“Not good. They’re afraid you’ll do something rash.”
“Me? Perish the thought.”
“You need to be careful. No one wants you to disappear. Especially me.”
A single tear ran down her cheek. Growing up, he’d babysat for Holly, and shown her magic tricks to keep her entertained. She was the little sister he’d never had, and one of the few people he ever confided in. He hated to see her so upset.
“I’ll be careful,” he promised.
“You’re not crossing your toes, are you?”
“Toes and fingers are uncrossed.”
“I worry about you. Were the things you saw really that bad?”
“I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Could it have been terrorists?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I have to contact the authorities.”
“You know best.” She slipped out of his jacket and kissed his cheek. “’Night, Peter.”
“Goodnight.”
He watched her go back inside, and climbed into the limo. Herbie, his African-American driver, put down his newspaper and glanced into his mirror.
“You look wiped out, boss. Ready to call it a night?”
“Yeah, Herbie. Let’s beat it.”
Peter poured himself a Scotch from the limo bar. He didn’t drink often, and when he did, there was a reason. The drink burned going down, and cleared his head.
“Do you have something to write on?”
“Pen or pencil?”
“Pencil, please.”
Herbie passed him a yellow pad and a pencil. “Which way home?”
“Through the park. It’s usually quiet this time of night.”
Herbie entered Central Park through the 72nd Street entrance. The park was empty, save for a die-hard jogger and a man walking his dog. Switching on the reading light, Peter stared at the blank pad. The key to stopping the catastrophe in Times Square would be finding the man he’d seen standing in the median. If he could get a drawing to the police, they could track the man down, and avert the disaster. He wouldn’t have to talk to them-just get the drawing in their hands, and call the man a threat. It sounded like a plan, and he began to sketch.
He was a passable artist, and the man’s face slowly took shape. Square chin, a scar on his left cheek, another beneath the hairline on his forehead. Flat nose, possibly broken a few times. Soulless eyes. Whoever he was, he’d lived a harsh life.
Peter appraised his work. It was a decent likeness, only something was missing. He added a scowl to the man’s face. That did the trick. He’d captured the thing about the man that was so unnerving. He could watch innocent people die without caring.
They’d reached the 72nd Street exit on the east side of the park. Herbie got onto Fifth Avenue, and headed south to 62nd Street, where he hung a left. They pulled up in front of a nondescript brownstone on a street of quiet elegance.
“So what are you drawing?” his driver asked.
Peter passed the sketch through the partition. Limo drivers saw hundreds of faces every single day. Maybe Herbie could help.
“Ever see him before?” Peter asked.
Herbie had a look. He shook his head, and passed the pad back.
“If I gave you copy of this sketch tomorrow, could you e-mail it to other drivers you know, and tell them to be on the lookout for this guy?”
“Sure,” Herbie said.
“Good. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Peter climbed out of the limo. The driver’s window came down, and Herbie stuck his head out. “If you don’t mind my asking, who is that guy, anyway?”
The pad was clutched in Peter’s hand, the face staring up at him. The harsh streetlight accentuated the man’s utter callousness, and Peter could not help but shudder.
“He’s the Devil, Herbie, and we need to find him.”
“Got it, boss. See you in the A.M.”
Peter climbed the steps to his brownstone. The downstairs lights were burning brightly. Liza had stayed up. A warm drink was waiting, and something good to eat. She was wonderful that way, and made him happy in ways that no one had ever managed to before.
He hurried inside.
2
New York’s meat-packing district was not where people went to see live theater. Located on the West Side, the district’s once gritty meat-packing plants were now occupied by nice restaurants, late-night clubs, and fashion boutiques. The neighborhood had found new life, and a soul all its own.
Peter had chosen to stage his full-evening magic show in the district for this very reason. By avoiding bustling Times Square, he did not have to compete with the musicals, revivals, and serious dramas that fueled New York’s Theater District. He was the new kid on the block, and his fans ate it up. Each night, they flocked to his shows, desperate to find out what this young miracle-maker would do next in the abandoned meat-packing plant that was his stage.
Peter stood inside his dressing room. It took longer to get ready for a magic show than it did to perform one. He was nearly done with his preparations, and he adjusted the elastic pull that ran up the right sleeve of his jacket. The pull was one of his favorite props, and it let him make small objects disappear in the blink of an eye.
He stood in front of the mirror and tested the pull. Picking up a playing card, he secretly attached the card to the pull using a small clip. By extending his arms, he made the card race up his sleeve. To the mirror, it looked like real magic.
“Hey, Peter, can you talk?”
It was Liza, speaking through the inner-canal earpiece that he wore during his show. Along with being the love of his life, Liza was his assistant, the best he’d ever had.
“As well as the next guy,” he said into the tiny microphone sewn into his shirt collar.
“Very funny. Everyone’s in their seats. It’s a good crowd.”
“Sold out?”
“Yup. The last tickets got bought right before the doors opened.”
“That’s great. Is Snoop there with you?”
“He’s standing next to me. Ready to go over the details?”
“Let ’er rip.”
A magician’s assistant wore many hats. Liza and Snoop worked as ushers, and chatted with the patrons as they were led to their seats. Any valuable information they gleaned was passed to Peter before the show began. Magicians called this preshow work. It allowed them to know intimate details about the audience before ever stepping foot on stage.
“Here we go,” Liza began. “Row A, seats five and six are an older couple from Battle Creek, Michigan, named Wayne and Marilyn Barcomb. Their son, Michael, is about to graduate from NYU Medical School. Michael’s sitting in seat seven. He was talking on his cell phone as they got seated. I think there’s a young lady in the wings.”
“Engaged?” Peter asked.
“It sounds that way. She’s going to meet the parents on Sunday.”
“Did you get her name?”
“Suzanne.”
