Sample of The Homeless Magician
Silence washed over the room, bathing it in cool quietness.
All eyes were trained on the single man in black on the stage. I watched him
carefully, catching each detail in its place. He was tall and thin, with a long
face and an equally long nose. His skin seemed more pallid and frail than usual,
but it was hard to tell under the significant washout of the bright, blaring
stage lights. He wore a black suit that was frayed and patched at the joints,
and missing a pearly button halfway down the front of the jacket. His eyes
completely changed the homely and familiar impression of the rest of him
though. They were small and deep black, glittering like obsidian under the
lights. They infused the man with such an intriguing mystery, and yes, with
such secrets that felt supremely evil, that you were drawn in like a fly to a
glittering spider’s web. He began his complex twirl of cards, tricks, and
illusions, all made up to be a magic quite unlike the clean-cut shows of New
York. Rough and real, his shows came across, and perhaps that is why he was so
popular. He could make you believe in him with none of the fancy gimmicks or
elaborate mechanisms of others lesser than him. He only needed an audience, and
a stage.
He lifted his hand with an uneven gesture, feigning an
immatureness that sent the audience into an uncomfortable rustle. A thin smile
flitted across those shockingly gaunt features. He was enjoying their bare
uneasiness, basking in their pallid smiles. I rested my chin in the palm of my
white gloved hand, enjoying the satiny feel of the expensive fabric. This job
sure had its benefits, even if they were often overshadowed by the darkness of
the actual work. I gently blew a speck of dust off of my forearm, as the gloves
were of the long and elegant type, before turning my attention back to my
charge. He held a simple deck of cards in hand, letting them fall from one hand
to the other in a graceful flight that captured his audience immediately. They
gasped as one as he dropped the cards and they seemed to disappear before
suddenly appearing back in the same hand. He grinned slyly, and I mirrored his
smile. Three more days for the starving artist, and then we would meet face to
face. Even if our encounter would not be the most, say, pleasant of them all,
it would by far be the most memorable. Of that I was sure.
I leaned back against the velvety seat, settling farther
back into it so the backs of my bare calves brushed the cold black metal
beneath the chair. I shivered involuntarily at the contact, and shifted my weight
slightly forward. It was then that I managed, quite by accident, to see the
strange, lonely grayish figure in one of the viewing balconies to the left of
the theatre. The figure was tall, wiry and lithe looking even from my distance.
He was clothed entirely in varying shades of gray, his shoes nearing the brown
spectrum while his vest leaned toward black. I could not make out his face, as
he was sufficiently hidden in the shadows of the velvet curtains ringing the
balconies. I blinked, wondering at him with a vague interest. It was, in fact,
his clothing (which I was later to learn had meant to be inconspicuous) that
brought the figure to my attention. Lace and bright, silky dresses were musts
for the ladies of the Magna Theatre, while men often adopted tuxedos and
ties. One, especially one who could
afford a place such as in a viewing balcony, ought not to be wearing clothing
more reminiscent of the average “Joe.”
As I watched, he seemed to be pacing back and forth, his
drab brown shoes appearing with a startling splash of warm color before shadows
took him again at the interval. I lost interest in the man of magic, having
seen the famed “Homeless Magician” many times before. For one assigned to
follow the unfortunate skinny fellow, I was uncharacteristically negligent in
my observations. Instead I found my interest stolen by this mysterious man in
gray. And it was fair luck that I had become so involved in this unknown
figure, because had I not, I would have surely missed his next move. He ceased
his pacing for a second, maybe less, his brown shoes reflecting the lights of
the stage. A round of applause echoed in the theatre, but I dare not release my
gaze from the gray man. Some internal instinct told me that this was something
to pay attention to, even at the expense of missing anything of importance
regarding my actual charge. He glanced up at the noise, allowing me to catch
the interestingly flat mustache he sported before he ducked his head again,
focused on something within his gray coat. Another round of applause followed
his movements. He drew an object from the confines of the shadows. I squinted,
and just managed to catch a flash of reflected silver, before the stage
exploded in gunshots. Screams and yells of horror echoed through the theatre as
I glanced with terrible knowing at the stage. And yes, there lay my charge, the
one I was to assassinate myself in only three days time, dying in a pool of his
own blood. I cursed, and jumped up, tearing down the aisle. But not to the
exit, as all the others stampeded to, but towards the gray man, who still
stood, as if in shock, in his balcony clothed in shadow.
