Carter Beats the Devil (71 page)

The actor playing the Devil was at his side suddenly. When had he left the stage? When had he returned? Philo looked at his mask for long seconds. “Hello,” he choked.

The Devil put his finger to his lips and swept a hand across the panorama that was his audience, the standing ovation, and he looked at Philo as if to say “enjoy this.”

Philo nodded. The Devil put an arm around his shoulder.

A moment later, the Devil put one hand below the chin of his mask, tugging it free and revealing the face of Charles Carter.

A fresh wave of cheers burst forth,
Bravo!
and
Carter!
and simple, wordless cries of exhalation.

Tears ran down Philo’s face. He could hardly make his voice work. He was reduced to pointing at the flat-ended viewing screens. “How?” he managed to say, and then “Impossible.”

“Yes, you told us that, but then we went ahead and made them anyway.”

Philo continued to stare at Carter as if he hadn’t heard him. The cheers and thunder of feet pounding the gallery floorboards could have drowned out anything.

Carter looked Philo in the eye and said, “It was magic.”

CHAPTER 9

The “it was magic” explanation, while poetic, was hardly enough for James, who had many questions. James was just one of the many who crowded Carter the moment the show curtain closed—Albert, Esperanza, Cleo, Scott, Max Friz, Mrs. Ledocq were all shaking his hand or rubbing his head and Phoebe was swept toward this knot of people—someone dumped water over Carter, good-naturedly, and even the men who rode Fairbanks for a living wanted to touch Carter, to confirm he was alive.

Carter grinned at them all and made the thumbs-up sign to Ledocq, who circled the group with a frown, disappearing behind the curtain where the guillotine illusion was housed. Normally, Carter would have followed, as he was one to gravitate toward any possible error in an otherwise-spotless performance. Yet here he was at the center of such assorted carrying-on that he simply let himself go and enjoy the moment.

James successfully fought his way to his brother’s ear. “And what was that nonsense about Borax’s safe?”

“Hello, James! Did you see the finale?”

“Yes, and—”

“Satisfying, wasn’t it? Not at all suicidal, was it?”

“Yes, you certainly showed me,” James replied. “Now, why the charade at Borax’s?”

“Not a charade. I opened the safe when Carlo wasn’t there and swapped in the fakes. That’s what burned up. I wanted them to think it was all destroyed. I hope Philo liked it, do you think he liked it? Where is Carlo? I’d like to apologize for the deception and then fire him.”

At the edge of the crowd, Tom tapped Philo on the shoulder. “There’s a vigorous-looking group of men out there who want to meet you. Young men in suits.”

Philo’s eyes widened.

When it counted, he was still possessed of the protective instincts of a football hero: Tom said, laconically, “I’ll go with you.”

James announced that all concerned should reconvene immediately at Coppa’s, upstairs, for a proper wingding. And with this, some attempts were made to start striking the set, but Carter would have none of it. “Everyone,” he cried, “go and drink before James wises up.”

The stage door was propped open for the groups of people who began to spill out, most of them in makeup, even those who hadn’t appeared onstage, for it was quite the mark of sophistication to be seen late at night at Coppa’s, upstairs, still in your stage wear. So down from the catwalks came the remaining stagehands and out from the shadows the grips and assistants, all of them chattering and ready to play. Albert wouldn’t let Carter alone, asking him several times if he’d ever
actually
intended to replace his entrance with that set of glass globes, and Carter confessed that no, that had been a bit of misdirection; they’d been planning to use it with the guillotine all along. “So your job is safe. Take Madame Esperanza out and dance with her at Coppa’s. You can tango there and cause a scandal if necessary. But!” Carter blocked his way, and gave him the evil eye until Albert surrendered his remaining flash paper, three pieces of it.

As if he’d been waiting all night to say it, Albert declared, “Now I can’t get three sheets to the wind,” which provoked groans and promises that Carter would one day fire him.

Next to leave was Max Friz, who had made a complete circle around his R32, head craned, blowing kisses up to the platform where it rested. When he was gone, Carter approached Phoebe, who’d been standing in place for quite some time.

“Hello,” he said.

“I hear you were magnificent.”

“Well . . . yes.”

“It’s hard to understand it exactly, but congratulations.”

