Carter Beats the Devil (21 page)

The entire orchestra now fired up the tempo, signaling an end to tranquility: it was time for dancing and juggling. Just then, the blanket closest to the audience rolled off the pile, revealing Mysterioso’s shackled ankles. There were howls of laughter—Mysterioso was so clearly in the way that dancers had to strut awkwardly around him, as their toes stubbed against his chains. The company did their best until Annabelle finally cried out, sounding fed up, “Stop right here! I will
not
marry any one of you!”

The blankets gave a mighty shiver, which the performers tried to ignore. The chubby man playing the chief remembered his cue, and said, doubtfully, “Then the die is cast, worthy maiden. You will be married. To the lion.”

Two stagehands rolled the cage onto the apron, and Carter hopped off his barrel, getting as close to the stage as he could without the audience seeing him. The orchestra played quietly, just the strings, and light percussion, like a heartbeat. In the cage, Baby paced back and forth, nose brushing against the bars. The chief looked at Annabelle, who gave an almost imperceptible shrug, and then he addressed the lion with all the power of his actor’s training: “Will you have her as your bride?”

There was a long pause. Baby paced up and down, his mane brushing against the bars. He did not roar.

“Will you have her as your bride?”

The pile of blankets rocked a little, the orchestra continued the same hushed eight bars of anticipatory light drumming, but otherwise, there was nothing. The lion hadn’t roared. Carter was utterly intrigued.

“Excuse me, young man.”

Carter stepped back quietly, then registered the carnation, the cane—the old man had returned from the audience, and now stood with him. He faced Carter with bright eyes.

“I liked your finale. Very creative,” he creaked.

“Thank you.”

He sniffed, looking at Carter with some concern. “Bourbon?”

“Whiskey.”

“You’ll have to give that up.” And then the old man, leaning on his cane, looked back toward the stage.

What was going on here? Could it be—? No—Carter had been drinking, but he wasn’t
that
drunk. Despite the lion’s failure to roar, the music had struck up again, full blast. Braves juggled fire, leading Annabelle toward the still-pacing Baby. But she dug in her heels, bringing them to a full stop. “Hold it, fellahs,” she said. “Let’s call it a night. Baby don’t look so well.”

The old man turned to Carter and said, “Stay right here.” He limped onto the stage, and became surprisingly agile, dodging between dancers, then holding a hand out and waving it in the air. “Stop it now here, stop. Stop!” he yelled. One by one, the dancers stopped, looking at him in confusion. Then he called, “Maestro, please,” bringing the orchestra to a halt. With the point of his cane, he knocked the rest of the blankets aside to reveal the sweating, tormented, disheveled magician, who hadn’t yet dislodged a single cuff. As the audience began to rumble, the old man leaned on his cane, then rocked to and fro on his heels, clicking his tongue. “Handcuff king, my eye,” he whispered. Pins and needles began to prick Carter’s face. Goose bumps rose on his skin.

“Lay-dies and Gen-tile-men,” the old man cried, with a clear stentorian tone that caused the entire audience—from the Mayor to the Carters to the madams and their girls, to every customer in the balconies, the stagehands who hung from the catwalks and flies, every musician in the orchestra pit, all the performers who were massed in the wings like moths around the world’s most inviting campfire—the voice caused everyone, absolutely everyone, to freeze. It was a voice that had never been disobeyed. “This man here, this man who is pinned to the
floor, helpless, promised you, in his program, that he would show you, tonight, the greatest of all escape artists.” With this, the man tossed his cane aside. Then he took off his glasses. “And so he has.” Off came the wig, revealing a tangle of kinky brown hair. The shoulders went back, the arms folded over the mighty chest, and the feet spread in a wrestler’s stance. “I give you—Houdini!”

The next day’s
Examiner
had a one-word headline:
Bedlam
! For once, Hearst was guilty of understatement. The San Francisco Orpheum was the scene of frenzy, of men standing and pointing, shouting out the name “Houdini!” while others ran from their seats and up and down the aisles.

Carter said, in a small voice, just to himself, “1905. He hasn’t done this since 1905.”

