The Amazing Harvey (4 page)

“You got a schedule of the magicians who were here in February?”

“Maybe. What's eating you?”

I started chewing on a cuticle and looked down at the carpet. “Nothing. You got that schedule?”

She shook her head, as if to say, If you don't want to talk about it, then it's not my problem. Tillie opened a drawer, rummaged around, then opened another drawer. She shut the drawers, grabbed a file box under the reception desk, and flipped through the folders. “Aha.” She took out a schedule and handed it over. “One last chance to tell me what's bugging you.”

“Nothing. I'm hunky-dory.”

“And I'm Marilyn Monroe.”

I stuffed the flyer in my pocket and opened the other wall's bookshelf, which is really an exit but we regulars use it when there aren't newbies in the lobby. I walked through the noisy bar area into the men's room. Mounted on the wall was a large metal box labeled
THE GREAT AMERICAN ALIBI MACHINE.
For fifty cents, you can play the sounds of a busy office, an auto-repair shop, or an airport, while you call someone to say you're stuck. I wondered if I'd need an industrial version of that machine.

While I stood at the urinal, a devil's face appeared behind a two-way mirror on the wall above it. He said, “Wow. I'll bet
you
never hurt the one you love.”

Usually, that made me smile.

I washed my hands, splashed cold water on my face, then went back to the bar area, which was formerly the living room of the mansion. The large room was paneled in dark wood, with tufted red velvet furniture, a grandfather clock with a serpentine pendulum, and an oil painting with mechanical eyes that looked back and forth. A dark wooden staircase led to the second floor, flanked by newel posts that were carved to look like wooden lions standing on their hind legs.

I spotted my pal David Hu sitting at the long bar. He was a skinny Asian-American with a whispy mustache, and we'd known each other since junior high. By day, David was a white-shirt investment banker. By night, he was David the Dragon, a thoroughly mediocre magician.

I walked over to him and stood there. He didn't notice me because he was hunched over his usual whiskey. I clapped him on the shoulder. David looked up and grinned, flashing the clear plastic braces he'd recently strapped to his teeth. “Hey, Harvey.” Judging by his breath, this wasn't the night's first whiskey.

I sat on the adjacent stool, right next to the gag stool that slowly sinks if you give the bartender a nod. David said, “You're not gonna believe the guy who walked into my office today.”

I raised my eyebrows in a “Go on” expression.

“He's the son of a billionaire client, so we had to take him seriously. Anyway, this guy gets four of us in the boardroom and makes us sign a three-page confidentiality agreement before he springs his brilliant idea.”

“Yeah?”

David leaned toward me. I leaned in.
Definitely
not his first whiskey of the night.

David said, “So I'm gonna breach that confidentiality agreement and tell you what he wants to do. Can you keep this to yourself?”

I held up my hand in a solemn oath. “Your secret is safe with a magician.”

David whispered, “He wants to manufacture cat food.”

“That's it?”

“He's got an angle.”

“Which is?”

“A flavor that's never been done before. It's so obvious when you think of it, but no one's done it.”

“What?”

He leaned in closer. “Rat flavor.”

David started guffawing.

I said, “You're joking, right?”

“Yes, I'm joking. One of the guys circulated a memo like it was real. Got us all going.”

Shaking my head, I said, “Must be a riot around your shop.”

David took a pack of cards from his jacket, opened the box, and pulled out the deck. He took the ten of clubs off the top and said, “What do you think of this?”

David stuck the ten halfway into the deck, covered the deck with his other hand as he pushed the card all the way in, then moved the deck a few inches to the side. He flipped over the top card, which was the ten of clubs.

I said, “Do it again.”

He repeated the move.

“Good. But I can see your hand jerk when you do the pass. You might want to video yourself.”

He nodded, took a sip of his whiskey, and repeated the move. Then again. David looked at me. “Is that better?”

“Yeah.” Not really.

He kept making the same move while he talked about Harry Dexter, a twenty-two-year-old magician who said he could re-create Dai Vernon's single-hand ball vanish. Not very likely.

