Free A Bird's Eye by Cary Fagan Page A

could feel the vibration from the theatre below. I touched my hand to the door.
    â€œCome on, big shot,” Corinne said. “Knock louder. Houdini could walk straight through that door.”
    â€œHoudini was an escape artist.” I knocked louder.
    â€œWho the hell is it?”
    I opened the door. The man behind the desk was eating a pastrami sandwich with both hands. Jowly, with heavy-lidded eyes, wheezing between chews. The sort of man who would play a theatre manager in the movies.
    â€œIf you want free tickets, you can scram. I don’t care if your ma’s a cripple or your old man is on the dole. Those cheapskates across the street never put on enough mustard. Get out of here, kids.”
    â€œMr. Ludwig,” I said. “I want to audition.”
    â€œI guess you’re trying to make me laugh till I die.”
    â€œHe’s serious,” Corinne said.
    â€œYou two do a midget version of Uncle Tom’s Cabin ? I can get plenty of midgets if I want them, and believe me I don’t.”
    â€œMaybe I could leave you my card,” I said. I reached into my cotton jacket and pulled out a dove. Its head hung limp. “I think I suffocated it.”
    â€œThat’s an original touch. Jesus, an animal-killing act.”
    The bird shuddered, shook itself, and flapped upright onto my finger. “Are you all right?” I said. I threw the bird up into the air, only for it to become a shower of confetti.
    â€œHey, you’re making a mess in here.” Mr. Ludwig brushed the paper bits off his sandwich. “What else can you do?”
    â€œMr. Ludwig,” I said, tugging at one sleeve to show nothing was hidden under my shirt cuff, and then the other. From the folds at my elbow I palmed a hidden roll of bills that I now fanned out with my fingers. “What I can do is make you money.”
    The man half snorted, half chuckled. “I doubt it. But I’m the easiest mark in the world. A kid magician might be novel for a couple of weeks. Even if you screw up, you might get their sympathy. Can you do eight minutes?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œI’ve got to figure out some way to bill you. Youngest member of the Magic Circle in London, Blackstone’s illegitimate kid, something like that. You’ll work every night but Sunday, plus Saturday afternoons, ten bucks a week.”
    â€œThat isn’t much,” Corinne said.
    â€œHe isn’t much either. Listen, we’re the last straight vaudeville house in town. Every other one is showing movies for half the night if it hasn’t closed down. Here are the rules: Late for one show and you lose a day’s pay. Show up intoxicated and you’re suspended. Complaints from any of the girls and you’re out. Bomb and you’re out. I get in a bad mood and you’re out. You can start two weeks from Thursday.”
    â€œThanks, Mr. Ludwig.”
    â€œI’m going to need a letter from your parents. That they’re okay with this.”
    â€œI’m an orphan.”
    â€œThat’s my good luck. What’s your name, anyway?”
    â€œBenjamin Kleeman.”
    â€œWe need one of those magician names for you. The Great Kidini. Nah. The Little Wonder. That might do. Listen, Benjamin. You want to get in my good books? Run across to the deli and get me some more mustard in a paper cup.”
    The phone rang. I hurried out of the office, closing the door behind me. Corinne gave a little shriek. I felt the blood drain from my body. I had tricks, but I didn’t have an act, not even eight minutes.

Daphne Conover, the woman who taught my father the game of backgammon, was the oldest daughter of a Methodist minister from Bracebridge. She was thirty-seven years old and had turned down a proposal of marriage when she was nineteen. Even then she knew that men did not attract her, that she did not want children of her own, that she was destined for university and a career. She had a