But he quickly realized that what he heard in Shawn’s voice was not a tremble of fear, but a poorly repressed chuckle.
“And that’s funny somehow?” Gus said.
“It is if you know the number,” Shawn said. “What did the invitation say again?”
“It said we needed to know the magic word, or we’d be eaten to death,” Gus said. “Or words to that effect.”
“I don’t care about the effect. I need to know the exact words.”
Gus called up the image of the small red type in front of his eyes. Even in this remembered state it was hard to read. “If you wish admittance to the Fortress, you must say the magic words, else all is forfeit.”
“Okay then, let’s say the magic words.”
“We don’t know them!”
“Don’t we?”
“No, Shawn, we don’t. That’s why we’re standing in the dark, surrounded by vicious hell hounds.”
Gus could almost hear Shawn’s smirk. “My friend, you are wrong on every count.”
“Then if you’re so smart, you go ahead and say the magic words.”
“I don’t think you want me to do that.”
“To save our lives? Say the words.”
“You’re going to be mad.”
“Because you figured it out first? I’ll live-if you say the words.”
“Fine, I will,” Shawn said. He took a long, dramatic pause, and then let his voice ring out over the hillside. “The magic words!”
Gus felt his heart sink in his chest. At least it would be harder for the dogs to get to it that way, he thought. He had actually allowed himself to hope that Shawn knew what he was doing, that they might get out of this alive. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to prepare himself for the first fangs to penetrate his flesh.
After a moment, he realized there were no fangs. There weren’t even any growls. The dogs seemed to have disappeared. Cautiously he opened his eyes just as the entire hillside erupted in a blaze of landscape lighting. There wasn’t a bared tooth anywhere, unless you counted the ones in Shawn’s broad smile.
“The magic words?” Gus sputtered. “That’s it? That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Told you you were going to be mad.”
Gus realized he was. Relieved, yes, at no longer facing a hideous, drooling death. But also annoyed at the simplicity-in fact, the stupidity-of the clue.
“How did you figure it out?”
“You’ve just got to know how magicians work,” Shawn said.
“How do they work?”
“Mostly as waiters,” Shawn said. “It’s convenient for them because they can use the tux for both jobs. Shall we head on up to the Fortress?”
Shawn waved Bud’s present up the now brightly illuminated path to a grand craftsman manor that sat on top of the hill.
“But where are the dogs?”
“Same place they always were.” Shawn pointed to a spot a foot away from the path where a small speaker was staked between two lavender bushes. Gus could see several other speakers hidden in the landscaping.
“How did you know?”
“Magic.”
“Exactly what kind of magic?”
“The magic of the human ear,” Shawn said. “Do you realize how complex that organ is?”
Gus glared at him and waited for him to continue.
“The dog growls were on a tape loop,” Shawn said. “After the fourth dog joined in, there was a tiny blip where it was spliced together. And since it seemed unlikely that the canines were doing the editing job themselves, I figured out that there were no dogs anywhere around.”
Shawn headed up the path to the Fortress. Gus chugged behind him until they reached the front door, a mammoth slab of green painted oak with a sign across it reading REALITY ENDS HERE.
“I’ll say,” Shawn muttered as he pushed the door open.
Inside, the old craftsman had been skillfully transformed into something that looked like the haunted house at a middle school carnival. Plastic skeletons dangled from the ceiling, their formerly white limbs encased in gray dust, and the fake spiderwebs that had been sprayed in the corners had all been covered with real ones. A banner hand-painted in red tempera on butcher paper welcomed Bud’s bachelor party to the Fortress.
Gus looked around the room, dismayed. He had spent much of the afternoon reading up on the Fortress of Magic, and until the attack by imaginary dogs, he’d been looking forward to seeing it. Founded in the late twenties by a group of professional magicians, the Fortress was a place for “the peers of prestidigitation” to “practice their dark arts away from the prying eyes of the public.” In its heyday, every great stage magician stopped by whenever they passed through Santa Barbara, and many made the trip west specifically to visit. It was a place where they could talk about their craft and test their new illusions on the most demanding audience of all.
Over the years, the Fortress had gained a certain mystique, mostly because only members were allowed in, and only professional magicians could become members. Of course, that mystique had diminished as the small group of magicians who sat on the Fortress’ board started to rent the place out for parties to bring in a little money for operating expenses. Apparently there had been a fierce controversy over the idea of allowing nonpros in to see the magicians’ sanctum sanc torum, but when the board insisted that they needed money to stay in business, and the only two options were to open the place to outsiders or raise prices at the bar, the membership quickly fell in line.
Now the Fortress was an exclusive club open only to members-and to anyone who held an invitation for a fundraiser, a book club meeting, or a bachelor party. Still, the magicians who attended continued to act as if they were in their own private preserve, testing out their new illusions on each other while making sure their business cards ended up in the pockets of anyone who looked like they might be hiring.
From the descriptions Gus had read online, he’d expected the Fortress to be a grand, Gothic spectacle, a step inside a private world few would ever have the opportunity to experience. Instead, he saw a run-down mansion with wobbly furniture, threadbare carpets, and a smog of desperation hanging over the small crowd that populated it. He was momentarily surprised that none of the Web sites he’d checked out had described the place as anything but a palace of wonders. But he quickly realized that the illusion of exclusivity was stronger and more appealing than anything reality had to offer-what was the point of gaining admittance to this fabulously private place, only to describe it as a dump? If the writer’s privilege was to mean anything, the Fortress had to be portrayed as something, well, magical.
What it felt like more than anything else was the headquarters of an Elks lodge that hadn’t recruited a new member since Nixon resigned.
“This is some rocking party,” Shawn said. “My father doesn’t know what he’s missing.”
“So when are you going to tell me what he did that was so bad, they banned him for life?” Gus said.
“It was a little misunderstanding, that’s all,” Shawn said. “They thought they should be able to practice their craft in their own building. He disagreed.”
“Let’s just find this Bud Flanek guy and get out of here,” Gus said. “This place is depressing.”
“If there’s one thing that professional magicians and aging bachelor partyers have in common, it’s their choice of location,” Shawn said. “We’ll find him in the bar.”
A burst of laughter from down the hall strongly suggested where that bar might be found. But when they turned to head in its direction, Gus nearly tripped over an enormous lump on the floor. Looking down, he saw a crown of bald scalp laurelled with graying ringlets that resolved into a greasy ponytail. Fleshy hands scrabbled over the carpet, scraping together a mound of playing cards.
The lump looked up and Gus found himself peering into the cherubic face of a Quattrocento putto -or at least what such a cupid might have looked like if he’d spent his thirties and forties trapped inside a bottle of vodka.
“Knew I shouldn’t have tried the Brazilian shuffle in public yet,” the putto said sheepishly as he gathered the rest of the cards into a neat block and scooped them into one hand. He used the other to push himself up to his
