William Rabkin - Psych - Mind Over Magic

“The magic words?” Gus sputtered. “That’s it? That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Told you you were going to be mad.”

Gus realized he was. Relieved, yes, at no longer facing a hideous, drooling death. But also annoyed at the simplicity-in fact, the stupidity-of the clue.

“How did you figure it out?”

“You’ve just got to know how magicians work,” Shawn said.

“How do they work?”

“Mostly as waiters,” Shawn said. “It’s convenient for them because they can use the tux for both jobs. Shall we head on up to the Fortress?”

Shawn waved Bud’s present up the now brightly illuminated path to a grand craftsman manor that sat on top of the hill.

“But where are the dogs?”

“Same place they always were.” Shawn pointed to a spot a foot away from the path where a small speaker was staked between two lavender bushes. Gus could see several other speakers hidden in the landscaping.

“How did you know?”

“Magic.”

“Exactly what kind of magic?”

“The magic of the human ear,” Shawn said. “Do you realize how complex that organ is?”

Gus glared at him and waited for him to continue.

“The dog growls were on a tape loop,” Shawn said. “After the fourth dog joined in, there was a tiny blip where it was spliced together. And since it seemed unlikely that the canines were doing the editing job themselves, I figured out that there were no dogs anywhere around.”

Shawn headed up the path to the Fortress. Gus chugged behind him until they reached the front door, a mammoth slab of green painted oak with a sign across it reading REALITY ENDS HERE.

“I’ll say,” Shawn muttered as he pushed the door open.

Inside, the old craftsman had been skillfully transformed into something that looked like the haunted house at a middle school carnival. Plastic skeletons dangled from the ceiling, their formerly white limbs encased in gray dust, and the fake spiderwebs that had been sprayed in the corners had all been covered with real ones. A banner hand-painted in red tempera on butcher paper welcomed Bud’s bachelor party to the Fortress.

Gus looked around the room, dismayed. He had spent much of the afternoon reading up on the Fortress of Magic, and until the attack by imaginary dogs, he’d been looking forward to seeing it. Founded in the late twenties by a group of professional magicians, the Fortress was a place for “the peers of prestidigitation” to “practice their dark arts away from the prying eyes of the public.” In its heyday, every great stage magician stopped by whenever they passed through Santa Barbara, and many made the trip west specifically to visit. It was a place where they could talk about their craft and test their new illusions on the most demanding audience of all.

Over the years, the Fortress had gained a certain mystique, mostly because only members were allowed in, and only professional magicians could become members. Of course, that mystique had diminished as the small group of magicians who sat on the Fortress’ board started to rent the place out for parties to bring in a little money for operating expenses. Apparently there had been a fierce controversy over the idea of allowing nonpros in to see the magicians’ sanctum sanc torum, but when the board insisted that they needed money to stay in business, and the only two options were to open the place to outsiders or raise prices at the bar, the membership quickly fell in line.

Now the Fortress was an exclusive club open only to members-and to anyone who held an invitation for a fundraiser, a book club meeting, or a bachelor party. Still, the magicians who attended continued to act as if they were in their own private preserve, testing out their new illusions on each other while making sure their business cards ended up in the pockets of anyone who looked like they might be hiring.

From the descriptions Gus had read online, he’d expected the Fortress to be a grand, Gothic spectacle, a step inside a private world few would ever have the opportunity to experience. Instead, he saw a run-down mansion with wobbly furniture, threadbare carpets, and a smog of desperation hanging over the small crowd that populated it. He was momentarily surprised that none of the Web sites he’d checked out had described the place as anything but a palace of wonders. But he quickly realized that the illusion of exclusivity was stronger and more appealing than anything reality had to offer-what was the point of gaining admittance to this fabulously private place, only to describe it as a dump? If the writer’s privilege was to mean anything, the Fortress had to be portrayed as something, well, magical.

What it felt like more than anything else was the headquarters of an Elks lodge that hadn’t recruited a new member since Nixon resigned.

“This is some rocking party,” Shawn said. “My father doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

“So when are you going to tell me what he did that was so bad, they banned him for life?” Gus said.

“It was a little misunderstanding, that’s all,” Shawn said. “They thought they should be able to practice their craft in their own building. He disagreed.”

“Let’s just find this Bud Flanek guy and get out of here,” Gus said. “This place is depressing.”

“If there’s one thing that professional magicians and aging bachelor partyers have in common, it’s their choice of location,” Shawn said. “We’ll find him in the bar.”

A burst of laughter from down the hall strongly suggested where that bar might be found. But when they turned to head in its direction, Gus nearly tripped over an enormous lump on the floor. Looking down, he saw a crown of bald scalp laurelled with graying ringlets that resolved into a greasy ponytail. Fleshy hands scrabbled over the carpet, scraping together a mound of playing cards.

The lump looked up and Gus found himself peering into the cherubic face of a Quattrocento putto -or at least what such a cupid might have looked like if he’d spent his thirties and forties trapped inside a bottle of vodka.

“Knew I shouldn’t have tried the Brazilian shuffle in public yet,” the putto said sheepishly as he gathered the rest of the cards into a neat block and scooped them into one hand. He used the other to push himself up to his knees, and from there up to his feet. Once he was standing, he adjusted the cummerbund on his too-tight tuxedo to cover the stomach-revealing gap in his shirt. “Darn cards keep getting away from me. Speaking of which…”

The putto fanned the deck clumsily and thrust it under Gus’ nose. “Choose a card.”

Gus’ hand reached up reflexively, but Shawn pulled it back down.

“We’d prefer not to choose,” Shawn said. “We like them all equally.”

“No, really, this is good,” the putto insisted. “I’ve practiced it a lot.” His face blazed red as he screwed up his mouth in embarrassment. “I mean, it will astonish and amaze you. You like being astonished and amazed, don’t you?”

Gus had to admit he did. He reached out for a card, but again Shawn pulled his hand away. “You’re just encouraging him.”

“What’s the problem?” Gus said. “All he wants is to do a trick for us.”

“Sure, that’s how it starts,” Shawn said. “But then he’s going to follow you home, and you’re going to want to take care of him. You’ll promise to feed him and clean up after him and take him out for walks-”

“It’s a card trick,” Gus said. He reached for a card and waited until Shawn knocked his hand away. Then he reached out with his other hand and snatched a card out of the deck. “What do I do now?”

The putto looked confused. “I’m trying to remember. It’s been so long since anyone actually said yes.”