Sleight of Hand
(Magic – Book 1)
by
Rebecca Milton
***
Copyright © 2014 Rebecca Milton - All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and locations portrayed in this book and the names herein are fictitious. Any similarity to or identification with the locations, names, characters or history of any person, product or entity is entirely coincidental and unintentional. - From a Declaration of Principles jointly adopted by a Committee of the American Bar Association and a Committee of Publishers and Associations. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. No responsibility or liability is assumed by the Publisher for any injury, damage or financial loss sustained to persons or property from the use of this information, personal or otherwise, either directly or indirectly. While every effort has been made to ensure reliability and accuracy of the information within, all liability, negligence or otherwise, from any use, misuse or abuse of the operation of any methods, strategies, instructions or ideas contained in the material herein, is the sole responsibility of the reader. Any copyrights not held by publisher are owned by their respective authors. All information is generalized, presented for informational purposes only and presented "as is" without warranty or guarantee of any kind. All trademarks and brands referred to in this book are for illustrative purposes only, are the property of their respective owners and not affiliated with this publication in any way. Any trademarks are being used without permission, and the publication of the trademark is not authorized by, associated with or sponsored by the trademark owner.
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Sleight of Hand
The street, the world outside the coffee shop, the sounds of the day, came and went with the opening and closing of the door. The spoons in the cups of coffee moved slowly, stirring in sugar, sugar substitute, cream, soy replication of cream. The world came in, went away, then came in again.
“I guess I need to get a life,” she sighed, her sigh sounding like the scrape of the spoon on the bottom of the coffee cup.
“It’s a myth,” the other one said, the word myth sounding like the hiss of steam from the espresso machine.
The world came in and stayed for a long moment. They looked up from their cups, spoons, sighs and hiss; they looked toward the door and saw a couple standing in the doorway. The man holding the door open, the woman smiling, leaning in, kissing the man’s cheek. They stopped their stirring, sighing, hissing and put themselves in her place. They pressed their lips to his cheek. They took her smile and fashioned it to their faces. They gulped down her laugh and coughed it up from their mouths. The doorway couple concluded their connection with the words, “See you tonight” and they took the night, the one to be seen in, and filled it in with themselves. With their clothes, their walks, their desires, their needs. The door closed, and the world went silent again. They kept their eyes on the door for a moment, seeing themselves walking away, seeing themselves laughing into the daylight, knowing that night there would be... romance, connection, touch, love. When the world did not enter again, when they could no longer replace their present with another’s, they returned to their spoons, cups, sigh, and hiss.
“I need a man,” she said.
“A battery is more reliable,” the other one said.
“I need some magic,” the third one, the one that went unnoticed, the one that never offered anything useful, the one that didn’t sigh, hiss, scoff or have a bad word to say about anyone, said. Then, the door opened, but the world did not come in. They all looked at the open door, the silence that stood in its gaping maw. “Magic,” the third one said as she got up, gathered her purse, her scarf, her coat and walked into the silent offering of the open door. When she had stepped through the door, it closed slowly behind her.
“That one,” she said.
“Such a...” the other one said.
When they had spoken, expressed all that they had to express, they returned to their stirs, sighs, hisses. Outside, the daylight was dancing, the street was humming with life and the third one, the one that didn’t always agree, the one that said things like; “she’s not that bad,” and “I actually think that’s charming,” the one that didn’t laugh when they spoke of someone who got hurt or smacked down or what they so richly “deserved”, stood on a street corner as an unexpected wind, swirled around her carrying newspaper, paper cups, bits of tissue and handbills for clubs, parties, free meals and live nude exhibits. When the wind disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared, there was a red handbill stuck to her body, at her mid-section. She peeled it off and was about to toss it in a nearby trash bin when she saw the words; “your love destiny” written at the top of the paper. She unfolded the handbill and read the ad for Mr. Krowchek: Mystic, Seer, Palm Reader, Decoder of All Things Strange and Wonderful in the Universe.
“Magic,” she said to herself and she carefully noted the address of the mystic’s studio then folded the handbill and slid it into her purse.
There was work to return to and so, the magic would have to wait. She was determined, however, to find it, hold it and apply it to her life. That’s what she needed. She didn’t need to be sitting in coffee shops with her and the other one, she needed to be out, living, seeking, and welcoming the magic that she knew filled all the cracks and crannies of the world.
***
Back at work, she entered the cubical where she sat all day and typed words on keys that showed up on screens, she did not feel there was any possibility for magic here. Work was the place to do what she did, get through the day so she could leave, go home and... What?
“Go home and what,” she asked herself as she slid into her chair, clicked on the computer and looked at the work she needed to do. There was no magic at home either. There was a cat. A very large cat that liked to lay on her back and stare up at the ceiling. A cat that was not affectionate like other cats. A cat that didn’t rub against her leg or bump its forehead into her, the way she had seen other cats do with their owners.
