Free MAGIC by William Goldman Page B

fluke streak he was riding, but eventually he realized it had to do with a pleasing impression, that’s what they said mostly, he seemed to be nice.
    He hoped they were right, thought they were too. And prayed fervently that they never changed their minds.
    He and Merlin moved all across the West, Nevada, Colorado, every place big enough to have an order of Elks or some Freemasons, Lion’s Clubs, Knights of Columbus, Pythian Sisters. They went to cocktail parties in Seattle, fund raisers in Ashland, Oregon; trade shows, women’s clubs, sales meetings, and between jobs, Corky sat by his mirror and worked, improving his forces, getting the estimations down, flourishes of all kinds, many his own. He was starting to invent his own moves now, maybe not better but different from before, things that never existed were starting to flock to him.
    Once that started, Merlin pointed out the Stardust.
    “What’s that?” Corky asked. They were seated in the wagon, driving home after a tough time in Santa Monica. Merlin was aging badly. The Cary Grant jokes were carrying him now.
    “Club.”
    “So?”
    “It’s a regular nightclub. Sophisticated. But for you, special.”
    “I don’t think I’m gonna like this,” Corky said.
    “You’re getting very good, Corky.”
    “But?”
    “No. You are. It’s time you went out on your own.”
    “I knew I wasn’t going to like it.”
    “You never yet performed in all your life alone.”
    “I’m not ready.”
    “You’re going to have to face it someday. I don’t mean helping me set up either. I mean going out alone on a stage. You against them and you come out champeen. It’s time.”
    “No it isn’t.”
    “How old are you please?”
    “What difference does it make, I’m not ready.”
    “You’re goddam near twenty-six and you are ready. This place”—he gestured to the Stardust—“it’s perfect for you. Mondays
anyone
performs. No pressure. You just sign up early enough and the first couple dozen do an act. Sing, tell jokes. They never get magicians hardly. You’d be a novelty. I know they’d take to you.”
    Corky shook his head.
    “You’re not skyrocketing with me exactly.”
    “I’m learning.”
    “Learned.”
    “Let’s go home.”
    Merlin started the car. “What are you afraid of?”
    “I’m not afraid, I’m just not great yet.”
    “Remember what I said that first day?”
    “That I was crazy, you mean?”
    Merlin nodded. “Don’t let me turn out to be right.”
    The next weeks Merlin’s work took another drop, and he raised Corky from a 10 to 25 percent partner. Corky wasn’t doing any performing, but everything else was his responsibility now. Pinning the gimmicks into just the right places on Merlin’s magic suit. (He couldn’t do straight close-up anymore, only stuff with gimmicks and fakes.) Making the bookings, driving the car, setting up the act in its entirety. Merlin got more reflective, going back a lot to when he worked with Cardini getting equal billing, how he stumped Thurston once with a sleight of his own that he worked into The Miser’s Dream. How he, the last week his wife was alive, spent all the time with her in the hospital, got so he could catch her thoughts.
    Corky didn’t know what was true or wasn’t, but on general principle, he believed it all.
    They went, to humor the old man, to the Stardust on a Monday, sitting in the back, watching the entire three hour show. The owner-MC introduced the acts, explained that none of them had ever performed before—“and if we’re lucky won’t ever perform again” somebody shouted from the audience but the MCshut him up with “I thought they got you last week for child molesting” and there was laughter and some applause.
    Then the talent started. The MC read each name out from a card, giving an intro the performer had written himself. Then the MC went to a corner table, took a big hourglass, and turned it upside down. “You’re
on
,” he said as the hourglass touched