Magic Irving and His Magic Shoppe

Prologue

He ripped the sheet off her

body and she was gone.

Shhh! Another illusion was about to begin and most of those who had paid their $29.95 were sure, this time, they would catch the performer in a mistake, a slip, a fault or some other error. Then they would smugly reveal to their friends that they knew how the trick was done. After all, it’s only magic and everybody knows there is no such thing as magic.

The audience watched closely, carefully studying each move as the magician placed his embarrassingly clad assistant into a trance; as he caught her when she crumpled toward the floor, then carefully positioned her on the cloaked table; as he covered her with that glimmering silk sheet; as he dismantled the table’s support structure and deliberately passed a hoop over and around the draped figure; as he stepped back and raised his arms, causing the unsupported girl to rise into the air; as the movement abruptly stopped; and as he reached up, cast a sinister smile to the audience, and then ripped the sheet off her body.

Air itself burst into a brilliant blue and yellow fireball. Then there was nothingness. Where the assistant had been was only air and the magician himself was alone on the stage.

A moment of stunned silence was followed by gasps from those surprised by the illusion and blank stares from those who were hopelessly trying to figure it out.

Then the applause began. Loud, booming. Some people even stood.

The magician hid the smoldering cuff of his jacket, took his bows and, soon, he too was gone from the stage at the Gordon Theater.

Chapter 1

Wow! He hadn’t had a standing ovation in years. Okay, it was only a couple of people and most of them just wanted to grab their coats and beat the crowd to the exit door, but they still stood and they were applauding. That, according to Magic Irving, constituted a standing ovation.

Overall, Irving considered it one of his finer performances. Virtually all his tricks had worked for a change. He did botch that one rope trick, but the audience believed his save. They actually thought it was part of the illusion. And, the way that woman screamed when the blood began to ooze out of the dagger box was perfect. A paid assistant couldn’t have timed it better. It set the entire audience on edge, so much so that there were audible sighs of relief when Maggie emerged from the box, completely unscathed. Yes, it was a good performance. Nah, it was a great performance.

His mind was still replaying the applause when he stepped through the front door of the Morning-Noon-&-Night Convenience Store. Irving had promised that, this time, he would not forget to pick up a gallon of milk and a dozen hard rolls on his way home. It was just a small detour. His head in a cloud, he was still visualizing his performance when he reached into the cooler for the milk (checking to make sure it was dated at least a week in advance, as Sarah insisted) and into the bin for his rolls (searching for the ones with sesame seeds, instead of the poppy seeded kind). Anyone who knew Irving wouldn’t think it at all unusual that he just didn’t notice there was a robbery going on.

Irving took his place in line at the checkout and waited. He thought that the young man in front of him was not appropriately dressed for the weather. It was chilly outside, but still too warm for a ski mask. And, he was taking somewhat long …

Oh! Magic Irving said, half out loud.

C’mon fellah. Over there with the others, the masked man ordered, motioning with his gun.

Usually slow to react to anything, it would have been typical of Irving to just stand there and stare at the masked man while the gravity of the situation slowly crept into his consciousness. But, this time something was different. Perhaps it was his elation over the success of the evening’s performance. Maybe it was the threat posed by a loaded revolver pointed directly at his chest. Or, possibly, it was the effect of the full moon, heightened by the knowledge that, according to his mother, his great uncle Sammy was a werewolf. It may have been in his genes.

Irving snapped his hand in front of the robber and a flash of flame erupted from his fingertips. The ski mask ignited. The robber dropped his gun and screamed, Get this thing off me.

Irving, somewhat remorseful for what he had done, reached into the fire and, feeling the hair on his knuckles singe, pulled the mask from the man’s head. He used his coat to smother the flames, all the time saying, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

One of the other patrons ran to the phone, punched in 9-1-1, reported the incident, grabbed a Snickers bar and fled.

The remaining customers gathered in a circle around the robber, now clumped on the floor with Irving’s coat still around his head. He moaned and groaned, but other than that he didn’t do much of anything.

