Masters of Illusions (7 page)

A few of the circus fire survivors were especially memorable, their visits cause for excitement. And so, the excitement Charlie
felt after getting a call from Alfred Court’s assistant so saturated the air of their house that little Martha, who was five
at the time, acted the way she would if a big snowstorm had been predicted. On the day the famous animal trainer’s underling
was to arrive, Margie couldn’t drag Martha away from the window where she waited and watched. And Margie herself felt the
same way she did when she was getting near the end of
The Spy Who Came in from the Cold.
She’d actually missed the plane to a firefighters’ convention when she had been on her way to meet Charlie in Los Angeles.
She had been sitting right by the gate at La Guardia and she missed every call, including the last one. She had finished the
book, closed it with a great sigh, looked at her watch and rushed over to the little podium where an American Airlines clerk
was putting together papers, and asked, “Did the plane leave?”

He said, “You’ve got an hour, ma’am.”

She was so relieved. She said, “The flight’s really late then.”

He said, “Nope. On time.” Then he flashed her an airline-personnel smile. Margie looked behind his head at the departures
board. He had been talking about a flight to Chicago. Her flight to California was long gone.

Alfred Court’s assistant wore a red cape. She sashayed in the door, threw off the cape, and Charlie rushed to catch it. The
woman was a knockout until she was up close; Margie could see the face-lift places and the wrinkles that weren’t lifted under
her tan-colored makeup. Her platinum hair was a mountainous wig, and the smile—the same bright red as the cape—was dazzling.
She was a voluptuous showgirl, past middle age, whose complexion was stiff with makeup and rosy rouge, her curled eyelashes
heavy with thick layers of black mascara. She was one of those nameless assistants whose job might be to parade across a stage
with a headdress of feathers, or to let her body be sawed in half, or, in the case of the Barnum & Bailey Circus, to strike
a pose while Alfred Court put his head in a lion’s mouth. She had the look that Dolly Parton later said she aspired to as
a child. The woman’s name was Dixie. That’s how she introduced herself. She stuck out her hand and said, “The name’s Dixie.
That’s all there is. Like Cher.”

Margie was afraid Martha might end up aspiring to the same ideal, she was so mesmerized. Before Martha had to go off to her
afternoon kindergarten, she got to shake Dixie’s hand. She said, “Pleased to meet you.” And Dixie said, “Likewise.” Then Martha
said, wearing her longest face, “I have to go to school now” And so Dixie whipped out from her big bag an eight-by-ten glossy
of herself wearing sequins and spangles, entwined in the trunk of an elephant rearing back on his hind legs. She signed it
for Martha, and said to her, “You can show this to your little pals.”

The preliminary excitement of having a person come to the O’Neills’ who was not only a celebrity—well, kind of a celebrity—but
who also had been in and out of the burning tent while remaining in complete control was nothing compared to the tension that
grew and grew as Dixie spoke. Dixie turned out to be Charlie’s first concrete evidence that there might have been a firebug.
Concrete, yet flimsy, Margie thought. Though Margie was always willing to suspend her disbelief for Charlie just the way she
did for John Le Carré, she was pretty cynical.

Besides her success at posing in such a way as to dramatize Alfred Court’s feats, Dixie also proved to be equally competent
in an emergency. In the first moments of the fire she was the one who got the last of the big cats through the chute and into
their string of wagons lined up outside the tent before they could panic and run back to where they came from, as frightened
animals are apt to do—as frightened humans are apt to do, too. Margie, married to a fireman, had learned that dead people
in burning houses were always found in their closets or under their beds. Charlie came home on those nights and would head
straight to the war room, where his circus arsonist represented all arsonists, represented negligent landlords, kids playing
with matches, old people with twelve electric cords plugged into one outlet. Margie couldn’t console him on those nights,
only his search could. If she tried, she would only end up feeling frustrated. And annoyed.

Dixie said, “I had half the animals out when I looked up and saw it starting. Up above me. Up the side of the tent. I sped
’em along. I said, ‘Hurry, hurry, hurry you pretty boys and girls.’ I called ’em that.” She sighed and smiled. “My cats.”
The smile dissolved. “So Vickie and her two babies were the last ones out. Found I had to hose the three of ’em down. Singed.”

Charlie said, “And they were?”

