Carter Beats the Devil (59 page)

Carter clapped his hands. “Thank you. I’m coming down. Men, please rehearse the scenery changes in act one, and I’ll be there shortly.” Carter took James by the shoulder. “Join me, I need to address the company about a detail.”

“Oh?” James ran through a list he had long ago filled with checkmarks: costumes, orchestration, the lion, the elephant, all the motorcycle licensing, briefing the ushers. “I thought we had everything in hand except for final rehearsals.”

“Yes and no.” He showed James the way to the main stairs and took them himself two at a time. “There’s one last thing.”

“The permit for the water tank? We got it last night.”

Carter was now a dozen steps ahead of his brother, and he swung around the next set of stairs, disappearing. James slowed to an irritated
stop. Carter popped his head back into view. “The posters. They show me with a television box in my hand?”

“Yes . . .”

“We have neither the plans nor the equipment to produce that particular illusion,” he said, as if discussing how mild the weather was.

James could feel heat rise in his chest. “We don’t have . . .”

“Not exactly.”

“The single most important illusion?”

“Yes, that one. It’s a minor detail,” Carter smiled. “But thank you for the pillow.”

. . .

Five minutes later, Carter trotted onstage in a newly pressed shirt. He clapped his hands and directed everyone assembled to pay him attention. “Ladies and Gentlemen, we’re going to put on a show this evening,” he said, without breaking stride. Behind him, a fidgeting James stopped at the act curtain, beside a little table with a pitcher and six water glasses. He poured himself some ice water and waited. His brother never referred to note cards during these preshow rallies, he never stammered, he spoke in complete sentences as if he’d rehearsed (James never saw him rehearsing), and he could, if needed, discuss thirty items that wanted improvement without skipping or repeating. It was an odd group of forty that he addressed—centermost was Carlo, who lay on the stage, feet in front of him, resting on one elbow as if a dryad would soon feed him grapes. To his left was the stone-faced Willie, shy and frequently cast as the villain, as he had mottled red skin and a turned-in eye.

Also: Albert and Esperanza, a married couple of acrobats, both of them lithe and handsome; then Scott, an apprentice magician whom Carter hoped to promote one day to an in-one interval performer. To the back was Cleo, a statuesque woman who was for some odd reason wearing her Egyptian costume hours before she needed to, and four other box jumpers whom Carter had drafted from the Golden Gate assembly. And then there were electricians, grips, stage runners, the conductor and the lead orchestra players, six men clothed in black, Ledocq (who spent the whole time doing a crossword), prop men, carpenters, the box office crew, ushers, and crafty men whose job was to look nondescript as they sat in the audience.

After a general praising of all the talents he saw before him, Carter said he would make no hyperbolic predictions of how well the show would be received; understatement, he hinted, was the code word—the less promised, the more astonished the audience would be at what was
actually delivered. He had instructions, and he dismissed groups as he spoke, for there was no reason for ticket takers to know more about the show than that it would start promptly; there would be no late seating; mind that no one swiped the window cards.

Soon, he was down to the core of his company, the ones who appeared onstage or worked the effects behind it. With the departure of each group, Carter had drawn closer, and spoken more quietly, causing those who’d hugged the edge of the stage to approach so they could hear his increasingly hoarse instructions. The air grew intimate, as they all had high hopes and, James knew, a slim chance of solvency. Surveying them, he had a vision of a group of shipwreck survivors drawing around a campfire.

“Friends,” Carter said. He cleared his throat. “You are the only people in the world who know the entire performance. You’re all going to be quite marvelous.” He looked from face to face. “Frankly, I need to ask for some help. To discourage some of my more ambitious competitors, I’ve allowed the plans for the ‘Everywhere’ illusion to be stored in a location that needs to be visited, oh,
immediately.
” He smiled, “And tactfully.”

Eyes began to shift within the company. Small murmurs. Intrigue was always welcome on opening night.

