MAGIC (11 page)

“Twenty-six record breaking weeks,” he said modestly.

“Then how come I never heard of him?”

“You were so busy coming up with a sequel to
Beacon Hill
you probably missed a lot of things. Tampax got invented. The world rockets along, George.”

They walked into the club. It looked even shabbier than usual. Goldstone cased it a moment. “High tone establishment you booked him into, Postman.”

“I didn’t book him, he was here. Likes it. I’m breaking my balls trying to budge him.”

“I’m supposed to help with the budging, is that it?”

The Postman looked at the taller man seriously. “Nossir, you are not. You are in the talent business and I am not selling this kid to you or nobody. But when a blockbuster is about to explode, I don’t want you running around screaming why didn’t I give you a chance at him.”

They were escorted to a table in the most distant corner. “I see they know you, ringside and everything.”

“We can talk better here, we can see good enough.”

“Blockbuster you said.”

“Fucking skyrocket with luck. Never been a magician like him.”

“Shit,” George Goldstone said. “You dragged me down here for a
magician?”

“Don’t start, huh?”

“Magicians bomb on the tube—we can’t book ’em into kiddie shows on Saturday anymore.”

“Your father was an agent working for me, you little fart, don’t tell me what bombs.”

“That was before you got senile,” Goldstone said.

“This kid—”

“—Ben, you’re always trying to hustle magicians—you’re a magic nut, terrific, don’t inflict your neuroses on the rest of us.”

“What’s magic—don’t answer, that was rhetorical—magic is misdirection. And misdirection is getting them to look in the wrong place at the right time. Well
of course
magic’s had troubles with tv—you can’t misdirect a goddam camera—ginger ale,” he said to the waiter and looked at Goldstone.

“Scotch on the rocks. Pinch or Chivas.”

“We got Clan MacGregor.”

Goldstone looked at the Postman. “What am I
doing
here? With a lot of soda,” he said to the waiter.

The club was full now.

The drinks came.

Goldstone sipped his Clan MacGregor. “I’ll get you for this,” he said to the Postman.

Now, on the stage, the bearded MC. “Say hello to Corky Withers,” he said.

Goldstone watched as the magician in the gray cardigan and slacks walked onto the stage. There was considerable applause. Withers looked around nervously, nodded a few times. The applause quieted then, and he reached into his cardigan sweater.

“Ordinary cards,” he began. “See?” He took one pack, pulled the cards out, handed them to a stunning girl at a ringside table. The girl looked at the cards, gave them back.

“He’s not exactly loaded with stage presence,” Goldstone whispered.

“He warms up as he goes along,” the Postman answered. “And I think he knows you’re here.”

“I’d like you to pick one,” Withers said to the stunning girl and she did. “Would you look at it please?” She did that too. “Is it the six of clubs?” She nodded. “Thank you,” he said and took the card back.

Silence in the club. One or two people clapped once or twice.

Goldstone bent close to the Postman. “Dynamite opening,” he whispered sarcastically. “Does he actually get better? Hard to believe.”

The Postman just gave him a look.

“The rising aces,” Withers said.

The Postman leaned close to Goldstone. “This trick is really incredible.”

“Would you take out the aces please,” he said to another girl at a ringside table, not as pretty as the first one, but with a better body. She fumbled through the deck, finally got the aces together. “Now put them on top of the deck and cover them with another card” She followed his instructions, handed the deck back. Then Withers said, “I’m sorry, my mistake, you don’t cover the aces yet, that’s a different trick,” and he reached to take off the top card.

And someone shouted, “He’s gonna do a five lift,
watch him, watch him
—”

Goldstone looked in the corner, tried to spot the heckler. “Fuckin’ drunks,” he said.

Withers ignored the interruption, took off the top card, started to go on. “All right, what we have here are the four aces on the top of the deck and—”

“—bullshit,” came from the corner. “They’re in your left hand.”

Withers blinked. He was beginning to perspire lightly now. “Um … yes, the aces—”

“—show us your left hand—that’s right, show the hand not holding the deck, go on, go on—”

Withers glared into the corner. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I’d appreciate it if you let me do what I get paid for.”

“This isn’t a charity ward?”

A few people started laughing now.

Withers was more flustered. “I’m not capable of working like this—if you know so much and you want to take over, by all means feel free.”

The heckler said, “Don’t wanna break my neck getting up there, give me a hand.” Withers moved into the crowd.

