Stuart Kaminsky - Now You See It

Everyone rose. Shelly whispered to Pancho as they left. Gunther and Jeremy, as unlikely a pair as a man could imagine, left together.

When the door closed, I started to gather taco wrappers, bags, napkins, and coffee cups.

“If Cawelti gets wind of this, of me working with them …” Phil said, looking at the closed door and shaking his head.

“He’ll make some stupid jokes,” I said.

“If he does, I’ll punch a hole in his stomach,” said Phil, moving to his desk and sitting.

There were three small framed photographs on his desk facing his chair. One was of him, his dead wife Ruth, his two sons, and his baby daughter. The baby, Lucy, was in Ruth’s arms. They were all smiling. There was a wedding photograph of Phil and Ruth and one more photograph he never explained to me. That last photograph which had turned a brownish color, showed three men in muddy uniforms looking down at a square box in a muddy field. All three men held helmets in their hands. Phil had been in the First World War. He had come back making it clear that he was not going to talk about what he had seen and done.

“You check the waiters, the kitchen staff for weapons,” Phil said.

“Right.”

“I’ll be at the door to the dining room,” he said. “I’ll check the magicians for weapons.”

I knew Phil had no intention of actually patting down the magicians, not because he was afraid of coming up with a rabbit or white pigeons, but because he knew they wouldn’t stand for it. It didn’t matter because Phil could tell with about a two percent margin of error if someone was carrying a gun. I had seen him do it with people whom I could have sworn were clean. He could spot the smallest bulge, the slightest abnormal motion that would signal a concealed weapon. He could also detect the hint of guilty sweat or overconfident swagger. My brother was a master of suspicion. Everyone was definitely guilty until he decided they were innocent.

I moved my tongue to the tooth that had bitten down on the pebble. It felt like something was stuck between the teeth. I felt with my finger. Nothing was stuck. A piece of my upper right molar was missing, leaving a jagged remnant. It didn’t hurt. I knew I’d have to take care of it. I hadn’t been to a dentist in at least twenty years, but I’d find one when I had time. Shelly was not an option.

My plan was to go to the hospital and talk to Gwen Knight. Phil’s was to go home, spend the afternoon with his family, have dinner with them, and put on a tux.

We both had to wait. There was a knock at the door. Before we could answer Calvin Ott, a.k.a. Marcus Keller, stepped into the office and closed the door behind him.

Ott was wearing dark slacks, a blue blazer, a white shirt, and a red tie. He was also wearing a smile. In his right hand was a black pebble-leather satchel with a gold clasp.

“Good morning,” he said cheerfully, placing his satchel on the conference table.

“You look like Calvin Ott,” I said.

“Keller, Marcus Keller,” he corrected, still smiling.

“But you don’t sound like the Ott, excuse me, Keller we disagreed with last night,” I said.

“It’s a new day,” he said, snapping the gold clasp and opening the satchel. “And I’ve come to present you with an offer.”

“Get out,” Phil said.

Phil did not like games. Phil did not like banter. Phil most definitely did not like Calvin Ott.

Ott paused and looked at Phil.

“I have a civilized offer,” he said.

“You’re a weasel,” Phil answered, taking a step toward him.

I sat back down in the chair at the table where I had sat a few minutes earlier.

“Not very colorful,” Ott said with a smile. “Not very creative. Weasel, weasel. How about marmoset? Or reptile. No, you should be more specific. Cobra?”

“To increase the possibility of your survival,” I said as Phil took another step toward Ott, “I think you should close your bag, pick it up, go out the door, and call for an appointment.”

“You don’t want to hear my offer?” he said with less of a smile now that Phil was about four feet away from him and definitely not smiling.

“Not particularly,” I said.

Actually, I did want to hear what he had to say. He was our prime suspect in a murder and an attempted murder. He was the one who had threatened our client and was planning a surprise party for Blackstone. He was the one with the big fat ego that might make him say something that would help us and hurt him.

Phil was now almost in Ott’s face.

“Look,” Ott said with something that was supposed to be a let-bygones-be-bygones little laugh. “I’m not a bad person. I’ve got a mother, a sister. I give to charity. I follow the war news. I read Captain Easy in the comics.”

Phil said, “Out.”

Phil’s right hand was now around Ott’s tie.

“When you tickle me,” said Ott, “do I not laugh?”

“How the hell should I know?” said Phil.

“Well then, when I tickle you, do you not laugh?” asked Ott, trying to decide whether it would be a good idea to reach up and try to remove my brother’s hand from the red tie.

“He doesn’t laugh when you tickle him,” I said. “Never did.”

This was definitely not going the way the great Marcus Keller had planned. Good entrance. Nice bit with the satchel. Good line about an offer. But he had the wrong audience.

“When you torture him, does he not cry?” Ott said, looking into Phil’s eyes.

“I doubt it,” I said. “Now take me. You torture me and I make a funny sound. Something like uhh-uhh. Drawing in my breath. Not loud. Do you cry when you’re tortured?”

“Ten thousand dollars,” Ott said, looking at the satchel.

I reached over for the satchel and looked inside. It was filled with green bills in neatly wrapped bundles.

“Phil,” I said. “Let’s listen.”

“It’s some full-of-shit trick,” said Phil, eyes fixed on Ott who must by now be thinking that he had made a very big mistake.

“Sure,” I said. “But the money’s real.”

“He’s trying to pay us off,” Phil said.

“No,” said Ott, his voice a little reedy like a clarinet played wrong. “May I speak?”

Phil removed his hand from Ott’s tie. Ott adjusted the tie and said, “If you prevent me from doing what I have planned for the dinner tonight,” he said. “I’ll give you ten thousand dollars. This ten thousand dollars.”

“If we stop you from killing Blackstone?” I said.

“I didn’t say anything about killing Blackstone,” said Ott.

“You threatened him,” Phil said.

“No, I …”

“Why?” I asked.

“Why?” Ott repeated.

“Why do you want to give us all that money to stop you?” I said.

“I don’t,” said Ott. “I’m offering it. I’m confident you won’t collect it. I intend to let every magician who will be at the dinner, newspaper, every radio station know that I’ve made this challenge. But my goal isn’t to pay you ten thousand dollars. My goal is to make that strutting, pompous Blackstone look like a fool. This offer will give the moment of his humiliation publicity and poignancy. He won’t be able to live it down.”