Magic Mansion
Author: Jordan Castillo Price
Date: 2012-04-02 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: M M Romance; Paranormal; Romance; Fantasy; Contemporary; Magic; Lgbt; Gay; Fiction; Urban Fantasy
Description: Professor Topaz is tired of fending off advice that he should retire in Vegas where magicians his age have an easier time finding work. Ricardo Hart's career has sunk so low, he's resorted to shaking his moneymaker at bachelorette parties. But there's a casting call for a new reality show called Magic Mansion that could change everything for these two gay stage magicians, one recovering from the loss of his partner, the other awe-struck by the presence of his idol. Each is poised for a critical second chance: at fame, and at love. Who will win? Step into the Mansion, and find out.... (Gay Roma
Publisher: JCP Books, LLC

Contents

Book Info

About the Voting

1 A Final Performance

2 The Audition

3 The Contract

4 The Callback

5 Casting

6 Surprise Announcement

7 Opening Credits

8 The Arrival

9 First Challenge

10 Pretense of Fairness

11 Picking Teams

12 Spa Day

13 Two Magicians Leave

14 Metamorphosis Challenge

15 Into the Box

16 Manual Labor

17 Red Team Elimination

18 Construction Plans

19 Zig Zag Cabinet

20 Uneven Teams

21 Wand Pond

22 Size Matters

23 Cards and Hats

24 Rings and Silks

25 Farewell Dinner

26 Producer's Warning

27 Tiger Trainer Challenge

28 Special Surprise

29 Blast from the Past

30 Aftermath

31 Big Top Challenge

32 Playing the Game

33 Final Four

34 Dressing Up

35 Boardwalk Magic

36 Rumor Mill

37 Scoring the Performance

38 Final Prep

39 Sands of Time

40 The Winner Is

41 Walk of Fame

Vote 1 - Focus Group

Vote 2 - Two Team

Vote 3 - Metamorphosis

Vote 4 - Gold to Red

Vote 5 - Four Props

Vote 6 - Circus Week

About the Author

About this Story

Recommended Reads

A Note from Jordan

Magic Mansion

Jordan Castillo Price

Find more titles at
www.JCPbooks.com

JCP Books LLC • PO Box 153 • Barneveld, WI 53507

Cover art by Jordan Castillo Price

Magic Mansion. Copyright © 2012 Jordan Castillo Price. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

ISBN 978-1-935540-46-5

This book is a work of fiction. the names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real.

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1.0

About the Voting

Magic Mansion was written serially in the author’s newsletter. At six points during the story, readers were able to vote a character on or off Magic Mansion. If you’re curious about the real voting outcome, you’ll find the results at the end of the story. Links to results are also listed in the ebook’s table of contents.

Sign up for Jordan Castillo Price’s newsletter, JCP News, at www.psycop.com/newsletter

Chapter 1

A FINAL PERFORMANCE

Magic might not be as popular as it had once been, back in its golden age, but it beat watching soap operas or reading mangled comic books with missing pages, and nipples drawn in ballpoint pen on the costumes of all the lady-characters. And it beat getting your temperature taken, or your blood drawn. And it especially beat swallowing those big, nasty pills.

The audience might not be enthusiastic, but they were there. And that was enough.

They sat in their molded plastic chairs, four children in all. A young boy, badly burned. Something to do with crystal meth and a back door that was nailed shut. His pain was constant. A teenager who’d shattered his foot, and his clavicle, and five bones in his hand on a skateboard. He was too old for magic, or so he thought, but his bones knit faster when he was in its thrall. A boy whose brother had shot him in the leg with the family’s gun, a semi-automatic with its serial numbers filed off, which his mother said they kept for protection. And maybe they did. Their neighborhood hadn’t been fit to live in for years. A girl with pneumonia who’d had too many “uncles.” She was better off in the hospital.

John—stage name, Professor Topaz—had carefully enticed the children to abandon their skepticism. First, he presented himself as a consummate magician: coiffed hair, immaculately groomed goatee, starched shirt, impeccable silk tie, and a spotless black suit—which was beginning to go shiny around the seams, though in the current lighting, it shouldn’t be detectable. He wooed them with a series of simple but rapid tricks so as not to lose their attention, a few solemn words, and the token discovery of a silver dollar behind each of their ears. He let them keep the coins, which cemented their interest. Now they’d been enthralled for the past fifteen minutes with nothing more than three lengths of rope.

All three pieces began the act apparently the same length, and then, as he slid the knots between his agile fingers, they seemed to lengthen and shorten. Another slide, and all three were even once more. It was all a clever manipulation of one long rope and two short stubs, which appeared to be the ends of medium-sized lengths. But in John’s talented hands, the illusion looked quite real.

“Tell me, young lady, is this rope intact?” My God. Far too many “uncles.” “Yes? Very good. Excellent. And now, you see….” A loop. His long fingers curled around a second, hidden knot as he slid the other up and down, to the delight of even the jaded teenager.

“Now,” he said gravely. “Observe what happens…when I cut it.” He slipped the knot to the end, brandished a pair of scissors that had Pediatrics written in marker on the plastic handle, and snipped the rope. There were gasps, and four pairs of eyes went wide—because they’d seen him cut it, and surely that was no sleight of hand.

It wasn’t. But the few inches he’d trimmed off the yard-long length were hardly worth noticing. He palmed the rope stubs, then slid them into his pocket along with the scissors. “You have seen them grow…and shrink…and now, before your very eyes, watch…as three become…one!”

He snapped open the rope with a flourish—and even the teenager laughed. Good progress. The boy wouldn’t be in the hospital long, and if John could reach that part of him that was blighted, and bitter, and hateful, if he could reverse some small portion of the corrosion spreading over the poor child’s spirit, then there was still hope.

The rope-and-ring trick would be perfect, if the boy would be able to hold the rope in both hands, while John “magically” snapped the ring free. Unfortunately, with the shattered hand, he wouldn’t be much of an assistant. Unless the boy with the wounded leg held the other end—yes, even better. A symbolic gesture of cooperation, each holding an end of that rope. It would be the perfect first step out of the darkness and into the light, to have these two boys come together in the spirit of wonder…of magic.

“Observe,” John intoned. “A metal ring. Pass it among yourselves, go ahead, and verify that it is, indeed, solid.”

He handed a metal curtain loop to the burned boy, who passed it to the girl with too many “uncles,” who passed it to the ten-year-old gunshot victim, who passed it to the teenager, each of them turning the chrome ring over in their fingers with rapt attention.

It made its way back down the line to the burned boy, who returned it solemnly to John. “You have observed the solidity of the ring.” He pressed the ring into the rope and hitched it to the center with a simple slipknot. “You have watched as the three lengths of rope became one. Now, if you will assist me….” He handed the end to the ten-year-old first. Boys of that age still recognized authority on occasion. The boy took his end of the rope gladly.

“And another of you—because it will take the melding of all our minds to sever the bonds of the magical rope—and to heal them again, as strong as if they’ve never been sundered.” It might be heavy-handed on the metaphor, but so what? The burned boy had forgotten his pain, if only for a moment. And the girl with too many “uncles” was smiling. John held out the rope to the teenager. “We need someone with a strong mind. Will you do it?”

The young man wanted to scoff—because to do otherwise would leave him vulnerable. And a dollar and a few rope tricks shouldn’t be enough to buy his trust. Yet, as John looked into his eyes, he saw the boy wanted to believe. He reached for the rope.

“Okay, time for physical therapy.” The nurse’s voice was startling, and all the children flinched and drew back into their shells. The ring and the rope hung in John’s hand, and the magic fled from the props, leaving them looking cheap and common.

The burned boy whined, “I want to see the trick.” His pain was returning already.

