Free Real Magic by Stuart Jaffe Page A

made Donald Trump weep. Marble floors and crystal chandeliers, nude statues and groomed servants, and wherever one looked — gold-trim. An enormous fountain graced the lobby while a string quartet played near a sweeping staircase.
    People mulled about, all wearing their finest clothes, all abuzz with anticipation for a wonderful evening. Some looked uncomfortable as if they only spent such sums once a year and didn't know all the etiquette involved in an opulent place such as this. Others looked bored at yet another evening of drinking and eating and reveling. Most, however, smiled and laughed and tried hard to let some of the gold glimmer upon them.
    Guess not everybody suffers during the Depression.
    Freddie escorted Duncan through a curtained archway and into one of three cavernous restaurants. The place hopped with activity. All the tables were occupied. The moment satisfied diners left, busboys hurried in to clean and set up. Before the diners had exited the room, new diners were seated and giving their menu orders. All of this danced to the infectious tunes of the house's twelve-piece big band.
    Two couples used the dance floor that gleamed like ice from extensive polishing. Most people appeared more interested in eating. For further entertainment, a few men in long-tails and top hats worked the tables, performing close-up magic.
    Duncan thought of the soup line from earlier that day and that people might still be waiting for an evening meal a few blocks away. It was like a science-fiction story — two parallel worlds co-existing in the same space.
    "Over there," Freddie said, indicating a bank of three elevator doors. All the doors were open, and each housed an attendant dressed in a double-breasted uniform with a pillbox cap on top. Freddie pointed to the one on the end and the young operator straightened at their approach.
    "What floor, sir?" he said, his voice still cracking with puberty.
    "Mr. Walter's floor."
    The boy paled but otherwise remained calm. "Right away, sir. Watch yourselves as I close the doors." With a practiced motion, he slid the main door closed and then an accordion gate. He glanced at Duncan before pulling the lever that engaged the elevator, and Duncan swore he caught a look of pity in the kid's eyes.
    The elevators of 1934 left much to be desired. The start and finish lacked the smooth grace of a modern elevator, and no form of noise reduction had been employed, so Duncan suffered through listening to every creak and moan the machinery emitted. He had to keep reminding himself that the chances of the cable snapping and the elevator plummeting to the ground were remote. Yet each time a cable twanged, it reverberated through the walls, and Duncan's heart twanged with it. Making matters worse, there was little room inside. Duncan had to press against Freddie a bit, and neither man appeared to enjoy the experience.
    When they reached the penthouse, the elevator operator opened the door and stepped out. "Mr. Walter's private floor," he said with a slight bow and a flourish of his hand.
    Freddie stomped into the hallway, yanking Duncan along. As an afterthought, he tipped the boy a dime, and then waited until the boy rode the elevator back down. Voices echoed from the right end of the hall — a woman and a child.
    "This way," Freddie said, pushing Duncan left toward a heavy wood door at the far end. On either side of the hall, statuettes of nude females posed in small recesses like devilish imps laughing at the approach of a fresh victim.
    Freddie pushed open the door with one hand and shoved Duncan through with the other. He pointed to a high-backed chair with gold arms and grapevines carved into the wood. "Sit."
    Duncan settled in the chair which was far more uncomfortable than it had appeared. It had been set in front of the most ornate desk Duncan had ever seen. The legs and edges were a mixture of silver and gold sculpted into a design of playing cards fanned out around the corners.