I took the Castle's February schedule out of my pocket, smoothed it on the bar, and cleared my throat. “Say, David.”

“Hmmm.” He didn't look up from practicing his move.

I pointed to February twenty-second on the schedule. “Remember we saw Andy Valentine here on February twenty-second?”

Still making his move, he glanced at the schedule. “Kinda. Why?”

“I need you to remember.”

“Huh?”

“I need you to remember.”

He kept practicing.

I touched his arm and said, “It's important.”

David put down the cards. “What's the big deal?”

Jordan, the bartender, came up. He set down my usual fizzy water and lime. Jordan said, “Harvey, you know where I can buy a used fifty-cent shell?”

“I think Mark's got one, but it's the old Franklin fifty-cent piece.”

He shook his head. “Thanks anyway.”

The bartender walked off. David had gone back to the cards.

I said, “So, David, you do remember about the twenty-second, right?”

He kept making the move with his cards. “You going to tell me what this is about, or do we play twenty questions?”

I stuck a plastic straw in the water and sucked down half the glass. Does the lime always make it so acidic? “Well, I got asked some questions by the cops.”

“Cool, dude.” He grinned, flipped over the ten of clubs on top.

“No. Really.”

He made the move again. “Why would cops question you?”

I sucked down more bubbly water. “Something about a murder.”

David laughed. “Yeah. And I got questioned about an assault with a Pyrex dildo.” He stuck the ten of clubs in the middle of the deck.

“I'm serious.”

David stopped, holding the deck in midair. “For real?”

I nodded. “It's just some evidence mix-up. I'm sure it'll get straightened out.”

“Yeah, probably.” He started to work the deck again.

“You think I, uh, need a lawyer?”

He set down the deck. “Are you a suspect, or just a witness?”

“Well, I guess you might say I'm a little bit of a suspect.”

David looked at me. “You're a murder suspect and you're asking if you need a lawyer?”

“It's just a mistake.”

“I think I heard a guy say that in a death-row interview.”

I drank more of the fizzy water and could feel the bubbles in my chest. “Won't it be enough if you tell them I was with you on the twenty-second? You'll do that, right?”

“Sure, fine. But get a lawyer.”

I sighed. “Maybe I'll get a public defender.”

He turned toward me on the stool. “Can you afford to hire a private lawyer?”

“Well … not really. I mean, my mom offered to help, so maybe.”

“Trust me on this one. Get the best lawyer you can.”

“But it's just a mistake.”

He put the tip of his index finger against his lips and narrowed his eyes, mocking deep thought. “Let's see. Spend a few grand on legal fees? Or become Charlie Manson's bitch up at Corcoran?”

I sucked on the straw. The glass emptied with a slurping sound. “You know anybody who wouldn't be too expensive?”

“Everyone I know is expensive. But they're the wrong guys anyway, unless you're planning the hostile takeover of a public company.” David put the cards back in the box and stuffed the pack in his jacket. “I'll make some calls tomorrow.” He turned back to the bar and motioned for another glass of whiskey.

I said, “So you remember I was here on the twenty-second, right?”

“How many ways do you want me to say yes?”

The bartender swooped up David's glass.

He swiveled on the stool to face me. “What about Hannah Fisher?”

“Who?”

“Hannah. From high school?”

“I'm not sure.…”

“She was number one in our class. She weighed three hundred pounds.”

Of course!
Fat Hannah. She had frizzy blond hair that made her look like Bozo the Clown on cortisone. Worse yet, she was always making eyes at me. That put a whole new spin on the concept of having a “crush.”

David said, “Hannah went to Harvard Law School. I think she's a criminal lawyer now. Maybe she'd give you a friend's discount.”

Fat Hannah?

*   *   *

Late that night, when I walked into my apartment, my bird, Lisa, was walking along the back of the couch like a cat. When she saw me, her eyes went red with excitement. She fluttered toward me, flapping her clipped wings as she fell onto the couch cushions. I went over, let her step on my finger, then put her on my shoulder while I dumped some birdseed in her trough. When I put her in the cage, she dug into the dish, splattering seeds through the bars.

