Now You See It (5 page)

He blew out smoke and smiled at them. “Good afternoon,” he said. His tone was mild.
He must not have heard them plotting
, I thought. He sounded too benign.

Cassandra and Harry could only stare (perhaps
gape
is the word) at him, so caught off guard were they. Like myself, they were clearly wondering how long he’d been sitting there and what he’d heard. Unlike me, they were (I hope) ridden with guilt and dreading that he’d heard it all.

Max looked across the room at me and signaled, smiling. “And good afternoon to you,
Padre,”
he said.

How I wished I could return his smile and signal. Lord above, how I wished I could blow the whistle on those two; those three if I included Brian with his most suspicious facsimile of Cassandra.

It now became apparent that Harry, at least, was wondering more than whether Max had heard his plot or no.

He was also wondering where in God’s name Max had come from in the first place. The chair had been empty, and it stood behind the desk with no proximity to any wall Max might have popped from.

It then became evident that Cassandra was wondering the same thing.

Unlike Harry, however, she meant to use the puzzle as a means to—hopefully—gloss over what Max might have heard of their conversation—or, for that matter, seen of their physical adhesion.

She pointed at the chair. “When did you build
that?”
she asked, her tone indicating a chiding amusement she could not possibly have been experiencing.

Max smiled pleasantly. “When you were in Bermuda,” he said. (Would I ever forget those three lovely weeks of her absence?)

“Well, you really caught us by surprise,” she said, trying to retain that gloss of amusement in her voice.

“Did
I?” Max sounded almost childlike in his gratification at having succeeded with the illusion. I knew the feeling of course, but I wished that he didn’t feel it at that particular moment.

Cassandra made a sound of amusement again. “You’ve been saving that for the perfect moment, haven’t you?” she accused.

“You like it?” he asked.

“Do I like it?”
she responded scoldingly. “You know very well I like it. It’s a wonderful effect.”

He smiled and nodded, gratified again. “It
is,”
he agreed.

Harry began to speak in an attempt to parallel Cassandra’s pose that nothing was amiss. But Cassandra spoke first. “You came in through there,” she said, pointing to the floor beneath the chair.

Max nodded. “Trap door—indistinguishable, of course.”

“It’s marvelous,” she told him.

Harry broke his silence with a burst of (excessive) enthusiasm. “Marvelous?” he cried. “It’s
dynamite!
Hey, Max!”

He moved behind the desk, where Max stood to greet him. Was I the only one to note how labored Max’s movements were? No, at least one other person noted it as well.

Max took Harry’s thrust-out hand in both of his.

“How
are
you, pal?” asked Harry.

“Very well, old friend,” Max answered. “And you?”

“Not complaining,” Harry replied.

Max smiled at him; a tired smile, I thought. “You’ve been lying in the sun,” he said.

“You know me, Max,” said Harry with a grin. “A little sun, a little run. Keeps the blood in motion.”

Max reached up to touch Harry’s hair. “Plugs flourishing, I see,” he teased.

Harry chuckled, obviously not pleased to have his implants mentioned. I wished I could have laughed aloud. I hadn’t known about them.

“Not bad, anh?” said Harry, pretending that he wasn’t displeased.

At which point in the procedure, who should stride into the room but Brian? As himself now naturally, hair dark, male clothes, his resemblance to Cassandra nonetheless apparent. “Hi,” he said to Harry, smiling.

“How you doin’, kid?” Harry responded. He extended his right hand and Brian squeezed it in momentary greeting.

“Fine,” said Brian. “How are you?”

“Couldn’t be better,” Harry said.

“Good,”
said Brian.

Their politesse was total sham. Harry had nothing but contempt for Brian, whom he regarded as a no-talent leech, a gofer to the bone. Brian, in turn, loathed Harry for a number of reasons which will presently emerge; I have to follow the rules of proper story-telling, don’t I?

At any rate, they smiled and spoke most pleasantly to one another. Absolute hypocrisy.

It was going to be that kind of day.

Brian removed a slip of paper from his shirt pocket and handed it to Max. “Everything you want on here?” he asked.
Everything I have to go-fer?
I added in my mind.

Max put his glasses on and perused the list. He nodded. “I believe so. Aren’t you a little late departing, though?”

Brian shook his head. “Train doesn’t leave for thirty minutes.”

“You off?” asked Harry, totally disinterested, I knew, but maintaining his pose of sociability—an agent’s skill.

“Have to pick up props in Boston,” Brian told him.

“Ah-ha.” Harry nodded. “Have a good trip, then.”

Brian nodded. “Thank you.” He turned to Cassandra. “We’d better go,” he said.

“Be right with you,” she replied. “Wait in the car.”

“All right.” Once more, Brian smiled at Harry. “Nice to see you again,” he said.

“The same,” said Harry, reciprocating the lie.

“See you later, Max,” Brian said.

Max did not reply but raised one languid hand. I didn’t really know what he thought of Brian. I had always assumed that, however kindly disposed he might be to his young brother-in-law, he could not have had too much respect for him. How little respect I found out later.

Brian walked to the doorway and exited into the entry hall.

As he did, Cassandra turned to Max with a look of grave concern. “Harry told me you asked him to come here,” she said. “I hope—”

She broke off, sighing. “Well, you know what I hope,” she added.

Moving to Max, she kissed him on the left cheek, then regarded him anxiously. “It can all be what it was,” she said.

Max smiled at her. “Let’s see what happens,” he told her.

Never had a harrowing event-to-be been heralded with such offhandedness.

Cassandra looked at him as though she hoped to penetrate his eyes and see into his very thoughts. Then, with an evanescent smile, she turned toward the doorway. “See you in a little while,” she said. She glanced at Harry. “I’ve driving Brian to the station,” she explained.