“Act three, the opening.” He directed all attention to the stage left apron, where he would begin that act by announcing he was the greatest conjurer the world had ever known. “Now, traditionally, we’ve had the Devil appear onstage in a puff of brimstone. There’s a new device that will allow me to summon him in a crystal ball. I’ve been a bit vague with you about how that works. Well, this afternoon, I need to pay a visit to an office safe, and I need a volunteer upon whom I can rely. The qualifications are simply keeping the eyes and ears open. Hands, please?”

Because they loved Carter, and adventure, and because some of them were crooked, all of them—from Madame Cleo to taciturn Willie—extended their hands, straight up.

“Thank you,” Carter said. “I’m honestly touched. Carlo, thank you, you’re my man. Please come with me.”

There was a crash from the edge of the stage. All eyes looked there; even Ledocq looked up from his crossword. James had knocked over the table, shattering the water pitcher.

“Are you all right, James?”

“I’m excellent, Charles,” James called from that great distance. “And yourself?” He began to pick up shards of glass.

Carlo, looking woozy with pleasure, joined Carter at center stage. Carter patted him on the shoulder. “Excellent. Everyone, please remain on call throughout the day. We’ll only have time to rehearse the sticky parts before curtain.”

He made a baroque wave at them, a sultan’s
au revoir,
and the group disbanded. The last to depart was Ledocq, ambling away with the newspaper held out before him, his pen to his lips. James tried to catch his eye, but Ledocq walked into the shadows, exclaiming “Ah, b-a-u-b-l-e! Six letters!” as he disappeared. Carter, James, and Carlo were left together.

“Carlo.” Carter looked directly into his immense brown eyes. “Do you have an automobile?”

“Yes.” He smoothed his hair. “Well, I can get one from my girl.”

“Go and get it, and change into street clothes. I’ll pack the kit. Meet me back here in thirty minutes.
Ciao!
” Carter slapped him vigorously on the back.

When the stage doors closed, they sent echoes across the theatre. Carter and James were alone. “So, dinner at your flat at four?”

“Are you
fully
insane?” James yelled.

“Come with me, my voice is tired.”

They walked to the dressing area, where Carter filled a kettle with water and James began speaking quickly.

“Why bring Carlo into this? I thought you and Ledocq had been talking to Philo for weeks now. I thought he’d told you everything.”

Carter played with the gas flame under the kettle, running his finger through it a few times. “Philo hasn’t told us much.”

“Secretive?”

“No, worse. He comes to the workshop, and he and I talk about this and that, or he and Ledocq talk about physics, and he’s fine for a moment, but when we ask him to think about his invention, he goes south. It’s hard to see him like that. I’ve been feeling just grand, and I’ve got more new illusions than I know what to do with, and I’d hoped that some of that would rub off on him.”

James considered the complex mass of machinery he’d seen demonstrated unsuccessfully at Berkeley, and he looked at his watch. “Given that it’s all been destroyed . . .”

“Oh, things aren’t that grim. Ledocq saw the plans that night at his house. And he saw the demonstration, and from that he was able to piece together everything. What we’re missing is how you make the flat-end vacuum tube, where the image goes. The description in Borax’s safe includes that information.”

James looked at his watch again, confirming there were only hours left before the performance. “Why leave it there for so long?”

“If we have weasels in the company, the moment anything showed up, the thugs would just snatch it back again. Borax isn’t doing anything with it—he’s used to waiting people out for years. So why not leave it there?” He threw tea strainers into two cups.

“Hmmph.” The idea of keeping the illusion safe by leaving it in enemy territory had a certain elegance. Nonetheless, James was angry, and he remembered why: “Weren’t we concerned that Carlo is a weasel? The very people you want to avoid are being notified.”

“You know, in the center of downtown, two weeks ago, I put up a twenty-four-sheet poster of myself holding a television box in my hand. I expect
that
alerted all necessary authorities quite effectively. Tea?”

“Oh, dear God, you don’t actually have a brain, do you, it’s more a filigreed spiderweb, with little chambers in it where trained monkeys play the pipe organ.”

But when James was finished with that, he saw Carter wasn’t wearing his battle face. Instead, he sank to the dressing room chair with a sigh. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’m maintaining a great many things right now, and . . . are you sure you don’t want tea? I seem to have poured two cups. And we are having dinner together at four, correct? Something nice and quiet?”

