The Bullet Trick

Rich gave a noncommittal smile and the old man laughed, suddenly spry as he gathered his hat, scarf, gloves, briefcase and a carrier bag of groceries, fluttering apologies to Richard for taking so much of his time. He winked at me on the way out and said, 'Never mind dear, we all have our dry spells.'

I gave him a wide-boy grin and held the door open. When he was safe in the outer office, chatting to Mrs Pierce with a familiarity she’d never have tolerated from me, I took his seat, wincing against the warmth stored in the cushions and said, 'Nobody loves a fairy when they’re forty.'

Rich gave me a long stare, as near to a frown as I’ve seen him come, then he gave me a lesson.

Stuffed at the back of his filing cabinets were the profiles of men with a million mother-in-law and darkie jokes, female impersonators, ventriloquists, crooners and jugglers. He plonked the files on the desk in front of me and I flicked through them for form’s sake. Each file had a photograph paperclipped to its top left-hand corner. Outmoded hairdos, polyester dinner suits, big bow ties and grins that had once seemed alive, but now looked desperate, caught in a mad moment twenty or so years ago.

'I keep them on the books,' Rich said, 'there’s no harm in it. They don’t take up much space and it’s nice to be nice. After all, put together, these kids made me a lot of money at one time. And anyway, who knows when some post-modern ironist is going to suddenly discover one of these has-beens was a genius? But just remember son, it’s like they say in the financial ads, your shares may go down as well as up. So,' he tapped his nose like a tipster revealing a cert, 'remember, loyalty costs nothing.'

Once upon a time Rich had thought I might be in the new wave of conjurers, 'the post-Paul Daniels brigade’ he called them. These days we weren’t close, but he let me call his answerphone direct. The evening this story starts was the first time in weeks he’d called me back.

'It may not be the big time William’ — Richard hailed originally from Southend. He had a voice as loud as a McGill postcard, all whelks, beer and fat ladies flashing their drawers. I held the receiver an inch or two from my ear; there was no premium in adding deafness to my problems. 'But there’ll be some interesting people there. You never know who you’ll meet.' I’d made some noncommittal sound, and Rich had gone on with his spiel, selling it to me though he knew I’d take it. 'You’ll have fun. It’s a police retirement night.'

'Lovely, just what I need. The filth interrogating me on how I do my act.'

'Is that any attitude to have towards Her Majesty’s finest? Anyway they’ll love it, William. These guys are into lies and misdirection big time.' Rich paused and I could hear him dragging on his cigarette. 'Tell you, here’s an idea, pick on the weediest one and do some funny business with his handcuffs.' His laugh caught in his throat and there was a pause as he struggled to catch his breath. I wondered if he was lying down on his office divan.

'That’s wonderful advice, Richard: pick on a weedy looking polis, the one with the Napoleon complex. I’ll remember that. So who am I opening for?'

'You know these events, William. They’re not name in lights occasions, but they have the benefit of equality, there’s no headline act.'

'OK, am I on first or second?'

'My understanding would be first.'

'So who am I preceding?'

'A fine duo known as The Divines.'

'Tell me they’re mind-readers and not strippers.'

'They’re billed as erotic dancers.'

'Really pitching me high, Richard, support act to a pair of lap-dancers.'

'Don’t knock it, William. I’ve seen these girls, they need a lot of support if you get my drift.'

'What’s the bottom line?'

'Peachy, you could write a symphony about their bottom lines.'

I was beginning to understand why Richard had so few female artistes on his books.

'What’s my fee?'

'Two-fifty. Hey, who knows, maybe you could buddy up with the girls for the night?

Make some of their clothes disappear?'

'A real novelty act.'

Down the line more smoke was sucked into lungs.

'Don’t be so bloody Scottish. Tell you what, if you get laid I’ll waive my ten percent.'

I said, 'You’re a prince, Richard.'

And heard his laugh collapse back into coughs as I hung up the receiver.

That evening a bomb scare on the tube shut down main stations and the flatmate of the girl who filled in as my occasional assistant informed me that Julie had got a proper acting job. When I asked her if she fancied taking over instead she’d laughed and said, 'After the stories Julie told me? You must be joking,' and hung up still laughing.

I wondered if I could get a volunteer from the audience, but half-cut coppers waiting for a skin act didn’t seem promising recruitment material. Hurtling beneath the city in a carriage, pressed amongst jaded commuters who would rather take their chances than be rerouted and nervous tourists bracing themselves for an explosion, my mind drifted towards the dog track. A quick change of underground line and I could be there in time to place a bet on the third race. There was a young dog in the running that I fancied, it was untested enough to have high odds, but could do well if the conditions were right. I was onto a sure two-twenty-five from the gig once Richard had shaved his commission off the top, but if luck was on my side I could win a lot more. I thought about the money I owed my bookie and the demand for rent that the landlord had slipped under the door that morning after he’d got tired of battering on it. Next time he’d send one of his sons with a key and a couple of helpers to give me a hand shifting my gear onto the street.

We pulled into the station where I needed to switch line if I was going to abscond and I almost got to my feet, but I’d never missed a show to go gambling yet. Only addicts took a bet on their job.

The club turned out to be a private members’ place in Soho. I found the street, walked three blocks, then realised I’d overshot it and had to retrace my steps. The entrance was at street level, an anonymous green door with no sign or brass plate to distinguish it, just a number beside an unmarked buzzer. I pressed the buzzer and somewhere in the building a mechanical droning announced my presence.

There was a brief pause, then a bustling beyond the door and a Judas hole slid back with a crack. A pair of green eyes painted with emerald glitter and fringed by false eyelashes appeared behind a tiny wrought-iron grill. They stared at me unblinking, like an exotic anchorite.

I said, 'Joe sent me.' And the Judas hole slammed shut. When it became clear that the door wasn’t going to open I buzzed again. This time when the hatch slid back I gave my name and when that got no response added, 'I’m the conjurer.'

'The what?'

The voice was cockney, younger than I’d expected and full of scorn. I gave her the benefit of the William Wilson grin and said, 'The magician.'

The eyes looked me up and down, and found me wanting. The voice said. 'That’s funny, I thought you were a bloody comedian.' And buzzed me in.

'You’re late.'

The door led straight into a tiny entrance hallway divided by a counter into a reception and cloakroom. Black carpet ran across the floor, ceiling and walls. A harsh neon strip revealed fag burn melts and ooze between the jet pile. I guessed a TV design guru wouldn’t approve, but once the lights were down it would suit the musty come-alive-at-night feel of the place.

The green eyes belonged to a large pale girl, squeezed into a red and black dress whose lace-up bodice was losing the struggle to control her bosoms. She was the kind of girl old gentlemen like to pinch: ripe and big, with skin that fitted like skin should. Once you got past the hardness of her stare she’d be a fine pillow against the world. Her hair was a mass of white-gold curls, piled high and tumbling on the top of her head. A soft blush of down brushed her cheek. The overall effect was voluptuous, blowsy and somehow Victorian. My grandmother would have called her a strumpet, but I thought she looked too good for this place.