John turned toward the nurse and said quietly, “I was told I could perform until three. It’s quarter to.”

She looked at him with hard eyes—she wasn’t quite dead inside, not like so many people were these days, but the hostility emanating from her was plain. “Tonio needs to get to physical therapy, and Jaimie’s grandma is here to visit. C’mon, kids. Quit dilly-dallying. Let’s go.”

Of the four children, the only one old enough to resist the authority of the hard-eyed nurse was the teenager. But he was also in a wheelchair, and when she snapped off the brakes and wheeled him briskly away, he chose to slump back into his state of dejection, rather than engage in a battle he had no chance of winning. John watched as the children filed down the hall to their rooms. The burned boy paused in his doorway and waved.

John lifted his hand solemnly, then turned to go.

“Mister…Topaz?” the ward’s administrator called from his office. So much doubt could be inferred by that simple pause. Yes, Topaz was John’s legal name. His mother had shortened it from Topasna after the second World War, when she’d made the move, with him just a bundle of cells in her womb, from Guam to California. Sometimes John wished she hadn’t changed it. These days, too much showmanship made people suspicious.

He loosened his impeccable silk tie, and turned to the graying man. “Yes?”

“If you wouldn’t mind, step inside and chat with me for a minute….” He was nervous. Why? “We really appreciate what you’ve been doing here….” Ah. It was time to go. Already. “…and you understand, it’s a nice perk to have a little entertainment, but what we’ve really got to focus on here is the medicine.”

Someone had complained. About what? John would never know. But he knew why. Spite. The ill-will that True magicians gathered as they made their ways through the world, like iron filings to a magnet. Even in places where one could attempt to demagnetize oneself from the malice, the envy, the inexplicable loathing, it still caught up with him, and it happened frequently enough that he could read it now in the set of the administrator’s shoulders. Thank you, but please leave. And don’t make me call security. Because that would only embarrass us both.

“I understand,” John said. He didn’t. But one thing they could never take from him was his ability to be gracious in the face of defeat.

He turned away, head high, and strode with dignity toward the door, but before he reached it, the administrator called out, “Wait.” John’s spirit leapt as if the clouds had opened and a ray of hope now shone upon him. Maybe he would be allowed to return in a few weeks, maybe at some other time of the day, when whoever it was that had hated him for no particular reason, but viscerally enough to complain…whoever didn’t want him there, was not working. If he could see the burned boy, at least. All of them needed to be healed in spirit as well as in body, but if he could help only one, it would be better than nothing.

He turned back, eager, heart filled with hope.

The administrator held out his hand, and said, “We’ll need you to return our scissors.”

_____

The stairs to John’s apartment seemed narrower than they had on his way to the hospital. The overhead lights, dimmer. The smell of cigarettes and sweat and cooking grease, more pervasive. Sorrow made the world a darker place.

Music throbbed from the apartment beneath his. He could knock and tell them to turn down the TV set…but what difference did it make? In the scheme of things, how much did the annoyance of a soundtrack blasting through the floorboards really matter? Besides, perhaps it was a comfort to know he wasn’t entirely alone—even if those other persons dwelled below him, and referred to him as “that asshole who should just turn up his own TV.”

He let himself in and hung his suit coat carefully in the closet, then slid the knot of his tie all the way down and stepped into the apartment’s living room. Framed posters in lavish colors filled the room—mere inches apart—so the slivers of wall that showed between them seemed more like an accent, disguising the fact that the rest of the place was painfully austere. Ringleaders. Clowns. Acrobats. But mostly, magicians.

Friends.

Most of those from his mother’s generation, great showmen from the sixties and seventies, had passed. And most of those from John’s generation had retired. They encouraged him to do the same—and so he was unlikely to call any of them for moral support over the incident at the hospital. They’d tell him he was wasting his time, and that it was too expensive to live in California, and that if he moved to Florida he’d be deluged by wealthy widows who’d be so grateful for a private performance that he could start living the high life again.

He might remind them that while he had nothing against the company of ladies, he’d never been inclined to get romantically involved with them. And depending on which one-time illusionist or retired emcee he was speaking to, they would encourage him to stop being so picky—because at our age it’s more about the companionship than the sex, anyway—or they would drop the subject entirely and find a quick reason to get off the phone.

Even though he didn’t expect to hear anything that would lift his spirits, John considered who he might call and glanced at the phone.

It rang.

Providence? John crossed the room and looked down at his caller ID. No, not providence…his agent. He picked up the phone.

“Hello, Dick.”

“Guess who I just got off the line with,” Dick Golding said. John sighed, quietly, to himself. Dick didn’t wait for an answer. “Saint Mary’s. You know what they told me?”

“I’ve already spoken with—”

“They said you showed up today and talked the nurse on duty into letting you perform. Gratis.”

“I did.”

“Hell, John. Not only is this hospital circuit the kiss of death, but now you’re doing it for free?”

John considered the question, then said, “Apparently, not anymore.” A commercial, much louder than the TV program itself, blasted through the floor. Windows, siding. Tax incentive. Free installation.

“Look, popular magic these days—it’s all about the young kids. The Criss Angels. The David Blaines. What you need is a steady gig with a more mature clientele. I’m not saying you’ve got to move to Vegas, but a long-term gig there, four months, might change your mind—”

“I’ve lived here all my life. I have no desire to move to Las Vegas.”

“The cost of living there, compared to L.A.—”

“No desire whatsoever.”

Dick sighed, then. And not to himself. “I’m not gonna lie to you, John. We’re pals, and I keep you on for old time sake, but you need to start living in the present. If you won’t take a gig in Vegas, and you won’t consider the cruise line I pitched last week, then you might need to look into something…edgier.”

“Edgier.”

“You and Casey—maybe it’s time for a book. A memoir. Casey Cornish and Professor Topaz: Behind the Curtain.”

John glanced at Casey’s last promo shot. Rakish, blond, sparkling eyes and a broad smile. He’d been sixty-two at the time—but he looked as dazzling as he had in his late forties.

“You two could be the next Siegfried and Roy,” Dick suggested.

“We never performed together.”

“So it’ll be a big revelation that the two of you were an item.”

“Roy Horn was mauled by his own tiger onstage. Casey was hit by a car on the way to the post office. I doubt that will sell nearly as many copies.”

“Focus on your love life. Cater to the gay crowd. I know you’re capable of stringing a few sentences together. Open up your word processor and just start anywhere—we’ll hire an editor to clean it up later. Easy peasy.”

The thought of parading his relationship with Casey in front of the world in print, especially for the sake of money, made John ill—even when he realized that Casey himself might have encouraged him to do it. Casey had been the affable half of the couple, and he’d always said that any publicity was good publicity.

Unfortunately, the likelihood of Casey and John being the next Siegfried and Roy was minuscule. Siegfried and Roy were stunningly popular; they’d been top-ten in the highest paid performers in the United States when Roy had his accident. Casey had been unemployed and up to his neck in credit card debt when he was killed.

The downstairs TV noise grew even louder.

“Once that book comes out,” Dick said, “think of all the doors of opportunity that’ll open up to you. Piano bars. Gay cruises. You can make double, triple rates if you specialize—you’re still a good-looking guy, you’ll get top dollar.”

As distinctly as if the set had been playing in his own living room, John heard the words, “Lights…camera…magic.” He lowered the handset from his ear, with Dick still going on about how he should cash in on his homosexuality while gays were “hot,” and focused instead on the commercial downstairs. The voicework was hastily produced, a local spot with too much audio high-end and no background music, which made the words carry right through the floor. “Do you live in the L.A. area? Are you a professional magician? If so, Magic Mansion is looking for you. Call 888—”

The channel changed. An inane laugh track swelled, then fizzled. Theme music piped in. John could hardly pound on the floor and tell the neighbors to change the channel back. Not only would they misinterpret the knocking as a complaint about the noise level—the number would be long gone. John raised the phone to his ear again, and found Dick saying, “…you never know. If you start getting out more, maybe you’ll meet someone.”