And the crowd began applauding.

“What’s going on?” Goldstone said.

No reply from the Postman.

Goldstone looked over in the corner where Withers
and the heckler were. “You really think you know a lot, don’t you?” Withers said to the heckler as he moved back onto the stage.

Goldstone smiled. “Cute idea,” he said to the Postman. “The heckler being a dummy.”

“I’ll guaranfuckingtee ya I’m an expert,” the dummy said.

“What’s the dummy’s name?” Goldstone wondered.

“Fats is what Corky calls him,” the Postman said.

“Well you ruined the rising aces,” Corky said, standing there, holding Fats in one arm.

Fats leaned close and started whispering. “Do you see that beautiful girl, the one you did the trick with?”

“What about her?”

“I think she likes me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I wonder if she does—maybe she’d enjoy a little roll in the shavings with me.”

“I don’t think you’re funny,” Corky said.

“Well
they
do,” Fats said, pointing to the audience, who were laughing. “Women go for me in a big way—I can do everything except get a soft-on. I suppose if I really needed one, I could always borrow yours.”

“I don’t want to talk about my sex life,” Corky said.

“Tell us all about it, we’ve got half a minute to waste.”

The audience laughed louder. “Don’t encourage him,” Corky told them.

Goldstone watched as the audience began applauding. “Is that a punch line of his?”

The Postman nodded.

“I’d like to do something for you now,” Corky told the people. “Even I don’t know how or why it works, but for some strange reason, if I take a diamond and hold it long enough, it turns into a heart.” He turned to Fats, and held out a deck. “Choose any diamond.”

Fats clutched a diamond six.

“Show the people.”

Corky helped him raise his arm.

“Now if you’ll give it back I’ll just—”

“—give it back my ass. If you’re a real magician, change it while I’m holding it.”

“Moving on,” Corky said, “I would now like to—”

“—you mean you’re not gonna make it change?”

“Not with you holding it, obviously. You’re really impossible tonight, I’d like to change the subject until you simmer down.” Corky stopped, pointed out toward the Postman. “Ladies and gentlemen, a man who means a great deal to me is here this evening, say hello please to my agent, Mr. Ben Greene, the Postman. Stand up, would you Ben?”

The Postman stood and everybody looked and applauded.

“Keep standing—please—I’d like to say a few things about what you mean to me and Fats.”

“He’s a great agent,” Fats said. “Corky and I feel honored because mostly, the Postman handles the biggies: Dick Contino—he’s the fella told Mario Lanza to go on a diet—it’s thanks to the Postman that right now in Stratford Tab Hunter is playing Gertrude—that’s a coup, folks—and he’s not just interested in show biz, nossir, he knows his politics too—handles Wilbur Mills’ presidential campaign, don’t you?—and here’s the climax folks—and remember you heard it here first: tonight the Postman has concluded an exhausting session of negotiations climaxing in the following announcement: Miss Vicki has just been booked into the Superdome. Thanks, Ben, you can sit down now.’ ”

The Postman sat down and glanced across the table. “Sorry you came?”

Goldstone drank his Scotch. “Kid’s good,” he said.

“That was nothing—I got maybe the best magician in fifty years matched with the first X rated dummy on the block. Eat your heart out.”

“I’d like to do some estimations now,” Corky said.

“Hey wait—” Fats said. “I got this six of diamonds, you said you’d change it to a heart.”

“You ruined that too,” Corky said.

“Omigod,” Fats said then. “Look—” Corky helped him raise his arm. “It turned into a heart while I was holding it.” He looked at Corky, shook his head.

“How’d he
doooo
that?” Fats called loudly, and the audience applauded again.

“How
did
he do it?” Goldstone asked the Postman. That was before he ordered a double Clan MacGregor.

The Postman just sat back and smiled …

On the way to the dressing room between shows, the Postman said, “It’s a funny thing, but he bombed here bad on an amateur night.”

“Hard to believe.”

“Well he didn’t have the dummy then. He disappeared about a year, came back again with Fats, and they booked him regular. The rest, as they say, is gonna be history. I don’t think he’s hit twenty-eight yet.” He knocked. “Me,” the Postman said.

From inside Fats said, “Oh shit, it’s gangrene.”

Goldstone laughed. “Gangrene—that’s funny.”

They walked in. “Just wanted to make an introduction, Corky. This is George Goldstone.”

Corky got up. “How do you do, sir.” He held Fats in one arm.

