“For that? I don’t think so. But it’s probably going to swell. And maybe turn a weird color.”
As she left my apartment I called after her, “Shut my door before opening yours!”
I checked the dish towel again. Still bleeding.
Some barking upstairs. Then Harley was back in my apartment with her first-aid kit. She set it on the coffee table, went into the kitchen, and returned with a roll of paper towels and hand soap and a bowl of water. She squatted down beside me and dipped a paper towel into the water, squeezed out some soap, and gently washed the wound. It hurt.
“Stop moving,” she said. “You’re worse than the dogs.”
She patted my leg dry with another paper towel, taped a bandage on, and rolled down my pant leg.
She looked around the place. She’d never been in here before. We’d only ever spoken on the landing or on the street. She was a couple of years out of college, and I knew I didn’t need to impress her. Still, I didn’t like seeing my place through someone else’s eyes. “How long have you lived here?” she asked.
“A year or so.” It’d been eight years. “I’m gonna decorate soon.”
“You have a lot of books.” There were two faux-wood bookshelves along one wall. “Are they all magic books?”
“Most of them.”
“I thought magicians are supposed to keep their secrets.”
“Books are okay,” I said. “Like a loophole?”
“Yeah, I guess. Damn, my leg hurts.”
“Let me get you some ice.” She went into my kitchen again. The freezer opened and closed. Then a couple of cabinets. “You have any liquor?” Through my ceiling I heard the click click click of the dog pacing. Probably plotting.
“Under the sink,” I told her.
She opened and closed a cabinet. The sound of pouring.
She returned with the ice in another dish towel and two glasses. I took one: straight-up vodka. And I didn’t buy the good stuff.
Harley took a sip and asked, “Who’s that guy?”
She meant the guy hanging up across the room. Except for my calendar of bookings, the black-and-white poster was the only thing on the wall. I knew she was only asking about it because I had revealed myself to be squeamish and cowardly, and people probably blacked out less if they were in the middle of a conversation.
In the photo, the magician was about fifty. Tuxedo, top hat, cape. An old-time look, but then again he was old-time. Also: white gloves. Gloves.
“Richard Valentine Pitchford,” I said, and groaned a little. “He went by Cardini.”
“So card tricks?”
“He revolutionized card magic. And he wore gloves. You wouldn’t believe how hard that is.”
“Probably like doing surgery on a dog while wearing gloves. That’s what the vets do.”
She had it wrong, though. Card magic was one hundred percent touch. A doctor’s form-fitting latex gloves were nothing compared with white dress gloves. But I wasn’t going to argue with the person patching me up. On the day Harley moved in, I’d seen her lugging boxes from a U-Haul and didn’t go outside to help. I couldn’t bear the thought of helping her and then being forgotten forever.
“I should’ve helped you move in,” I told her now.
“Huh?”
“When you moved in. I was at home. I should’ve helped.”
She looked surprised for an instant. Then a shrug. “You didn’t know me.” She nodded toward the carton of lo mein. “Do you want that? I can get you a fork.”
I shook my head and held the cold dish towel against my leg. Harley’s pajamas had stars and moons on them, and the cuffs of the pajama pants were orange. She looked like a rocket ship.
She frowned. “Are you going to rat me out to Tony?” Our landlord.
I glanced down at my pants: the bleeding seemed to be slowing. “Just keep your dog away from me.”
“He isn’t mine,” she said. “He needs a home.” She took a drink. “Did you know him?”
“Know who?”
“Cardini.”
I shook my head. “He died before I was born.” Still, I’d spent more than a few hours over the years imagining such a meeting. He watches me do a few card flourishes, a trick or two, and he strokes his pointy white beard and flashes his winning smile and says something beautiful.
“He was a perfect magician,” I said. “Absolutely pure in his movements. He developed his magic in the trenches during the First World War. That’s why he wore the gloves.”
“For real?”
“It was cold in the trenches.”
She took another sip, squeezed her eyes shut, and opened them again. “Hey, are you gonna be okay?”
“Yeah. Do I need like a tetanus shot or something?”
“You should probably do that tomorrow.”
“Because I really don’t like needles.”
“No, you really don’t like tetanus.” She finished her drink. “David Blaine—do you know him?”
Always with the David Blaine. “You mean personally?”
“Yeah.”
I told her I didn’t. “I don’t really know anyone anymore except for Jack Clarion.”
“Who’s that?” she asked.
“Exactly,” I said, and took another drink.
9
“You call that distracting?” Ace said.
“Pardon me?”
He had just gotten into my car and was checking me out. “I thought I told you to wear …” He shook his head. “Never mind.”
I had on a black cardigan over a simple black top. Jeans and black knee-high boots. Sorry, Ace: no skin. He’d have to create his own distraction.
I remained irked for a few miles, but by the time we were south of the Driscoll Bridge I was feeling the stirrings of an actual adventure, an American road trip where anything could happen, and even if it didn’t all go our way I’d have the story afterward—and it was a story I was getting paid to write.
In the past 365 days our planet had raced completely around a medium-sized star, yet I hadn’t traveled more than a hundred miles from my apartment. I’d performed some shows, doing the same routines by rote and coming home again to frozen dinners and the gut-gnawing awareness that eventually the word “rut” loses its meaning. I was like some former high school jock who had once thrown a few