Her cat would sometimes come and sit on her chest when she laid on the couch and watched TV. Even then, she, the cat, only stayed for a few moments and then she would jump down, lay on the floor and look up at the ceiling. That wasn’t magical, it was just odd, really. So, why rush home? The cat wouldn’t know the difference. She stared at the blank screen and thought about the handbill that had floated up from the street and clung to her body.
“As if by magic,” she said and smiled. Yes, there certainly was magic in the world and, that day, after work, she would actively seek the magic out.
“Hey, Kate,” her boss, Alexander Miller, said to her as he stuck his head into her cubical. He was a good man, a quiet man, a man that Kate liked very much and, truthfully, he was the one reason she remained at her job. A job that lacked magic didn’t challenge her very much
but paid a decent amount. Once a week, Mr. Miller would stop by her cubical to ask her to do special work for him, stay late, work extra. He always paid her, was always thankful, and, it seemed, she was the only one he asked to do these tasks. She hoped that today was not one of those times. “Are you busy tonight, do you have plans?” he asked her and without thinking, she responded.
“Yes, I am,” she said, quickly and with more force than the question really called for. “I have special plans after work.” He smiled and nodded his head.
“Good,” he said, “I’m glad you have special plans, you deserve that.”
“Did... did you need me to do something, Mr. Miller?” she asked, suddenly feeling guilty for snapping so quickly.
“No,” he said, never losing his smile. “I had some...work, but nothing that can’t wait. Nothing that is worth disrupting special plans for.” He hung in the doorway of her cubical for a moment. “So,” he said after a moment, “big date, huh?” She stared at him, confusion running across her face. “Special plans, is...do you have a big date?”
“Oh, no,” she said feeling her face flush, feeling flustered. “I’m going to find some magic.” As soon as the words came out she wished she could gobble them back up, suck them back in and swallow them, never letting them see the light of day ever again. Mr. Miller gave her a quizzical look, nodded and stepped away from her cubical, disappearing back into his big, plush, corner office with a view of the city that took her breath away any time she went in there. She sighed, wondering if he would now think she was a loon, wondering if he would stop asking her to work late, do extra work for him. Even though it was extra, she liked doing it, she liked being called on by him, she liked that he called on her and only her. She felt special. Now, she worried that she would no longer be or feel special.
She sat at her desk, looking at her computer and contemplated going to his office and telling him she had no real plans, telling him that she was available for him to do whatever he needed. She decided she would do just that, rose from her desk and knocked her purse to the ground. The contents of the purse spilled out and there, on top of her lipstick - Coral Dream - travel tissue pack, breath spray and various other items, was the handbill. She picked it up and stared at it.
“Magic,” she said to herself and sat back down. She would not stay late, she would not do extra work, not tonight. Tonight, she told herself, tonight I am going to find magic.
***
At the end of the day, as she stood waiting for the elevator to come and take her down to street level where she would walk to the subway and head home to her large, odd cat, Mr. Miller stepped up to her. He smiled at her, and she smiled back. Again, she felt the weakness of desire. The desire to help him. The desire to make him think her special. She almost gave in at that moment, almost told him her plans had been canceled, told him she was there for him. She was about to give in, give over, give up when he spoke.
“I hope you find magic tonight,” he said to her, and his voice was warm, sincere with a slight sadness to it. “I think that sounds kind of incredible. Magic.”
She didn’t know what to say. Her heart skipped a beat, and she felt suddenly connected to him like never before. She reached out and touched his hand.
“If I find it, Mr. Miller,” she said to him, making sure she held his glance, made sure he knew she was terribly serious, “I promise I will share it with you.” She gave his hand a squeeze and the elevator doors opened. She stepped in, pressed the “L” button and turned to him. His face was full of wonder.
“Thank you, Kate,” he said as the doors closed and caused him to vanish. When the doors opened again, he was not there, and she was on the ground floor.
“Magic,” she said to herself and stepped out of the elevator.
***
On the subway, she sat, her legs crossed at the ankles as was proper. Her hands folding and unfolding the handbill, the address, the promise of magic. She watched as the train moved beyond her everyday stop, beyond the stop for the market, beyond the stop for the movie theater. She watched as the faces became unfamiliar. She watched as the world she knew became a world foreign and, in some ways, slightly frightening to her. Finally, the train stopped at Wentworth, and she got off. She walked quickly toward the stairs and took them up to the street, up and out of the subway station.