How can these cops come crashing into my life like this? They make a mistake and a little guy like me has to pay a fortune to straighten it out? Shit.

I yawned, even though I was pretty wired up. No chance of sleep anytime soon.

I picked up my pile of mail and flipped through. A couple more red “Overdue” bills. What kind of sadist prints cutesy little “Did You Forget?” notes with the drawing of a finger tied with a bowknot? I opened a desk drawer, stuffed the bills inside, and slammed it shut.

I closed my eyes and pushed on my temples with the tips of my index fingers. How am I going to pay a lawyer? Even a cheap one? I've been falling behind my goal of two magic gigs a month. For a while, I was getting three or four. Okay, so they weren't the most glamorous gigs. I mean, I even worked a plumbing convention where I made a toilet-tank ball float in the air. Still, the money was decent, and it kept away the string-around-the-finger notes. Now I can't even get those shitty gigs, and I have to deal with tens of thousands in legal fees?

I sat down at my desk, shoved the switch on the computer, and listened to it whir to life. When the programs loaded, I Googled Sherry Allen and Van Nuys, where the cop said she lived.

Could I have ever met her? The picture Morton showed me didn't look familiar. Wouldn't I remember her?

The Google search came up with gibberish.

I shut down the computer and leaned back in my chair, cracking my spine. I know I've never met this Sherry Allen. I'm positive.

I got up and went over to Lisa's cage. She was scratching the side of her head with one claw, like a dog scratching its ear. I threw the flowered cloth over her cage, blew out a breath, and headed for bed.

Maybe I should track down Fat Hannah.

Guess it can't hurt.

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

 

Next morning, I found Hannah Fisher, attorney, on the Internet. I called her office, got voice mail, but didn't leave a message. Why ruin the surprise?

I jumped in my Toyota and drove toward her office address on Magnolia, just off Lankershim in North Hollywood. As I went down Lankershim, banners hanging from the lampposts told me I was in the NoHo Arts District. The graffitied stucco buildings, cracked parking lots, and open trash bins looked a lot more on the No than the Ho side. Well, actually, the neighborhood seemed to have its share of Ho.

I turned onto Magnolia and saw Hannah's office, a two-story Spanish building with fake log-ends sticking out of the front wall, just below the red-tiled roofline. Guess that's supposed to give it an Early California Settler vibe. I parked in the asphalt lot next to the building and went inside. The hallway smelled like some guy had eaten a plateful of asparagus before relieving himself in a corner.

I found Hannah's name on the directory and walked toward her office. On the way, I passed doors marked
Madame Louisa, Psychic Advisor,
and
Richard Gomez, Tailor to the Stars.
The last door said
H. Fisher, Attorney at Law.
I stopped in front.

Are you supposed to knock on offices?

I don't think so.…

I knocked lightly as I opened the door and stepped inside. A trim woman in a black business suit was pacing on the worn carpet while she spoke on the phone. Her shoulder-length black hair swished as she strode back and forth. Two phone lines blinked, like they were waving their arms for attention. Although her electric green eyes darted around the room, she didn't seem to notice me.

The woman spoke into the phone, “This is a good kid, Glen. The judge is going to give him community service anyway.” She kept pacing, stopping short when she got to the end of the phone cord. Behind her, I noticed a desk covered with stacks of paper, a computer monitor, and an open briefcase. There were more stacks of paper on chair seats, on top of a wooden filing cabinet, and on the floor along an entire wall.

The woman said, “Thanks, I owe you.” She hung up, started to punch another line, then looked up, as if I'd just come in. When she faced me, I saw that her nose came to a sharp point, as if it had been pinched.

She said, “Yes?”

“I'm looking for Hannah.”

“And you are?”

“Harvey Kendall. I knew her in high school.”

She squinted at me. “Harvey?”

I blinked. “Hannah?”

She smiled.

Did her eyes always have a sexy twinkle? I wondered.

I said, “Sorry. I didn't recognize you. You look…”