William Rabkin - Psych - Mind Over Magic

Augie scooped the cards up in his left hand and with a graceful wave arced them through the air so they landed facedown in his right palm. He twitched the muscles of his right hand, and the cards flew up again, this time landing in his left, the faces alternating up and down. One more twitch and the deck disappeared from sight. He reached into his jacket pocket-Augie always dressed for business before practice-and pulled out the cards, which were now arranged by suit.

He was about to fan them across the toilet tank again, when he heard a hissing noise. That was nothing new for the bungalow his father had left him; Augie spent almost as much time jiggling the toilet handle to stop it from running as he did working with the cards. His hand was halfway to the lever when he realized that the sound was both higher and louder than any running water he’d ever heard.

And it was coming from outside the bathroom door.

Maybe a pipe broke and there’s water spewing all over the kitchen , Augie thought. But before he could visualize the location of the main valve, he heard something else outside the bathroom.

A footstep.

No, more than a footstep. It was a deep, hard thud pounding against his floorboards.

There was another thump and Augie realized what it was: the sound of a heavy boot stomping across his living room.

A huge, heavy, black boot.

There was another stomp, this one much closer to the bathroom door.

Augie’s hands shook with fear, and the cards scattered over the floor. The green giant was here. It was coming for him.

Get hold of yourself, he commanded his body. He’s not a real Martian. He’s not a real giant. He’s probably not even a real magician. If only he could make his hands stop shaking, he knew he could figure out what he should do.

But for the first time in sixty-eight thousand, four hundred thirty-two hours, Augie Balustrade had no control over his hands. Or his feet, which seemed to have sunk two inches into the tile floor so that lifting them was impossible.

At least his neck still worked, and he swiveled his head around to look for a way to escape. There was a window, but it had been nailed shut years ago when Augie’s father thought he was using it to slip out of the house during his mammoth bathroom sessions. He could break the glass and slither out, but it was so small that only his ten-year-old self could have made it through.

Flight was impossible. The only alternative was to fight. But Augie’s hands had never been formed into fists. In junior high, he was beat up every day for a month by a bully named Stacy Starkweather, who kept telling him that all he had to do to stop the punishment was fight back. Augie never did, not once, and finally Starkweather-who was related to the serial killer of the same name only in temperament-finally gave up on him. Although Augie liked to tell himself that his tormentor finally came to respect his principled stand, he knew deep down that he really only got bored.

But Augie also knew the only principle behind his stand was the love of his craft. He would sacrifice nose, eyes, stomach, legs, and whichever other part of him the bully chose to pick on, before he’d risk damaging one of his hands on the kid’s thick skin.

He needed a weapon. A razor would do. At least, an old-fashioned straight razor would. But Augie shaved with a rechargeable electric, and unless the intruder was insanely ticklish, it wouldn’t help him at all. Augie yanked open drawers, tearing through their contents, hurling Q-tips and cotton swabs and Band-Aids and tube after tube of hand cream on the ground. If only he had a proper nail file, the kind with the sharpened point, but Augie’s superstitions about damaging his fingers kept him away from those dangerous tools. Instead, he tossed box after box of disposable, blunt-ended emery boards into the bathtub. Somehow he didn’t think the threat of mild abrasion would do much to keep the Martian monster away from him.

Augie saw a glint of steel at the back of a drawer. He thrust his hand in and came out with the prize: a set of nail clippers. They weren’t Augie’s-he’d never trust his fingers to anything so imprecise. They must have belonged to his father and been hidden in this drawer for years.

Hands trembling, Augie peeled the slim layer of metal away from the body of the clippers. It swiveled out smoothly, the semisharp point of the file adding a good three inches to the length of his weapon.

It wasn’t much, Augie knew. At best, he’d have one chance. He needed to aim precisely at the most vulnerable spot on the giant’s body, and he needed to hit it hard and thrust the blade deep. That might buy him enough time to get through to the kitchen and out the back door.

Augie realized the stomping sounds had stopped. There was silence from the rest of the house. Was it possible that the monster had gone? That he had searched the place, yet somehow missed the bathroom where Augie was hiding? Walked past the locked door, thinking it was solid wall?

It didn’t seem possible. That would be like winning the lottery on the same day you hit the superfecta. And Augie had never been a great believer in luck, especially his own. But the sounds had stopped. No stomping, no hissing.

Augie crept quietly to the bathroom door-and waited. He waited for what seemed like hours, like days. He waited until the sun burned out and the moon fell into the sea and the universe died of heat loss. And then, slowly and carefully, he placed his right hand on the doorknob and turned.

Still nothing from the rest of the house.

He turned the knob the rest of the way, catching his breath as the dead latch eased silently out of the strike plate. Keeping the knob twisted all the way to the left to prevent any stray sounds, he gently pulled the door toward himself until there was a tiny crack spilling light from the hallway.

Augie stayed frozen, waiting to see if anyone had noticed the movement. Again, all was still. This might actually be the day for him to buy lottery tickets at the racetrack. He took a deep breath and yanked the door the rest of the way open, clutching the nail clippers tightly in his free hand.

At first, Augie saw only the corridor and a wink of sunlight coming from the kitchen window at its end.

And then he saw the sharpened teeth-and heard the monster’s terrible roar as it lunged at him.

Augie closed his eyes and struck out with the nail clippers, knowing that this time, his hands wouldn’t be enough to save him.

The neighborhood was one of those quaint parts of the city dating from an ancient time when citizens of Santa Barbara still believed that the population who spent their lives serving their superiors, cleaning their houses, fixing their cars, or serving their dinners, should be allowed to live within a gas tank’s drive from them. The houses were designed and built for people who would use them to live in, possibly raise children in, not simply as markers to prove how much more money they had than their neighbors.

That meant there were no Moorish castles on this block, no Spanish palaces, or quasi-Mediterranean su pervillas. Instead, there were simple, one-story cottages and ranch houses, few with more than three bedrooms and a good number with only one bath. The small front yards were mostly patches of brown lawn, and there weren’t many houses not in need of a fresh coat of paint. A few blocks in either direction, the houses started to get bigger and newer as the older places were being replaced by lot-spanning micromansions, but this area was essentially untouched. Had the real estate boom gone on for another year, this street might have been demolished to make room for a fleet of grander dwellings, but the discovery that the area had been the dumping ground for a local chemical company’s effluent before being developed for housing tended to make the land here less attractive to spec builders. Small wonder that you could still buy a house on this street for as little as eight hundred thousand dollars.