Houdini was talking onstage, but no one could hear him. Had he announced the second coming, he would have been drowned out by the pandemonium he’d already created. Tessie Wall had apparently fainted, and men rushed to her side, while a suspicious Jessie Hayman poked her with the tip of her parasol. Carter was possibly the only person in the theatre who was listening carefully, and even he heard just phrases, “hooligan” and “never be fooled by the cheap and insidious.” Now and again the lecture paused, and Houdini went once more to cross-examine Mysterioso, asking if he wanted to be free, not listening to his answer, and then resuming his lecture.

Six years ago, that was the last time Houdini had ruined a rival’s show. Why return? Why embarrass this one magician here and now? Yes, Mysterioso was obnoxious, and deserved punishment for getting nice people shut, and for defaming Houdini, and for being untrue to the spirit of magic. All of these were excellent reasons for Houdini, if he knew about them, to appear. And, if anyone were to ask Carter, he would list all of those reasons, and say, “Mysterioso was begging to be destroyed.” But Carter also knew what was more likely the true reason: a word from Albee to Houdini was a cost-effective way to handle Mysterioso’s demand for a 50 percent raise.

Houdini held up both hands as if to beg the audience’s indulgence. He walked around Mysterioso, and approached Carter, who still stood just offstage, in the wings.

Houdini leaned in toward Carter, put one hand on his shoulder, and spoke conspiratorially. “Your name is Charles Carter?” He was shorter than Carter, square, with an unbelievably powerful frame. His eyes were grey and challenging and fiercely intelligent.

“Yes, Mr. Houdini.”

Houdini laughed. “Oh, you needn’t call me Mr. Houdini. Call me Houdini.” They shook hands. Houdini’s grip felt like a leather-lined vise. “Are you sober enough to join me onstage?”

“Yes. You know, I only had a few sips—”

Houdini waved his hand, shushing Carter. “We’ll discuss that later. It’s a disgusting habit, and it causes weak men to make strong excuses. Come.”

It was no use trying to contradict Houdini, so he followed. He wasn’t exactly sure what Houdini had in mind. He had a naive, childish feeling that Houdini would announce that Mysterioso was out, and Carter was in. A miracle: an hour after being fired, he would be anointed by the most famous man in the world. He and Houdini—Houdini!—stood by the still-trussed-up Mysterioso, who had finally succumbed to exhaustion, and lay still on the stage. The air smelled of smoke from the jugglers’ torches, and Carter wasn’t sure whether to make eye contact with any of Mysterioso’s crew. Houdini patted Carter on the back, hailing the audience with his other hand. Some people watched the stage, but most of the audience was conversing with each other, and, Carter noted, a few young men had recovered themselves enough to exchange calling cards with the girls in rows G and H.

“Maestro, ‘Pomp and Circumstance’ again,” Houdini said, “but
sotto
,
sotto
.”

Carter was fairly sure he meant
pianissimo
, but nonetheless, the orchestra struck up the theme, quietly, and gradually the audience began to pay attention again.

“Lay-dies and Gen-tile-men,” Houdini cried. “I bring to your attention Carter! Carter the Great!” A few people cheered and there was some applause, which Houdini impatiently interrupted. “He is a
very good
magician.” Houdini shook Carter’s hand again. Carter tried to press this moment permanently in his mind’s eye, from the firm and sweaty pressure of their palms and fingers together, to how the clear gelatin Houdini had painted on his face to wrinkle it was now beginning to peel; he registered the expectant gaze of his fellow performers in the wings, as well as his own excitement. For the first time all evening, he even allowed himself to look up to his parents’ box high above stage right: his mother and father and James and Tom were standing, applauding, waving to him—what pride Carter felt! what a moment in his life! “Thank you all for coming,” Houdini said. “Good night. Curtain, please.”

The curtain dropped in front of them with the speed of a falling tree. Houdini broke their grip, patting Carter on the arm. “Really, Carter, you are a fine magician.”

“Thank you.”

Houdini nodded and walked off. Carter stared after him, drawing a slow and steady breath, and then, as though he had added up a long column of figures, he realized the sum of what had happened: Houdini had praised him. The curtain had dropped. Nothing more. He was still fired.

A stagehand found Carter: his family was waiting for him by the orchestra pit, and anxious to meet Houdini.

The dancers filed offstage to remove their paint, except for Annabelle, who was still in her frilly white dress. She settled down by the lion’s cage to roll a smoke. Stagehands tore down the scenery, and a crowd formed around Houdini, who had already taken out a stack of cream-colored calling cards, which he had presigned, “Best—Houdini!!!” As people approached him, he passed them the cards instead of engaging in conversation. He tossed a set of keys to some of Mysterioso’s men, and told them that if they wanted to free their boss before midnight, they should start now.

