“No,” Rudge said. “I didn’t. I couldn’t. I don’t even know who he was. I never saw him before.”
“You didn’t have to see him, because it was murder by remote control,” the sidekick said. “While everyone was partying at the Fortress, you slipped into the showroom and sabotaged the tank. Probably just had to fiddle with that latch.”
Rudge felt an odd glow of pride. All he had to do was admit to this charge and he would go down in history as the greatest practitioner of stage magic since Houdini-the man who gave P’tol P’kah his greatest illusion, and then, when he misused it, took it away from him again. But as the glow faded, Rudge remembered that all of Houdini’s great talent couldn’t save him from a ruptured appendix. In fact, it was his immortal reputation that sent him to an early grave, as some drunken college lout felt compelled to test the magician’s claim of a stomach impervious to any blow. If Rudge were sent to prison, there was no doubt what his fate would be. He would be besieged by fellow felons pleading with him to teach them the art of escape. And when they realized that this was not something that could be picked up in an afternoon, but that needed to be studied over decades, their frustration would turn to rage, and that rage would turn against him.
“I couldn’t have,” Rudge said. “I was in the bar all night until P’tol P’kah stomped in.”
“Or you made it appear that you were in the bar.”
Rudge reached into his jacket pockets and pulled out receipt after receipt. He threw them in the youth’s face. “Look at them,” he demanded. “Did I conjure up these bar bills?”
“If you can make a rabbit appear out of thin air, it shouldn’t be hard to conjure up a receipt.”
“You saw me confront him in the main parlor. How could I have been rigging his device if I was right there?”
“Did we see you?” the faux acolyte said. “Or did you perform some particularly cunning illusion to make us think we saw you?”
“Maybe he has a secret twin brother who stood in for him,” the sidekick said. “Or a machine that manufactures clones.”
“I don’t know any cunning illusions!” The words forced their way out of Rudge’s throat before he could stop them. “I do tricks; that’s all. Tricks I buy out of some mail-order catalog! I haven’t come up with a new gag in two decades!”
Rudge was aware that an entire birthday party’s worth of children was staring up at him. He didn’t care. Let them stare. It felt astonishingly good to tell the truth.
But the sidekick didn’t seem to want to accept it. “You taught P’tol P’kah the Vanishing Man.”
“I taught him nothing!” Rudge shouted. “I have no idea how he did that illusion.”
“I find that hard to believe,” the youth said. “A man of your great talent.”
“It’s true,” Rudge said. “I was desperate to know how he did it. I spent a fortune going to his show, studying it from every angle, searching for the tell. You can ask any of the other magicians.”
“How would they know?”
“Because they all did the same thing,” Rudge said. “I used to see them at the performances whenever they could scrape together the two-hundred-dollar ticket price. Except for Phlegm, of course.”
“What, you wouldn’t see the show if you were congested?”
“Phlegm is a person,” Rudge said.“At least she claims to be a person. You saw her-that tattooed freak show who sticks knives in her eyeballs.”
“You know,” the sidekick said, “some people might think it odd for a guy in a gold suit stained with rabbit pee to call anyone else a freak show.”
“It’s not an insult; it’s a fact,” Rudge said. “Back in the nineties, she was part of one of those New Vaudeville tours. Her act was Phlegm, the One-Woman Freak Show.”
“So she didn’t go to see the show to figure out how he did it?”
“Are you kidding?” Rudge said. “She was the only one who didn’t buy tickets. She got a job as a cocktail waitress so she could see it twice a night. Still didn’t do her any good.”
The two bad boys exchanged a glance, as if they were trying to decide if he was telling the truth. Rudge decided to nudge them along.
“P’tol P’kah was the best of us,” Rudge pleaded. “I think before he disappeared for good, some of his peers-so-called peers-were beginning to think he actually did have magical powers. Or was really from Mars. Or anything that would explain how he could actually dissolve in a tank of water. Because no one ever saw through the trick.”
“I want to believe you,” the youth said. “I really do. But your talent is so great, I can’t imagine an act you couldn’t duplicate, or even improve on, with just a little effort.”
“No, please, you have to believe me,” Rudge said. “The last time I actually earned my fee was during the Reagan administration.”
The youth and his sidekick seemed to think it over; then they both shrugged. “Nah,” the sidekick said, “we can’t see that. Not after the brilliant show you put on this afternoon.”
“It wasn’t brilliant,” Rudge pleaded. “It couldn’t even keep the attention of a bunch of second graders. My dove died of alcohol poisoning. My rabbit ruined the carpet.”
“We all know misdirection is the secret of any great magician’s art.”
“I’ve got proof!” Rudge said, suddenly remembering. “I videotaped every one of P’tol P’kah’s performances that I saw.”
Now both the youth and the sidekick looked interested. Rudge pressed his point. “I can give them to you. I can take you to them right after the party.”
For a moment, the youth looked like he was going to give in. Then his face hardened. “I think we should go now.”
“Why?”
The youth pointed back at the house, where Jimmy Eisenstein’s father was storming out through the glass door, carrying the still-dripping rabbit cage. Behind him, there was a path of bleached drops on the carpet.
“You drive,” Rudge said.
Chapter Fifteen
“ VHS?” Gus looked down at the huge pile of vid eocassettes on the desk in front of them. “Who uses VHS tapes anymore?”
“Probably someone who earned his last three-digit paycheck right after they stopped making the Beta max.” Shawn was on his back, reaching up behind the credenza on which the TV sat, searching with his hands for a free set of inputs to which he could attach the rented video player. With a grunt, he managed to force the jacks into their sockets, then stood up and pushed the credenza back against the wall.
“Ready for the magic,” Shawn said. “And by ‘magic,’ I mean a crummy video of some cheap stage trick.”
“Are you back to that?” Gus said, walking over to the machine and slipping in a tape. “Because I saw your face after the Dissolving Man. You were as amazed as anyone else.”
Gus pressed PLAY, but all the TV showed was a screen full of snow. Shawn was about to dive back behind the credenza when there was a clunk as the tape reached its end and started to rewind.
“First of all,” Shawn said, “I thought I was quite clear that any amazement I might have been registering was dedicated almost entirely to the sight of the chubby dead guy floating in the tank.”
“Almost entirely?”
“I’m being honest,” Shawn said. “I was also amazed that people pay two hundred bucks to sit through that act.”
“So now you’re going to tell me you know how he disappeared?” Gus said.
“I haven’t figured it out yet, but I will,” Shawn said. “And when I do, everyone who was impressed is going to feel pretty stupid.”
“What is it with you and stage magic?” Gus said.
“It’s a fake.”