“Good.” He nodded. “Give the boss and me a chance to talk.”

Another fleeting smile from her. “Will you still be here when I get back?” she asked.

“How long?” he responded.

“Less than an hour.”

“I imagine so,” said Harry. “Though I
do
have to get back to Boston by early evening.” (The well-laid plans …)

Cassandra nodded and left, closing the door, Harry and Max watching her departure.

After she was gone, Harry smiled at Max. “Quite a gal you’ve got there,” he said.

“Quite a gal,” repeated Max. For several seconds he looked at Harry, face expressionless.
What is he thinking?
I wondered.

Then he smiled. “Well, old friend,” he said, “I thank you for coming.”

“My pleasure, pal,” Harry replied expansively.

Max gestured toward the chairs. “Shall we?” he inquired.

Harry’s smile was wry; at least, he thought it was. “That’s what I’m here for,” he responded.

He moved to the chair, where he had set down his attaché case and hat, which he picked up and placed on the table.

In the meantime, Max had headed for the bar. Glancing over, Harry noticed (as I did, worriedly) his sluggish gait and grimaced to himself.

“Your usual Scotch?” asked Max.

“No, no, just a diet soda if you have it,” Harry answered. “Too early for the hard stuff.”

Max peered beneath the bar and came up with a can of Diet Coke. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

Harry shook his head. “No. Had my little health-food breakfast before I left Boston.”

Max pulled the can tab free and asked, “Why Boston?” He picked up the silver tongs to put ice cubes in a glass.

“Opening tonight,” said Harry. “Client of mine.”

“Sounds exciting,” commented Max.

“It is—for him,” said Harry. “His first play. A murder mystery.”

“Never can believe them,” Max replied; it was a remark immersed in irony, considering what was about to happen.

“Neither can I,” fawned Harry. “But the public likes ‘em if they’re well done. This one is.”

“Glad to hear it,” Max responded, starting over with the glass of Diet Coke on ice cubes. Harry hesitated, then apparently felt compelled to say, “You’re movin’ kind o’ slow, pal.”

“Am I?” Max reached the chairs and handed the drink to Harry.

“Thanks, Max,” Harry murmured, watching Max settle into the other chair with a faint, but unmistakably weary, groan.
What’s going on? I
thought;
I’ve never seen him look so bad
.

Harry winced at the sight but managed a smile as Max looked over at him. He held the glass up toastingly. “To the best,” he said.

Max appeared amused as Harry took a sip of Diet Coke, then set the glass down on the table. Max lifted a cigar box from the table and raised its lid, holding it out to Harry, who gestured
no
. “That stuff’ll kill you,” he remarked; another inadvertently ironic statement.

“The least of my problems at the moment,” Max replied.

His voice sounded so tired that Harry nearly commented on it, I noted. Then, changing direction, Harry gestured toward the casket, grinning. “Love that figure in there,” he said. “A new gimmick maybe?”

Max shook his head. “Just wanted to see what I’d look like.”

“Jesus Christ.”
Harry made a face. “Cassandra told me that, but I couldn’t really believe her.”

“Why not?” asked Max in mild surprise.

Harry looked askance at him.
“Max,”
he said.

“My future home inside my present one,” Max said. “Seems logical to me.”

“Come on.” Clearly, Harry still had trouble believing it; but then, he was unable to approach the thinking of a Delacorte.

Max smiled tiredly, flexing his fingers with effort, wincing as he did. Again I noted Harry on the verge of saying something, then discarding the idea. He took another sip of Diet Coke and set the glass back down. “All right,” he said. “Shall we get on with it?”

The lid of Pandora’s box was about to be raised.

No, wait. Before we do,” said Harry. I saw him brace himself. “You know Cassandra’s really worried about you.”

“She’s said so,” Max acknowledged.

“Said
so?” Harry frowned. “You don’t believe her?”

Max did not reply. Stubbing out his cigar on an ashtray, he reached down beside himself on the chair and picked up a red billiard ball; I hadn’t noticed it there. (Well, my observation powers weren’t
perfect
, you know, as you will see.)

Tossing the ball into his left hand, he dropped it back into his right.

“Max, you know she’s on your side,” said Harry.

Max did not respond. Again, he tossed the ball into his left hand, letting it drop to his right once more.

A third time, he made the tossing motion, but the ball now disappeared. (Palmed in his right, of course, the elementary
Throw Vanish.)

“Max, she wants the best for you,” Harry told him.

His features hardened as Max continued playing with the billiard ball, causing it to Reproduce, then Reproduce again,
his face intent as he performed “Twirls” with his thumb and forefinger to prove that what was actually a shell was another solid billiard ball.

An attempted “Acquitment” (transfer of the ball from right to left hand) to create another “Vanish” failed, and the billiard ball fell to his lap. Angrily, he picked it up again.

“Max, come
on,”
said Harry, trying to sound patient—in vain.

Max said nothing but began again, the billiard ball becoming two, then three. He waved his right hand up and down, the ball between his first and middle fingers “hinged back” into the shell.
Now you’ve got it, Sonny boy
, I thought.

At which, he dropped the ball again. It bounced off his lap to hit the carpeting and roll away. Max slumped back and closed his eyes. “Ta
da,”
he muttered, a forlorn fanfare to his faltering hands. (I felt his despair; only another magician could truly say that.)

“Let it go, pal,” Harry told him, revealing unmistakably with those words that he could not possibly understand. “We have Vegas to discuss.” He was unable to conceal the edge of irritation in his voice.

Max opened his eyes. “Yes,” he agreed. “We have Vegas to discuss.”