Free The Spirit Cabinet by Paul Quarrington Page A

hands, the covers sealed by cobwebbing.
    Jurgen flipped the front cover open and blew away dust. As he read the title page, his eyelids fluttered up and down rapidly like antique television sets that need adjustment with the horizontal hold.
    “Hi, chief,” said Rudolfo, from the hole that was the doorway, leaning up against the cool rock. “Anything good?”
    “
The Art of Juggling, or
 …” said Jurgen, reading the English. There was another word on the title page,
Legerdemain
, which he did not attempt. He switched to German. “It’s a very famous book. Four hundred years old. One of the first books about magic.”
    “We have to the hotel be going.” Rudolfo would often use English when petulant, peeved or baffled.
    Jurgen looked up at his friend, nodded, and closed the book.
    “So,” asked their driver, Jimmy, “what’s the story on this Tee-hee-hee Collection?”
    Jimmy was a large man with a head that consisted of oversized features—long, froggy lips, a bulbous nose marbled with exploded veins—stuck onto a billiard ball. Very unpleasant. Fortunately, they rarely saw his face.
    “Why do you me this ask?” said Jurgen.
    Rudolfo scowled, annoyed as always with his partner’s English syntax.
    “No reason, boss,” responded Jimmy. Jimmy had originally come to Vegas hoping to become the driver for a shadowy underworld figure. He’d had a vision, which he found deeply exciting, of steering a long black limousine, willing himself to stare straight ahead, occasionally, very occasionally, glancing into the rearview mirror where he saw such goings-on as were unheard of in Missouri. “It was on television.”
    “What was on television?” snapped Rudolfo.
    “The thing,” explained Jimmy. “The Collection thing. They said as how you guys bought it. On the news.”
    “Oh, so it was on the news,
ja?
”
    “Yeah,” nodded Jimmy. “Not on the
news
-news, where there’s a picture in the background and the chick is reading from a piece of paper.”
    “Whatever in the world are you blistering about?” asked Rudolfo.
    “It was on that part at the end, you know, when the chick newscaster and the sports guy and the weather guy are all sitting together. And she says how you guys bought this Collection, and then they said some more stuff. Had a few laughs.”
    They hit the Strip suddenly, light and noise exploding upon the planet.
    “
Ja
, well,” said Rudolfo, “sticks and stones can break my bones, but local coverage will never harm me.” He felt very sad momentarily, for without thinking he had quoted Miss Joe, their first manager.
    “So this Collection thing,” persisted Jimmy—this now qualified officially as the longest conversation Jurgen and Rudolfo had ever had with their driver— “is a big deal, huh?”
    “It is,” responded Rudolfo, “just a bunch of books and a few hideous pieces of wood.”
    Jurgen put sunglasses on, even though it was still daylight and nowhere near as bright as it would be at night. “I will tell you about books,” he said quietly. He took a deep breath and chewed at his lips briefly, as if to draw blood and energy into them, and Rudolfo realized that he intended to continue in English, that whatever he meant to say was as much for Jimmy’s illumination as his own.
    “Was a man named Jean. In France, many years ago. And he was young man, eighteen years maybe, he is wanting to be, like his fodder—”
    “Father?” suggested Rudolfo meanly.
    “Watchmaker. Maker of watches. So he is asking the bookseller for book, you know, about making watch.”
    “You understand this, Jimmy?” wondered Rudolfo.
    Jimmy grunted, threw his shoulders upwards in a loose and uncoordinated manner. “Sure. Like on the back of the matchbooks. It’s got watchmaker right there with refrigeration and air-conditioning technician.”
    “So book comes, you know. It looks funny. It is name
Amusing Mechanical Devices
. Not about watch at all. It is about how to make, oh, Transformation