Can we do something for him? a woman asked, staring down at the still figure while sucking on a cherry lollipop.

I do not know, the cashier answered, not knowing whether to be scared or thrilled. After all, this was his first robbery. They didn’t allow things like this in his native province in Vietistan.

We shouldn’t go near him. He could still be dangerous, was the advice of a second woman. This one was holding her six-pack of Bud Light with Lime tightly against her chest, probably for protection. Whether she was protecting herself or the beer wasn’t quite clear.

Irving disagreed. I don’t think he’s a threat to anything. Not right now.

As if on cue, the man let loose with a loud piercing scream and tried, desperately, to stand up. The cashier hit him on the head with a broom handle and the robber slowly crumpled like a blow-up doll oozing air.

Now, he’s surely not a threat, Irving said.

I’m not waiting around to find out, explained the Bud Light lady.

Me, neither, said the lollipop woman whose tongue now flashed bright red each time she spoke.

Irving believed he had to wait. He felt responsible.

The cashier, Dan Phan, satisfied that the man who had tried to steal his money was now completely helpless, took the opportunity to whack him on the head again.

Hey, don’t do that, Irving cautioned, He’s hurt enough.

Neh? Phan said, as he kicked the fallen robber. Then, for good measure, kicked him again.

Stop it, Irving shouted, pushing the victim-turned-aggressor away from the robber-turned-victim.

Phan looked closely at Irving for the first time. To him, this man standing before him wasn’t unusual for a Caucasian. Hell, Phan thought, these white people all look alike anyway.

Heh! Phan said, trying his best to override his accent, You really get him with you fire. That amazing. You a pretty special man. How you do that?

With a roll of his fingers, Irving produced his card, seemingly out of thin air. It was an illusion he had practiced for dozens of hours, but only had the opportunity to do about a seven times.

"I’m a magician. My Magic Shoppe is just a few blocks from here. Stop in and I’ll teach you that trick. I call it the Fountain of Flame." Forget the robbery, here was a potential customer.

To his credit, the cashier was happy to show his appreciation. There was no charge for the milk or the rolls, or for a dozen donuts, a half-gallon of ice cream, orange juice, a newspaper and two cartons of cigarettes. And, Irving didn’t even smoke.

It took nearly twenty minutes for the Emergency Medical Technicians to arrive in their shiny new ambulance, but once on the scene they jumped into action.

Who had the heart attack? one of them shouted.

Nobody, Irving answered.

I was told here was a heart attack here.

I think I almost had one, but you’re here for the thief.

That’s a police matter.

No, he needs your help.

Sorry, I don’t do robberies.

I should hope not. But, the guy who tried to rob this place is in pain. He needs emergency attention.

Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Where is he?

Right in front of you.

Him?

Yeah, him.

What happened?

I set his ski mask on fire.

Cool.

Irving watched as the two brawny men in red and white striped jumpsuits rolled the robber onto his back so they could examine his burned face and nearly hairless head. One of them ran back to the ambulance for burn supplies, but just as he emerged from the store, a police car, siren blasting and lights flashing, screeched to a stop. Two police officers jumped from the car, guns drawn, and ordered the EMT to Hit the ground.

But, I’m –

And, the first shot was fired, pow, ping, shhhhhh. The bullet completely missed the EMT. Instead, it ricocheted off the front of the store with a loud ping and lodged in the whitewall of the patrol car’s left front tire, deflating it in 6 seconds, flat.

Look what you did, the officer screamed at the EMT, who, by then, was also flat – flat on his face wishing he had followed his father into accounting.

A second shot was fired. And there went the flashing lights on top of the patrol car.

Hey, Orlando, I don’t think this is the perp, the second officer shouted to the first.

Why not?

He’s wearing a Minterville Marilyn Monroe Ambulance Corps uniform and there’s his ambulance.

So, where’s the perp? asked the first officer.

I don’t know? Maybe inside!