“Thank you.” He hadn’t recovered from the unanswered “I love you.”

“Charlie, I feel like God’s own heel. I’d like to explain.”

“I need to find Ledocq, so let’s park you . . . where? Oh, here.” He sat her in the Gone! chair.

She touched the wires behind the chair back. “Are you about to make me disappear?”

“You’re safe. Wait here.” Carter looked for Ledocq, with whom he would pack the television apparatus, but he was distractedly thinking about Phoebe and wondering if she were going to say “I love you,” so he went in wide circles until Ledocq found him first.

“Come with me,” he said, pulling Carter through the curtains and up the stairs to the guillotine’s scaffolding. Ledocq explained what he’d seen during the illusion: someone, having taken Willie’s place, pulled out the safety pin.

“That’s odd,” Carter said.

“But this, here, this is bizarre.”

All of the black velvet around the guillotine was gone, pulled up by its edges. The wicker basket was also gone. There was stage blood smeared on the guillotine’s base. It looked like someone had fumbled the job of cleaning it.

“We’ll ask Willie what happened,” Carter said.

“Willie, I’m not so interested in. Where’s Carlo?”

“On top of the nearest chorus girl. He never stays after the show. He’s always afraid someone will ask him to help lift something.” Carter smiled; Ledocq did not. “You don’t mean— You don’t think someone cut off Carlo’s head?”

“Someone, thinking it was you.”

“You’re such a
grandmother.
Bubbie! We turned that flatfoot Griffin away at the stage door—that’s the assassin Borax was prattling about.”

“But look at this—who would take all this away unless there was blood on it?”

“That’s very, very Gothic of you.” As he spoke, he was otherwise engaged: he wanted to hear Phoebe say “I love you.” Until then, his universe was hopelessly out of skew. “Let’s go to Coppa’s.
L’Chaim.
”

“We should find Carlo and Willie.”

“Willie is probably back at his flat by now. He’s not much of a debutante. Let’s pack up television.”

. . .

Outside, the exodus from the stage door merged with the crowd that lingered by the marquee, alive with laughter and people telling each other about Carter’s marvelous illusions. How had he done that final one, with the crystal balls? Uncanny. Some of the children were studying the decks of cards they’d received, wondering how exactly one became a magician. The nurses and their charges left in buses, and there were passengers sharing taxis and trolley cars.

Walking slowly, head turning from left to right in hopes of meeting a certain pair of brown eyes, Olive White was trying to make the best of things. She hoped that she could still share whatever adventure Agent Griffin had found.

Soon, the hobo was one of her remaining few companions. She
recognized him. He’d been an actor once. Chase . . . something. “I played here. I had excellent diction. Murdoch, hated him.”

She paced back and forth, turning on her heel, using her rolled-up program to bat against her shoulder. She admitted to herself that he wasn’t going to come. Yet he wasn’t an insensitive man. He would telephone her and explain what had happened.

“Before the movies came,” the hobo was saying. “Before then, a man’s voice was what he could profit by. Murdoch, hated him.” Olive handed him a quarter. She wouldn’t wait. That would be lovesick. She crossed the street at the corner. Chase’s sad patter continued. “Used to have some guy dress up as Santa Claus, and come down the chimney, like that mattered when the movies were here.”

. . .

Just as Carter and Ledocq were packing the last of the television equipment into a safe box, they heard a tremendous
thump
overhead.

“What was that?” Ledocq asked.

“Carlo, dismounting. Now amscray, we’ll meet you there.”

“I need to—”

Carter snapped Ledocq’s suspenders as if trying to wake him up and handed him his overcoat. “Good-bye! This is
au revoir,
not
adieu.
”

Ledocq complained that Carter wasn’t being sensible. “If I’m gone, you two will be alone in this . . .” As those words left his mouth, his white eyebrows went north, and he said, “Ahhh!”

“I never could fool you,” Carter said. “Now leave.”

The moment he left, Tom and James came backstage from the house, Philo between them. Tom held a stack of business cards on behalf of Philo, who looked in the most positive sense like a man who’d come through a hurricane.

“Charlie, did you speak with Albee yet?” asked James.

Carter wondered if he’d heard that question correctly; it seemed to have come from the wrong decade. “No.”

