The Amazing Harvey (28 page)

“I appreciate your confidence. Unfortunately, that's a little like telling Paul McCartney to just go write another Sgt. Pepper album.”

Hannah looked down at her desk.

*   *   *

I left for lunch a little before one o'clock and saw Hannah get in her car for her daily meeting.

What is this daily meeting of hers? Why's she so mysterious about it?

As she drove out of the parking lot, I glanced over at my car.

Hmm.

I climbed in and drove after her.

*   *   *

A few blocks away, I spotted her stopped at a light. I stayed back a couple of car lengths and followed her down Lankershim to Moorpark, and onto the 101 freeway. A tractor-trailer, painted with a yellow “Have a nice day” face, cut me off.

Shit. Where'd she go?

Shit.

I got off at Coldwater Canyon and drove back to the office.

Whatever. She'll be going again tomorrow.

*   *   *

When I got back from lunch, the phone was ringing. I rushed to grab it.

A familiar man's voice said, “May I speak to Ms. Fisher, please?”

“She's not in.”

“Mr. Kendall?”

I swallowed. “Hello, Sergeant Morton.”

He said, “I suppose this message is more for you than her anyway. We verified that Sherry Allen's father was in Seattle on the night of the murder. That leaves you as the last man standing, Mr. Kendall. Why don't you just tell me what happened and save everyone a lot of trouble?”

“My lawyer says I shouldn't talk to the police.”

I clunked down the phone.

I sat in the chair behind Hannah's desk and scratched my scalp with my fingernails.

My alibi, David Hu—gone.

Sherry's father as a suspect—gone.

Father of her kid—in jail in Florida.

Boyfriend—three witnesses put him at work.

Her apartment manager will testify that I look familiar.

My DNA at the crime scene.

Hell, if I was a juror, I'd fry my ass.

How can this be? There has to be a mistake with the DNA. Has to be.

If we exclude the DNA, there's only the apartment manager. After what Hannah did to David, I'm sure she can destroy that guy.

So without the DNA, nothing really connects me to the crime.

Without his having been seen by the entire audience, there was nothing to connect John Wilkes Booth to Lincoln's assassination.

The DNA expert has to come through.

No other choice.

What's taking them so long? Are they deliberately slowing down because they haven't been paid?

Shit.

*   *   *

That night, I sat home watching television with Lisa on my shoulder. I pointed the remote at the screen and flipped from a shot of an audience laughing to a wildlife documentary that showed a bunch of crocodiles splashing in a river.

I looked around my living room. I really should clean up the mess that the cops left in my apartment.

Tomorrow maybe.

I flipped the channel. A bunch of people in suits, sitting around an oval table, yelling at each other.

Should I call Carly? It'd be great to …

Why would I subject myself to another rejection?

Because the thought of her …

Am I an idiot to think about calling her? If she even answers, she'll probably hang up on me. This is a woman who worries about the lives of fetuses. She thinks I'm a murderer of grown-ups.

Still … I'd really like to see her.…

I am a sick puppy.

I flipped to a program about old locomotives and grabbed the phone. I dialed all but the last digit of Carly's home number. Can't call the cell. She'll see my number. Does her home phone have caller ID? The handset shrieked at me for not dialing. I hung up, dialed all but the last digit, and put my finger on the final button.

I hung up, sank back on the couch, and flipped through more channels.

I stopped on a bombastic preacher. He was a round man, dressed in a pinstripe navy suit and matching vest, pacing in front of a clear-glass podium with a huge bouquet of flowers on the floor in front of it. A scrolling message at the bottom of the screen invited me to send money to Reverend Jim.

Jim's cheeks flushed as he spoke into a wireless microphone, pronouncing
God
as if the word had two syllables.

The preacher said, “How many miracles do we see on a daily basis? How many? Hundreds, perhaps? Yet we take them all for granted. Isn't it a miracle that the sun comes up each morning?”