“Dick,” John cut in. His agent fell silent. “What do you know about Magic Mansion?”

Chapter 2

THE AUDITION

It had been years—hell, maybe more than a decade—since Ricardo Hart actually felt nervous before a show. Nervous enough to make his hands sweat. And while perspiration-slicked palms were the bane of any performer, for a stage magician, sweaty hands were the absolute kiss of death.

He placed his palms flat against his thighs and tried his best to look objectively at his situation. True, a quarter of a million dollars was at stake, and the young lady currently onstage was cute…but she was clumsy. Though she might have the advantage of being able to work the judges in high heels and fishnet stockings, Ricardo could score better on posture alone, as well as stage presence, audience banter, and overall execution.

He shifted in his seat and touched his props for comfort. When he hefted one of his silver linking rings, however, the smooth metal slid in his sweaty grasp, which did nothing to alleviate his nerves. All week long he’d been picturing himself acing the audition, confidence being ninety percent of the game. But now? Now he was so terrified he could only hope to get through his act without embarrassing himself.

“And that, my good judges, is the Bottomless Gibeciere.” She pronounced gibeciere strangely, as if she’d never heard it spoken—and maybe she hadn’t. Nowadays, magic could be learned online. There was no such thing as the Internet when magic first called to Ricardo. He’d picked up the craft from magazines like Genii Magazine, honed it in a magic and circus skills course at summer camp in Minnesota, and finally perfected it by apprenticing several working magicians in L.A. From the tender age of ten to his most recent thirty-fifth birthday, a quarter century, Ricardo had trained as a performer. The e-gician on stage shouldn’t pose any threat to someone like him.

Although she did look really, really good in fishnet.

A production assistant with a clipboard and a headset microphone approached the back of the theater where the remaining magicians waited their turns. He flashed a penlight on his clipboard, and Ricardo tensed, wiped his palms on his slacks, and waited to hear his name called. “Okay…so we’re running overtime, and this place is booked to shoot an infomercial in just a couple of hours….”

Ricardo felt his heart stutter. Running overtime? How could that possibly be? He pleaded with his eyes, well aware that the very worst thing he could do would be to act desperate, but he was unable to stop himself.

Turning away from the row of hopeful magician faces, the producer murmured into his headset, then turned back and said, “So here’s what we’re gonna do. You guys’ll be performing two at a time.”

Not only did Ricardo’s heart stop again…it felt as if it dropped within his chest cavity to lie there like a taxidermy prop dove. He was a one-man act. There was no way he’d share the stage with one of those amateurs.

“Next up, Ricardo the Magnificent…”

No. He wouldn’t do it. Couldn’t do it. His act depended on focus from the audience. No way could it happen with someone else performing on the same stage, at the same time.

“…and Professor Topaz.”

In the next row, a figure rose. Even from behind, Ricardo knew him by the regal set of his broad shoulders and the silhouette of his impeccably-styled hair. Ricardo had never seen him from anywhere but the audience. He was even taller in person than he looked onstage.

The Professor Topaz had been a few yards away from him this entire time? Ricardo’s heart imploded like a star gone supernova.

“You don’t need a table,” the producer asked Ricardo, “right? It says here you don’t need a table.”

“No table.” Ricardo’s voice came out husky.

“Okay, let’s get that table moved stage left.” Stagehands swarmed out from behind the curtains and began re-positioning the set. The production assistant turned back toward Ricardo and Professor Topaz. “Remember, guys, Magic Mansion isn’t only about your parlor tricks.” He seemed bored, like he’d given those instructions one time too many. “That’s the premise of the show, but the real reason people watch reality TV is to see how the contestants interact with each other.”

Professor Topaz turned. The motion made his velvet cape flare gently, and the stage lights framed him with backlighting. All Ricardo could see of his features was the glint of the ambient light off his eyeballs as he donned his top hat. “Break a leg,” he said solemnly.

Then again, he said everything solemnly. That was part of his act.

The thought of sharing the stage with Professor Topaz transported Ricardo from the state of simple nervousness to that of all-out, mind-numbing panic. Did he even remember how to breathe? It seemed as if he might not. In. Out. There was the trick of it. Now, hopefully, he could keep going with it while he forced himself through his act.

“You may begin,” Topaz said quietly. He’d opened a case and needed just a moment to set up his props. Ricardo recognized the cage-like box immediately. Square circle, a classic. Ricardo had seen him do the trick at the Humboldt county fair. He’d been very solemn about it.

Ricardo’s silver linking rings didn’t need any prep. He glided to the front of the stage and launched into his act without hesitation. Prepare to be amazed, et cetera, et cetera. His act wasn’t about the metal rings, though, and it wasn’t about his banter. It was about poise and grace. He rolled one of the rings along the top of his arm, then allowed it to teeter on his fingertip for a moment before he flicked it onto his wrist. He’d done the move so many times before—thousands of times—that it went off like clockwork. His palms had even dried. Ricardo hadn’t realized sheer terror would do that for a guy.

He shifted his weight and rolled out the second ring. If he’d been working a bachelorette party, he would have brought his hips into the act. Here, though…he had no idea what the producers were looking for to populate Magic Mansion. Did they want a player? Or did they want a serious magician? Not that one couldn’t be both. And besides, the whole hip-grinding thing was just part of the act. Like fishnets.

The third ring, some light juggling, just a bit of hip action, and finally, Ricardo struck the rings together. Once, twice, metal chimed against metal, and then he allowed the upper ring to slip through the hidden gap. Presto—the rings were linked.

With a flourish, he ceded the stage to Professor Topaz. His pulse was pounding so hard he wondered if the judges could see veins throbbing in his forehead, and he glided back from the spotlight to deflect the attention from his own nervousness.

Professor Topaz turned his riveting gaze toward the producers and put himself through the paces of his illusion, timeless steps, like a waltz. He didn’t move around the stage as Ricardo had; he was thirty years older, and no longer needed to grind his hips to hold an audience’s attention.

Not that Ricardo could have pictured Topaz prancing around like a gigolo. Even thirty years ago.

No, Professor Topaz could bring a hush to a room with a flick of his cape, a glance of his flashing, dark eyes. When his voice swelled and he intoned, “Behold, the canister is no longer empty,” Ricardo couldn’t tear his gaze away from those graceful hands. Silk scarves fluttered from the loaded chamber, floated on the air, buoyant and ephemeral, framing the commanding form of Professor Topaz, who stood among them like a figure from a dream.

He’d looked exactly the same, back when Ricardo was a teenager, the first time he saw Professor Topaz perform. Only now he had a shock of silver at his temple. A stunning shock of silver that Ricardo ached to run his fingers through.

Ricardo glanced down. Damn it, not here. Not now.

His body seemed bent on reacting to the sight of his hero like that of a boy at the height of puberty—exactly like he had that first time. He blinked, once, long and deliberate, and willed himself to pull it together. Strutting through his paces onstage in clingy slacks that showcased a big package was one thing. Flouncing around in front of the producers with a raging hard-on was another.

Ricardo dropped back and tried to force his body to calm down. He drifted so far upstage, he actually heard the murmur of voices behind the curtain. One voice, he even recognized—the production assistant with the headset mike. “…get through the rest of these idiots. Maybe the cheesy one here’s got something good up his sleeve. If that fucking dinosaur would ever stop pulling scarves out of his ass…”

Cheesy? Yes, fine, Ricardo had been called worse. But to refer to the great Professor Topaz as a dinosaur?

