Corky went back to Merlin’s place. A nap would have helped but too risky, what if he overslept, beat himself that way.
In the end he just sat there for two hours. Then he cleaned up, changed—he’d long ago decided not to wear anything fancy. Of course, he didn’t own anything fancy which made the decision a lot easier. Gray slacks and a white shirt and gray cardigan sweater. Casual. No mumbo jumbo crap. A pack of bicycles in each pocket and scoot.
He didn’t start getting unpleasantly nervous until he reached the Stardust. He was there at 8:30 on the money, but in order to make that work he’d had to take a twenty-minute stroll around the area. Still, he wasn’t the first. The performers bunched outside in the bar area. In the middle was the desk with the entrance to the club. The manager waited there, escorting people to their tables. It was going to be jammed, one of the girl performers said.
Good or bad, Corky wondered, then decided, didn’t matter, nothing like that mattered.
Do it right.
Do it right.
What’s your act? another girl asked a curly headed boy. Nostalgia, I imitate Mort Sahl was the reply.
I wonder if he’s good, Corky thought. If he is, I wonder if he’s before me. And if he’s good and if he’s before me, is that good?
It doesn’t goddammit matter. What you do matters. That’s it. It’s on your shoulders. No excuses. You’ve spent the time, you know the moves.
—quit making me nervous—
The show started promptly which was a surprise. The first performer never showed. Panic. Neither did the third. Same. The second sang the “Age of Aquarius” and the fourth did comedy birdcalls.
Christ I wish that guy was just ahead of me, Corky thought. After this is over I’m gonna hire that birdcall guy and have him come on before me all over the country.
The black girl that was five was funny.
So was the white guy that was sixth.
The seventh person carried a box on stage and for one minute of blind horror Corky thought he was another magician, but that was just nerves, imagination, the guy was a singer and the box held his tape recorder.
Number eight. Now nine. The acts were beginning to blend on him.
Ten didn’t show.
Nor eleven.
“Say hello to Corky Withers,” the MC read.
Corky walked through the room toward the stage. All he heard were couples ordering drinks from waiters but that was imagination. Maybe one guy ordering one Scotch, rocks, no big deal. He stepped onto the stage. People were all around him, very close.
He blinked from the lights. He hadn’t expected the lights. No. He knew they were there, just not so bright. He hadn’t expected the heat. They’ll think it’s nerves, he realized, and it’s not, I’m fine, I was a fool to wear the sweater.
“Ordinary cards,” he began. “See?” He took one pack, pulled the cards out, handed them to a pretty girl at a ringside table. She showed them to her date.
Somebody coughed.
Corky took the cards back, riffled through. “Now I’d like you to pick one,” he said to the pretty girl, and he used the Annemann Force, doing it perfectly, so that when she took the king of spades she had no idea he had made her do it. “And you sir,” Corky said to her date, doing Can den Bark’s Force on the guy, so in case anyone was watching close for him to repeat himself, they’d never catch him. The guy picked the heart queen—it was amazing the way that worked, women picking kings and men the other way. But it did.
It was very quiet.
“Show the room your card please,” Corky said to the pretty girl.
She did.
“Can’t see,” somebody called.
“Too dark,” from somewhere else.
“It’s the king of spades,” Corky said. “And his is the queen of hearts.”
“He got it right,” the girl said to the room.
“Mine too,” her date said.
He moved to the next two tables, gave each a deck of cards. “Please make a cut into two piles,” he said to them. “Then hold the piles up.”
When the four piles were held Corky wondered if he’d made a mistake—estimation was one of his strengths, but if you even missed a little, you blew it from the audience’s point of view. If you hit it, though, you had them. He took a breath, concentrated, then pointed to the four piles in turn. “Seventeen. Thirty-five. Twenty. Thirty-two. Would you each please count your piles and tell me how many you have. Thank you.” They nodded, started to count.
Corky stood there.
“Five, six, seven,” one of the women said half aloud.
“Shhh,” her date said, “I forgot where I was.”
Corky stood there sweating. Why were they counting so slowly?
Silence.
“Um-hmm,” the first counter done said. “Twenty is the answer.”
“Thirty-two here.”
“Thirty-five.”
“Seventeen.”
Corky took the cards back, waited for some applause.
Still the silence.
He wiped his forehead with his cardigan sleeve.
No reaction.
Some girl wanted a Virgin Mary. The waiter nodded and hurried off.
“For my next trick …” his voice trailed.
Do it right.
Do it right.
But I am! Why don’t they see?
The MC whispered, “Half your time’s gone.”
Half? Corky wiped his forehead again. It was bad, no question so far there wasn’t triumph in the wind, but that was his fault, and winning them back was up to him too and the best way to do that was go right for the throat, forget the order, he’d programmed wrong, the estimation was wrong, a bad idea, it took too goddam long for everybody to count their cards, a mistake, sure, but not irreconcilable, not if you do it right, and that had to be his bombshell number, the encore number, the one you lay it all out on, live or die with.
“The rising aces,” Corky said.
