Carter Beats the Devil (42 page)

So Carter had lain down on James’s couch that night to return to scheming about Mr. Philo Farnsworth. How to approach him, and what sort might he be, and was he the sort to license his invention to a magician? Carter had specific plans that went vague in places, so thinking about them late at night had left him nervous. Around 2
A
.
M
., he began flipping through the latest several numbers of the
Sphinx
—never a good idea for relaxing, as the gossip columns usually detailed who was ahead of him, and who was fast approaching from below.

He had read cautiously this time, assuring himself no one else had television. Augustus Rapp had contributed more atrocious patter. The Society of American Magicians Golden Gate assembly had met in a waffle house and afterward, “dancing was attempted.” Page ten was a full-page advertisement that had nothing whatever to do with his situation—E. F. Rybolt, a distant acquaintance, was selling off his magical literature library for $10,000. The list of available volumes seemed quite exciting, so Carter thought about writing him, then wondered if he had $10,000 to spare.

He tried to calculate his net worth, so difficult a task he had to close his eyes, which led to various disappointed dreams, and when he awoke, he made coffee and stared out James’s window to watch all the boats on
the bay. He had several bank accounts that James had set up, and drafts seemed to go in and out like the tide. During the War, he’d taken over the old Martinka magic shop, but he was hopeless at all the work involved, and he ultimately sold it to Houdini. He still had the Oakland property, the Napa property, and had purchased James’s half of their parents’ old house in Presidio Heights, but what meant the most to him was technically his most worthless holding: his island, Koh Pheung Thawng in the Andaman Sea, a gift from the Siamese King.

There was a photograph, tinted, thirty inches by eight inches, framed on the wall of James’s study. Taken with a military camera that rotated on its axis, the photo depicted a line of tethered animals on the beach: zebras, llamas, horses, even a cat and two dogs (Mooch! Earl! Noodles!) that had performed in a Sells brothers high-wire act. Carter looked up and down the line, mentally adding Tug, who would retire within the year.

At the center of the photograph, waving awkwardly—they had frozen in position for five minutes—were the managers Carter had chosen to rule the roost. Karl and Evelyn Kowaleski. Though they had disappeared after their disastrous vaudeville closure, they’d seen the notice in
Billboard
, and had sent a short note of condolence when Sarah died. They were cooks at a fraternity in Middletown, Connecticut, but Evelyn wrote that they were rehearsing and, any day now, they would be back in the game.

In the photo, they looked proud and anxious that at any moment someone might take this little paradise away from them. Carter waved “hello” back to them. No matter where he went, there was a small dot in the Andaman Sea where he had made someone happy. It was very hard to rescue people and the older he became, the more impossible it seemed. Today, he was going to find Philo Farnsworth and, if necessary, rescue him.

But now it was time for his morning exercises. He poured milk into a saucepan and set it on the stove on a low flame. Then he took a small wooden chest off a shelf in James’s study and returned to the kitchen. With one eye on the milk—it had to warm but not boil—he angled a mirror over the table in the breakfast nook. Removing items from the chest, he arranged and rearranged, until he was satisfied, ten silver dollars, a twenty-dollar gold piece, two decks of cards, three foam balls, three billiard balls, a candle, and a pack of cigarettes.

He took the saucepan off the flame, poured the milk into two bowls, and stirred a few tablespoons of olive oil into each. When he was satisfied with the proportions, he submerged his hands. He flexed them, eyes closed, visualizing his skin becoming more supple and his ulnar, median, and radial nerves more sensitive.

After five minutes soaking, then patting his hands dry on Egyptian cotton, Carter performed the Downs coin roll, right hand first, then left hand, then coins rolling down each hand, fingers tucked in so it looked like the dollars were riding a street carousel. Then fifty French drops with each hand, then pinch drops, then it was an exercise in palming stacks of coins in either hand. He had a small cut on his right forefinger, from Baby’s playful swiping, and it made his finger just stiff enough that the finger palm vanishes from that hand looked mechanical. He tilted the mirror from all angles, to see what an audience stage left, or stage right, would see.