How dare he?

Ricardo spun around and took in the scene around him as if the world had stopped, and only he was still capable of movement. A couple of interns at the edge of the stage flipped through their lists, oblivious to the performers. In the front row, the producers sat with two or three seats between them so as not to inadvertently contaminate one another. One was texting on her cell. The other was occupied with picking a bump on his jaw.

All this, Ricardo saw as he whirled. He kept on turning, finally coming to a halt when Professor Topaz filled his field of vision. Topaz had exhausted his supply of silks and had moved on to folding mylar birds, pulling them out with flourishes that made them seem as if they would take flight themselves at any moment.

The Professor’s eyes met Ricardo’s.

With that single look, the whole day coalesced: the anticipation, the nerves, the humiliation, the sheer effort of holding back…and Ricardo felt himself slip.

His showman’s smile flickered. He tightened his cheek muscles in an effort to keep it in place. Letting the smile slip wasn’t the worst of it, though.

In that fraction of a second when things started tanking, Ricardo had allowed his gaze to fall on one of the sparkly pink doves. If anything, a magician should know how to control his face, his body, the attention of his audience, and most of all, his ability. Ricardo had lost control.

It was beautiful, in its way.

The pink mylar dove spread its wings wide, and the metallic folds of its body plumped as if something other than just air and clever origami were filling it out. While the other glittery doves had fluttered, this dove, for a brief, shining moment…soared.

Professor Topaz’s eyes went wide, and he spread his hands to allow the almost-living bird to hover there before his astonished face. But only for a moment. He focused, then, and the bird dropped from the air into his outstretched hands. His eyes met Ricardo’s…and then he went on with the act as if everything was humming along exactly as planned.

He took a bow, then Ricardo glided to center stage and began juggling two single rings with the linked pair. The inopportune stiffie? No longer an issue.

_____

The parking lot outside the audition smelled like the grudging start of autumn and the end of a frat party. Dumpsters lining a nearby alley overflowed with beer bottles and splitting sacks of garbage. The smoggy sky turned darker yet, and a steamy drizzle began to fall.

“You’ll get a callback by Friday if you make it to the next round.” That was it. That was all the guy’d had to say—with no inflection whatsoever. And Ricardo knew that jerk was capable of speaking with inflection. He’d overheard it loud and clear through the stage curtain.

Strangely enough, he didn’t even care whether he got into Magic Mansion or not. Offstage, in the commotion of both Mordo the Great and Fabian Swan trying to hustle past with their prop-laden acts, Professor Topaz had managed to simply disappear.

Ricardo’s stupefied glee over sharing the stage with a living legend warred with his dismay at letting the Professor slip away without even swapping a few stories. Or phone numbers.

The bus shelter, though it smelled like day-old takeout, at least shielded him from the murky sun. Ricardo checked the schedule. He’d just missed the bus. Magnificent.

Though the walls were plexi, Ricardo couldn’t quite see through them. They were covered with a dozen generations of brightly colored flyers advertising work-from-home opportunities, some pyramid schemes, and a lost dog. He peeled back a flyer from a band he’d never even heard of, but even when he dug deep, he couldn’t find a single magician among all the ads. Not one.

Exhaustion settled in his bones, and a deep, cold sadness…not over the way the casting call had turned out—because, to be honest, he suspected the primary motivation to put twelve magicians in a Hollywood mansion was not actually to award one of them a quarter-million dollars, but rather to mock the other eleven. And to encourage the rest of the world to do the same. No, Ricardo’s sadness was for the slow and inevitable death of magic itself.

Just as he was feeling maudlin enough to relax his perfect posture and allow his shoulders to slump, a looming shadow dwarfed his own silhouette on the riotous colors of the layers and layers of flyers that papered the bus shelter wall. Before Ricardo could weigh giving his assailant the five bucks in his wallet against flattening the guy with a kick to the side of his knee, a velvety, low voice said in his ear, “Are you always so obvious?”

Ricardo scrabbled at the flyers, tearing them, but no matter how many fell, there were more beneath to shield him from the prying eyes of anyone who might pass by. “What’re you talking about?”

Fingers sank into his shoulders and spun him around, and there, blocking him from the street, was none other than Professor Topaz. “You know exactly what I mean.”

Ricardo squinched his eyes mostly shut, but even so, Professor Topaz remained backlit, all but the glint of light playing over the whites of his eyes. And it seemed to Ricardo that he should probably answer, but all he could think was, So much hotter up close than I’d ever dreamed.

The Professor relaxed his grip on Ricardo’s shoulder. Slightly. “You do realize what you did…don’t you?”

Ricardo nodded, dazed.

Topaz rallied his anger, though it was dissipating fast against Ricardo’s unwillingness to fight back. “Then what were you thinking? Never perform True magic when the audience is close enough to see it’s no trick. Never.”

Ricardo grasped Topaz’s hand where it bit into his shoulder. Such big hands. Such strong fingers. Topaz shifted and brushed against a telltale bulge—the same bulge that had seemed to disappear during the audition, but evidently had only been hiding, like an assistant in a secret compartment, to emerge proudly at the climax of the act. And he didn’t react to its presence like a straight man would have. Of course, in Ricardo’s fantasies, Topaz was gay, and willing, and eager. He’d never dreamed it might be the reality. “I’m sorry.” Ricardo’s voice, again, had grown husky. He dry-swallowed. “I couldn’t help myself.”

“You’re still young, but believe me. It will catch up to you someday. The malice. The spite.” Professor Topaz, confronted by the unmistakable evidence of Ricardo’s devotion pressing against his thigh, held very still. “You need to be caref—”

Ricardo flung himself against Topaz. Lips, teeth, tongue, everything clashed, prodded, and finally found a place where it fit together perfectly. Everything about Topaz felt big, and firm, and powerful—and the air around him fairly crackled with magical energy.

They kissed hard and deep, until finally it seemed as if there was no breath left between them. When Topaz reluctantly came up for air, he touched Ricardo’s cheek as lightly as a floating silk. “You move…beautifully.”

The idea that Professor Topaz had even noticed his act made it difficult for Ricardo to catch his breath.

Topaz leaned in to murmur in Ricardo’s ear. “You keep your shoulders high without holding them stiffly. Your spine is straight, but flexible. And your hips…the way you only hinted at what your hips might do…” he slid his long, strong fingers underneath the waistband of Ricardo’s clingy slacks, “that was so much more provocative than all the ridiculous thrusting the other contestants were doing.”

Ricardo let out a shaky breath as Topaz delved deeper down his pants—and could barely restrain himself from demonstrating how naturally that “ridiculous thrusting” came to him. When Topaz finally touched him, there, skin to skin, Ricardo let out a small gasp, part submission, part sheer joy.

“Never show them your power,” Topaz breathed in Ricardo’s ear, while his fingers wrapped around the hard-on that seemed as if it had been waiting for him all day. Or maybe Ricardo’s entire life. “Power makes men jealous, and jealousy makes them dangerous. True magic is a subtle thing. Use it when you must, but never take it for granted—and stop tempting fate.”

Ricardo draped his forearms over Topaz’s broad shoulders and pressed his cheek against the velvety black cape. Up close, it smelled like the inside of a consignment store—rosin and candle wax and antique maple. Topaz handled Ricardo’s cock with the same authority with which he seemed to handle everything. Unhurried, utterly sure, and, of course, solemn. No time for tempting and teasing—but who needed seduction, when every moment, from the first time Ricardo had seen him brandish his cape, had led up to this encounter?

