Real Magic (3 page)

"Not bad," Pappy said. "Now deal."

Duncan dealt out four hands of five cards each. When he finished, he turned over the top card of the deck — Ace of Spades.

Pappy grimaced. "You're still not buckling the bottom card early enough. You need to press the corner, popping the card away from the deck a little to make it easier to position, so you can then pull it out when you're ready. But if you wait to buckle it, you can't get it out in time. That's why you're pausing too long before you deal the bottom. Breaks up the flow of the deal and looks suspicious. You need to rock your left hand more, too. That back-and-forth motion is natural when you hold the deck in that hand and it helps hide that you dealt the first three rounds as seconds and the last two as bottoms. Now, show me your Classic Pass."

The Classic Pass was always Pappy's final test. Not surprisingly, it was one of the most difficult maneuvers in sleight-of-hand. Duncan had to hold the deck in his left hand, break the cards and use his pinky to maintain the break while making it look like the deck was held solid, then while appearing to shore up the deck, he slipped the top half over and brought the bottom half up. Now the bottom half had become the top half.

"Sloppy," Pappy said. "Might work in a card game if the players are drunk or not paying attention, but if someone's burning you, really studying your moves, they'll catch you no problem at all. For one thing, you keep flashing the break just before you do it."

"Maybe a little, but it doesn't matter. That's what misdirection is for."

"You'll never fool a real magician with that pass. Especially when they burn you."

"I don't care about fooling magicians. I'm not going to be a magician. I don't even care about the Classic Pass. You rarely use that when playing cards."

"You mean
cheating
at cards. Let me tell you something — just because modern sleight-of-hand grew out of card cheating doesn't mean we have to make our living that way. You've got real talent with this, and you've worked so hard for so long at it. Why bother with cheating when you could be a real magician? Now, what you need to do —"

"I need money," Duncan snapped. "I don't mean to be rude but I need a little bankroll, anything to get going again."

Pappy studied Duncan. Then he tapped his temple. "I might have something for you."

He left the room, muttering to himself. Duncan sat alone and waited. Off to his right, behind a chair cover with a stack of books was a door —
the
door. The one he never opened.

No. He shoved those thoughts away and kept his eyes focused straight ahead. He looked at the photos on the wall, the details well-worn into his memory. Fishing with Pappy ("All boys should learn to fish"), hunting with Pappy ("Learning to properly handle a gun is crucial information"), and performing magic with Pappy ("The greatest art in the world"). All the pictures were of the two of them. Somewhere in the place, he must have kept photos of his late wife, but Duncan had never seen them. Nor did Pappy bother with pictures of his own son or grandson. The only person he ever showed interest in was Duncan.

Maybe that's why the rest of the family resents me,
Duncan thought, but before he could let his mind wander down those depressing avenues, Pappy returned wearing a bathrobe.

Pappy smiled as he sat down. "Good to see you. When did you get into town? Oh, wait, before we get to any pleasantries, let's first check out your card handling. Now, now, don't argue with me. You've got to learn to handle the cards before you can do anything good with them."

Duncan could only think that the old man had really lost it for good. An idea sparked in Duncan's head, an idea he felt both curious about and slimy for thinking. A lump formed in his throat that he couldn't swallow away. He walked to the chair with the stack of books and slid it all to the side. He stared at
the
door.

It was made of a light wood and had a simple knob. Nothing ornate on the door at all except for a series of long slash marks connected to geometric shapes that had been burned into it like some bizarre artwork — part Jackson Pollock, part Pablo Picasso. The strong lines stretched the entire height of the door. Duncan had never opened it — never dared. Pappy would have killed him.

Growing up, he would catch Pappy staring at the door in wonder, but whenever he inquired about it, Pappy would snap at him. "You must never go through that door," he would say. "It's real magic, and you should never mess with real magic."

"Pappy," Duncan said, staring at the door as if it were an exotic dancer. He knew he was taking advantage of Pappy's lost faculties, but when else would he ever get a chance to open the door? "You ever notice this door before?"

Pappy turned to Duncan, and the terror on his face prickled Duncan's skin. "You stay away from that door." His voice rose as he struggled to his feet. "You stay away, you hear me. I don't care if I'm lying dead in my chair, you must never never never go through that door. Not for anything. You got me?"

Backing away, Duncan said, "Okay, no problem. Calm down, please. I was just asking."

"I know exactly what you were doing, and you should be ashamed of yourself."

Duncan had the decency to look down. It had been a stupid thing to do. But Pappy didn't understand what he had done to Duncan over the years with that door. The more he said to never open the door, the more Duncan wondered about it. What was behind it? If it was so terrible, why have the door in the first place? Why not board the thing over? And what were those markings all about?

As a kid, Duncan spent equal amounts of time thinking up one horrible scenario after another — bodies in the walls, a secret torture chamber, a door in the mouth of a slime-covered monster. He even tried to open the door once, got as far as putting his hand on the knob, but Pappy caught him. It was the only time Pappy ever seriously punished him. Took out a belt and made it so Duncan couldn't sit for the rest of the night.

But now, as an adult, the door's allure grew even stronger. He still imagined what would be on the other side, only he now approached it with more experience. Sadly, the scenarios he arrived at were every bit as horrendous as those from his youth — sex slaves held in a secret room, some bizarre sacrificial altar, and bodies in the walls, always bodies in the walls.

Duncan's cell phone chirped, startling him. He glanced at the ID — Pancake. "I'll be right back," he said to Pappy who fussed with covering the door back up.

Once he reached the guest room, he said in as light a tone as he could manage, "Hey, Pancake, you talking to me already?"