The two officers, now totally oblivious to the prostrate man in front of them, stepped over him and into the store.

The EMT, realizing that he was now out of danger, stood, brushed himself off, opened the driver’s side door to the patrol car, leaned in and threw up. It was the least he could do.

Relieved in more ways than one, the EMT retrieved a jelly-like salve from the ambulance and returned to the store where he found the two officers trying to question the injured robber, while the other EMT just stood there watching.

What happened? Officer Orlando asked.

No answer.

C’mon buddy, talk to me or I’ll shackle you and drag you off like a bag of potatoes.

The EMT had heard enough. Move, he said, I’ve got a patient to treat.

No way, he’s ours, insisted the second officer.

He’s injured and, after what you did to me, I’ve got dibs.

Okay, okay! Orlando’s partner Dimitri said, You act like we’re not on the same side.

I didn’t know we were, the EMT replied.

C’mon, Dimitri explained, We both gets paychecks from the City of Minterville.

Fair enough, now get out of my way and let me do what that paycheck pays for.

At this point, Irving was getting very tired. Performing, even when it goes smoothly, is hard work and the tension of being caught in a robbery didn’t help. So, he took his groceries, walked to his car and went home. Nobody noticed.

Phan gave the police a very accurate and extremely detailed account of the robbery. Officers Orlando and Dimitri wrote down almost every word, while munching on nachos from the store’s Fixin’s Bar. They were tempted to try the donuts, but decided it would stereotype them. Besides, their last stop had been at a Donut-Dunker shop, where they had filled up.

When Phan got to the part of his narrative about Irving, he pointed to where the magician had been standing.

Where he go? Phan asked out loud.

Where who go? Dimitri asked.

Magician who shoot fire at robber.

Was it an actual shot? Did he have a flame-thrower? Was he carrying it when he came in? Was he trying to rob the place, too?

Neh! Neh! Neh! Neh! He good guy. He save me. Robber going to shoot me and magician stop him,

Where can we get a hold of this magician, Orlando demanded.

Here his card. He gave it to me, so I can bring him gifts.

* * *

By the time Irving arrived home, everyone was asleep. Being the good husband and father, he quietly put the groceries away, stashed the cigarettes in a prop box (they were good for intricate, close-up sleight-of-hand illusions), washed up and went to bed.

How did the show go? a sleepy Sarah murmured.

Quite well. Thanks for asking. Now go back to sleep. Love ya.

Chapter 2

Before we go any further, I think you’re entitled to a little background. First, in case, you did not read the book jacket, this is not an elaborate war epic, soon to be made into a major motion picture. It is simply a continuing story centered on Magic Irving’s Magic Shoppe, a small storefront in a smallish sized city where, as you will see, everything tends to be, well, magical. But, more than that, it is the story of a man who, at the age of twelve, was given a Television Magic Set as a birthday gift. Then, following the instructions for Trick Number One, he made a stuffed rabbit disappear. His family’s reaction to the trick was so overwhelming and gratifying that, right then and there, he decided magic would be his lifelong profession. And, as soon as he figured out what happened to that stuffed rabbit, he seriously began honing his craft.

Officially, this is an unauthorized biography. Even though I’ve known Irving for more than nineteen years, he did not want me to tell his story.

Why would you want to write about me? he asked, Pick somebody else. Somebody more interesting, more exciting. How about Kim Kardashian?

But, I want to write about you.

Sorry, I can’t authorize it, were Irving’s final words on the matter.

So, I did it behind his back.

I started by jotting down anecdotal stories about Irving and e-mailing them to my friends, who e-mailed them to their friends, and so on. I always changed the names, as they say, to protect the innocent, but one person recognized everything and she called me on it.

Hello, I answered the phone.

Steve Ostrow?

Yes, I figured it was another telemarketer.

This is Sophie Flax, Irving’s mother.

Oh, yes, Mrs. Flax, we’ve met several times. How are you?

Better than most women my age.

That’s good.

But, I’m not calling to discuss myself.