Yeah, well, it also goes down.

“Isn't it a miracle that we awaken each day with pure sweet air to breathe?”

You clearly don't live in Los Angeles.

The phone rang. I fumbled it off the hook.

“Harvey, it's Marty. How you doin'?”

“Never been better. What's up?”

“I got you a gig.”

I sat up so fast that Lisa flapped her wings in a “What the hell?”

I said, “Excellent!”

“Convention of bank officers.”

“Bank officers?” That'll be a million yuks.

“It pays two hundred bucks.”

Yes!
“Thanks, Marty. I can't tell you how much this means to me. Especially right now.”

“Just remember who takes care of you, baby.”

I hung up the phone and stared at Reverend Jim, who was still talking about miracles.

I looked at the phone.

No … It's just a coincidence that Marty called now.…

*   *   *

Next evening, I went to the Magic Castle to meet Herb Gold. I walked downstairs to the basement, past caricatures of magicians that lined the walls, and went into the Hat and Hare Pub, a small bar designed to look like an English pub. It had a pressed-tin ceiling, walls painted to look like a stone dungeon, and a dartboard inside a shallow wooden cabinet. I wanted a drink, but the bartender had spread a velvet cloth on the bar and was doing a coin trick for the people sitting on stools.

I took a seat at one of the cocktail tables, whose top was an old manhole cover covered with glass. Herb came in a few minutes later, holding a beer. He plopped down, took a sip that left a blotch of foam on his upper lip, then set the beer on the table. Herb stuck his large paw into his plaid sports jacket and came out with some folded papers.

He said, “Here's the Copperfield contract.” He opened the papers and laid them on the table in front of me. The folded sides stood up from the manhole cover. He said, “Twenty-five grand. I tried to get him up, but that's all there was. Less my commission, of course.”

I sat up. “Commission?”

“Yeah. I get ten percent for brokering these deals.”

“Twenty-five hundred dollars?”

“Guess you got an A in math.” He picked up his glass and sucked in a slug of beer.

“You didn't tell me you were taking a commission.”

“Thought I did. I always get a commission. You think I'm doing this for my health?” He set down his beer glass with a clunk.

“So, you mean, I only get twenty-two five?”

“No, you get twenty-five. The commission is a cost of doing business.”

“You know I need this money. That twenty-five hundred makes a big difference to me.”

“You got it backward. I'm bringing you twenty-two five that's gonna save your ass, when nobody else is steppin' up.”

I rubbed the back of my neck. “How could you spring something like this on me at the last minute?”

“Sorry, I thought you knew how these things work. Look, I gotta make a living, too.” He picked up his beer and gulped down another couple of swallows. “Why're you bustin' my balls, kid? I'm tryin' to help you.”

I looked at him, then picked up the contract and tried to read in the low light. “Seller”—I guess that's me—“hereby grants all rights of every nature or sort…” I skimmed the page and flipped to the next one. “Seller agrees not to divulge the secret of the trick to any third party.…”

Farther down the page, it read: “Seller agrees not to perform the trick.”

I looked at Herb. “I can't ever do the trick?”

“Whaddaya think you're selling, chopped liver? He wants it exclusive. That's standard.”

I came to the end and put down the contract.

Herb took a pen from his jacket and held it out.

I didn't take the pen. “I have to show it to my lawyer.”

He laughed. “Lemme see if I got this right. You don't want to pay me for bringing you money, but you wanna throw away money on a lawyer?”

“I'm not signing it tonight.”

Herb put his pen away. “Fine. Do what you want. No telling how long Copperfield will sit around waiting.”

He picked up his beer, drained the glass down to a slithering trail of foam, then lumbered off.

*   *   *

Next morning at the office, I was sitting on the floor filing while Hannah typed at warp speed.

I stood up and said, “You remember how I said I was selling my magic trick?”

She kept typing. “Yeah.”

“I got the contract. You think you could take a look?”