It was as difficult a sleight as there was, involving a five lift—he’d never done a five lift in public before, never even for Merlin, just over and over in front of his mirror, because in a five lift you had to take the top five cards only you plucked them so it looked like one. Your fingers had to be so deft that you casually grabbed the top card but all the time you were hefting four more but if you slipped, if your hands were wet or shaky or in any way less than perfect, you blew it all.
He went back to the pretty girl he’d used first. He handed her a pack. “Would you take out the four aces please?”
It took a while.
Silence. Cloaking the room. But that was all right. It was build. There was a purpose to it. You had to make them think you were in trouble for the rising aces. You had to misdirect them, let them think you were scrambling so they didn’t watch all that close.
“Now what?”
“Put them on top of the deck.”
She did.
“All right now. The four aces are on the top of the deck next to each other, is that right?”
“Um-hmm.”
“Now take a card from the bottom and cover the aces.”
She put the bottom card on top of the aces.
Corky reached for the deck, held it out in full view. No quick moves, no moves at all, just kept the deck there. “All right. In this trick …” His voice trailed off again, this time intentionally. He tried to smile, “I did that wrong. You don’t cover the aces yet, that’s a different trick.” He flicked off the top card.
With a five lift.
And he did it right. He had all five cards in one hand and he waved them a second, his wonderful hands moving so gracefully, as if it was really only one card, and then he casually shifted hands, and while he did, back palmed the four aces perfectly, stuck the top card into the middle of the deck. Then he returned the cards to the girl. “Okay, what have we got now? Four aces next to each other on top, right?”
“Umm-hmm.”
“Okay. What I want yo
u to do is make the aces rise.”
“Me?” the pretty girl said.
“That’s right. Just say, ‘Aces rise.’ ”
“Aces rise.”
Nothing happened.
“Hmmm,” Corky said, “it doesn’t seem to be working.” Sweat was covering his face now. He could feel his shirt sticking tight to his skin.
A guy ordered a bourbon and branch water, no ice,
Corky paused until the waiter was gone. He had them now and he didn’t want to blow his climax. Because the whole room knew the aces were on top of the deck in the girl’s hands while all the time he had them palmed in his own. “I can’t figure why this trick isn’t working,” Corky said, sweat streaming down, “unless it might be because aces don’t like cold weather and it’s freezing in here. Brrr.” And while he said “brrr” he reversed the back palm, started rubbing his hands together as if to get them warm. Only now the aces were between his hands.
“Brrrr,” Corky said again, rubbing his hands harder, giving a quick flick with his thumb. “Brrrr, I’m just so cold.”
And the aces started to rise.
“Oh look,” Corky said, “here come the aces now. Look at them rise.” He kept rubbing his hands together, feigning cold while the sweat poured down. “Two aces. Three aces. All four.” Corky looked out at the audience.
They looked back at him.
Two girls wondered where the ladies’ room was. A waiter pointed it out.
Corky just stood there. They should be applauding. That was his encore number. Not five guys ever in the world could do what he’d just done. WHY WEREN’T THEY CLAPPING?
“For my next …” Corky began. He stopped. “I’d like to do for you now …” He stopped. “This one … ummm … it’s …” He stopped. And then suddenly it just burst out of him. “Jesus Christ,” he said to the room, “do you know how hard that was? That’s a thousand hours of my life you just watched.”
The MC was beside him now. “Time’s about up,” he said. “Thanks.”
“I did it right,” Corky told him.
The MC nodded. “Swell.”
Corky started off.
“What about your cards?” came the pretty girl’s voice.
He stopped, shook his head, kept on going this time for the door. When he got outside he thought he’d probably go to pieces or something.
It didn’t dawn on him for maybe half a block that he’d already gone …
Corky. The mirror. The cards. Ten fingers. Top card? Diamond four. He did a shift, controlled it to the center. Another shift, controlled it to the bottom. Diamond four on the bottom now. Now back to the top. His eyes. His eyes never left the mirror. The sleights were right. His eyes could not tell the moment the shifts came. It looked like magic. Now here, now there.
Corky. The mirror. The cards. The fingers like spiders now. He fanned the cards into a perfect semicircle. Snapped them together. He made the cards spring from one hand to the other, back and forth, the cards looked like an accordion.
Mistake #1: starting with the force on the pretty girl. Looked too easy. Should have started with a fan. Make the cards dance. Mistake #2: never do the estimations in public. People think it’s a trick.
Corky. The mirror. The cards. The fingers moving on their own now. The mind moving too. Mistakes #3 to infinity: CORKY WITHERS. He was the only thing wrong. It didn’t matter if he started with a flourish or a force, what mattered was he failed. He failed because Merlin said what magic was, magic was entertainment and he didn’t entertain. Magic was winning the people and what had he won? Ever? All the years of his life, he had wanted most to please people and who had he ever pleased. So what did it matter if you started with a fan, the truth was the truth.
Nobody gave a shit.
Nobody had, did, or would.
Face that.
He shivered. How cold was it? He dialed weather. Not so cold. Why the shivering then? The mechanical voice said it might drop down on Wednesday. Corky hung up.