Uh oh, I thought, this is going to be trouble.

Somebody has been sending me e-mails about a magician who, what would you say, has a unique relationship with life.

I don’t know what you’re talking about. I figured feigning ignorance might be my best avenue of defense.

Don’t give me that crap. I traced these stories back to you.

Well, I, uh –

These stories are about my Irving, aren’t they?

Okay, I’ll stop writing them immediately.

No! Don’t do that. I love them. Do you need more information?

I am grateful to Mrs. Flax for all of her assistance. She helped more than I could have ever hoped. And, all she asked for, in return, was money. She settled for a percentage of the profits from this book (if there are any). But, it’s a small percentage and she had me over a barrel.

She knew a great deal about her oldest boy’s life, but not everything. So, when we came to a stumbling block, I was forced to go right to the source. And, he was a perfect gentleman about it.

Not on your life, Irving told me.

But, after a few beers (he’s still my friend), he opened up. Actually, he was quite talkative about his Magic Shoppe, his performances and some of the things that have happened to him, but he was hesitant when I asked anything about his family. So, I got the information from other friends, his customers, other relatives and from anybody and everybody. There are few people on Minterville who haven’t heard of Irving and who don’t have something to say about him.

The bottom line is that I can assure you everything in this book is true. After all, when you are writing about a man as colorful and interesting as Irving Flax, why would you make anything up?

You already know that Irving is not the most accomplished of magicians. There are those who claim Irving is not a very good magician at all, but those same critics admit that few performers try harder than Irving. To his credit, a large segment of the magic fraternity, especially some of his loyal customers, vehemently support him. They even voted him Magician of the Year in six of the last eight years. Those supporters are passionate about his ability to produce a rabbit from a hat, even two rabbits and a couple of doves if you really press him. However, they admit he has had poor luck when trying to saw anything, or anyone, in half. More about that later.

My editor, Adolph, reminded me that, since Irving absolutely refused to allow me to use a photograph of him in this novel, it would be a good idea to tell you a little more about his physical appearance. Actually, there’s really not much to tell. Irving is not particularly tall, I think he hit five feet nine inches in High School and stopped right there. He weighs about one-sixty-five and could trim down a little if he stopped eating those Donut-Dunkers. He has medium brown hair, green eyes and is pleasant looking with a nose and ears that are a little large for his face, but not too much. He’s got a great smile and uses it often. He prefers to dress casually, except when he’s on stage. For performances, it’s always a tuxedo, cape and top hat, the classic attire for a classic magician.

Sarah, his wife, on the other hand is hot, but don’t tell Irving I said that. She’s petite with blonde hair that’s cut a little too short, but it works on her. She has a soft voice that matches her personality and she dresses the part of a mother who hasn’t forgotten she’s a woman.

The Flaxes have two children, Rachel and Adam. Adam, by the age of eight was already displaying a flair for card tricks. Rachel, four years older, was more interested in boys, especially if they couldn’t make anything disappear.

Chapter 3

MAGICIAN THWARTS ROBBERY

ARMED BANDIT HOSPITALIZED

The huge, bold headlines in the Minterville Herald Gazette Times Mirror Tribune were missed by Sarah Flax as she began preparing breakfast. Four people, four different breakfasts. She couldn’t stop to read the newspaper just now, she had her hands full with three boxes of breakfast cereal, a package of bread, a bagel, containers of juice, one orange and one grapefruit, two different jugs of milk, napkins, bowls and silverware. Naturally, it was the perfect time for the phone to ring.

"Sarah, I didn’t think Irv had the guts to do something like that. Wasn’t he scared? He’s such a sweet guy. You must really be proud of him. And, Harry thinks Irv is such a schmuck. Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. But Harry has got some apologizing to do. Maybe Irv should give him one of those, what did the newspaper call it, Fountain of Flames? Yes, that’s it. Maybe Irv should throw a Fountain of Flame at Harry. That’ll shut him –"

Helen, just what are you talking about?

