly deserved a position at his idol’s right hand, and then turned to watch the arrival of the next magician.

The technicians freshened up the fog, which was beginning to dissipate as the ground cooled, and Jia Lee stepped from the billowing mist in a floor-length red silk gown with a butterfly clasp at the high mandarin collar and a deep teardrop cutout over her cleavage. A black dragon embroidered in shimmery thread undulated down the dress’ right side. Each stride she took toward the group revealed a thigh-high slit in the skirt. Her hair was knotted in a sleek bun, and her Oriental makeup was flawless. Her look was traditional, yes, but also edgy in its severity. She nodded calmly to the group, then took her place by John’s side without a word.

Interesting, he thought, how she hadn’t gravitated toward the other women—though he wasn’t entirely sure what it meant, if anything. Quite possibly, she wished to align herself with the other “name” magicians, like John and Fabian. Certainly, she was the most well-known of the three of them, with her recent theatrical success. She only came up to John’s shoulder, and was probably a third his age. Not that it made her any less intimidating.

The fog released two more “name” magicians: Ken Barron, a middle-aged escape artist who was able to dislocate his fingers and shoulders at will, and Chip Challenge, who’d been working the comedy clubs for years with his Elvis-impersonator magic act. They gravitated toward Jia, though John wouldn’t say she’d ever actually met their eyes. And so the magicians sorted themselves, the unknowns at one end, with Ricardo among them, and the successful performers at the other.

John knew he should have felt grateful to count himself among the successes. Recent conversations with Dick might have suggested otherwise. But with Ricardo just a few feet away, he found it difficult to even care which end of the spectrum he occupied.