Real Magic (4 page)

Duncan got out and walked toward his father. The scent of the recently mown lawn and the click of his shoes against the driveway — concrete with brink inlays — turned his stomach. It was all a plastic show. He didn't bother with a fake smile or a friendly greeting. Might as well be something honest in this place.

"What the hell do you want?" Sean said.

Duncan didn't know what to expect — one never did when it came to Sean — but years of growing up under the man's rule had left him with one approach. There would be no appeal to a familial connection or even pointing out that death hung over him. The only way through was straight.

"I'm in trouble," Duncan said.

Sean barked out a laugh. "Of course you are. No other reason you'd be here. How much do you need?"

"Don't you want to know what's going on?"

"Same thing that's always happened to you. You try to take the easy way out of things, it backfires, and you lose your money. I'm guessing whoever you screwed over is serious about getting his money back because you wouldn't be here otherwise. So, I'm curious, how much?"

"Twenty thousand," Duncan said, feeling his body shrink into a twelve-year-old with every passing second.

Sean laughed full-voiced this time. "I'll say this for you — when you screw up, you don't screw up small."

"Anything that can get me close to it will buy me a few more days," Duncan said, but his father continued to laugh. "Please. They'll kill me."

"Yeah, for that amount, I suspect they will."

An awful silence settled between them. A silence poisoned by years of mutual distrust and disappointment.

"So that's it?" Duncan said. "You'll just let me die?"

Sean leaned against the back of his Cadillac. "I tried with you every way I could. Get you into football or baseball. Heck, I'd have been happy if you were into comic books or video games. But it was always Pappy. That's all you ever wanted to do. Learn his little card tricks."

"What did you think would happen when you dumped me on his porch every chance you could get? Mom died and you didn't waste a minute trying to hook up with someone new."

Sean folded his arms. They had been through this fight so many times the accusations no longer held the same venom. However, instead of coming back with another assault on Duncan's lifestyle, his father said, "I never understood Pappy and neither did your grandfather. He tried to raise me right but Pappy spent all that time driving us around the country, and well, you don't know Pappy nearly as well as you think you do."

"I see. Now, Pappy's the villain."

"No. But he's no hero, either." Sean scrunched his face at a memory and looked as if he might walk away. But he scratched his arms and said, "One time — I must've been about fourteen since your grandfather was still alive — Pappy came to the little apartment we were living in. He was all smiles and excitement. He'd hit it big, he said. Really worked his magic and got us lots of money. But we had to move fast, get out of town, or there'd be trouble. I say this like it's something new, but it happened all the time with him. But this time, my father shook his head. He said there was no way he would keep going on like this. He stood up for me. And you know what your tough ol' Pappy did? He stood down. He had to leave, of course, but he promised to return when things cooled down, and he did. About two years later he bought a place and got all crazy with that stupid door of his. Point is — I thought he had changed. Why else would he come back if he hadn't figured out what family was for? That's why I looked to him to help raise you. But I was wrong to do that. It was my big mistake. I admit it. And I lost you to him."

Duncan kicked at the driveway. This was just his luck. All he wanted was some cash, but his father decides tonight's the night to offer an olive branch. Except the man hadn't even done that. He wallowed in his regret, sure, but nothing else. Heck, they still stood in the driveway.

"I guess I should go," Duncan said with a flicker of hope that his father would hand him a little money before he left. Sean said nothing. He watched Duncan drive off and never even moved from the garage.

Duncan drove for five miles before he pulled to the side of the road. He stared down the long road and smacked the steering wheel. Breathing like a bull facing a matador, readying to strike, he smacked the steering wheel again. He lowered his head and rubbed the back of his neck.

Family issues don't matter tonight. I don't get that money, family won't ever matter again.

He had one last option. He could call his sisters. He didn't expect much from them, they had sided with Sean long ago, but perhaps they would care more about his impending death than his father.

He called Samantha first. She didn't hate him, though she didn't go out of her way to have any contact with him. Her husband, Chuck, despised him, though, so Duncan felt a twinge of hope when it was Samantha who answered the phone.

"I'm sorry, Dunc," she said. "Really, I am. But I don't think feeding your problems is any way to help you. Why don't you leave town and come visit us? We can look into some programs for you. I'm sure Chuck could arrange a job. Come on. Stop this crazy lifestyle of yours before you get yourself killed."

That's all Duncan needed — spend his days pushing paper for a manager like Chuck. Duncan didn't even know what kind of papers Chuck pushed, but he would never work for a cocky fool like that. No way.

That left Mary — the longest of long shots. She never got over that he won three thousand dollars off of her stupid friends during her wedding reception. "They were drunk and celebrating and you cheated them of serious cash," she screamed at him when she learned what had happened. He shrugged it off. "That's cards," he said, knowing he had done wrong but figuring the whole thing would blow over in a few months. Mary never let it go.

No surprise, then, that she didn't pick up the phone. He tried her cell, too, but she ignored him.

Duncan put the phone away and glanced in the rearview mirror before pulling back on the road. A beat-up car idled under a streetlamp a little way back. The headlights were off. He made out the silhouette of a big man with a thick head.

Waiting to see what happened seemed like a horrible idea, so Duncan slammed on the gas, screeching his tires as he tore off down the road. He couldn't be sure but he swore the car followed him, keeping its lights off. Duncan hit the brakes, turning hard left, hit the gas to straighten out, and shot through a side street.

When he reached another major road, he slowed the car, turned into traffic, and casually drove on. His heart hammered blood throughout his body. He could smell the sweat that stuck to his arms.