The robbery. The fire. Irving’s a hero. Didn’t you see the paper? Didn’t Irving tell you about it? Why wouldn’t he tell you? Isn’t he proud of himself? I think he should be. This is amazing. You live next door to someone for ten years and you think you know him, then he does something like this. Wow. Isn’t life a scream! I’m gonna send this to Reader’s Digest. Do I have to share the money with Irving? What do you –

Take a breath. I didn’t read the paper. It’s right here.

Without even bothering to hang up, Sarah put the phone on the counter, picked up the newspaper and said, Oh!

She read:

Magic interrupted an armed robbery at the Morning-Noon-&-Night Convenience Store on Sherber Street in Minterville late Thursday. Magic, that is, compliments of Irving Flax, better known as Magic Irving of Minterville.

IRVING! Sarah screamed.

The entire family came running.

What’s wrong, Mom? Rachel screamed back.

Huh? was Adam’s comment.

Did I do something wrong, dear? was Irving’s usual contribution.

What’s this in the paper? Why didn’t you tell me? I have to have know-it-all Helen Pantzer tell me? You could have been killed.

Let me see that. Irving took the paper and read. After a moment he glanced up and said, They’re making too much of it. I just did one of the simple fire tricks that I sell at the Shoppe and it worked, for a change.

Here the paper is calling you a hero and all you can say is that one of your tricks worked for a change?

Yeah, it really flared up well. Sure surprised that robber. He didn’t know what was happening. All of a sudden he was facing a wall of flame and then his ski mask caught on fire. I hope he’s gonna be okay. It took forever for the ambulance to get there. What does the paper say about that?

Never mind the robber. Did you ever think you could have been shot? What if he reacted to the flames by pulling the trigger of his gun?

I guess I didn’t think about that. I just did what –

Are you really a hero, daddy? Adam chimed in.

Irving just smiled. To be a hero according to the newspaper was one thing, but to be a hero in the eyes of his son was something else again.

If that’s what the newspaper says, then maybe I am.

Irving pondered the concept for a moment, then puffed his chest out.

And this hero wants his breakfast … now.

Chapter 4

In the center of a row of very unimpressive, very nondescript, very forlorn storefronts along Cantrell Avenue in the City of Minterville in upstate New York, there is one standout.

The standout isn’t the largest of the stores. That’s the Minterville Sex Change Clinic and Baseball Card Trading Center.

The standout isn’t the busiest of the stores. That’s the world famous Minterville School of Kazoo.

The standout isn’t even the most prestigious of the storefronts. That honor belongs to the local office of the late Congressman Brent Stampski (the congressman passed away three years ago, but nobody had the heart to tell his long-time Minterville representative and devoted groupie, Mildred Monroe – I mean, it wasn’t like Stampski ever visited Minterville, anyway).

The standout is also not the butcher shop, the gift store, the lighting showroom, an origami supply house, the bank, the bodega, the socks shop, the computer service center (open only after school hours when the junior high school kids are available to run the place) or the return center for deposit soda and beer bottles.

No, it’s none of those because their proprietors don’t have the style or sophistication to paint their signs in Day-Glo blue, purple, black and yellow. And, only one of the Cantrell Avenue entrepreneurs has magic tricks featured in his windows.

Magic Irving was asked by the Cantrell Avenue Business Association to tone-down his signage and the front of the store, and he did. This was the result. The other merchants simply gave up.

Instead of merchandise, the large showcase window to the left of the door displays a full-figured female mannequin, dressed in a stylish, but quite revealing, sequined evening gown (12-year-old boys have been known to stare at that window for hours). Instead of standing upright, the mannequin has been positioned horizontally, hovering about eight inches off the floor, despite the fact that there is no support or mechanism that anybody has been able to uncover. To make it even more fascinating, every hour, just like a new Old Faithful, she rises another twelve inches, spins around for about ten seconds, then settles back to her normal position.

A sign, propped up against the back of the display window, announces Not for sale to politicians.