“Leopards. Took a month before their spots looked normal again. Wish I could have done more, mister. More than just that.”

“You prevented a bigger catastrophe, ma’am.”

“Dixie.”

“Dixie.”

She sighed again. “Don’t know about that. People get off thinking about what it’d been like if the animals were loose. Just
would’ve been sadder is all. Cats would’ve slunk together in a huddle and burned. But what I do know is I was hosing down
Vickie and her babies while the people up against the chute were dying. ’Course I know I shouldn’t feel as bad as I do—my
little bitty hose couldn’t have done a thing for that tent. See, it was attached to the animals’ drinking tank. Couple of
gallons is all.” She looked to Charlie.

“I understand.”

“But I still feel bad. Keep on thinking that if the act ended just a minute sooner, I’d have spotted that fire right when
it started—maybe could’ve gotten it out.”

“You couldn’t have,” Charlie said. “The canvas was coated with gasoline.”

“I know” She pushed up the sleeve of her dress and there was a skin graft peeking out. “Anywho, I didn’t even think to hose
myself down. Piece of canvas blew into me. Stuck right on to my shoulder.” She dropped the sleeve and patted the spot. She
looked up, “The paraffin.”

Charlie asked, “What did you do after you hosed down the leopards, Miss… ?”

“I told ya, honey. Just Dixie.”

“Sorry.”

“S’okay. I went and stood by Gargantua. Knew he’d be upset. We had him over in his sideshow cage not too far from the main
entrance so’s everyone could get a gander at him on the way into the big top. I just kept talking and talking to him while
everyone was running from the tent. The heat of it was fierce. I never stopped talking till the tent finished burning. Took
about five minutes, no more. That tent was a big sucker. Twice the size of our tent today. Five minutes and it was gone.”
She snapped her fingers. Her fingernails were long and painted. Margie hadn’t ever seen a red as red as that.

Something began to form in Charlie’s eyes. Up till now he hadn’t spoken to anyone who’d actually stood watching the whole
thing. Up till now everyone had been running away or they were being burned or crushed, or they were busy helping the hysterical
children separated from their mothers, and the just-as-hysterical mothers who were searching for their children.

Charlie asked, “Did you see anything unusual?”

Now Dixie squinted at Charlie. “Well… ’course I was concentrating on Gargantua… but everyone was doing the same thing which
I guess you’d call unusual. They were all running away from the burning tent, afraid to so much as take a quick glance back.
Even when they stopped running, they didn’t look back. Lot of ’em just put their faces in their hands.

“The screaming was what made Gargantua crazy. He stood there gripping the bars of the cage like there was no tomorrow—shaking
them till I thought he’d rip ’em out. In the papers, reporters said he was trying to escape from the fire. Horsetrash! He
knew he was safe. He’d always trusted me. Some jackass even said the gorilla was laughing, getting his revenge. But no sir,
not Gargantua. What he was doing was begging me to let him out so he could save those screamin’ kids. He loved children.”

Dixie stopped talking and Charlie remained silent. Margie closed her eyes. For a moment, their minds were off dead children
while they felt sorry for a gorilla. Then Charlie asked, “And what did you do next… Dixie?”

“Next, I went to my wagon, melted down a pot of Vaseline, and saturated the piece of canvas with it.” She stopped and took
in their confusion. “See, I didn’t notice the canvas stuck to me till I was walking back to my wagon wondering why the hell
my shoulder felt so stiff. Skin came off with it, though. ’Fraid of that.” She lifted up her sleeve again. “Got this graft
in Chicago. Not bad, huh?”

“It looks good,” Margie said.

“You were burnt too, right?” She gazed at Margie. People had come to think that Charlie’s obsession had to do with his falling
in love with the girl whose whole back was burned in the fire. Margie just kind of went along with that assumption. She said,
“Yes, I was.”

“Sorry.”

“Thank you.”

Dixie said, “You get grafts?”

Margie cleared her throat. “No, I didn’t.”

“How come?”

Charlie was staring at her. Margie said, “I never saw the need.”

There was a silence. Then Dixie said, “They come a long way, honey. Give me a call if you want the name of my man. His family’s
circus. His specialty is circus. Fixes broke bones, clawed skin, rope burns. Told him a rope burn wasn’t as bad as what I
had, but he said not to worry. So I didn’t. He was damn good. I was able to rip all those little puffy sleeves off of my costumes
soon’s he took off the bandages. Amazin’.”

