Psych: Mind Over Magic Part 3

"Really?" Shawn cast a quick look at the invitation to make sure it was what he thought it was. "You still want me to go, knowing what I'm going to do?"

"More than ever, son," Henry said through clenched teeth. "Because I'm sure now that you're an adult, you'll do something that will get you banned for your grandchildren's lifetimes."

Chapter Four.

The black night was filled with howls and growls of a pack of vicious dogs. Gus moved closer to Shawn. At least he tried to, but since he couldn't see his friend in the darkness, he might just as easily have been moving away. Something brushed his ankle, and Gus leapt away. He could practically feel the hot breath through his socks.

"How many do you think there are?" Gus said, trying to differentiate between dozens of dog sounds.

Shawn listened for a moment. And then for another moment. And another. "I don't have to think," he said finally. "I know exactly how many."

At first, Gus thought Shawn was cracking under the strain of their impending, and very unpleasant, death. But he quickly realized that what he heard in Shawn's voice was not a tremble of fear, but a poorly repressed chuckle.

"And that's funny somehow?" Gus said.

"It is if you know the number," Shawn said. "What did the invitation say again?"

"It said we needed to know the magic word, or we'd be eaten to death," Gus said. "Or words to that effect."

"I don't care about the effect. I need to know the exact words."

Gus called up the image of the small red type in front of his eyes. Even in this remembered state it was hard to read. "If you wish admittance to the Fortress, you must say the magic words, else all is forfeit."

"Okay then, let's say the magic words."

"We don't know them!"

"Don't we?"

"No, Shawn, we don't. That's why we're standing in the dark, surrounded by vicious h.e.l.l hounds."

Gus could almost hear Shawn's smirk. "My friend, you are wrong on every count."

"Then if you're so smart, you go ahead and say the magic words."

"I don't think you want me to do that."

"To save our lives? Say the words."

"You're going to be mad."

"Because you figured it out first? I'll live-if you say the words."

"Fine, I will," Shawn said. He took a long, dramatic pause, and then let his voice ring out over the hillside. "The magic words!"

Gus felt his heart sink in his chest. At least it would be harder for the dogs to get to it that way, he thought. He had actually allowed himself to hope that Shawn knew what he was doing, that they might get out of this alive. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to prepare himself for the first fangs to penetrate his flesh.

After a moment, he realized there were no fangs. There weren't even any growls. The dogs seemed to have disappeared. Cautiously he opened his eyes just as the entire hillside erupted in a blaze of landscape lighting. There wasn't a bared tooth anywhere, unless you counted the ones in Shawn's broad smile.

"The magic words?" Gus sputtered. "That's it? That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."

"Told you you were going to be mad."

Gus realized he was. Relieved, yes, at no longer facing a hideous, drooling death. But also annoyed at the simplicity-in fact, the stupidity-of the clue.

"How did you figure it out?"

"You've just got to know how magicians work," Shawn said.

"How do they work?"

"Mostly as waiters," Shawn said. "It's convenient for them because they can use the tux for both jobs. Shall we head on up to the Fortress?"

Shawn waved Bud's present up the now brightly illuminated path to a grand craftsman manor that sat on top of the hill.

"But where are the dogs?"

"Same place they always were." Shawn pointed to a spot a foot away from the path where a small speaker was staked between two lavender bushes. Gus could see several other speakers hidden in the landscaping.

"How did you know?"

"Magic."

"Exactly what kind of magic?"

"The magic of the human ear," Shawn said. "Do you realize how complex that organ is?"

Gus glared at him and waited for him to continue.

"The dog growls were on a tape loop," Shawn said. "After the fourth dog joined in, there was a tiny blip where it was spliced together. And since it seemed unlikely that the canines were doing the editing job themselves, I figured out that there were no dogs anywhere around."

Shawn headed up the path to the Fortress. Gus chugged behind him until they reached the front door, a mammoth slab of green painted oak with a sign across it reading REALITY ENDS HERE.