“Nice act,” Goldstone said. “Lot of potential.”

“Wouldn’t it be nice if you were right,” Corky said.

“What about me?” Fats said.

“Behave, huh?” Corky said.

Goldstone smiled. “Lot of funny stuff, Fats.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wigstone.” Fats was staring at Goldstone’s hairpiece.

“That’s what
I
call funny,” the Postman said.

Fats leaned close to Corky. “Is this the same George Goldstone that’s so famous in the ty trade? The one known as ‘Limp Dick George’?”

“He doesn’t mean anything,” Corky said.

The Postman was roaring.

“You’ll strain your pacemaker,” Fats said. He turned
to Goldstone. “I don’t know why he’s laughing, he hasn’t had an erection since Coolidge was president.”

Goldstone began to go on that.

“I apologize,” Corky said. “He’s been impossible all day.”

“You’re a very talented young man.”

Corky smiled.

“Is it true you’ve never missed a show of Captain Kangaroo?” Fats asked Goldstone.

“On that,” Goldstone said, and he waved and started outside. “Can I ask one thing? How
did
you change the diamond to the heart?”

“I’m the misdirection,” Fats said. “While we’re bullshitting around, he could bring an elephant onstage.”

“Which is why,” the Postman said, “
this
magician wouldn’t be anything but sensational on the tube. The camera watches their faces, not Corky’s hands.” He looked at Goldstone. “Be with you in a sec’.”

Goldstone nodded, left.

The Postman shut the door.

“It went okay?” Corky asked.

“Calling Mr. Goldstone ‘Limp Dick George’ may not have advanced our cause, but on the whole I would say, if I play him smart and don’t get pushy, it was incanfuckingdescent.” He looked at Fats. “See? You’re catching.”

“What happens now?” Corky wondered.

“Nothing very dramatic. A lounge in Vegas for a little. I can get you on the Shore and the Walters and the Griffin. Eventually you’ll shift headquarters to New York, better media exposure there. You’ll come back out here, do a couple Carsons, and how’s that for openers, enough?”

Corky nodded.

“You’re a good kid, Corky.”

“The dummy is the talent,” Fats said.

The Postman left them then.

Silence.

Then whispering: “Corky?”

“Hmm?”

“Remember the night we first teamed up? When you did that dumb thing with the gas? Remember what I promised?”

Corky nodded. “No more failure.”

“Do you believe me now?”

Nod.

“Corky?”

“What?”

“You know what I think?”

“What do you think?”

“We’re gonna be a star …”

“How much farther do you think to Grossinger’s?” Corky asked.

“Dunno,” the cabdriver said. He was a kid, quick-eyed, always with a cigarette in the left corner of his mouth. He slurred when he spoke. “We’d a been there now if you hadn’t said ‘take the shortcut.’ ”

“Sorry,” Corky answered. “I thought I knew this area better than I do, I guess. Been over fifteen years since I’ve seen it.”

“Well get there,” the driver said.

Corky nodded. The sun was starting to drop rapidly now—in half an hour it would be dark. The quiet road curved downhill through the remains of a multicolored forest. The turning of the leaves was just about over. The Catskills were still pretty, but age was coming fast.

There were two suitcases on the seat beside him. Corky opened the fat bag and reached in for a deck of cards. He sat back then, did a one hand shuffle. It was extraordinarily difficult to execute under ideal conditions, but riding fast in a badly sprung car didn’t help. The first time he tried it he got through it, but not neatly. He tried it again: holding the deck in one hand, with that hand alone dividing the deck in half; then the hardest part, forcing the cards through each other, an ordinary riffling motion, simplicity with both hands, with one alone God knows how many hours of practice.

Corky shifted the cards, did the stunt again, with his
left hand this time. For no reason he could ever fathom, he always did this better with the left hand than the right. Corky watched his fingers dancing. What a dumb thing to be able to do—it was of no value in close-up work; there were no tricks that depended for completion on being able to shuffle a deck of cards quickly and efficiently with but one hand. Sometimes it held its weight as a kind of flourish, to show dexterity, but all in all, it was pointless. There were probably six around anywhere who could do it with either hand: the two Japs, the Frenchman, maybe two more here in the States. Corky wondered for a moment if they ever watched their hands and reflected on the waste involved. How many times had their fingers cramped trying to get the riffle right? Merlin was always after him to give it up, quit throwing away the days.