Professor Topaz’s hand stilled, just once, to let Ricardo hover there for one final beat on the brink of his release. Their lips met, deceptively gentle, and then another sure stroke sent Ricardo’s spirit aloft. He hovered there, weightless and sparkling, for a glorious moment before he floated back to earth.

Pearly semen webbed Topaz’s fingers when he pulled his hand from Ricardo’s slacks. He snapped his fingers, which would have ended with ejaculate spattered on his cape, for most people. Professor Topaz, however, wasn’t most people. Instead, a translucent white butterfly launched from his fingertips. Ricardo watched it dip and flutter, find an air current, climb higher, then make its way around the side of the bus shelter and out of sight.

“The secret of making something fly convincingly,” Topaz said solemnly, “is to allow it to sink a bit, first.”

“Thanks.” It seemed inadequate, but hell, language itself seemed inadequate at that very moment. “I mean, you’re the master. I mean, not in a weird way. Just that—”

Voices intruded in the extended moment they’d been sharing: chattering, laughter. Topaz took a step back, and Ricardo’s hand slipped from his shoulder. Ricardo hadn’t realized he’d still been clinging to his idol. A pair of teenaged girls talking on cell phones stepped into the shelter, and then belatedly realized they’d done so with two older men, one of whom was wearing a velvet cape and the other with rhinestones on his collar. They looked the men up and down with open, slightly disdainful curiosity, then exited the shelter to lean against the outer wall, instead.

“Forgive me.” Topaz took another step back. “This was not the time, nor the place. Thank you…for humoring me.”

Ricardo scrambled to find something to say, but he suspected “But you’re everything I ever wanted!” would only leave him sounding like a psycho. “Wait,” he said—and would it be weird to ask the Professor Topaz out for coffee? Or that phone number? Topaz was such a living legend, it hardly seemed possible to imagine him doing something as mundane as lifting a coffee cup or sending a text. In any event, Topaz did not wait. He turned and strode across the street, quickly but calmly, in traffic gaps that appeared, and then closed behind him as if they’d been choreographed to obliterate his passing.

Once Ricardo made it across the street himself, Professor Topaz had vanished.

Chapter 3

THE CONTRACT

“You’re not nervous,” Dick asked John. “Are you?”

John glanced up at the studio gates. Nervous? He hadn’t even realized they’d arrived. They’d been winding through overgrown residential Los Feliz side-streets with blue recycling bins out in front of the tile-roofed cottages, and older cars parked in their cracked driveways. Hardly the neighborhood where one would expect soap operas and game shows to be produced. But the residential street took a sharp turn where the terrain grew steeply hilly, and there, before them, the studio’s gates loomed—and beyond a line of screen trees, a parking lot glittered with Mercedes and BMWs, and of course a good number of hybrids, now that conspicuous non-consumption was slightly more in vogue. Slightly.

“I haven’t been nervous in ages,” John said. Which would have been true, if he’d been referring solely to being onstage.

“That’s the attitude. You’re the old pro—they need you. They need a good variety of actors for these gigs—speaking of which, you ever watch Weighty Matters?”

“No.”

“A competitive weight loss show with a bunch of tubbies exercising in front of the camera and crying about how food is their only friend, and they never got enough love when they were kids. A lot of times the oldest contestant is the one who really steals the audience’s heart. No one ever thinks the old fart’s actually gonna win…but they test real high with focus groups.”

John only half listened. He’d been up past midnight guiltily exploring www.ricardothemagnificent.com. Poring over the publicity shots—that mouth. Those lips. The lips he’d kissed. Reading the bio. John had pegged him for thirty, but he was older than that. Watching the clip where Ricardo glided across the stage, head held high, almost cocky, but not quite. Watching the clip, pausing, resuming, lingering over the swell of his chest and the bulge in his trousers…then staring at the “contact Ricardo” button. And realizing he hadn’t the faintest idea what he might type that wouldn’t make himself sound utterly ridiculous.

“Earth to John.”

“Hm?”

“I said, what’s your threshold? We’re probably looking at six weeks of work, if they make you an offer. So how low can I go? Eighteen K?”

“I hadn’t been aware it would be a paying job. I thought it was a competition.”

“For the quarter-mil, sure. But none of the pros do it for free. I’ll start high, of course. Too bad you’re non-union. There’d be a payscale in place.”

“Whatever you think best.”

Dick pulled his Caddy up to the gate and gave the guard his name. The gate swung open, and he pulled into the lot among the Mercedes and BMWs and socially-responsible hybrids. “You don’t come off as desperate. That’s what I like about going into negotiations with you. You’re a total pro.”

Little did Dick know he’d just cornered some poor magician at a bus shelter and thrust a hand down the young man’s pants. If that wasn’t desperation, John didn’t know what was. Watching Ricardo work the stage had been distracting enough, but that crystalline moment in which he’d seen Ricardo’s True abilities had left John completely sideswiped.

When he and Casey were young, it seemed like they met other people like themselves all the time. But these days, there were fewer and fewer True magicians.

So few that John had managed to convince himself he’d never meet another.

“You do seem a little nervous,” Dick said, “not that I’d notice if I hadn’t known you forty-some odd years.”

Nervous? Of course he was nervous. What if he ran into Ricardo? Or…what if he didn’t? He was counting on another encounter to somehow force his own hand, since he couldn’t bear to fill out that online contact form. “Forty-seven.”

“But who’s counting? Look, I know you’re not an effervescent kind of guy, I get it, I do. But at least try to show a little life in there. And make sure you come across as agreeable.”

John narrowed his eyes.

His manager sized him up for a moment, and then plunged ahead. They hadn’t managed to stay together as long as they had by mincing words. “They’ll want someone they can work with—and if you do sign on that dotted line, they’re gonna paint you however they want whether you’re in on it or not. You might be like that old fatty who lasted ’til the finals on Weighty Matters—an aging hero. Or they might cast you as the villain. Or the washed-up has-been. And if you can deal with that…they’ll be a lot more likely to play ball.”

John imagined everyone had played several of these roles over the course of their lifetime. Which facet of someone’s personality shone most brightly simply depended on which way the spotlight was striking it. “Don’t worry, Dick. I need to do this, and I will do what it takes.”

Dick clapped John on the knee. “Attaboy. A total pro.”

They joined a couple of interns and producer Marlene Perez in one of the smaller conference rooms. It had a big, round table in the center, a half-empty water cooler on one end, and a whiteboard that still bore traces of old ideas on the other. Marlene was a dark, dour girl, several pounds too thin, with quick eyes that nothing escaped. Her Cartier watch glittered with diamonds, and her frown lines belonged on the brow of a woman at least ten years older. There was no question about whether she was prepared to make an offer to Professor Topaz; she wouldn’t have wasted everyone’s time by meeting with them in person if she wasn’t. She spread the contract before them and went through all the particulars with Dick—and ostensibly with John as well. John’s mind was elsewhere. He trusted Dick well enough to handle the money without any input from him. The only thing he wanted to know was, “Have you chosen the other contestants yet?”

Marlene shuffled papers. “We have a list right…here. As far as we can tell, it’s no one you’ve performed with before. Though if you know anyone on it, you’ll need to disclose that ahead of time so we can work it into the storyline. Old friendships, old rivalries, that sort of thing.”

She slid the list to John. He scanned it. Fabian Swan, Jia Lee, Chip Challenge, Ken Barron. Familiar names. He read to the end of the list. No Ricardo the Magnificent. And though it appeared that the list was comprised of stage names, he looked through it again searching for a Richard or a Rick.

There wasn’t one.

“I worked the Orange County Festival on the same bill as Swan.”

“He said the same thing. But that you didn’t really know each other.”