She stopped typing, stared at the computer screen, and wrinkled her forehead. “Sure.”

“The guy who brought me the deal wants ten percent. Is that fair?”

“No clue.” Still staring at the screen, she hit one typewriter key a number of times.

I set the folded contract on her desk. She didn't look up at it.

I went back to filing.

*   *   *

Just before one, Hannah left for her meeting. I walked outside, keeping my distance, then got in my car just as she drove off.

I followed her onto the freeway, then off onto Reseda Boulevard, where she headed north. I stayed back a few car lengths and kept in a different lane.

A few miles up, she turned right on a side street just before Sherman Way.

There's not much traffic on the side street. Better hold back so she doesn't see me.

I got into the right lane and slowed down. Someone behind me honked. I waved them around. They gunned past me.

I turned off Reseda just in time to see her make a left turn on the next street. I slowed down and rounded the corner. Hannah drove into an open parking lot behind a bank. I stopped on the street. She parked her car and walked toward a beige two-story building, where a cluster of about twenty people were standing around outside. The crowd was mostly women, a lot of them on the heavy side. When Hannah walked up, she hugged a few of them, then stood there talking.

Just before one o'clock, they all went inside. The door closed.

I got out of my car and walked toward the building. If I stand against the wall beside the window, will I be able to hear through the glass? Will she see me?

A man rushing toward the building saw me, turned, and came over. He said, “Can I help you?”

“I, well…”

“You going to the meeting?”

“Maybe.”

He smiled. “You a newcomer?”

“Um, sort of.”

“Welcome. I'm Michael.”

“I'm Kyle. Which meeting is this?”

“Overeaters Anonymous.”

 

CHAPTER FORTY

 

I drove away from the Overeaters Anonymous building.

Why do I feel like I need a shower? What kind of creep noses into the most private part of someone's life?

Shit. No wonder she didn't want me to know. It
really
is none of my business.

I'm such an asshole.

*   *   *

Back at the office, I dove into the filing. Nothing works off guilt like burying yourself in work.

I realized I was actually making progress, I might even catch up in the next few days.

I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand, then squared up a pile of papers.

What am I missing about my case? I know there's something.

*   *   *

An hour later, when Hannah got back, she went straight to her computer without looking at me.

Does she know I followed her? Did she see me walking toward the building? Did that guy Michael rat me out?

Not likely, or she'd be taking my head off.

I avoided looking in her direction as I clipped some blue-backed court papers into a file.

*   *   *

Later in the afternoon, Hannah said, “I read that contract for the sale of your trick.”

I stopped my punch halfway through a stack of papers. “And?”

She held up the contract. “It looks fine. I mean, I don't know anything about magic deals, but there's nothing unusual in it.”

“Thanks.”

Hannah set the papers on her desk. She softened her voice. “You sure you want to sell your trick?”

I walked over, took the contract off her desk, folded it up, and stuck it in my back pocket.

*   *   *

When I got home that night, my answering machine was blinking. I hit the
PLAY
button.

Carly's voice. “Uh, hello, Harvey. I feel I owe you an apology. You can call, if you want to. I'll understand if you don't.”

The words were nice enough. Her tone was robotic, like she didn't mean a word she was saying.

I don't need any more humiliation, thank you very much.

I erased the message and turned on the TV for background noise while I prepped for the magic gig that Marty booked for me.

Am I gonna be okay performing with a murder case over my head?

Murder
. The word sounds so …

Shake it off.

Those bankers are paying you to perform. You owe them your best.

I opened the lid of one of my magic trunks, looked inside, and scrunched my forehead in thought.

Okay. Which tricks work best for a convention of bank officers?

Money tricks, of course. The Miser's Dream, where I pull coins out of the air and drop them in a bucket. The signed twenty-dollar bill in the egg. What else? I pawed through the trunk. I can fill in with generics. Mismade Flag. Dice box. Haven't done the linking rings in a while. Nah. They're pretty trite.