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 Anything’s Possible,” Liza’s voice boomed over the PA. “Before we begin tonight’s performance, please turn off your cell phones. Remember, no electronic recording of any kind is permitted. Thank you, and enjoy the show.”
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 started in my imagination, and has never stopped. Please enjoy the show.”
He stepped back. A collective gasp filled the theater. The empty stage had been transformed into an enchanted sanctum filled with beautifully decorated props and apparatus. Like the young magician, they’d simply appeared out of thin air.
For the next hour, Peter did everything a wizard could possibly do. Objects appeared, disappeared, were burned and made whole, elongated, autographed, and vanished, without any visible clue to where they’d gone. A long darning needle was thrust through the magician’s arm, yet produced no blood or visible wound. Eggs became birds; cats turned into barking dogs; the lovely Liza was transformed into a ghost, her essence flying across the stage where it entered into a bottle like a genie. Before the audience’s disbelieving eyes, the bottle grew to giant size, with a giggling Liza curled up inside. A pistol was shown to contain real bullets. It was fired at the young magician, who caught the bullet between his teeth, and spit it on a plate. A member of the audience was asked to write the name of any playing card on a piece of paper. The paper was burned, and the ashes rubbed on the magician’s forearm, causing the name of the card to mysteriously appear. A borrowed dollar bill was given a vigorous shake. More bills appeared, the money floating into lucky hands in the audience.
To close the first half, Peter clapped his hands three times in quick succession, and a puff of smoke enveloped him. When it had cleared, he’d disappeared along with every prop on stage.
The audience cheered. It had been a breathtaking joyride of deception, with each trick building purposefully to the next. Now, it was time for everyone to catch their breath.
The intermission was short. Few people left their seats, content to talk among themselves, and compare notes about what they saw, and didn’t see, to try and make sense of it all.
The second act soon followed. For many, this was what they’d come for, the test of wills and skills that Peter presented to his audiences each night. It started innocently enough, with the young magician standing downstage.
“You just saw my favorite magic,” he began. “Now, it’s your turn. If you have a favorite trick, or something you’ve heard I’ve done, raise your hand, and I’ll try to accommodate you.”
Down in the first row, the five ladies from J. Walter Thompson smiled up at him. He leaned toward the lady celebrating her birthday with his eyebrow upraised. The psychological reaction was impossible to resist, and she raised her hand.
“Your name, please,” Peter said.
“Katherine,” the birthday lady replied.
“Today you’re celebrating your birthday, aren’t you, Katherine?”
“Why yes, I am.”
“And this is your twenty-ninth birthday, correct?”
Katherine was several years older than twenty-nine, and grinned.
“What trick would you like me to do, Katherine?”
“Read my future,” she replied.
“Certainly.”
Reading the future was Peter’s most requested trick. People who believed their future could be predicted were perfect subjects, and through body language and facial expressions, often communicated their innermost feelings and desires to him. He began slowly. “You are currently in the middle of a relationship, but are fearful it won’t work out. Give it time, and you’ll know exactly what course to take. Your job at the advertising agency is going well; there may be a promotion in the works. You own a dog which you adore, and you wish you could spend more time with him. I see many more pets in your future.”
“Oh, my God! You’re so right!” Katherine exclaimed.
He had batted a thousand with Katherine. It hadn’t hurt that her pants were covered in dog hair. Before he could field another request, a voice with a thick British accent rang out.
“Hey! I have a request. Pick me!”
The voice came from the last row. A patron rose from his seat, and the spotlight quickly found him. Peter could not believe his eyes. It was the Grim Reaper, in the flesh.
“Call 911,” he whispered into the mike in his collar.
“Why? What’s wrong?” Liza whispered into his earpiece.
“Just do it.”
“What should I say?”
“Tell them we have a dangerous person here.” To the man he said, “Your name, please?”
“If you were psychic, you’d know that,” the man shouted back.
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Whoever he was, he was about to ruin the show.
“I’m looking through the ticket log right now,” Liza said. “Here we go. The ticket was picked up at will-call. The name used was Wolfe. No first name.”