CHAPTER TEN
THE NEXT DAY, when Houdini should have been on the MGM studio lot practicing his escape on the crane that had just arrived, he found himself standing at the entrance to United Artists studios. It was a small guard gate with a simple wooden sign—nothing like the veritable gates of Babylon at MGM Studios.
After signing in, he walked along the plain halls and cheap wooden flooring that had all the ambience of a broom closet. It was far less glamorous than the carpeted halls and cream draperies of MGM’s grand offices. These were the independents, the artists struggling to make movies outside of the well-funded studio system. And struggling they were.
He found his way to the second floor, to a door with Pickford’s name on it. No one answered when he knocked.
A tall, gaunt-looking man popped his head out of an office down the hall.
“Mary isn’t here,” the man said. “Try the costume department; last I heard she was doing a fitting.”
“Thank you,” Houdini said.
The man gave Houdini a scrutinizing stare.
“Douglas Fairbanks will be back soon as well,” he said. “In case you’re looking for him.”
Houdini got the message.
In case you’re trying to avoid him.
The man directed Houdini to a separate building past a small courtyard with two benches surrounded by white rose bushes. It was a square one-story building even more utilitarian than the main offices. As soon as Houdini stepped inside he found himself in a labyrinth of clothes racks. There were costumes for every era—it looked like a thrift store through the ages. He squeezed through the claustrophobic aisles toward the sound of voices.
In a far corner he found Mary Pickford with a seamstress, standing in front of a three-way mirror. The actress was wearing a baggy plaid dress with black leggings, and an oversized plaid golf hat topped with a pom-pom.
“Bring the waistline out more,” Pickford said. “I’m supposed to be a young girl, not a fashion model.”
The seamstress quickly changed some pins in the cloth.
“You could wear a tent and you’d still be beautiful,” Houdini said.
Pickford looked up. She didn’t seem entirely surprised to see him.
“Douglas will be back from an interview any moment.”
“I didn’t come to see him.”
“Yes, you came to see me. Everyone wants just one more look.”
Her glare, it was a beam of contempt she focused at him like a death ray.
“That look is meant to scare men off,” Houdini said. “You’re not really so mean.”
“It’s self-preservation,” Pickford said. “You see how nice you are when men drool over you like starving beasts in front of filet mignon.”
“Fortunately for me, then, I’m more like chopped liver,” Houdini said. “May we speak?”
Pickford looked at the seamstress and gave her a nod. The woman eyed Houdini head to toe, and reluctantly left. With the two of them alone, Houdini found himself staring openly at Pickford again. She let out an exhausted huff.
“I apologize,” Houdini said. “I can’t control how you look, but I should be able to control where I look.”
He pulled his eyes away and toward the costumes. On a nearby rack was a hat of every shape and style. There was a large black sun hat, which Houdini imagined could only be appropriate for a woman to wear during an outdoor funeral. He plucked it from the rack and, approaching Pickford, gently removed the golf hat from her head and replaced it with the large sun hat. By pulling the brim of it down, he could only see Pickford’s lips and chin.
“Your talent may get stronger with age,” Houdini said.
Pickford barked a laugh.
“You’re the first person to tell an actress at thirty-one that she’s only going to get more beautiful.”
“It’s true. I’m much older than you. We grow into our gifts. They expand.”
“I wouldn’t want to be any more beautiful,” she said. “But I’m pretty, that’s all. Thousands of women are.”
“Not like you. You’re special. You’re a Burden.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that pitch from Charlie. He says we have unique talents unlike anyone else in the world. It sounds a bit megalomanic, don’t you think, Mr. Houdini?”
“It’s not megalomanic if it’s true,” Houdini said. “Surely the effect you have on men is all the evidence you need.”
“Beauty is a parlor trick.”
“Even tricks have their value. I should know. It’s why I need your help.”
She looked up at him, then remembered her hat and tugged it low on her face.
“You want me to disobey my husband.”
“Of the four of us, you are the best equipped to contain Atlas,” Houdini said. “He won’t listen to me, and your husband’s charms may have their limits. But one look at you and I’m convinced he’ll listen.”
Pickford turned to the mirror and tilted her hat at a more fashionable angle.
“If you and Charlie are right, that our gifts are unique in all the world, why do we have them? What’s the purpose?”
Houdini had ruminated over this for years, from the moment Calamity Jane had recognized him for what he was.
“I believe our gifts are meant to help people, to benefit mankind,” Houdini said. “It will look different for each of us. Some of us are meant to be warriors to protect people in times of war. Others are meant to be great scholars, to change the way people understand the world. Still others are meant to have compassion and care for the sick and the poor, as an example to humanity.”
“And you?” Pickford asked. “A magician?”
The question was sharp but her mouth puckered immediately after as if she regretted the tone.
“I suppose I could have been a great thinker,” Houdini said. “I could have written books to help people understand their motivations so they aren’t controlled by them. But instead I’ve used my gift to be an entertainer.”
“How does that do anyone any good?”
Houdini found a box of clothes behind him and sat on it. A long blue scarf was poking out of the box, and he pulled it out. Deftly, he wound the fabric around his own wrists, binding them together. He yanked his hands apart to show it was secure.
“You see, I’m a Hungarian Jew with immigrant parents. We grew up in a poor neighborhood in New York. My little tricks, my escapes from handcuffs and such, they not only entertained people, they gave folks hope. The hope of escape.”