Before Pancake spoke, Duncan heard the panic in his breathing. Not just panic, crying and maddening fear. "T-They figured it out."

"Figured what out? Who?"

"Peyter and Dmitri! They know we were cheating."

"Don't be paranoid."

"They cut off my fucking hand," he screamed. Then his tears came back and through heaving sobs, he said, "My hand. It's gone."

"Oh shit. Where are you?" Adrenaline jolted through Duncan's system. "Have you gone to a hospital?"

"Are you fucking crazy? They're going to kill us. I ain't worried about a damn hospital. I'm worried about my life."

"You'll probably die if you don't worry about a hospital."

"They'll come after you next, you know."

"Okay, just calm down. Tell me where you are. I'll come get you."

"You better come. You better. Or we're dead."
 

 

Before Pancake gave his location,
Duncan knew the answer. Pancake had never been too inventive, so when it came to hiding — especially when frightened — there were only a few options available. First among them was the haunted house.

Deep in the woods on the edge of town, the foundation of an old relic of a house still stood. Like a grave marker in an open field, you couldn't miss it, and lots of teenagers knew about it. On weekends, they slipped out there to drink beer, smoke pot, and screw around. As a kid, Duncan would sneak around the perimeter to watch and learn the secret ways of teens. As a teen, he and Pancake would hang out there getting drunk. But that was weekends from long ago. Nobody bothered with the place anymore.

Duncan approached the ruined house as quietly as he could manage. He had taken a circuitous route in case the Boss's men had followed him, but he couldn't be sure Pancake had been so smart. He spied Pancake pacing near a jagged, knee-high wall, whining like an injured dog. He held a stump wrapped in a blood-stained shirt close to his chest. Soaked in sweat and ghostly pale, his steps looked wobbly, like he might pass out at any moment. Nobody else appeared to be around.

"Psst," Duncan said. "Pancake."

"Duncan?" Pancake asked full-throated, alerting every living thing to his presence. "What the hell are we going to do?"

Duncan approached, cautious but less worried since nothing bad had happened to them yet. "First thing, we need to get your hand taken care of."

"Gee, you think? Or maybe we should stand around here and wait to get our asses shot off. You think that's a good idea? Huh?"

"You're the one who was acting so brazen. If I had let you go through with your big cheat, we'd both be dead right now."

"Oh, I see. I should be thanking you."

"You can't go cheating on every round you get. That's why they figured it out."

"Now it's my fault?"

"How else do you think they noticed? We didn't win any money." Duncan looked at Pancake like a lost child — he just didn't understand. But no way would Duncan take the blame for this.

With his good hand, Pancake wiped back the tears in his eyes. "It doesn't really matter now, anyway. They found out and they're going to do a lot worse to us if we don't pay them."

"Pay them what? We let them win."

"You did. And we pay them to say we're sorry for trying to cheat them. We pay them so they won't kill us."

Duncan frowned and turned away. He worried about Pancake's hand, but since Pancake didn't seem concerned enough about it, he stopped trying to help — horse to water and all that. This other thing, though, this was a way he could help, and if Pancake was to be believed, he had to help. Get the money or die. The choice couldn't be clearer.

"How much?" Duncan asked.

Pancake let out a breath that said it all. The hand, the fear, the panic — all had been used to get that question out of Duncan. "Twenty Gs by tomorrow morning."

"Twenty thousand dollars? How am I supposed to get that?"

"You're the great card cheat. Go cheat." Pancake's face paled. "Or rob your Pappy. I don't know. And maybe get me to a hospital."

Duncan caught Pancake before he hit the ground. He was light enough to carry, so Duncan took him to the road. A cell phone call got a cab to take them to the hospital. Duncan slid Pancake's watch off his wrist and handed it to the cabbie as payment. Once the cabbie stopped cursing and sped off, Duncan left his friend by the ER entrance. He didn't dare stick around. There would be too many questions he couldn't answer.

As he strolled away, his hands in his pockets, his head low, he heard a nurse find Pancake and call out for help. He felt the urge to throw up but he had to keep his cool. He had to keep thinking — where could he come up with the money? Not all of it. No way could he do that in one night. But enough to assuage the Boss.

A sharp blade of guilt cut into his gut at the thought of robbing Pappy. He wouldn't, he couldn't, do it. And since Pappy refused to bankroll him, he couldn't cheat a game even if he had one set up — which he didn't. There had to be a way, any way he could avoid the one person he knew had the money. But that meant he'd be forced to do something even worse than robbing Pappy or cheating idiots, something he hadn't done in years — he'd have to call his father.

 

Duncan tried three times to reach his father,
and each time he canceled the call before it could ring twice. After the third attempt, he put his cell phone in his pocket and pulled out his car keys. It would be too easy for his father to say
No
over the phone. But in person, Duncan thought he'd have a better chance of leaving with some help.

After a two hour ride, he pulled into the driveway of his father's lovely home. Two stories on a half-acre of land with a manicured lawn and a heated pool in the back. Not bad for ignoring your kids your whole life.

Duncan sat in his car with the engine idling. He couldn't call his father, so what made him think he'd find the strength to ring the doorbell? He glanced down at his hand and pictured a bloody pulp. He had to give it to the Boss — losing a hand or dying were strong motivators.

Before he could step out of the car, the garage door slid open. His father, Sean, stood with hands on hips and scowl on face. A beer belly had begun to form, enough to hang over his belt, and he had lost a lot of hair since the last time they had seen each other — over two years ago. His legs poked out from his khaki shorts like stilts on a balloon. Even from the street, Duncan could smell Sean's heavy cologne. That man never did understand the word moderation.