Carter Beats the Devil (80 page)
Since I started this book in February 1996, I have written and rewritten attempts at thanking specific people for their support, and yet I’m no closer to expressing the gratitude I feel. We begin with abject groveling toward Bill Sturm, lord of the Oakland History Room, for leading me to periodicals, files, maps, photos, city directories, and a photograph of lonely old Joe Sullivan.
Thank you to Irv Seaver Motorcycles, owners and explicators of a 1923 BMW R32, serial number 41.
Carolyn Birnbaum helped me out immeasurably. Thank you.
Michael Edwards and Norm and Lupe Nielsen were my ambassadors to the world of magic history. Ken Trombly answered many questions. Charles Greene III is the Pierce-Arrow of magic collectors.
Larry Finkler walked me through a certain display of electrical mayhem.
Inspiration came from the unbeatable troika of genius storytellers: Stan Lee, Jack Kirby, and Steve Ditko.
Aimee Bender, the prestidigitator of processing, and Teal “4” Minton are two of the best friends a guy could have. I look forward to more dinners and laughter around great oak tables. Let us all smoke fine cigars.
Friendship, readership, and relentless support came from Melanie Clayton, Mike Sears, Cy Voris, and Rob Stolzer; shots in the arm from the East Bay Express, the Squaw Valley Community of Writers, Ann Heiney, and the UC Irvine Composition programs. Richard Kyle provided enthusiasm then inspiration then (unexpectedly) cold, hard cash that allowed me to continue writing. Kathryn Chetkovich gave me a quiet place to stay for several crucial weeks of writing, rewriting, and squeegeeing the shower tiles. I am grateful to Jonathan Franzen, the spirit of St. Louis, who tucked a copy of
Carter
into his cockpit and milk ran it to Colonel Susan Golomb, Ninja Assassin, who, under cover of the night, led me to Leigh Haber, who, with a pass of her magic wand, vanished scrofulous rabbits and cross-eyed box jumpers from my act. A quick and
altogether incomplete thank-you to Cassie, Phil, Conan, Jane, Casey, and everyone else at Hyperion whose enthusiasm shaped this book.
The UC Irvine Creative Writing program was the greatest learning experience of my life. Thank you to everyone who ever came to a reading, said something nice to me, or
thought
of saying something nice to me. Specific thank-yous to Phil Hay and Danzy Senna (Los Torritos Diablos); Judith Grossman, Wilton Barnhardt, Margot Livesey, Michelle Latiolais, and Geoffrey Wolff, white-bearded wizard who wasn’t satisfied unless I wrote beyond my abilities. Arielle Read, sultana of the MFA program, deserves a chocolate chip cookie from everyone who applies to the program.
When I was three years old, my father used to sit me on the bathroom sink and, while he clipped my toenails, tell me stories about genies in bottles and guys who walked into bars and pulled piano players out of their pockets. Around the same era, my mother let me sit in her lap and type gibberish on her old Olivetti. Then she would circle the words I’d accidentally spelled. I think everyone can see what that led to. The writing life has never gotten better. I love you both.
Also, thank you to the members of my audience who cannot read: Ernie, Batgirl, the ghost of Other Kitty, Lilly Marlene (who indeed spells it differently than her ancestor), Basel the beagle, Henry the tyrant of Flintshire Road, and Damned Spot. We are all siblings under the skin!
Finally: Sebold. Mind reader, levitator, secret weapon, gadfly, butterfly. Artist’s model, box jumper, diva, high-wire aerialist. Quick-change artiste, sensation of the ages, and inquirer into the spirit world. Critic, effects-builder, manager, diva, oracle, mistress of escapes, queen of the mysteries, fellow conjurer, class act, and have I said “diva” already? Friend, sister, secret weapon, paramour. Wife! I love you—let’s take over this evil planet and make it a playground.
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