Two more ideas came to him. He could rob a few convenience stores. Except he knew he couldn't. The thought of stealing from somebody who worked hard all day left Duncan with a sour taste. Cheating crooks had a Robin Hood feel to it. That was different. No, he couldn't rob anybody.

Which left him with only one alternative. He'd have to pawn something belonging to Pappy. The man had so much stuff in his apartment, there had to be enough of value to pool the money he needed. He could pawn it, and then get back to work at cards. When he raised back the money, he'd return the pawned items to Pappy's house. Most likely, the old man would never even notice.

Duncan didn't like it, but he didn't like any of this. At least, pawning a few items kept him from having to commit a serious crime that endangered people. The more he thought of it, the more Duncan settled in to his plan. His shaking hands eased a bit.

"Sorry, Pappy," he whispered to the empty car. "I hope you understand."

 

Though Duncan had walked down
the apartment building's hall so many times he knew where to avoid tripping on the threadbare carpet, though he had opened Pappy's door with his personal key so often that he knew to pull up on the knob before turning or else the door would stick, though he had entered the cluttered apartment so much that it had become like entering his own home after a long day at work, this time felt new, different, and terrible. This time he walked down that hall and the hall lengthened to the horizon. Each step weighed upon him heavily enough that by the time he reached the door, he barely had the will to pull up on the knob. Even then, he did it wrong and had to try again before he could push the stubborn door open. And when he finally entered the apartment, he did not experience the warm embrace of a home. Instead, he felt exactly like what he was — an intruder.

"Pappy?" When no answer came, Duncan flicked on the living room light, and a new fear took him over. The room had been cleaned out.

All the books, all the papers, all the magazines. The jewelry, the glasses, the little porcelain figurines. Every bit of hoarded junk had been removed. The blankets had been taken off the furniture and someone had dusted everything well. The carpeting bore track lines of a vacuum, and the sharp fumes of lemon-pine cleaner drifted in from the kitchen. Even the marked door had been spruced up so that it didn't look so oddly out of place. The entire room looked like something one found in a model display home.

He knew,
Duncan thought. Pappy knew, must have known the moment Duncan left, that he'd be back. Duncan pictured how hard Pappy would have worked to clean out this place. Maybe he called Mary — she'd love to screw Duncan over and would've helped eagerly. They would have had to work fast, sweating and grunting, never taking a break. When Duncan called Mary's cell phone, it would've been a final alarm bell that they only had a short time left. All that work to keep him from having anything to pawn.

He dropped onto the couch and buried his head in his hands. Of all the times for these people to start caring. All their caring was going to get him killed.

Tears welled and he had a hard time breathing. It wasn't just threatening words in his head anymore. He had no other option he could think of. This was real. The Boss and his men — they were going to kill him. His life would end. And though it had never amounted to anything important, it was still his life. Heck, even Pancake clung to the hope of living.

From the couch, Duncan could see a sliver of the kitchen. He considered stomping over there, grabbing a sharp knife, and ending his own life. At least it would be on his terms, then — and probably less painful than whatever psychotic torture scenario the Boss would think up.

But he stayed on the couch. The thought soured his stomach. Suicide in Pappy's kitchen — no way.

He glanced to his right, and his wet eyes rested upon the door. All those crazy markings called out to him. Something important lay on the other side. Something so valuable that Pappy had protected it all these years. Possibly dangerous, too, but at this point, what did he have to lose? If he survived whatever the danger was, then he'd be able to get a hold of the valuable thing — whatever it was. Something that special wouldn't be able to be pawned with ease. But playing cards with criminals had introduced him to several fences. And if he couldn't get them to help him out, he could hand the object directly to the Boss. Probably call it even and walk away. He'd have a terrible time explaining it to Pappy, might even lose the last family member on his side, but he'd be alive. Live Duncan trumped a dead Duncan any day.

On weak legs, Duncan stood and approached the door. He thought he felt waves of energy pulsing off the door, pounding into his chest, but then realized it was his own heart beating. He licked his lips. Took a deep breath. His hand hovered over the doorknob, his fingers tapping out a fast rhythm. Heat rose from the knob, warming the palm of his hand.

He glanced back to the clean room feeling smaller and smaller. Any remaining swagger left him. He turned away from the door and stepped toward the exit. He could leave now, forget he ever considered this, and find some other way to solve his problem.

Not one that could happen fast enough to save his life, though.

"Damn," he said, turning back to the strange door. This time, he didn't allow himself the luxury of thinking. He hurried to the door, grabbed the knob, and pulled it open.

He couldn't see anything inside. It was pitch black as if all the light from the living room stopped at the door frame and refused to go any further. He could hear something, though. A whisper of laughter? Not an eerie, creepy laughter, but a sound of joy.

One more deep breath, and Duncan stepped through the door.

1934

Starting on your left,

deal the cards into two alternating piles.

Pick up the left packet of cards, drop it on the right,

and 
then pick up the combined packet.

 

 

 

 

Duncan stood on the wooden porch
of a narrow house. A black metal railing followed the edge of the porch, stopping before a small yard. The chipped white paint on the house matched the chipped white paint on the picket fence marking the property. On either side of the house stretched more, similar homes. American flags hung from balconies. American red, white, and blue flag bunting decorated the fences. Dusk covered the land in a soft orange hue, but the day had been a hot one and the air felt thick with humidity. Duncan didn't dare move. He could barely breathe.