With one sharp flick, the scarf fell off.
“For a few brief moments people watching me forgot about their miserable lives, and every time I escaped my handcuffs they were escaping with me—escaping those shackles, escaping this dreary world. I taught them how to escape with their minds. Sometimes the gift we give people is simply a few moments of relief.”
Pickford removed her hat and stared at herself in the mirror. She touched her face gently, as if it were not her own.
“I give people a dream,” she said. “I live the life everybody else wishes they could. I’m America’s Sweetheart. The Girl With the Curls. I give people hope, too. A different kind.”
She turned her soft hazel eyes to Houdini.
“Why do you think I married Douglas? He’s America’s Hero. We’re the perfect pairing. Don’t get me wrong, I love him dearly. But it’s what the people wanted. Sometimes I wonder if it was the people’s dream before it became mine.”
She prodded at her cheek with clinical interest.
“I don’t see what else I could do for the world,” she said.
“There may come a time when all of us are called to do more than we are accustomed,” Houdini said.
He stared at her as she stared at herself. As much as he didn’t want it to, his heart beat faster and his pulse raced. She was powerful, and he knew she could get him to do anything she wanted. He hoped she could do the same for Atlas.
How much does she use her talent on Fairbanks?
“You and your husband,
you might be the first great talents in history to marry,” Houdini said. “At least, I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“Douglas says it’s destiny.”
“I never believed in destiny,” Houdini said. “It supposes a higher power, and I’ve never been one for the supernatural. But I can’t get past the feeling that we’ve all been drawn here, to this place and time, for a reason.”
Pickford laughed.
“You mean other than the endless sunshine? That’s reason enough to stay.”
“Stay? Who’s staying?”
Houdini cocked his head and saw Douglas Fairbanks making his way through the aisle of clothes. He smiled brightly but his eyes burned with something darker.
“Mr. Houdini can’t stay. Surely New York would miss him.”
The seamstress, Houdini remembered, was gone.
“My apologies, Mr. Fairbanks. I came to see Chaplin on business and happened upon Mrs. Pickford.”
“Happened upon her?” Fairbanks asked. “Aisles deep in the costume warehouse? You must have an awful sense of direction.”
Fairbanks was in the right, Houdini realized. It had been inappropriate for him to be alone with the man’s wife.
“How would you like it if I happened upon your wife all alone?” Fairbanks asked.
“I would not like it,” Houdini said.
“Well, don’t you worry a bit,” Fairbanks said. “I’ve seen a photo of your wife and I can assure you she’d remain perfectly untouched.”
Houdini’s hands clenched. He felt his fingernails digging into his palms. Fairbanks might be ten years younger and renowned for his athleticism, but Houdini had half a dozen hidden picks on his person, and any of them could serve as a shiv.
Fairbanks flashed a congenial smile.
“Please stay where you are, old magician. I’m not in a mood to wrinkle my suit.”
The words tingled in Houdini’s ears, and he felt the urge to fight Fairbanks wither away.
“It was a completely harmless conversation, Doug,” Pickford said. “Let him go.”
“You’re right,” Fairbanks said. “There’s nothing to fear from this vaudeville performer in his cheap suit and tattered shoes.”
Houdini was wearing his new suit, but he hadn’t gotten around to buying new shoes. He had washed and dried them as best he could, but the soles were flapping off them and they were covered in Los Angeles dust.
“Those shoes are positively careworn, Mr. Houdini. Do tell me, what happened to them?”
“I fell into a sewer,” Houdini said.
Fairbanks clicked his tongue.
“It sounds like they need a cleaning. Mr. Houdini, would you do me a favor and take those filthy shoes off?”
Houdini’s ears tingled again, and he did as Fairbanks asked. As much as his anger burned against the man, he found himself wanting to do whatever Fairbanks requested.
“Now, please clean the soles of your shoes, Mr. Houdini. With your tongue.”
“Douglas, don’t do this!” Pickford said. She stood up and faced him, her beauty blazing. Fairbanks stared at her with the same silly expression Houdini imagined he made too.
“Stop it,” Pickford said. “For me.”
There was a standoff going on, one Houdini could only guess happened at regular intervals in their marriage.
“I’m sorry dear,” Fairbanks said. With monumental effort he pulled his eyes off her. “But it’s for your own good.”
Fairbanks turned his back to her and winked at Houdini.
“Now clean, my friend. Please?”
The magician felt himself raising one of his shoes toward his mouth. He felt as if he and Fairbanks were on the inside of a funny joke. But even as his tongue came out of his mouth, Houdini felt a small part of him somewhere inside, trying to resist the command. If he could only get to that part soon enough, he might be able to stop himself.
His tongue hit leather, covered in dirt and tiny bits of gravel. Pickford let out a little cry as the magician licked the sole of his shoe completely clean. Houdini’s mouth felt gritty and earthy, as if he were chewing on a bit of sidewalk from Hollywood Boulevard.
“You’re a good sport,” Fairbanks said, smiling. “Now leave, Mr. Houdini, and don’t ever let me catch you alone with my wife again.”
Houdini nodded and walked willingly out of the costume warehouse. But even as he left, he grasped tightly onto the part of his mind he had found, the piece that could resist Fairbank’s charm.
You’ll see me again soon enough, Fairbanks. And you won’t be smiling.