“No. Only in passing.” He didn’t care about Fabian Swan. Only Ricardo the Magnificent. He felt as devastated as if he’d participated in the ridiculous show and been voted out of the damn mansion already by a bunch of fickle viewers. Because the opportunity, and the money, and the chance at becoming a household name—what did it matter?

If Ricardo wasn’t going to be there, what did it matter at all?

“We’re going to need to develop friction between some characters. How about Swan—would the two of you be able to work with me on that? Although maybe you’d be better as allies. He’s got the black demographic and you’ve got the over-60 crowd, so we’d try to keep both of you as long as possible. Of course, the younger contestants are actually the ones competing for the prize….”

A haze settled over the room, like a film that’s been left in the developer too long, and all that was mundane became more two-dimensional and desaturated to John’s eyes. The interns? Dead inside. Marlene? The same. Dick? There was a spark in Dick, but only a small spark. Across the room, the traces of some writing on the whiteboard glowed, and formed the words, “Sitcom - aliens create talking cat.” Really? That idea would have captured the hearts and minds of millions, had anyone dared turn the pitch into an actual show?

There was just no accounting for taste.

Or perhaps the viewing public was so sick of reality TV that any new sitcom would be a welcome respite.

John looked from Marlene’s dead eyes to Dick’s eager gaze, and while part of him felt preemptively sorry for what he was about to say, he didn’t think he had the strength to go any farther with the ridiculous reality charade. “Ms. Perez, I’m sorry to have wasted your time, but I’ve changed my mind. I think I’m just not cut out for reality television.”

“You’re a stage magician. You have an issue with trumping up a rivalry for the cameras?”

“It’s not that.” The reasoning behind it—the market research and “demographics” were all a bit much. But mostly it was disappointment. Because he’d been positive he would meet Ricardo at this mansion where the show would be shot. And he’d wanted it so badly that he’d convinced himself he was actually foreseeing a Truth.

Pathetic.

“We can go to twenty-eight thousand. Not a penny higher.”

Dick prodded John’s ankle with the side of his foot.

“This isn’t about money,” John said.

“Mr. Topaz, if you’re going to lecture me about ethics and dignity, please, save it for a camera. You weren’t born yesterday, and you’re fully aware that the assistant never actually gets sawed in half.”

John looked at Marlene again, harder now. If he looked deep—very, very deep—he saw it. So small it was almost invisible, but there nonetheless. The Truth had not been snuffed out of her, not entirely.

Whether the tide of John’s magic was speaking to that tiny drop of vitality inside her, or she just thought the look in his eyes was peculiar, she added, “And although we can’t go over twenty-eight, there is one more thing I can throw in to sweeten the deal.”

Ricardo. John almost blurted out his name. That’s what he wanted. But he kept up the appearance of being calm, and simply said, “Yes?”

“Your Aunt Rose. We know about her.”

The room was silent, save the shuffling of papers, the hum of the lights, and an intern shifting in his seat.

“What about her?” John said deliberately. His utter stillness was all a front, of course. His panic at the thought of whatever they might tell him next had caused his vision to go starkly black and white.

Marlene tapped her papers into a neat stack, and then said, “I’m sure it was necessary back in the forties to have her refer to you as her nephew.”

Dick stood up so quickly his chair nearly overbalanced, “If you think we’re gonna just sit back and take it if you drag Rose’s name through the mud—”

“Calm down, Mr. Golding, and let me finish. I’m sure no one would bat an eyelash these days to find out Professor Topaz was not actually the nephew of magic legends Glenn Forrest and Rose. Illegitimacy is practically chic—and the snapshot of five-year-old Johnny as the ring-bearer at their wedding is priceless. We’d be doing you a favor by leaking that—talk about a human interest angle. No, what I was about to say was that we know Rose’s greatest wish was to have a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.”

“They were nominated twice,” Dick said. “In 1964 and 1969. Lost both times.”

“And Glenn Forrest has been dead nearly six years now….”

Dick finished the thought. “Long enough for a posthumous nomination for their act.”

Shades of gray were coming back into John’s field of vision, and then, touches of color. If they’d known all those things about his late mother, gone these past forty years, they must have done some serious digging. Did they know that when she’d taken a tumble down the basement stairs, she’d been doing the laundry in heels? How could they? Glenn had known that particular detail would scent the tabloid waters like chum—certain that no one would understand that it wasn’t the heels to blame, but some freak (and perhaps temporary) peculiarity of the stairway itself: a loose nail, a pebble, a splinter—and he’d swapped the sequined pumps out for sensible flats by the time the paramedics arrived.

“You can make that nomination happen?” Dick said.

“We’re prepping the paperwork as we speak. The Chamber will only award one posthumous star every year—and this year I’ve heard the competition’s not too fierce. It’d be a good year to give it a shot.”

John watched Marlene’s eyes, searching for some kind of indication of whether this was just about the star, or if there was something else she knew. Rose Topasna from Mangilao Village had never spoken to her only child of True things in anything louder than a whisper. There was no way anyone could have dredged that up on the Internet.

At least, he hoped not.

Chapter 4

THE CALLBACK

The first room in which Ricardo had bided his time early that morning held a dozen hopeful magicians, including himself. There were only six magicians in the next room. Half the number they’d started with.

The current room held three.

If they halved that number again, things might get messy. Then again, they might not. They were all magicians, after all.

“Aren’t we going to break for lunch?” Francis West whispered. Francis had introduced himself as “Foxy,” presumably due to his red hair. Everyone proceeded to call him Francis. He was convinced that while they thought they were alone between the rounds of questioning, they were actually being taped. Maybe they were, and maybe they weren’t. But if they were, whispering certainly wouldn’t do them any good. “It’s nearly two. My blood sugar’s tanking.”

Kevin Kazan, a white street magician whose “street” was almost certainly exaggerated, allowed a pointed look to settle on Francis’ soft midsection. Kevin’s abs rippled beneath his clingy black T-shirt—although Ricardo’s notice of them was purely professional. Ricardo could have punished his own abs into that state of excessiveness with fewer reps and heavier weights, but he didn’t work out just for appearances’ sake. His body was honed for balance.

Though maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to build up an impressive six-pack and parade around in a clingy shirt, because the supper clubs and bachelorette parties had dried up…and now he was seriously considering working a birthday party. Not that there was anything wrong with entertaining a bunch of eleven-year-olds…just that he’d always expected the trajectory of his career to go up, rather than flatline. Taking his first bachelorette party had been demoralizing enough—but the tips were surprisingly good. And seeing as how it was L.A., after all, he’d been reassuring himself that you never could tell when one of those drunk girls in the limo might work somewhere or know someone important.

Networking with middle schoolers would make it far more difficult to entertain the lie that his next big break was just around the corner. And he doubted they tipped nearly as well as drunk bridesmaids. Worse than that, what if he figured out a way to approach Professor Topaz and they ended up talking shop? Because eventually, the subject would come up. How could he admit to his hero that he’d been doing kids’ birthday parties without dying of embarrassment?

The bachelorette parties were bad enough.

Ricardo knew his career was on the line. Francis West appeared to be thinking no farther than his next meal. He leaned toward Ricardo and whispered, “Don’t you think we should break for lunch?”

“Have some water.” Ricardo gestured toward the water cooler. “It’ll take your mind off it.”

“But then I’ll need to use the restroom.” Francis squirmed in his seat, which Ricardo ignored. He’d trained himself to hold it for a few hours. One couldn’t very well have all the bridesmaids wait while he ducked out to tinkle.

Kevin Kazan steepled his fingers and declared, “You got too much sugar in your diet if you can’t skip a meal without feeling weak.”

“Or, Francis countered, “is there too much diet in my sugar?”

While a better comeback didn’t spring to mind for Ricardo, he still cringed. Not visibly, of course. Years of training allowed him to bury his emotions under a polished facade.

