MAGIC (3 page)

“I like that,” Fern said.

Corky kissed her breasts.

“That too,” from Fern, softer this time.

The pace picked up then. She was relaxing easily and he felt in control. Besides, there was something occasionally pleasant about being with an overweight woman—especially when they were still young enough to have flesh tone. No matter where Corky placed his skilled hands, there was nothing to jar him, nothing sharp to injure. It was a round world he was visiting, and getting there was probably a quarter of the fun. Their bodies were in synch now, and when she was moist he was ready, so he moved in, being careful to keep his weight off her as he rolled on top, because she was, if the signals she was sending were to be believed, enjoying herself thoroughly and he had no wish to add any discomfort; balanced on his elbows and knees, Corky moved in happy silence, a silence that went on for he hadn’t really any exact idea, but it ended when Fern said “
The Carson show
!” quite loudly.

“Yes?”

“No wonder you looked familiar—my God, I saw you on
The Johnny Carson Show
, you were a guest after Don Rickles, that’s right, isn’t it?”

Corky stopped what he was doing. “Right.”

“I’m fucking somebody famous, that’s just so wonderful.”

“I’m not famous.”

“Oh but you will be, I know it—you were sensational, better than Rickles—I swear to God I’m not just saying that because you’re here.”

Corky said nothing. Could-not-say-anything.

“Just wait till I tell them at Brearley—I teach at Brearley, that’s a school …” Her voice lost the excitement. “No one would believe me. ‘Famous Man Fucks
Fat Girl.’ I wouldn’t believe it either.” She was quiet a moment. “To hell with ’em, I won’t tell anyone.” She moved out, groped around for the bed lamp, turned it on. “But I’ll know, won’t I?”

Corky made a nod.

She reached up, touched his face. “You know what, Mr. Withers? You are my memory now …”

Corky waited till she turned the light off. Then he put his lips to her throat. Her throat was lovely …

Fats was sprawled in an armchair, the latest
Variety
nearby. Corky came out of the bedroom. He had been lying down in his slacks and button-down, and now the pants were wrinkled, the shirt torn. Nobody said anything for a moment. Corky walked slowly to the window and opened the blinds. The October sun wasn’t all that strong, but even so, it made him cry out with sudden pain. Quickly he closed the blinds again, yanked them tight shut.

“Schmucko,” Fats said then. “You and me have got to have a powwow.”

“No we don’t,” Corky told him. He glanced at his watch. “Christ, how long was I in there?”

“I don’t know; two hours, more maybe, what difference does it make??”

“Curious is all.”

“What you mean is, are they getting worse?”

“You blame me for wondering?”

“You’re the only one that can answer that.” Long pause. “Are they?”

Another. Longer. Then: “I think.”

“That’s two migraines right?—the
first
migraines of your life, let’s not forget, and you stand there and say we don’t have to talk?”

“Nothing to talk about. I’m fine now.”

“Sure you are: your hands are twitching, your eyes are all sunk in, your face is the color of cream-of-fucking-wheat—we all look like that when we’re fine.”

Corky turned away. “Go easy on the sarcasm, huh?”

“Aw Christ, Laddie, I’m
worried
, that’s all.”

“I know.”

“Butt me?”

Corky got out cigarettes for each of them, lit them both.

“Anything happen last night?” Fats asked.

“You mean anything so unusual it would cause a goddam migraine? Don’t you think that’s reaching?”

“
Spiel
.”

“I picked up a girl, bought her a couple drinks, went home with her.”

“And?”

“You want me to get graphic? You want a rundown on the texture of her thighs?”

“Let me be the smart ass, okay? Now you’re with this girl and it went fine?”

“It did for me. I think she was kind of sorry to see me go. She even asked would I sign her Latin textbook.”

“
Textbook
—was this a school kid you were boffing?”

“No, no, a teacher, at Brearley; very fancy place.”

“Sounds it—at least one of their teachers is a hooker with a signature fetish—that’s just the kind of fine outstanding individual I want getting my kids ready to face life.’ ”

“It’s perfectly logical—she caught the
Carson
show and liked it and anyway, you don’t have any kids.”