The sun was starting to sink when she hit the street. The city was beginning its night time ritual of rebirth. Daytime shops closed giving focus to nighttime hot spots, bars, clubs, and fancy restaurants. People dressed differently, and the energy was different. She loved this. She loved sitting on the stoop of her apartment and watching the night people walk and dance, hug and laugh. She watched them like a child watches a parade, full of wonder, hoping someday to be a part of all the excitement. She checked the handbill again, got her bearings and headed north on Doppler.
When Doppler connected with Ridgeway, she took a left. The further she walked on Ridgeway, the fewer people she saw. The fewer night spots she saw. The more she walked, the more she became uneasy. She clutched her purse tighter to her chest, becoming more aware when she did see a person or persons. She thought about stopping, going back to the busy street, back to the people, back to the vivid and present nightlife. This street, with its many shadows and dark doorways, with its foreboding corners and empty store fronts, this was not magical at all. This was a street of nightmare. This was a street she had been warned about as a young girl, a street she had seen on the news where bad things happened. This was not a street for...
“Magic,” she said out loud, unable to control her own voice. Up ahead, not more than fifty feet away, she saw the sign. Sticking out from the side of a brick building was a red sign that read, Questions, Doubts, Wonders, Visit Mr. Krowchek. There was a picture of a single, large, eyeball. She stopped for a moment, caught her breath and pushed on. Magic was at hand.
She stood in front of the building and looked at all the posters in the windows. Words that promised love, fortune, happiness, health. Words that spoke of the connection with friends and family who had left the earth but were waiting to hear from you. Words that told of spirits seeking people to connect with, aid in this world of troubles and woe. Words, in short, of magic. She relaxed, feeling safe simply standing in front of the windows, feeling protected. She looked at the handbill and then back to the windows, and it was even more glorious than she had imagined. She put her hand on the doorknob, gave a little twist and pushed the door open.
Inside she had to blink to allow her eyes to adjust. It was dim in the room. The air had a smell of age and mystery. She stood still, the door closing slowly on its own behind her. She breathed the room in, catching hints of cinnamon, tobacco, vanilla and scents she could not identify. When her eyes had adjusted, she saw two, heavy, wingback chairs, their cushions thick and welcoming. Tables scattered about the room had decks of cards, mirrors, bowls and candles on them. A doorway leading to someplace, someplace she could only image, was draped with soft, silk curtains.
“This is perfect,” she said, feeling that the room, the air, the whole place was exactly what it should be. Only in a place like this could true magic happen. She took a small step into the room and called out softly. “Hello,” she said, fearing she would disturb some powerful energy or sacred moment if she spoke too loud. In her mind, she pictured the wise and wonderful Mr. Krowchek. He would be older, like a grandfather, but he would be graceful, wise, kind and patient. He would see her and know immediately what she needed. He would be careful with her because he would see that she believed and needed magic.
“Hello,” she said again, a little more strength behind her voice this time, “is anyone here?” She waited and got no response. Suddenly, she heard a sound, slightly high-pitched, slightly rhythmic. It was coming from behind the silk curtains, moving toward the room where she stood. The sound seemed to be a chant with no clear melody, no real tune, just sounds. Otherworldly sounds, she told herself, someone connecting with a realm that wa
s not known to her, could not be known to her. This had to be Mr. Krowchek. She stood up straight and smoothed her skirt, wanting to look respectable, reverent, proper. The sound came closer and closer, the movement of the approaching body caused the curtains to move, shimmy and then they parted.
He was tall, slim, about twenty-five or twenty-six years old. His hair was long and dyed black. He had earbuds, and the chanting was actually him singing along to something he was listening to. His singing was terrible. He entered the room looking down at something in his hands, and he began moving about the room, blowing out candles, shutting out lights. He paid no attention to her as if he didn’t see or want to see her. She cleared her throat, but he kept doing what he was doing, engrossed in his music, singing to himself. She waved, but he didn’t see her. Finally, she stepped right in front of him, and he jumped, pulling the earbuds out of his ears and screaming.
“Good lord, lady,” he screamed, “you scared the living shit out of me.” He dropped down into one of the chairs and placed a hand on his chest. His breathing was heavy, and she could see his heart was pounding.
“I’m sorry,” she said terrified that perhaps she had ruined something delicate and sacred. “I am so very sorry. I was standing here and... I... you weren’t... I am so sorry.” He held up a hand to silence her, and she stopped talking. They were quiet for a moment. He leaned his elbows on his knees and hung his head down, taking deep breaths. Finally, when recovered himself, he stood up. “I’m sorry,” she said one last time.
“It's all right,” he told her, still looking a little shocked and shaky. “It’s just... This place, you know, it’s kind of creepy during the daytime and at night... Brother...” he looked around, gestured to the creepy room and then looked back at her. He smiled and clapped his hands.
“So, what can I do for you?” he asked. She held out the handbill to him, and he took it, read it, turned it over in his hands and then, looked back at her.