Francis seemed unaware of how bad his retort was, at least as unaware as he was of the likelihood of anyone actually calling him “Foxy.” Through the blinds, they could see the producers heading up the hall toward the conference room—and one of them was carrying a plate. Francis leaned forward eagerly. Kevin scowled intently. And Ricardo allowed a faint smile of interest to touch his face, then deepened it just a bit while he held himself uncannily still.

Marlene Perez was first through the door—her, and her plate. A stack of plates, actually. Empty plates. Which she set on the table. The second producer, Iain Kelliher, hustled in behind her, dropped a large Home Depot bag onto one of the empty chairs, and pushed his oversized tortoise-shell frames up his nose. Ricardo hadn’t yet decided whether he needed a trip to the optician to have their fit adjusted, or he was just calling attention to them because he thought they were so profoundly nerdy they were hip.

Francis stared at the stack of empty plates in utter dismay. Kevin watched the producers with a cool and calculated self-possession. Ricardo groped for something genuine to smile about. They couldn’t possibly want to keep them there much longer. That was somewhat encouraging.

Marlene nodded at the Home Depot bag. “Time for a little challenge. Each of you, take a dowel.”

Dowels. Plates. It seemed too obvious. Plate spinning? It was one of the first circus tricks Ricardo had ever learned. There had to be another angle.

“Once you’ve got your dowel,” Marlene said in a bored voice, “grab a plate and spin it.”

Or maybe Ricardo was overthinking things.

Francis tore open the Home Depot bag as if he was hoping to find a few cheeseburgers on the bottom. “But these aren’t the right weight. They’re too thick.” He pulled the four-foot dowels out and let the bag fall back to the seat. “Well, this one’s too thick, anyway. They’re all different diameters.”

Iain shrugged and said, “They were in the same slot at the hardware store.”

Maybe, Ricardo supposed, he hadn’t been overthinking things at all. Maybe it was a test. But what test? A test to see if they would notice that one of the dowels was too thick?

Or a test to see if it even mattered?

Kevin’s gaze went to the three dowels in Francis’ hands, then flicked up to meet Ricardo’s eyes. He grabbed one of the two slender dowels, then took a plate off the top of the stack and threw it into the air with a flourish. He caught it, and centered it with a flick of his wrist. It spun without so much as a wobble.

Which left Ricardo to either wrest the other slender dowel from Francis, or to take the clumsier piece of makeshift equipment himself. It was a gamble—but he decided to chance it. When Francis held out the thicker dowel, Ricardo accepted it with a gracious smile that conveyed it was the stick he’d been hoping for all along.

Francis looked relieved. Marlene noticed. Kevin did, too—and Ricardo suspected he was kicking himself for taking the easy way out. That made it effortless enough to maintain the showman’s smile—though he did need to work to keep the smugness out of it. No one likes a smug winner.

“These aren’t even the right type of plates,” Francis said with growing alarm. “You don’t just spin any old plates. You spin steel plates. With a dimple in the middle.”

Ricardo took the top plate and wondered if it would be too flashy for him to toss it up behind his back. Possibly. Besides, the producers were mostly watching Francis begin to teeter toward a hypoglycemic meltdown—and it might come off as needy if Ricardo did an overly-showy move while no one was paying attention to him. He flicked the plate into the air plainly and caught it on the clumsy, thick dowel. Marlene glanced at him. He smiled.

“There’s no dimple,” Francis said, though there wasn’t much steam behind the words, since both Ricardo and Kevin were currently standing around with their plates whirling in the air over their heads, each of them looking as matter-of-fact as possible, as if the stunt was so simple it was hardly worth noticing. With a heavy sigh, he picked up a plate, hooked the rim on the tip of his dowel, and gave it a spin. It wobbled at first since it was much heavier than a plate that had been designed for the task (and, indeed, there was no dimple), but centrifugal force saved the day, and soon even Francis’ plate was aloft.

The clunky lunchroom plates slowed quickly. Ricardo sped his with a wrist flick. Kevin did the same. Francis made an attempt, but his dowel slipped off-center, and the plate began to wobble wildly. Ricardo felt the balance shift as clearly as he saw the sweat beading Francis’ brow. Balance was everything, and its presence or absence had always been a palpable thing for him. With a flick of his clumsy dowel he sent his own plate whirling high, and caught it on his fingertip, still spinning. At the same time he stretched out the now-empty dowel to snag the lip of Francis’ wobbling plate before it fell on his head. “Pass it here, Foxy.”

It should have worked.

But Ricardo tripped on something, and ended up knocking Francis’ plate onto the middle of the conference room table, where it circled loudly for a full five seconds before it clattered to rest.

Ricardo looked at the floor. There was nothing there. He’d tripped on nothing? Not very likely. Ricardo Hart simply did not trip. Especially on nothing. He glanced back at Kevin. For the first time that afternoon, Kevin was smiling.

Apparently he wasn’t worried about looking like a smug winner.

Chapter 5

CASTING

Marlene tossed a takeout carton into the trash, then tilted her head to one side, then the other, until her neck let out a disturbingly loud, yet satisfying, crack. Iain eyed her blearily. His glasses rested on the top of her desk beside his crossed feet. He knew it drove her crazy when he put his feet on her desk—so she was taking extra care to look as if she hadn’t even noticed.

It had been a long day, phenomenally long. Not for the magicians; they’d been allowed to leave by two-thirty. In the afternoon. It was past that now in the wee hours of the morning, and they’d finally watched and scored all the footage they’d shot.

She consulted her notes and pulled up one of the digital tapings for the fourth or fifth time—she’d lost count—and Iain sighed. “That guy? Again?”

He’d always been a lightweight when it came to pulling all-nighters.

Iain’s recorded voice came through the speaker, although the camera was trained on Ricardo Hart, whose glib smile was firmly in place. “I’ll read off a list of names,” interview-Iain said, “and you tell me the first thing that pops into your head. Don’t think about it. Just blurt it out. Like a word-association game.”

Ricardo Hart’s slick smile deepened. “Sure.”

“My ass,” exhausted-Iain muttered. “That guy’s as spontaneous as an arranged marriage.”

Interview-Iain read, “Jia Lee.”

“Exotic.”

“Chip Challenge.”

“Funny.”

“Fabian Swan.”

“Imposing.”

“Professor Topaz.”

Marlene stopped the footage, then clicked back two frames. “There,” she said.

Iain squinted at her monitor. “What?”

“Don’t you see it? Right there.” She backed up a few more frames, then played the footage back at quarter speed. “Watch his eyes, you say Professor Topaz, and he freaks out.”

“So? Maybe he’s just surprised.”

“Come on, you think anything surprises him? Besides, it’s not like he didn’t know Topaz was trying out for the show. They shared the first audition.” She cut her eyes to him to determine if he even remembered. Knowing him, he’d dozed off by that point. Such a baby. Keep him awake for two, three days and he was useless.

“Play it regular speed,” exhausted-Iain said. On the playback, interview-Iain said, “Professor Topaz,” again.

Something flickered over Ricardo’s expression, and he said, “Professor Topaz is my hero.”

Marlene paused the recording. “Maybe he means it.”

“I don’t know.” Iain yawned. “Maybe. If he’s covering up for something else, we can see what it is when it surfaces. It’s always good for some drama when you make people compete against their family and friends.”

Marlene backed up a few frames. The video hadn’t managed to capture the nuance of the Ricardo’s expression, even in slow-mo. If she’d been interviewing him, she would have asked him to expound on the whole “hero” thing. But she’d been busy listening to that ass Kevin brag about how long he could hold his breath, and hoping to God it really was a magician’s badge of honor, and not some kind of slimy come-on.

