Clarence’s jaw tightened up until he realized the man was teasing. At least he was pretty sure he wasn’t serious.
“Do you know him?” Clarence pulled the quarter eagle out of his pocket. “I’ve been practicing magic.” He did a quick knuckle roll back and forth with the coin.
The bow-tied man put his paper aside. “Can you do a pass under and around?”
Clarence rolled the coin between his fourth and little finger, tucked it under, caught it on his thumb, then brought it around from underneath. “Sure. I learned that one first.”
The man produced a half dollar from a vest pocket, then walked it from finger to finger on his right hand. “Okay, we’ll race. First one to get the coin around their hand ten times wins. It’s a little unfair. My hands are bigger and the coin has farther to go.”
They counted out loud. Clarence was at eight when the man reached ten, flipped the coin into the air, and then watched solemnly as the white feather it had turned into drifted to the floor.
“You’re pretty good for a kid. Can you do a sleeve flick? How about a coin cascade?”
Clarence nodded.
The secretary, who had returned to her desk, laughed. “Don’t get him going. He’ll talk your ear off about magic.” She looked at the clock. “Bob will be here in a couple minutes. You’d better get into the studio.”
The bow-tied man dismissed her comment with a wave. He leaned toward Clarence, his elbows on his knees. “So, why do you want to see Professor Gilded?”
Clarence tried to recall the picture of Gilded from The Denver Post. His hair had been thick and black, almost touching his shoulders, and a moustache hid most of his mouth. Was it possible that the bald, bow-tied man was Professor Gilded? But where was the accent? Clarence imagined Gilded as tall, like a black-cloaked Abraham Lincoln. Who was this guy?
As if reading his mind, the bow-tied man said, “I’m John Albenice, his understudy. You can tell me.”
A couple dressed in their Sunday best pushed through the door. The woman in a floral print dress with her hair pinned up, whose pinched cheeks and pointed chin made her look a little like Clarence’s fourth grade teacher, walked straight to the secretary and said, “We’re here for Professor Gilded’s afternoon performance. We have an invitation.” She put an envelope on the desk. Her husband stood behind her, his hands pushed into his pockets, as if he really didn’t want to be there.
“Of course, studio two, please.” The secretary opened the door for them. Clarence glimpsed a short hallway.
“Will Professor Gilded be here soon?” He raised himself out of the chair to get a last look before the door closed. “He said perception is reality. He said if I perceive that I’m sick, that I am. I wanted to ask him what he meant by that.”
John leaned back in his chair. He idly pulled his bow tie. “Professor Gilded says a lot of things on the air you probably shouldn’t listen to, kid. He’s paid to talk, you know. He’s an entertainer.”
The secretary cleared her throat and looked purposefully at the clock.
“Look, I’ve got to get ready for the show. He just meant that magic happens in your head.” He stood up and started for the studio. “Are you as proficient with cards as you are with coins?”
“I can do a pretty good fan and a table spread, but my hands are too small for a one-hand shuffle. I’ll have to grow into lots of tricks.” He held up his hand like a starfish.
“Huh,” John said. “Have you tried cutting down a deck? Smaller cards might do it.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “I hadn’t considered that before. I’ll bet small cards might get a lot of kids interested in sleight of hand.”
“Oh, no,” said the secretary.
The door opened. A gray-headed man carrying a briefcase walked partway into the foyer, and then froze when he saw John.
“I told you to stay the gawd damned hell away from me, freak,” said the man, bringing the briefcase to his chest like a shield.
The secretary stiffened. “Bob, there’s a child in the room.”
Clarence recognized the man’s voice. He introduced and narrated Professor Gilded’s Glorious Magical Extravaganza. He said “hell” on the air at the end of the last show.
John straightened. His voice deepened. “I’m not responsible for your irrational fears. If you can’t separate a trick from reality, then you have the problem, not me.” It was Professor Gilded’s voice, without the accent. He stood in between the two chairs, only a yard from Clarence, and he didn’t look like he was going to move.
Keeping his briefcase between them, the other man scooted along the front windows until he reached the sound engineer’s door. He found the knob without looking away from John. “I’ll announce the show, but I don’t want to have anything to do with you. Keep your distance. There’s nothing natural about you.” The door slammed behind him.
John shrugged. He looked at Clarence. “Sorry you had to see that. He had difficulty with the horse trick. It… disturbed him.”
“Did you… I mean, did the professor really make a horse turn into bones?” Clarence’s heart thumped in his throat.
“If you think so, then he did. That’s the perception trick. An audience thought he did. And Bob there… well,” he moved toward the studio door. “He believes.”
He stopped at the secretary’s desk. “The only thing I really know about magic, kid, is that if there isn’t some of it in the world, then we live in a dark, dark place. If you’ve got any, you have to share it.”
The secretary reached into her hair. “Hey, what’s this?”
John plucked the object off her palm. He looked at it, genuinely puzzled. “1910 quarter eagle. Isn’t this yours?” He walked back to Clarence, the coin between his fingers. “Nice trick.”
The coin dropped into Clarence’s hand. He hadn’t even realized that John had taken it.
“Nice trick yourself.”
John paused. “I didn’t do anything. How’d you pull it off? Pass it when she gave you the water? No, don’t tell me. A magician never tells. But I like it. Effective illusion. Okay, gotta go. There will be a whole audience here soon, and the stage isn’t ready.” He shook Clarence’s hand. “Somebody’s got to amaze them all.” He laughed, and Clarence thought he’d heard a hint of a European accent in it.
Then, he was gone. Clarence tossed the gold piece from one hand to the other.
The secretary looked at him pityingly. “If there were room in the studio, kid, he’d let you in, but we’re booked for weeks.”
When Clarence stood on the sidewalk outside the radio station, his arms felt completely without strength. Had he used up everything he had to get to the station? He stepped forward, letting most of his weight rest on the crutches, his breath ripping in short gasps against his aching legs. No hike could have ever been longer. He thought about soldiers marching to far off fronts, their courage flitting about them, not knowing if they would make it back, but he kept pushing forward, his braces clicking against the cement. The metal creaked at the knees, and he went steps at a time with his eyes closed.
By the time he reached the trolley stop, he could hardly inhale, and his heart flurried like a trapped bird. Was this the beginning of a new paralysis? He whimpered. Cars passed on Broadway in the afternoon sun, and only after agonizing minutes the trolley trundled into sight.
“Please,” gasped Clarence as the same driver from his ride downtown lifted him into the car, “can you take me to the hospital?”
Every bump jarred his legs. He held the back of his thighs to try to keep them from bouncing, but he couldn’t anticipate the next jolt. His cheek rested against the wooden sill under the window, and tears leaked between his closed eyelids. Finally the trolley stopped.