Margie thanked her again.

Dixie said to Charlie, “Really think someone started that fire, don’t ya?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Hate to think you’re right, mister. At the same time, I never heard of a circus tent catchin’ fire all by itself. But I can’t
help you there. When you’re keepin’ a gorilla calm, you don’t concentrate on much else.”

Charlie leaned forward in his chair. Dixie did, too, though she didn’t know it. Charlie’s eyes could draw a person to him
like he had the person on a leash. Those eyelashes. He said, “Dixie, you were just outside the tent. Fifty feet from where
the fire started. Who else was there?”

“Nobody.”

“Are you sure?”

“’Course not. Who could be sure?”

“I guess it isn’t necessary for me to ask you to think about it.”

She pressed her lips together. “No, sir, it ain’t. Many a night I lay in my bed thinkin’ about not much of anything else.
But I’m ready, now, to do some extra thinkin’. Haven’t been ready to do that till now; that’s why I come. Waited till I could
take the sleeves off my costumes. See, I believe I know someone who could help both of us. Help me with my thinking and help
you too, mister.”

“Not mister. Charlie.”

Her face had been so pained. Now she smiled. She said, “Charlie.”

“And who would that person be?”

“That would be the Master of Illusion.”

She paused, still smiling, grinning actually. She was a flirt and she was also a performer. She knew all about dramatic timing.

Charlie said, calm as could be, “The Master of Illusion?” as if someone had suggested him before.

“That’s right. He’s a clown, a magician, too. He comes out into the ring, snaps his fingers, and puffs of pink smoke come
out of the snap. And he’s a contortionist. Fits in a car that’s no more than two foot square.”

“How could he help us?”

“He’s a hypnotist, too. The best. Off season, he does nightclubs and things like bowling banquets and bar mitzvahs. Gets people
to act like they’re chickens. ’Course, then he’s known as the Master of Hypnosis. He’s a real psychologist, honest to Pete.
Went to school. He can get people to stop smoking, things like that. But he’s circus. He gets real bored out there. Can’t
wait to come back.

“He could get me to remember whatever it was I forgot after all these years. He’ll do it for me because I stand in as his
assistant once in a while—when his wife is having babies. They got about eight or nine kids, that’s why he has to work outside.”

“How do you assist him?”

“I get to open the car door.”

“And what’s this hypnotist’s name?”

“Told ya. The Master of Illusion.”

“I mean his real name.”

“Real name’s Bud. He kind of likes Master, though.”

The tape broke. It didn’t matter. With a nod from Charlie toward the phone, Alfred Court’s assistant was hooked up with the
Master of Illusion in just a few minutes. He was working at a club in Boston. She exchanged some polite talk, asked for his
family, and then told him what she was about. Then she put her hand over the phone and said, “’Course he wants a thousand
big ones. Me and him will split.”

Charlie looked over at Margie. Margie said, “Why not?” The thought of watching this woman get hypnotized thrilled her. She
listened as Dixie and her friend spent half an hour shooting the breeze about their last performance together, laughing, and
later, when she’d left, Charlie and Margie kidded around themselves—talked about subtracting the phone bill from the thousand.

Margie said to Charlie, “It could be a scam.”

“It is a lot of money, Margie.”

“Who cares about money? But these people aren’t known for honesty, right?”

“You’re thinking of carnies, honey. Not circus people.”

“Well… let’s do it. Time to sell the old Caddie anyway. It must have at least seven hundred miles on it.”

Charlie kissed her. She kissed him back. He said, “We’ve only got twenty minutes till Martha gets back.”

“Then you’d better make it good.”

Margie wanted to invite everyone they knew to the hypnosis session, but Charlie reminded her that it wasn’t exactly a party.
When Charlie would remind her of what he was actually up to, it would dawn on her that though his firebug hunt might be a
game for her, it was no game for him. Margie had a living thriller going on in a private corner of her house—she was in the
middle of a best-seller, married to Nero Wolfe, or Hercule Poirot, or even Sherlock Holmes, all those detectives who never
wanted wives. Margie’s detective wanted one—wanted Margie. She asked Charlie if Martha could sit in.