“If I did, I wouldn’t send them to this Brearley—my God, I wonder what the gym teacher’s into?”

Corky started laughing.

“It wasn’t that funny,” Fats said.

“I thought it was.”

“No. I’m onto something and you’re trying to throw me off the track—did she know who you were right off?”

Corky hesitated.

“Before or after—when did she recognize you?”

“During.”

“Oh, Laddie. That’s got to be it.”

“You telling me that’s significant, Doctor?”

“You telling me it isn’t …? What happened after she recognized you?”

“She just turned on the lights and looked at me.”

“And after that?”

“When it was dark again you mean? I guess I kissed her throat.”

“And then?”

Corky shook his head. “That would be telling …”

The Postman was kind of a legend. For many reasons, most notably two. (1) He was the only agent
now
operating who had been given his nickname by Jolson. This was back in the 20’s, a summer Sunday and the singer needed a large amount of cash; hard to find now, harder then. But Ben Greene—the Postman’s given appellation—had scrounged up the proper amount, handed it to the pleased performer at a large luncheon party. Jolson had put his arm around the then kid, and said out loud, “This one is gonna be heard from—he’s like the Postman, he always comes through.” For the ensuing half century, the Postman he had been.

(2) He was the only agent
ever
operating who had moved through all the branches of show business with never a remotely bad year carrying all that while the single stigmata that had ruined so many careers: he wasn’t Jewish. “How is such a thing possible?” he would thunder. “How such a miracle? Was it because I was more brilliant? Yes, but that wasn’t all. Because I was more industrious? Yes, but others labored and fell by the wayside. The secret was simply this:”—and here he would pause, drop his voice to as close as it would come to a whisper—“I triumphed because, with a name like Ben Greene, how could I possibly be gentile?” Then he would wait for his laugh, timing it perfectly, always.

Probably he should have been an actor—he was, in fact, a compulsive and not unskilled amateur magician
—and he cultivated his theatricality whenever possible. “You are looking at a fella who is criminally flamboyant,” he liked to say. “Christ, I
invented
conspicuous consumption.” It might have been true—he was terribly rich. “For many reasons,” he liked to say; “most notably three: I had big earning years when there weren’t a lot of taxes, but that’s not as important as investing sensibly, which I also did, but that’s not as important as marrying an heiress, which I also did.” And then a pause. “God bless and rest her soul.”

He became, on his wife’s death, the chief stockholder in one of the three largest hairbrush companies in the world, which only proved, he liked to say, that God had a sense of humor, since the Postman had been bald before even Jolson came into his life. Frail and small, bald and weak-eyed, with the energy of the truly driven. “If they could harness me, Con Ed could light the world.”

He was long past retirement age, but the Morris people let him keep his office and work when he wanted. “They’re kind to me,” he liked to say. “For many reasons, most notably one; if they’re not, they know goddam well I’ll buy the company and fire the fuckers.”

He adored money. He knew, to the half dollar, how he had done that day on the market. Whenever possible he liked getting hourly reports and was constantly computing on tablecloths, coming out with statements like “I lost eleven thousand dollars during coffee.” Gain or loss, it never bothered him.

Because the purpose of money was to spend. “I am unabashedly
oldveau riche
,” he liked to say; “nobody my age is allowed to be
nouveau
anything.” Only the best would satisfy, and if he couldn’t get the best, he got the most expensive. Which was why he drove a white Corniche convertible, and smoked only Monte Cruz Individuales, and drank only Lafite until he found that Petrus was selling for higher, so he switched brand allegiance overnight. And why, since it had made its
comeback, he lunched, daily, at least this year, at the corner table farthest from the door of The Four Seasons …

Corky hated fancy places. Overstatement. He had not been to enough of them to develop anything approximating hatred. But he disliked them plenty. It was mainly a matter of belonging—all the other people in whatever rich room he found himself—their credentials were in order, they understood the dimensions, got the decorum right. Corky simply felt false—he had no business being there, soon he’d be found out, then thrown out, humiliated publicly, never the happiest way.

When the Postman had invited him to lunch. Corky tried to make it an office meeting but the old man wouldn’t hear of it, simply said, “The Seasons, tomorrow, one, g’bye,” and rang off.

