Hardare took the single empty seat at the table and stared into the faces of the seven men seated at the table. They were all legends, and he tried not to flinch from the weight of their icy stares. The Professor broke the silence. “I thought you were back at Caesar’s, Vincent.”
“We ran into a few problems,” Hardare said.
The Professor put his cigar into an ashtray. Upon turning ninety, he had picked up his old vices, and now regularly smoked and drank whiskey. “I hope it was nothing serious.”
“A man tried to kill us on the highway.”
There was a sharp intake of breath. Bill Malone, the world’s consummate sleight of hand artist, stopped riffle-shuffling the deck of cards in front of him.
“Was Jan hurt?” Malone asked.
“No, she’s fine,” Hardare said.
“What about your daughter?”
“She suffered a mild concussion.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Malone ribbon spread the cards face-up across the table, looking for mistakes. Despite his thorough mixing, the deck was still in perfect, new-deck order. Badly fooled, Hardare said, “Stop showing off.”
Malone’s eyes twinkled. “Why don’t you start at the beginning, and tell us what happened?”
Hardare told the seven men what had happened. He held his opinion in the highest regard, and explained in minute detail the events that had occurred in the desert that morning.
“I didn’t know you kept a baseball bat in your car,” Malone said when he’d finished.
“It’s been under the seat for years. I never considered using it on someone before.”
“Be thankful,” Ron Wilson commented, giving the Professor a light. “People like that feed on evil. You’re lucky you all got out of there alive.”
“I know.”
“Vince,” the Professor said, using the glowing end of his cigar like a pointer. “You mentioned that the police want you to help them. Are you going to?”
“I’m considering it,” Hardare said. “The police want me to perform psychic stunts and draw Death out again. It’s probably the best chance they have to catch him, but it also means I’ll have to play the psychic stuff for real. I can’t give the usual disclaimers about the tricks being performed by natural means.”
There was a prolonged silence. Hardare gave each man at the table a thoughtful stare, convinced they were all thinking the same thought. Finally the Professor voiced everyone’s concern. “You could set magic back twenty years, Vince.”
“I know,” Hardare said. “But look at the flip side. I have the opportunity to use my magic to truly do some good.”
“You sound like you’ve made up your mind,” Wilson said.
Hardare shook his head. “By helping the police, I’m going to risk hurting my reputation and my art, which means hurting my friends. I’m not sure that is a decision I’m entitled to make.”
“Do you want us to make it for you?” asked the Professor.
“Yes. If any group in the world represents magic, it’s the Academy. You’re the Academy’s officers. I’d like you to discuss it, then decide what you think is best. I’ll respect whatever decision you come to.”
The seven officers of the Academy exchanged glances. “Fair enough,” Ron Wilson said for the group.
“Thank you.”
Rising at his place from the table, Hardare went into the hallway to wait to await the Academy’s decision.
Ten minutes later Wilson appeared, and ushered him back inside. Hardare took the same seat at the table, and folded his hands in his lap. He waited, wondering who would speak for the group, and was not surprised when The Professor spoke up.
“We think you should help the police, Vince.”
“You do?”
“Yes. However, we also think the final decision must be yours. You’re risking your own well being, and your family’s. Listen to your heart, and you will know what’s best.”
Hardare nodded while swallowing a lump in his throat.
“Being Houdini’s nephew carries a tremendous amount of responsibility,” the Professor went on, his voice crackling with age. “So far, you’ve handled it well. Sometimes you act like your uncle, and Houdini had the worst temper of any man I ever knew. If you do help the police — and I have the feeling you will — than you can’t let your emotions run wild. Look at history: only the most resourceful people have been capable of stopping madmen.”
Hardare leaned back in his chair. “I was thinking of performing Dunninger’s old mind reading stunt over the radio tomorrow night, to try and draw the killer out.”
The Professor’s eyes grew wide behind his thick glasses. “Then be careful! California is filled with gullible people. They may start a religion after you.”
“That’s what I’m worried about,” Hardare said.
The Professor leaned halfway across the table, giving him the most incriminating of stares. “You’re going to do it?”
“Yes,” Hardare said.
“How many people did you say this madman has killed?”
“Too many,” Hardare said.
“Then do what you have to, and stop worrying about your goddamned image,” The Professor growled. “You’ve been given the opportunity to do some good. If this is destiny, then follow it.”
“Yes sir.”
The officers of the Academy rose, one by one shook his hand, and filed silently out of the room. Wilson stayed behind, and placed his hand on Hardare’s shoulder.
“Feel better now?” he asked.
“Much,” he said.
Chapter 7
KOLL
Standing behind a glass wall, the sound technician raised his arm. Through a speaker he said, “Kenny, you ready? Okay. Five... four... three... two...one... you’re on the air.”
“Good evening, and welcome to tonight’s show. This is Kenny Kitchen, coming to you live on L.A.’s most progressive radio network, KOLL. This is The Midnight Hour, and tonight’s topic is parapsychology, our special guest renowned magician and psychic entertainer Vincent Hardare. Welcome to our show.”
“Thanks,” Hardare said, sitting beside his bearded host in a cramped room surrounded by coffee cups and perforated acoustic tiles. “It’s a pleasure to be here.”
“Tonight we’re going to be discussing the hidden powers of the mind, and how psychics like Hardare help police departments across the country. In a few minutes our phone lines will be open, and we’ll be taking your calls, and maybe do a little mind-reading over the air waves. Are the juices flowing, Hardare?”
“I’m psyched,” Hardare said good naturedly.
A grin broke across Kitchen’s face. “Terrific. We’ll be right back.”
A jarring commercial filled the studio, and Kitchen switched off his microphone and fished a cigarette out of the breast pocket of his faded denim jacket. Short, pudgy and balding, Kitchen had managed to parlay his one single attribute — a deeply rich mid-Western baritone — into an entire career, and his late night talk show was a counter-culture institution over Los Angeles airwaves.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” he said, lighting up, “how do you plan to pull this off. Stooges?”
“Too obvious,” Hardare said, being purposely vague. Kitchen was an amateur magician who had once visited him backstage at Caesar’s. Before the show, Hardare had told him what he was going to do, but not how, and Kitchen continued to plug him for details.
“You mean it’s not a set-up?”
“That’s right. Anyone can call in.”
Kitchen took a big sip of coffee. “I give up.”
“I’m going to wing it.”
“You’re what..!” Kitchen stared through the soundproof glass partition into the next room where Detectives Wondero and Rittenbaugh were gulping down coffee to stay awake. “Do L.A.’s finest know that?”