Then Houdini approached Carter again. “Blackmail was an extravagant illusion,” Houdini said. Carter prepared a “thank you,” but was suddenly unsure of how to take the word
extravagant.
Houdini continued, “It was wonderful how you humiliated that scoundrel, but it’s not as if you can find new enemies with dogs night after night.”

That concept. It sounded familiar. “So I’ve heard.” Clearly, Houdini had talked with Murdoch. He knew, then, that Carter had been fired.

“On the other hand, Houdini has enemies.” Houdini stroked his chin, approximating thoughtfulness.

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Are you familiar with my brother Hardeen?”

Carter had seen Theo Hardeen perform twice, but wasn’t sure if he should admit it. Hardeen was notorious for his deeply felt appreciation of his brother’s act, meaning he stealthily used copies of Houdini’s illusions six months after Houdini had debuted them. The brothers frequently, and vehemently, denounced each other.

Houdini took Carter by the arm and led him far from the rest of the crowd. He spoke quickly, but with perfect enunciation. “He and I have an arrangement and it’s good to escalate it from time to time. If he were to get a dog and parade it around for a few months, I could use your Blackmail effect at the Hippodrome, and it would certainly up the ante. Six thousand people would see it, every night.” Houdini
spoke as if he’d planned this out months beforehand, and Carter was free to be amazed. “I’ll pay you well for the illusion. How much did it cost you?”

Carter didn’t blink. “It cost me two thousand dollars.”

“Two thousand—” Houdini pursed his lips. Then, smiling, he admonished Carter with a fingertip. “That will never do, you must come clean with me, Carter. I’ll pay you eight hundred dollars for it, right now.”

Carter looked at the barrel-vaulted ceiling far, far in the shadows. Houdini was swooping in with a lowball offer. Prolonged exposure to one’s heroes wasn’t necessarily a treat. “No,” he finally said, pursing his lips.

“No?” It was as if Houdini had never heard the word before.

From across the stage, cutting through the stagehands chattering as they struck the set, Baby suddenly cried out. It wasn’t a mighty or fearsome sound—it was a weak, frustrated complaint.

“Excuse me,” Carter said.

“Of course,” Houdini said, bowing slightly.

Carter pushed through the crowd. The word
no
had exhausted him. He needed a moment to think. What kind of an idiot turned down money when he needed it so badly? His father would kill him.

He met Annabelle, who looked with concern into Baby’s cage.

“I don’t get it,” she said. “I was just talking to him, trying to get him to stop pacing. Something’s really killing him.”

Baby gave his anguished moan again, closing his eyes in what looked like a wince, pacing two body lengths in one direction, turning, toenails clacking against the iron floor. Carter walked around the cage, which was divided in half by a false wall. There was a turntable built into the bottom so Mysterioso, in a lion skin, could replace Baby. Carter saw the lion skin heaped in the hidden side of the cage, the side Mysterioso usually crouched in.

First making sure there was no way Baby could get around the false wall, Carter climbed into the cage.

“Hey,” Annabelle said. She climbed in after him, holding up the hem of her dress with one hand. “What are you doing?”

“I want to know how he’s made to roar.” He rolled the lion skin up—it was real, and smelled of paint and formaldehyde—and looked where the wall met the cage’s rubber-matted floor.

Annabelle crouched next to Carter. “I liked your trick.”

“Thank you. It got me fired.”

“Yeah, but you gotta admit, it was worth it. Did you like doing it?”

Carter looked at her with surprise. “I never thought about that. Yes,
very much, except the guilt afterward.” Annabelle said nothing, no “easy meat” comments, so Carter continued. “Do you like scrapping every night?”

“Yeah. Why’s Houdini still here, anyway?”

“He wants to buy Blackmail.”

Annabelle gazed at Houdini, who was now approaching. She whispered, “Don’t let him get it too easy.”

Carter’s fingers brushed against the rubber matting, and he simply said, unhappily, “Oh, no.”

“What’s your problem?”

Carter listened carefully. Baby was pacing in the other side of the cage,
click-click-click
of his toenails. Carter didn’t need to look any further. He’d figured out what made Baby roar. He sat down. Here came Houdini.