I reached the pale white door that lead to the balconies,
and touched the handle as if to turn it, when from right behind the door I
heard the unmistakable sound of hushed breathing. Time froze around me. Then
the training that was so ingrained within me made its appearance. I rolled away
from the door and dove behind a row of velvet theatre seats, the musty air and
dirty black carpets smothering me. I dared not move. The door creaked open, the
breathing sounding like a wild beast from my close, too close, vantage point. I
closed my eyes and steadied myself, focusing on the trampled sounds surrounding
me. Two echoing screams sounded out farther along, stragglers from the
stampeding theatre. A clunk of heavy metal hit the ground behind me, muffled
almost to oblivion in the thick carpet. I felt, more than heard, the man move
off towards the stage, as dense as the carpet was. A cold realization seeped
through me. The man had dropped his gun… not two feet away from my own foot.
I stayed where I was. The man was not yet gone. He may have
dropped his weapon of murder, but that was no indication that he was now
unarmed. I would certainly never catch myself without a spare weapon somewhere
on my person. Instead I focused on his footsteps, now that I could hear them,
as he was heavily crossing the wooden stage. How arrogant. This person was
someone either amazingly accomplished or brazenly stupid to associate himself
so closely with his victim only moments after the crime. I risked shifting
slightly to my left, allowing myself a view consisting of a thin sliver of the
stage. And there he was, my man in gray, squatting as he leisurely surveyed the
dead magician. Again I was struck by the blatant mistake he was making. One
should never stick around their act of assassination for long, as the police
are quick to capture anyone, so long as they have the tiniest sliver of
evidence against them. And remaining at the scene of a crime is quite the bit
of evidence for them, like leaving candy out on the table and then bidding the
children to not even look at it. Who was this pompous figure? He straightened
up and my view of his profile was obliterated by his movements. I listened
carefully, following his brisk footsteps off the stage, this time moving right.
I was surprised to hear another creak of the door, this one heavy and long, and
then the distinctive crash of it closing. The stage door. Of course. Now I
understood his seemingly disregard for the rules of etiquette surrounding
murder. He had to retrieve the key. Otherwise, his plot would be for nothing,
as it was probable the police were only a few seconds away. A smile stole
across my face. I was beginning to like the gray man.
A shout by the entrance stole my smile away. I had been here
too long. I had no diplomatic immunity with the police, in fact, if they looked
closely enough, they would probably find plenty to convict me of. It was long
past time to leave. I jumped up, stopping only to shift my disposable camera
from my bag and snap two pictures of the murder weapon. Then I was off and
running, gliding along the shadows lining the theatre. I paused, glanced at the
entrance, and then made a mad dash across the brightly lit stage, my heart
beating a feverish race. I glanced to my left, but I had no time to find an
alternate route. With my training screaming at me, I edged the stage door open
with my gloved hand and then flew through it, letting my fingertips ease its
closing as not to draw the attention of those beginning to search the theatre.
The hallway in front of me was dimly lit with old, dusty yellow bulbs, bare and
protruding from the ceiling at odd intervals. The plentiful shadows did nothing
to reassure me, and I hugged the wall with my back as I made my way down the
walk. I drew a small pistol from my thigh holster, loosening the safety with a
soundless click. I felt under my blouse on my left side, reassuring myself with
the steady outline of the knife hidden there. I had no intelligence on this
man, and my ignorance was killing me. I never went into an operation without
first knowing all the details and all the possibilities. Fear was at the
forefront of my mind, barely held back by a thin shield of level-headedness
that was my body’s natural defense against the panic setting in. Although his
choice of disguise was contrary to my conclusion, I had come to the agreement
with myself that this man of mystery was no amateur. He was professional, and I
deeply regretted the fact. Professionals had no souls. If I were to be caught
in a position where my life was within his grasp I did not doubt that he would
smother it without a second thought.