The window on the right side is reserved for Irving’s monthly magic specials. This month it is the magical disappearing pizza and an elaborate version of the Mystical Ropes of Fatima. The window also displays various card tricks, juggling equipment, Halloween costumes, and a fine selection of Tupperware.

The front door itself is made of glass, but you cannot see through it. No, this is not a magic trick, but a tradition. A universal tradition observed by virtually every small retailer, everywhere. An unwritten law requiring, no … demanding, that every square inch of glass in a front door must be covered by credit card stickers, notices about business hours, handwritten signs announcing specials and out-of-date flyers. To this day, Irving continues to display a flyer urging everyone, young and old, to attend the circus that came to town three years ago. It’s a good looking flyer, so why not hold onto it? Irving explained, but the truth is he filled in for the ring announcer at one performance and every inquiry about the flyer is an invitation to retell his Big Top story. Besides, the printer of that flyer used a very strong glue and the flyer seems to be stuck there, permanently. It just won’t come off.

The Magic Shoppe was busier than usual this Friday morning. It was even busier than on the mornings after a David Copperfield television special. It was busier than it had ever been. Only, nobody was buying anything. Nobody was even reading Irving’s flyers.

How did you have the presence of mind to use your flash pot on that guy, asked Doug Douglaston, a Magic Shoppe regular and amateur- professional magician in his own right.

It just seemed like the thing to do. If I had stopped to think about it, I probably would have just fainted. Thinking about it now, I wonder how I didn’t pee in my pants.

From a stranger, If I knew how you did it. If I knew your secrets, I could do the same thing.

At last, a potential sale. The secrets are nine dollars and ninety-five cents. That includes the mechanism, a wad of flash cotton and a lesson.

Deal, said the stranger.

Irving reached behind the counter and brought out two pieces of apparatus. They looked similar. Both appeared to be made of metal, yet they were painted pink, a neutral flesh color. Both were small and easily fit into anyone’s hand. They had small, cylindrical chambers and a loop of flat metal from which the chamber hung.

This is a flash pot, Magic Irving explained. The loop fits around your finger so the pot itself rests inside your hand. You place a small amount of flash cotton into the pot and use your thumb to activate the mechanism. These have different mechanisms. With this one you flip this retainer, letting the firing pin snap against an explosive cap, which pops loudly and triggers the flame. On this one we have the kind of mechanism you find on a Zippo cigarette lighter. You use your thumb to turn the wheel against the flint and produce the sparks that, quietly, ignite the cotton. Which do you want?

The Zippo kind. It looks simpler.

Good choice. Irving replaced the flash pot in its box and put the box, along with a plastic bag filled with flash cotton into a paper bag. When the stranger gave Irving a ten-dollar bill, Irving gave him the paper bag and a nickel. I’ll eat the tax.

By the way, Irving added, only use a small amount of cotton. It’s pretty potent.

Irving returned his attention to the crowd, hoping for another sale when, out of the corner of his eye …

No, not in here, Irving yelled, but it was too late. The stranger had tried out his new toy inside The Magic Shoppe.

A gush of fire flew from the man’s flash pot, straight up, partially melting several ceiling tiles and activating the sprinklers. The fire alarm sounded. The customers ran.

Not again.

This wasn’t the first time. Several customers and he, himself, had torched the store with various fire tricks. Accustomed to the routine, Irving ran to the back of the store, turned off the sprinklers, and then phoned the fire department to apologize, again. After offering the chief free tickets to his next performance, Irving went into the back room for his mop and pail and prayed that the water hadn’t damaged very much merchandise. His margin was too small as it was.

Here, let me help you with that, said a dapperly dressed, bespectacled gentleman who appeared to be in his late fifties, possibly his early sixties. Obviously not everyone had fled the storm.

Thanks, said Irving. If you mop up, I can wipe off the counters.

Together it took the two men only an hour to clean up the mess. Irving concentrated on the merchandise. His new helper did a sparkling job on the floors.