“There were a couple of his junior agents in the audience. They’re coming to Coppa’s.”

“Albee? Vaudeville?” He hadn’t a clue how to feel about that, so he said it again and watched James.

“They always need a headliner to compete with the movies. And the television box might be something audiences want to see.”

“And they have money?”

“Apparently so. They’re a bit desperate.” James began to explain—less up front, but guaranteed work for nine months, no problems renting
theatres, and such. This wasn’t a rescue, and Carter shouldn’t regard it as such, for it wouldn’t solve his problems, but it did postpone them for a while. Though the news was tepid, Carter felt creeping excitement. He would still entertain.

“Tragedies with happy endings,” he interrupted. “Never underestimate them.”

“I can’t pretend to understand it.”

“Business is better than you thought?” When James nodded, Carter pushed it with, “Better than Thurston?” And James shook his head. There was further back-clapping and teasing, as Carter maneuvered the remaining company to the stage door. He smiled at all, and agreed that there would be many toasts tonight, and he would be there soon, save seats for him and Phoebe, and he pushed them through the door, good-bye.

After he closed the stage door, he locked it to keep anyone from remembering a scarf.

The stage—his stage—was a smashing panorama, from Baby pacing in his cage to the flats and scrim flanking him, and the curtains all around, and among all the ingenious devices and props was Phoebe, in the Gone! chair.

“I wish I were a photographer,” he said. “You make a lovely portrait.”

“Do I?”

“Yes.” He wanted to describe all that he saw, but he wasn’t born to that sort of explanation and got tangled, and he finally bent over and delivered her a kiss.

She pulled him down to his knees. “Listen,” she said, and when she said nothing more, he began to listen to the noises in the theatre. Creaks, the lion, the elephant chained up in her private room, but mostly, what he heard sounded like a heartbeat. “I promised myself,” she said, “that I couldn’t say ‘I love you’ to another man, not unless I knew,” she swallowed, “simply knew.” She didn’t say what she needed to know. “I love you, Charlie.”

They kissed then, him in his dinner jacket, on his knees before her, and she leaning forward in her chair. Their hands moved over wool and silk and skin. His hand was on her calf, and they kissed more with his hand on her knee, and then inside and above her knee, and then time moved much faster, and Carter and Phoebe made small noises deep in their mouths as they breathed.

She kissed his palm. “Such nice hands.”

He listened again. “It’s quiet. It hasn’t been quiet for a while.”

“It’s not totally quiet,” she whispered. “I can hear electricity. Right now.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “When it’s very still, I can hear electricity. The wiring hums.”

“You’re
so
interesting. What other skills do you have?”

“Only one, but I do it exceptionally well.”

“Come here and tell me about that.”

A moment later, Phoebe pulled back. “What’s that noise?”

“That’s Baby. He’s fussing.”

“Why?”

“He’s been fussing all night.”

She tilted her head. “Can I meet him again?”

He brushed off his knees, stretching, as he escorted her to the cage. “He’s sweet, but he’s getting old.”

They were at the bars of the cage. Baby paced back and forth and let out a discontented sort of growl.

“Is that him not liking me?”

“No, that’s him being a prima donna. Here, a secret weapon.” He handed her a baked potato with cheese on it, and instructed her to place it between the bars.

She held it for a moment like he’d handed her a rubber chicken. “A baked potato? With cheese on it?”

“I know. I tell myself baked potato must taste like raw zebra. Either that or he’s gone soft.”

Gently, she placed Baby’s treat on the floor of the cage. “Baby,” she said, cautiously. “It’s the woman who fed you roast beef.” The lion ignored her. He continued to make circuits, toenails clicking. Carter was confused and a bit disappointed; Baby was usually gracious company with women.

Phoebe held on to the bars. She asked Carter, “Do you miss Sarah?”

“Yes. But something’s changed. When I was in the packing crate in the bay—”

She laughed. “I
so
look forward to more stories that begin like that.”

“You know, Baby is spooked. He’s like that sometimes after a show. Let’s go to Coppa’s and come back when he’s ready for visitors.”

Phoebe agreed. She took Carter’s arm.

They stepped away from the cage. The stage door was only fifteen feet away.