Corky. The mirror. The cards. The—Wednesday? The voice said Wednesday and that meant Wednesday was tomorrow and that was wrong, Tuesday was tomorrow, he had come straight from the Stardust and had sat by the mirror and so it had to be still Monday evening.
All the curtains and blinds were closed. Corky peered outside. Blinding. I must have sat the night through without knowing it. Weird.
Corky. The mirror. The—he called the mechanical voice again. Now it told him tomorrow was Thursday. Could that be? Another day gone. How long had he been sitting without sleep?
And how could he have shouted at the audience like that? What difference did it make the number of hours he’d practiced? That wasn’t their problem. They were there to be entertained and pleased. And that he would never be able to do.
What time was it now? Probably he should eat something. He went to the icebox. The milk smelled. What day was it? How long had he been sitting at the mirror? He had to leave by Friday. He looked outside the window again. Night now. Thursday probably. A hundred hours without sleep? Smart. What a clever way to kill yourself. He’d have to be gone tomorrow. Out of the place tomorrow. All packed by tomorrow. Packed? What was there? Some cards and a mirror and forget it.
Corky. The cards. The fingers in the mirror. Look at the fingers. They never tired. A hundred hours they moved and watch them go. And who cared. Not him, not anymore. He didn’t care about much of anything except he was bored with sticking around. Don’t be an amateur anymore.
Do it right.
For once in your life do it right.
He turned off the lights and turned on the gas and lay on the couch, starting to drift. Comfortable. At last he was comfortable. And warm. No shivers anymore. He worried that the gas smell might be bad, but it wasn’t, and as it grew stronger he grew used to it. His body was draining now. Emptying wonderfully. His eyelids flickered. That was fine. They deserved it. After a hundred hours, they had a right to close. His breathing was deep now. Deep and regular and fine.
“… what is that stink …”
“Huh?”
“… smells like gas …”
“It is gas.” Corky blinked. “Who are you, how’d you get in here?”
“… been here all the time … why are you killing yourself, it seems silly, killing yourself with your future …”
“What future—who are you?”
“… that’s not what Merlin said …”
“What did Merlin say?”
“… he said you were better than Thurston at the same age …”
“No he didn’t.”
“… and as good as Leipzig … he said if you kept at it, you were going to be as good as the game …”
Corky found himself weeping. “I just don’t want to fail anymore, I’m tired.”
“… of course you’re tired, you haven’t slept for a hundred hours …”
“Did he really say as good as the game?”
“… no …”
“I didn’t think so.”
“… better … if you kept at it, you could leave them all behind …”
“I would like that.”
“… of course you would …”
“Merlin never lied. He must have meant it.”
“… you better get some rest … you have to be in perfect shape to leave them all behind …”
“Yes.”
“… sleep …”
“I will.”
“… turn off the gas first, why don’t you …”
“All right.”
“… that’s a good boy …”
“I hope I don’t fail again. I don’t know if I could take that.”
“… you can’t fail … not anymore … I won’t let you …”
“Promise?”
“… promise …”
Corky got up, turned off the gas, lay back down on the couch again. He shook his head a little, kind of smiled. “Merlin used to think I was crazy. Sometimes I think he was right.”
“… n
o … you were crazy … you’re fine now …”
THE POSTMAN
The line snaked down the block. The Postman moved along the sidewalk, idly counting. Forty-six. Forty-six people waiting for what maybe at the most could be a half dozen cancellations.
When you’re hot, you’re hot.
He glanced at his watch, saw it was nine, moved to the sidewalk in front of the Stardust because if nothing else, Goldstone was prompt.
At 9:02 the limo pulled up. He was kind of an aging boy wonder, Goldstone, thirty-eight now, but he’d been head of programming for CBS when he was thirty. NBC stole him, ABC tried like hell to crib him from the Sarnoffs, and the kicker on the whole thing, at least from the Postman’s point of view, was that wherever he worked, when George Goldstone ran things, eventually your ratings went down.
But he had that survivor’s instinct of knowing just before the Titanic would hit the iceberg, and moved on accordingly. He was your standard show business example of failing upwards, and the Postman had no doubts that eventually Goldstone would be running a major Hollywood film studio into receivership.
They shook hands perfunctorily and the Postman, who like many bald men knew more about wigs than beauticians, was struck again by the perfection of Goldstone’s mop. Must have cost a thousand.
They started into the club. The Postman indicated the line, muttered “slow night tonight” and Goldstone answered nothing, just paused briefly and looked at the sign in the window that said, “Say Hello to Corky Withers” and below that, the standard smiling photo. “So that’s your latest wunderkind,” Goldstone said.
“Twenty-six record breaking weeks,” he said modestly.
“Then how come I never heard of him?”
“You were so busy coming up with a sequel to Beacon Hill you probably missed a lot of things. Tampax got invented. The world rockets along, George.”
They walked into the club. It looked even shabbier than usual. Goldstone cased it a moment. “High tone establishment you booked him into, Postman.”
“I didn’t book him, he was here. Likes it. I’m breaking my balls trying to budge him.”
“I’m supposed to help with the budging, is that it?”