“Another med student?”
“Yes-how did you know?”
“Just a guess. Great job.”
“Thanks, Peter.”
Snoop went next. Before joining the show, Snoop had been a computer hacker, and had gotten his nickname because he enjoyed sticking his nose into other people’s business.
“You’re going to love this,” Snoop said. “Row F, seats eight through twelve are five ladies who could be stand-ins for
“The birthday girl’s sitting in seat number 10,” Peter told him.
“Cut it out.”
“I’m serious. I’ll bet you lunch.”
“No thanks. How do you know she’s in seat number 10?”
“Simple deduction. Five ladies are out on the town, and one is having a birthday. The birthday girl will sit in the middle so none of her friends will feel left out.”
“Wow. I’m impressed,” Snoop said.
“Merci. Keep going.”
Snoop recited the rest of the things he’d overheard while taking patrons to their seats. One lady had a poodle who’d eaten a box of chocolates, and nearly died. Another woman was worried that a passport for a trip to Paris might not come through in time. And one poor man was a recent victim of identity theft, and had been forced to cut up his credit cards. It was just enough information for Peter to open up the door to a person’s psyche, and plumb their thoughts.
“Want to add anything, Zack?” Peter asked.
Zack handled ticket sales and worked the door. He was a muscle head, and cut an imposing figure. Zack had once handled security for a heavy metal band, and had a sixth sense when it came to spotting trouble. “Sure do. A strange guy with a British accent approached me in the lobby, and asked if you still accepted challenges during the show. He had this way about him that bothered me. When I asked him what he had in mind, he told me to piss off.”
“Was he drunk?” Peter asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“Stoned?”
“His breath was clean.”
“Off in the head?”
“No, he acted pretty normal.”
“Think he’s a troublemaker?”
“He sure came across that way. Want me to give him a refund, and ask him to leave?”
Everyone in show business had to deal with hecklers. Throwing the guy out on his ass was an option, only there was always the chance he’d file a lawsuit, and cause bigger headaches.
“Leave him alone,” Peter said.
“You sure?” Zack replied.
“Positive. Tell me what he looks like, so I can be on the lookout.”
“He’s in his mid-thirties, about six-foot tall, real athletic-looking, with a snarl on his face like a junkyard dog,” Zack said. “He’s got a bad vibe.”
Lying on his dressing room table was the sketch Peter had drawn after last night’s seance. He picked up the pad and stared at the man he’d nicknamed the Grim Reaper.
“Is he dressed in black?”
“Yeah. He looks like a funeral director. How did you know?”
“Where’s he sitting?”
“Last row, on the aisle,” Zack said.
“Keep an eye on him. Any sign of trouble, throw him out.”
“You still didn’t tell me how you knew what he was wearing.”
“I guessed.”
“You’re going to have to tell me how you do that someday.”
A backstage buzzer went off. There were five minutes left before the curtain went up. They had a show to do, and Peter put the strange man out of his mind.
“Good job, everyone,” he said. “Now, let’s go make some magic.”
3
For an audience attending Peter’s magic show, it was about the experience.
Entering through blackened front doors, patrons stood in an unheated lobby listening to a haunting piano composition by avant-garde composer Philip Glass. No food or drink was sold, although eco-friendly programs were available, provided a ten-dollar donation was made to a homeless shelter which Peter supported.
Fifteen minutes before the curtain rose, ushers clad in black led ticket-holders down a long, claustrophobic hallway that had not been painted since the days a sausage-processing plant had occupied the building. The stains on the walls were dark and menacing.
The hallway led to a cozy six-hundred-seat theater designed by the magician himself. The stage had no curtains or visible props, just a handful of shadows produced by muted lighting. The seating was tiered, the chairs plush and comfortable. From the ceiling hung silk screen posters of famous magicians past. Houdini, The Amazing Dunninger, Thurston, Blackstone, and Carter the Great all gazed down.
Once in their seats, patrons were handed a sheet which outlined the house rules. Cell phones and cameras were forbidden, as was any electronic recording. During the show, Peter would invite members of the audience to request tricks from his repertoire which were not on the bill. Whenever possible, he would accommodate them.
The format was unique. Peter wanted the audience to be a part of the performance. To accomplish this, he took chances, and could not always predict how each show would come out. It was risky, yet he’d discovered it was why people came to this unlikely area of the city to see him work. They wanted to be part of something unique, and he was not about to disappoint them.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to
The house lights flickered before going dark. The theater grew hushed. A flash of light hit center stage, followed by a curling puff of smoke. Peter stepped through the cloud wearing a perfectly tailored black Italian suit, his black hair worn short and slicked straight back.
“Good evening, and welcome to my show,” he said.
The applause was generous. He was becoming the face of magic to a generation that had grown up social networking on computers, his tricks endlessly discussed on forums, Web sites, and in chat rooms. For many, the scrutiny would have been unbearable; for him, it was simply another opportunity to showcase his art. He stepped to the foot of the stage.
“I was bitten by the magic bug as a boy. I bought my first tricks at the age of eight, and practiced until I could do them right. It took a long time. While I was practicing those tricks, I imagined all the things I would do if magic really was possible. This became the focus of my life: I wanted to turn the things I’d imagined into reality. I suppose you could say that I became a magician well before I was able to perform a single trick. Being a magician