James nodded. He took a cup quietly, and when he’d had a moment to control his breath, he blew puffs of steam across the cup’s mouth.

Carter winced. “This is an awful chair.” He stood and thumped on the seat. “I think it was designed by Germans. It needs a pillow.”

“Please go on.”

He sat on the makeup table, cradling his teacup. “So, Ledocq says when he has the plans, it should take him a few minutes to make a flat-end tube, and there’s the annealing process and it should have an hour or so to cool before we use it, or,” he continued, dismissively, “it catches fire. My point is—”

“Excuse me—”

“My point is, at first, I’d wanted to use the television box for a spirit cabinet, but I don’t know, I’ve had a sea change. I’m tired of spirit gags. Television is much more interesting than that. So I thought of using it all night long, for various effects. But that quite overdoes it—people would get used to it. So instead, I’ve been inspired lately, positively swimming in it,” he snapped his fingers in quick rhythm, “one after the other, creating illusions for tonight.”

“Yes, there are some interesting effects.”

“So, television—we’ll build up to it. Use it to summon the Devil. I can’t think of a better way to make Philo’s case.”

James, who’d been thinking about evading thugs, felt like he’d been following the wrong ace. “Make Philo’s case.”

“It should cheer him up.”

“A public demonstration,” James said, and it was like he’d lifted a blanket off his head. “Yes. Right, yes. One that works. But Carlo will rat you out—the army will send someone.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“James, you weren’t drugged and thrown into the estuary. Let Carlo report to them. It’s my theatre. I can handle them.” Carter folded his hands around the steaming hot cup and opened them to show it, contents and all, had vanished. In its place was a dove, which flew from his palms and fluttered around the dressing room until it perched on a coatrack. James looked at the dove, which was grooming under its wing, then back to his brother, who was sipping the tea that had apparently never left his hands.

James knew reasoning with him wouldn’t work. He’d long ago resigned himself to his brother, and his brother’s magic, being a bit unknowable. “All right then. Take care when you’re with Carlo.” He placed his teacup and saucer on the drain board.

“I have very specific plans for Carlo.” Carter glanced at the coatrack. “You might want to fetch your hat.”

“Thank you.”

As James took his hat, careful not to startle the dove standing over it, he looked at his brother as if trying to see him for the first time. He had a faint memory of being about seven years old, and Charlie seeming like a great hero. But details were scarce, not exactly retrievable—as they dimmed, he was left with a feeling of respect that he couldn’t quite place. “I do believe you’ll be okay,” he said, “but still, do take care.”

. . .

The Orpheum box office opened at noon. What had been Murdoch’s office in 1911 was now a deep storage area for props. His famed window, from which he could see how far the line extended, was nailed shut and covered with two-by-fours.

The line for the opening night of Carter’s show was healthy, but not outstanding. A few pedestrians stood and read the publicity blowups that rested on easels by the sidewalk. The afternoon papers contained a
charming article hinting at how wonderful this favorite son’s new effects were, so James, who stood outside the Orpheum smoking a series of cigarettes and counting heads, prayed there would be a second wave later.

When the line had been served, James glanced up and down the block until he began to look like he was awaiting a crowd—always a fatal posture for an artist’s manager. Stubbing out his final cigarette, he returned to the theatre.

The girl inside the ticket booth, whose peripheral vision was excellent, noted his disappearance and returned to reading her
Movie Herald Weekly,
in which Rod La Rocque had a few choice words for Valentino.

The sun blotted out all at once, so she looked up. A huge man, bald, stood before her, looking at the easels, the posters, the woman herself, as if visiting an impoverished country.

“One ticket in the orchestra, please, for the
magic show,
” he said, his tone implying it was anything
but
a magic show.

“Eight dollars, please.”

“Eight . . . dollars. My word, this must be some kind of
magic show,
then. Young lady, spare my eight dollars, and please look on the comp list. I should be taken care of.”

“Okey-dokey. Whose guest are you?”

“Mr. Carlo Roody.”

She flipped through some sheets of onionskin, yawning. “He doesn’t have a guest list. Anyone else?”