Now, Corky stalked the sidewalk across from the restaurant. He had waited until he had seen the Postman go in—if he had arrived first, they never would have seated him, they would have spotted right off he didn’t belong in a nice place like that, they would have blown him right back to the street with their laughter.

But if the Postman was already there, he would be all right, could just walk right up to the reservations man and say, “Mr. Ben Greene is expecting me, I’m positive he is,” and they would nod and ask for him to follow and then once he got to the Postman’s table, no one would ever dare to throw him out, he was safe.

He opened the door to the restaurant, walked past the coat checking room, up the stairs to the reservations desk. Halfway up the stairs more accurately.

That was when the reservations man glanced at Corky’s throat—where he didn’t have a necktie.

Corky froze.

The reservations man went back to his lists.

Why do you do this to yourself?
You should have worn a tie or called and asked if one was necessary.
Either way. But you do not go to a place like this place improperly attired.

Unless you
want
to get thrown out.

Corky began to fidget. The reservations man looked up again, again at the bare throat.

I don’t want to get throw out. I don’t court failure. True.

“Were you looking for someone, sir?” the reservations man said from behind his small desk.

Corky nodded.

The reservations man gestured for him to come nearer.

Corky did.

“Who did you wish to see?”

I’m sorry about the necktie, Corky was about to say. It was just a mistake, I didn’t mean anything, Corky almost said. Instead he said, “Ben Greene,” and the reservations man said, “Of course, follow me,” and smiled—
smiled
—

See? You’re as good as any of ’em.

He walked across the room, passing all the wealthy people who belonged there.

As any of ’em!

The Postman was waiting in the corner. “Have I got news for you. Sit. Want a drink?”

“I figured you did when you called. No, nothing.”

“Have a cigar,” the Postman said, handing over an Individuale. “Four bucks each. I got a special deal, Dunhill’s loves me, I get ’em ten for forty.”

Corky put it into his inside blazer pocket. “For later. Thank you. What’s the good news?”

“I’m building the suspense, don’t interrupt.” He handed over another Individuale. “Take two, they’re big.”

Corky nodded, slid the second cigar beside the first.

“How’s your manager?” the Postman asked, with his usual sour smile; Fats always referred to him, both in public and anywhere else, as “Gangrene,” which the Postman felt a bit undignified for one of his years.

“Fats is imfuckingpossible as always,” Corky said, imitating Fats flawlessly.

“What’s that speck on your blazer?” the Postman asked, reaching across the table and Corky tried not to smile because there wasn’t much he could do about it, it was magic time.

The Postman’s hand burst into flame.

Corky did his best to look surprised.

“Pretty good, wouldn’t you say?” the Postman said. “Brand-new flash paper—improved—Tannen’s just got in a shipment.” Tannen’s was the best magic store probably anywhere, with a catalog hundreds of pages long. The Postman owned at least one of almost every trick they sold and spent as many hours per week as he could talking with the magicians who used the place as a clubhouse when they were in town.

“You really fooled me,” Corky said.

“You shouldda worn a necktie,” the Postman said, going into his right-hand suit pocket. “Here.” And he pulled out a blue silk scarf. “This’ll go nice with your blazer,” and he handed it out to Corky, but by the time Corky had gotten it, the Postman had run it through his hands and the scarf was now green. The Postman winked at Corky. “Pretty good, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yessir.” Then: “Do you think we could get to the good news now?”

“Show is over.” The Postman nodded, and he reached into his inside pocket. “No more magic, you got my word. Here’s the terms I’ve worked out—” He stopped suddenly, looking at his hand. “Why, what’s this I found? Look, Corky, it’s a sponge ball, I wonder how it got there? Looks like an ordinary sponge ball to me, what do you think?” He held it out for Corky to examine.

“Very ordinary,” Corky said.

“Let’s just see,” the Postman went on, a certain practiced note coming into his voice now. “I have a strange feeling this just might be one of those rare sponge balls recently discovered off the coast of Tibet
—surely you’ve read about the mysterious disappearing Tibetan miracle balls.”