"I'll say," Shawn muttered as he pushed the door open.

Inside, the old craftsman had been skillfully transformed into something that looked like the haunted house at a middle school carnival. Plastic skeletons dangled from the ceiling, their formerly white limbs encased in gray dust, and the fake spiderwebs that had been sprayed in the corners had all been covered with real ones. A banner hand-painted in red tempera on butcher paper welcomed Bud's bachelor party to the Fortress.

Gus looked around the room, dismayed. He had spent much of the afternoon reading up on the Fortress of Magic, and until the attack by imaginary dogs, he'd been looking forward to seeing it. Founded in the late twenties by a group of professional magicians, the Fortress was a place for "the peers of prestidigitation" to "practice their dark arts away from the prying eyes of the public." In its heyday, every great stage magician stopped by whenever they pa.s.sed through Santa Barbara, and many made the trip west specifically to visit. It was a place where they could talk about their craft and test their new illusions on the most demanding audience of all.

Over the years, the Fortress had gained a certain mystique, mostly because only members were allowed in, and only professional magicians could become members. Of course, that mystique had diminished as the small group of magicians who sat on the Fortress' board started to rent the place out for parties to bring in a little money for operating expenses. Apparently there had been a fierce controversy over the idea of allowing nonpros in to see the magicians' sanctum sanc torum, but when the board insisted that they needed money to stay in business, and the only two options were to open the place to outsiders or raise prices at the bar, the membership quickly fell in line.

Now the Fortress was an exclusive club open only to members-and to anyone who held an invitation for a fundraiser, a book club meeting, or a bachelor party. Still, the magicians who attended continued to act as if they were in their own private preserve, testing out their new illusions on each other while making sure their business cards ended up in the pockets of anyone who looked like they might be hiring.

From the descriptions Gus had read online, he'd expected the Fortress to be a grand, Gothic spectacle, a step inside a private world few would ever have the opportunity to experience. Instead, he saw a run-down mansion with wobbly furniture, threadbare carpets, and a smog of desperation hanging over the small crowd that populated it. He was momentarily surprised that none of the Web sites he'd checked out had described the place as anything but a palace of wonders. But he quickly realized that the illusion of exclusivity was stronger and more appealing than anything reality had to offer-what was the point of gaining admittance to this fabulously private place, only to describe it as a dump? If the writer's privilege was to mean anything, the Fortress had to be portrayed as something, well, magical.

What it felt like more than anything else was the headquarters of an Elks lodge that hadn't recruited a new member since Nixon resigned.

"This is some rocking party," Shawn said. "My father doesn't know what he's missing."

"So when are you going to tell me what he did that was so bad, they banned him for life?" Gus said.

"It was a little misunderstanding, that's all," Shawn said. "They thought they should be able to practice their craft in their own building. He disagreed."

"Let's just find this Bud Flanek guy and get out of here," Gus said. "This place is depressing."

"If there's one thing that professional magicians and aging bachelor partyers have in common, it's their choice of location," Shawn said. "We'll find him in the bar."

A burst of laughter from down the hall strongly suggested where that bar might be found. But when they turned to head in its direction, Gus nearly tripped over an enormous lump on the floor. Looking down, he saw a crown of bald scalp laurelled with graying ringlets that resolved into a greasy ponytail. Fleshy hands scrabbled over the carpet, sc.r.a.ping together a mound of playing cards.

The lump looked up and Gus found himself peering into the cherubic face of a Quattrocento putto-or at least what such a cupid might have looked like if he'd spent his thirties and forties trapped inside a bottle of vodka.

"Knew I shouldn't have tried the Brazilian shuffle in public yet," the putto said sheepishly as he gathered the rest of the cards into a neat block and scooped them into one hand. He used the other to push himself up to his knees, and from there up to his feet. Once he was standing, he adjusted the c.u.mmerbund on his too-tight tuxedo to cover the stomach-revealing gap in his shirt. "Darn cards keep getting away from me. Speaking of which . . ."