Not bad, said Irving. If you could come back every Thursday, you’ve got a steady gig.

Sorry, I’m already booked for Thursdays. Besides, just how often do you have a flood like this?

Not quite every week, but there was that accident with a snow making machine and someone has to clean up after the rabbits and doves.

Oh. I really wouldn’t be able to –

I’m just kidding. I already have a cleaning service, but I do owe you a debt of gratitude. The cleaning service doesn’t do emergencies.

Think nothing of it, Mr. Flax.

Please call me Irving, or Magic Irving or just Magic … uh, Mister …

My name is Draziw, Hyman Draziw. And I am also a magician, among other things.

Irving took a good look at his new compeer. It wasn’t just that he was extremely well dressed; he exuded the kind of self-confidence that a used car salesman would die for. His jacket and slacks were neatly pressed and definitely custom tailored. Who cares if they didn’t match? The man, himself, was well built with a slight bulge where a flat stomach used to be. He had a winning smile and a firm handshake. Maybe he was a politician, or a mobster?

It is a pleasure to meet you, Hy. I thought I knew all the magicians around here. Mine is the only magic store in town. Do you get your tricks mail order? On the internet? I’ll match any price you can get.

Oh no, I prefer not to buy, but rather to develop my magic. But, that’s not why I’m here today.

(Dramatically speaking, this was the precise moment where the conversation would, or should, be interrupted by an intrusion or, in another medium, a commercial. Since this is a novel, we’ll have to settle for the intrusion.)

The front door to the Magic Shoppe burst open and two men, whom Irving had never seen before, stomped in. In a measured gait, the strangers, both dressed in the latest Wal-Mart fashions, walked straight towards the two magicians without even bothering to ooh and aah over Irving’s magical displays (Irving had seen several new ones in a magazine and did his very best to copy them without having to pay royalties). Irving suspected, right there and then, that these men were not potential customers.

Which one of you is Irving Flax? asked the shorter of the two.

Irving acknowledged his identity, I am. Can I help you?

I’m Detective Petersen and this is Officer Cuccinello. We have a warrant for your arrest. You have the right to remain silent –

Whoa! I’ve watched enough police shows to know my rights, officers, but why am I being arrested.

Carrying a concealed weapon, assault with a deadly weapon and, possibly attempted murder.

That’s a good one. I was afraid you were going to get me for practicing magic without a license. Who put you up to this? Harvey? No, it had to be Joey, Joey D. This is his kind of practical joke. It is a practical joke, isn’t it?

Draziw interrupted, I’m afraid it’s no joke, Irving. These are real police officers and these are serious charges.

How do you know?

Because this is precisely why I am here today.

Chapter 5

The desk sergeant was a fan. He had twice seen Irving perform at the Gordon Theater and had the opportunity to watch closely when Irving presented his act at the Lieutenant’s surprise birthday party. The sergeant’s wife had even asked him if he wanted Irving to perform at his own birthday party. But, the sergeant suggested he would prefer a stripper. As a result, he didn’t get a party.

I’m sorry about this Mr. Flax, Sergeant Donagan offered, But a warrant was signed and you did injure the alleged robber.

What alleged! snapped Irving. He had a gun and was robbing the place.

Draziw placed his hand on Irving’s shoulder, Take it easy. The sergeant was only apologizing.

I know. I’m sorry. But, this is ridiculous. Today could have been one of my biggest retail days ever and I had to lock the door.

Please come with me, Mr. Flax. We’ve got to fingerprint you and take your picture. You, Donagan said, pointing to Draziw, Will have to stay here. Are you Mr. Flax’s attorney?

Not officially … yet.

Irving almost enjoyed being booked. It gave him the idea for a great new illusion. What if, Irving thought, I took the fingerprints of someone from the audience, but instead of fingerprints appearing on the paper, it evolved into a picture of a famous actor. I could make a big point out of how interesting and unusual the fingerprints were, then project them, slowly bringing the image into focus so the