His feelings about close-up magic were especially acute now. If magic were a channel he’d been digging his entire life as a way of linking himself to others, television would infinitely expand it. He could bring images of his hands to the farthest reaches of the house. He imagined the third gallery of a performance, where there was a dirty-collared, cloth-hatted man forever squinting at performers, suddenly able to see every flourish of a coin vanish. The best audience member was one who felt informed and baffled at the same time.

He heard footsteps in the hallway, and looked up. Excellent! Entering the room was Tom Crandall. The moment Tom saw who was sitting at the table, he froze, as if prepared to disbelieve the next ten things out of Charles Carter’s mouth.

“Good morning,” said Carter, brightly.

Tom glanced out the window, confirmed that it was indeed morning, and then grumbled “Hello.”

“I’ve made coffee.”

“Mmmm.” Tom looked into the pot, took a mug, and slowly poured, sniffing at the curls of steam. It was rare for Carter to get a chance to practice in front of someone, and he now desperately wanted Tom to come over and sit down near him. But Tom was a hard sell. He’d lost a great deal of patience and enthusiasm since helping with the Blackmail illusion in 1911. Like many college athletes, Tom had found his thirties a continuous disappointment. He had bags under his eyes and usually behaved in Carter’s presence as if he were about four hundred years old.

“Come over here, Tom, and pick a card.”

“I’d rather have a nail driven through my forehead.”

“Oh, now! How are you?”

“Tired.”

“And how was seeing your family?”

He shook his head. “Mmm . . . a lot like having a nail driven through my forehead.” As he sipped coffee, Tom began to complain, and the
longer his list of discomforts (sitting in the church pew with his bad back, how the train compartment two nights ago had caused his circulation to rebel, etc.), the more he seemed to perk up and by the end he was even smiling somewhat.

Carter looked at him appraisingly. “Gritty, debonair, battling,” he said.

“That was a long time ago.”

“In your own way, you’re still gritty, debonair, and battling.”

Tom looked himself over in Carter’s hand mirror, then shook his head.

Carter took a chance. “You know, I’d be honored if you’d watch this card routine.”

Silence. A sip of coffee. Then Tom
did
nod, so Carter shot three cards, facedown, out of the deck. “Tell me which one is the queen of hearts?”

“Oh, God.”

“Just guess.”

Tom pointed. Carter turned over the card: the queen of hearts. He looked at Tom, who had absolutely nothing written on his face. “That was amazing. Let’s eat breakfast.”

Carter was a little hurt by that, and must have shown it, for Tom apologized in his own way. “All right, all right, do some more.”

Carter fanned a deck in each hand, spread them on the table like ribbons, turned them over, waterfalled them from hand to hand, and vanished them, just like that. Then he produced card after card until he had two decks, complete, and then he did every trick he could think of using a Hindoo Shuffle.

“Well, I’m exhausted,” Tom said, just as James was coming into the room.

“Morning, Charlie.” James touched both men lightly on their backs. “Tom, did you ask him yet?”

“What were you going to ask me, Tom?”

“Nothing.”

“Ask me anything. I made you sit through a magic show, I apologize, ask me anything.”

Tom looked at James, who gave him an encouraging look. Tom leaned in closely. “All right.
Ramon Novarro
?” He raised his eyebrows.

“Ahh, Ramon Novarro,” Carter sighed. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I do believe he’s married.”

“Like that makes a world of difference!”

“No, I mean really married, as in happily.”

“That man is such a tease,” James declared while pouring coffee.

“He definitely courts a certain kind of fan,” Tom said, crossing to his desk. “Look at this.”

He produced for Carter an eight-by-ten photo that had been tinted. It showed Ramon Novarro, eyebrows cocked, holding a cigarette at a jaunty angle. It was signed, “To my supporter Tom Crandell, sincerely, Ramon Novarro.”

Tom was incensed. “See?”

“The way he’s holding his cigarette?”

“No! The tie!” Tom jabbed his finger at the offending neckwear. “He’s wearing a red tie.”

As always when faced with a secret code, Carter tried to make no sign whatever, silently bringing his coffee cup to the sink, but curiosity got the best of him. “You mean a red tie . . .”