The putto fanned the deck clumsily and thrust it under Gus' nose. "Choose a card."

Gus' hand reached up reflexively, but Shawn pulled it back down.

"We'd prefer not to choose," Shawn said. "We like them all equally."

"No, really, this is good," the putto insisted. "I've practiced it a lot." His face blazed red as he screwed up his mouth in embarra.s.sment. "I mean, it will astonish and amaze you. You like being astonished and amazed, don't you?"

Gus had to admit he did. He reached out for a card, but again Shawn pulled his hand away. "You're just encouraging him."

"What's the problem?" Gus said. "All he wants is to do a trick for us."

"Sure, that's how it starts," Shawn said. "But then he's going to follow you home, and you're going to want to take care of him. You'll promise to feed him and clean up after him and take him out for walks-"

"It's a card trick," Gus said. He reached for a card and waited until Shawn knocked his hand away. Then he reached out with his other hand and s.n.a.t.c.hed a card out of the deck. "What do I do now?"

The putto looked confused. "I'm trying to remember. It's been so long since anyone actually said yes."

"Come on, Gus," Shawn said. "Let's find Bud Flanek and get out of here."

"Wait, wait! I remember," the putto said. "You look at the card. That's right. You look at the card and then put it back in the deck."

Gus glanced at the card. It was the five of hearts. He slipped it back into the deck, which the magician had helpfully shoved back under his nose. The magician gave the deck a couple of sloppy shuffles, then proudly pulled out one card.

"This is your card!" the putto p.r.o.nounced, holding up the two of spades.

"That's right, that's amazing, that's astonishing," Shawn said quickly. "If only there was a tip jar."

Shawn pulled Gus away toward the bar as the putto gaped after them.

"You know that wasn't my card," Gus said.

"And so did he."

"So, what, you were trying to spare his feelings?"

"I was trying to spare us another fifteen minutes watching him pretend to be a b.u.mbling idiot while he worked you over," Shawn said. "You still have your watch, don't you?"

Confused, Gus checked his wrist. The Fossil was firmly in place. "I don't know why you say he was pretending," Gus said.

"Why are you limping?"

"I'm not." Gus stopped, realizing that he was. He pressed his left foot down on the floor. "I think there's something in my shoe."

"Maybe you should take it out."

Gus sat on an overstuffed couch, fighting a sneeze as dust motes flew up around him, and pulled off his left oxford. He peered under the tongue. "Nothing there."

"Try the sock," Shawn said.

Gus pulled the Gold Toe Executive Stretch off his foot. As it cleared his arch, something fluttered out. Gus picked it up and stared at it.

The five of hearts.

"Is this your card?" Shawn said wearily.

"But he was . . . ," Gus started, casting a glance back to where the putto, apparently failing another attempt at the Brazilian shuffle, knelt on the floor, sc.r.a.ping up cards in front of a young couple clearly here for a function more glamorous than Bud Flanek's bachelor party. "How did he? And how did you?"

"You don't want to know," Shawn said. "It's just going to make you mad."

"That's the second time you've said that," Gus said.

"And I was right the first time, wasn't I?"

Gus had to admit it was true. "But why?"

"This is how stage magic works," Shawn said. "They do a trick. You're amazed. You can't imagine how they pulled off something so miraculous. You're dying to know. But they'll never tell you."

Gus slipped his sock over his foot, then stood into his loafer. "Because if you know the trick, then the illusion is ruined."

"But why would that be?" Shawn said. "If they were really communing with the spirits or reading your mind or dancing with dragons, wouldn't they want you to know?"

"Sure, but they're not."

"Obviously," Shawn said. "But even if what they were doing was so difficult, so complicated, so challenging, knowing how they did it would only make you respect them more."

"Yeah."

"So why don't they want you to know how they do it?"