“What kind of a man wears a red tie, but someone who’s
that way
?” Tom made a swishing gesture with his wrist.

Carter glanced at his brother’s tie—it was red. Carter, for whom good days began when he realized he had much to learn, whispered, “Holy mackerel.” Red ties. Who knew?

A few minutes later, the three men were set up with bacon and eggs and cereal and toast and Carter used the Thurston and Dalton posters as kindling for a marvelous fire.

James watched his brother’s rivals go up in flames. “I’m trying to determine what Mom would say about your little fire.”

“How sad for us all she’s in Brazil. James, I need to ask you a serious question.”

“Mother would say that burning posters shows aggressive tendencies. You’re getting ready for glorious—”

“How much money do I have?”

The question hung over the breakfast table, and Carter felt like he’d appeared at the opera in his union suit, trap door flapping open, until James asked, “Why?”

“I want to pursue television as part of the act. Thurston spent fifty thousand on Beauty, and I want to spend at least that.” When there was no response, he added, “If possible.”

James said, “Howard spent three thousand on Beauty. What made you think he spent fifty?”

“His posters claimed—” He stopped dead. And felt like the worst kind of rube.

“Yes, they did. He spent three thousand. I have no idea how much it
would cost to use television onstage. Do we even know if there’s a working system anywhere? Or is this all in Farnsworth’s head?”

“I don’t know if there’s a system. But we have the only set of plans. And Farnsworth is trying to get investors, so licensing shouldn’t be a problem, as it’s free exposure for him. So how much money do I have?”

Tom cleared his throat. “I think I’ll go through the mail. I’ll be in the other room.”

After Tom had closed the door, Carter looked wistful. “Odd how you can talk about sex in modern company these days, but money is still taboo.”

James put his hands together and addressed his thumbs. “Charlie, you don’t have any money.”

“I know I have property, but don’t I have some sort of income that—”

“You have the properties, and you have a very good income from your magic shows, all of which goes out immediately. You have a small savings fund that generally lasts you through the off-season. Are you really serious about becoming financially responsible?”

“Absolutely.”

James went to his writing desk, from which he withdrew a small journal. “This is an expense book.”

“I’ve seen one before.”

“Max Friz of Germany is going to give you $7,500 today. Write that amount here, on this line. No, no, here. Good. And below that, put another $2,500.”

“What’s that for?”

“That’s the amount I always reserve for you to develop your show each season. It generally pays for new flats and scrim, and for you and Ledocq to put your stamp on all the fine effects available out there. So—”

“I add the two figures together and get ten thousand. This is easy, James.”

James gave him a look that was difficult to interpret, but that gradually became a patient smile. “That’s your budget.”

“For the show.”

“For everything. Your life, including the show. Write all of your personal expenses right here, and everything you spend on the show over there.”

Carter nodded. “Now what other money do I have?”

“What do you mean?”

There had to be some obvious description, but he didn’t know the
words. “I mean remember how I once had money tied up in Martinka’s shop and then I cashed out, correct? What sort of old War Bonds, or stocks, or—”

James shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Because there was an advertisement in the
Sphinx
for a magic library I’d love to acquire.”

“Charlie, really. Nothing.”

“But I have a Pierce-Arrow and a Bentley and—”

“Exactly.”

Comprehension arrived: a cold tingling that settled in like influenza. “I see. My new zest for this comes when my back’s to the wall?”

James nodded.

Carter nodded back at him. “Good. There’s something good about that.” And he actually felt pleased, as if he’d counted all the bottles of wine in his cellar.
This is what I own
. He checked his watch. It was just after nine o’clock. He stood, and brushed imaginary lint off his lapels. “It’s going to be a busy day. Max Friz first. And I’m going to pay Borax a visit around noon, and—”

“Aren’t you worried about being followed by thugs?”

His hands in his pockets, a big smile on his face, Carter shook his head.

“Oh, you think you can handle them?”

“I
know
I can handle them, but what I mean is, they’re about to realize that I don’t have what they’re looking for.”

“But you
do
.”