“Just eliminate someone,” Iain said, as she played though Ricardo Hart’s shift in expression again. “It doesn’t matter who.”

“No. I think we should each pick one of them to stay.”

“That’s the same as eliminating one!”

“Not really.”

“Kevin’s a cutthroat asshole and Francis is a big dork who’ll play on the viewers’ sympathy as long as he doesn’t get too whiny. We’d get great footage out of either of them.”

“Agreed,” Marlene said. “That’s why I’m going with Ricardo.”

Iain shifted sullenly. “Over some ‘look’ he gave for a quarter of a second? It could’ve been gas.”

“What’s the real reason you don’t want me to pick him? Is he too swishy for you?”

“Half the magicians we met looked totally gay—and from what I gather, they’re all nailing their female assistants.”

Marlene opened a file and read. “Ricardo Hart. When he was a teenager in Minnesota he was a competitive figure skater. Never married. No female assistant. And according to the credit check, he used to live with a personal trainer named Marcus.”

“Right. You had me at figure skater. Look, I could give a rat’s ass where he gets his jollies—if you like him, he’s in. But I’m not taking responsibility for picking between the other two. Either one of them could turn out to be a gem or a dud.”

“But you’re with me on Ricardo?”

“He’s older than the other two—what is he, thirty-five?”

“But he looks as young as either of them.”

Iain stifled a yawn. “Whatever. You want this Ricardo guy so much? Fine.”

“Fine. Email that plate-spinning clip to the focus group and we’ll call it a night.”

Chapter 6

SURPRISE ANNOUNCEMENT

“We’re here in front of Jia Lee’s home in Oakland.”

“Cut.” Marlene Perez glanced down at the script, and re-read it to herself in Monty Shaw’s Australian accent. There were an awful lot of ‘E’ sounds in that line—we’re, here, Jia, Lee—and if it were delivered in the middle of a segment, she’d let it slide. But you couldn’t open with something like that. Not in that accent, you couldn’t.

Sometimes it seemed like Monty was hamming up his pronunciation for the camera—not that she blamed him. Anything to differentiate him from the sea of other handsome blond, bronzed him-bos on the audition tapes. She tapped on her earpiece and said, “Can we get a writer over here?”

It would have made more sense to have Topaz host the damn thing, since he had a kind of magician-y Tim Gunn vibe—but that was one of the many suggestions over which she’d been steamrolled. The executive producers insisted he wasn’t a big enough name. Penn & Teller, who’d almost signed on, ended up taping a special in Japan that conflicted with the first four episodes. David Copperfield’s rates would have blown the budget for the entire show. And The Amazing Jonathan hadn’t even read the pitch. So they’d picked Monty—although he was even less of a household name than Topaz, in the States, at least. Apparently he’d played an illusionist in some artsy fartsy film down under. Though the film had won the AFI award for Best Costume Design and Best Sound, she’d be shocked if more than a handful of viewers in Magic Mansion’s key demographics had ever heard of it, let alone seen it.

Even so, the execs had dug in their heels, and she was stuck with Monty Shaw and his piercingly nasal vowel sounds.

Good thing he was so easy on the eyes.

A writer scurried out from the trailer and Marlene explained the problem. Since they could hardly have Jia Lee change her well-established stage name this late in the game, the writers were instructed to henceforth read Monty’s first line aloud for excessively obnoxious vowels in all other non-name words. They tweaked the script, fed Monty his new line… “And…action.”

“This modest Oakland duplex is the home of Jia Lee, the Far East darling of L.A.’s magic circuit. Miss Lee’s exotic good looks and flawless presentation have made her the first female guest of honor at the Portland Magic Jam, and her Asian-inspired show, Apple Blossom Vanish, ran at the Parks Theatre for a stunning sixteen-week engagement.”

Monty approached Jia’s front door, walking just a bit gingerly. He had a good flare for narrative. Marlene would give him that. He lowered his voice and said, “Jia’s been told we’re taping the reactions of magicians who’ve been chosen for a third round of auditions, so let’s see how she responds to the news that she’s actually won a spot in the Mansion.” He rapped on the door and sang out, “Magic Mansion!” in an accent toned-down enough to come across as charmingly Aussie rather than strange and foreign—Marlene hoped so, anyway. You never could tell what was going to rub a WalMart clerk in Nowhere, Indiana wrong.

Jia’s door snapped open, chain on. Half a face appeared in the gap. “You weren’t supposed to be here ’til two.”

“Magic Mansion,” Monty repeated chipperly.

Camera one zoomed close. On the mobile monitor, Marlene saw the wreck of the magician’s duplex. Plastic drop cloths covered the furniture, and masking tape hung in curls from the window frames. The ceiling was half-purple with color-change ceiling paint that went on dark and dried light to keep painters from leaving any gaps in the paint, and a wide rust stain spread across the center, marking the spot where something unfortunate had overflowed in the bathroom above.

The door slammed shut.

“Jia Lee,” Monty sang out, and maybe the crazy vowels weren’t too bad after all. He made her name sound fun, like some kind of drinking game. “We’ve got an envelope with your name on it.”

“It’s one-thirty!” The door was thin. The boom was in place, and the words projected right through the plywood.

Monty glanced back somewhere beyond the camera as if looking for direction and gave a charming shrug, then turned back to the door and called out, “C’mon out, Miss Lee—let’s not keep the cameras waiting!”

Camera two zoomed in on the doorknob turning. The boom picked up a rattle of the chain, though foley could re-do it if it wasn’t clear enough. The door opened.

Jia Lee stared at Monty Shaw, wide-eyed in abject mortification, then snatched the bandanna off her long black hair. A smear of purple paint, white around the edges, lay across her cheek like warpaint. She wore an old 7-Up T-shirt stretched taut across her chest, sleeves cut off and beige bra straps plainly visible, and a pair of heather gray yoga pants splattered with purple. Even in her state of disarray, she was gorgeous. Her eyelids had pronounced folds, and her nose was probably too flat for the taste of most American men—but there was something classically proportioned about her features that was set off beautifully by her state of dishevelment and surprise. She looked foreign enough to say “flied lice,” but her accent was as apple-pie American as you please (unlike Monty’s) when she repeated, “It’s one-thirty.”

“C’mon out, Miss Lee, and let’s see what the producers wanted to tell you.”

Camera one zoomed in on the cheap plastic dropcloth catching on her sandals as she struggled to get through her front door without showing them any more than she absolutely had to. She slipped out the door, then held her head high as she sized up Monty like an empress holding court. A five-foot-one empress in paint-splattered yoga pants. “Very well.”

Marlene was unsure if she’d ever heard someone use the words “very well” in conversation—but if anyone could get away with it, it was Jia.

“You’ve got a letter from Magic Mansion,” Monty said with excruciating perkiness. “Let’s see what it says.”

Cameras swarmed Jia as she took the letter, slipped her thumb underneath the seal, and opened the envelope. She scanned it once, and once again. Her expression shifted, something subtle. Joy, or panic? “I got in,” she whispered, then clasped the letter to her 7-Up T-shirt and repeated, “I got in.”

Marlene could have called cut, but it was only video, not film, and the afternoon had been humming right along. She sized up Jia and told her, “Good reaction. Can you give me one that’s a tad more excited? And then, Monty, you congratulate her. Wendy, come over here, make her messy hair more of a sexy-messy for me, a couple of strands in front, there you go. Okay. Jia, take it from the spot where you open the door and say it’s one-thirty, and this time, smile when you get the news. But don’t overdo it—make sure you still seem standoffish.”

Jia nodded and said, “No problem.”

Chapter 7

OPENING CREDITS

Show business contained far more preparation (and waiting) than actual performance. It seemed that way to Ricardo, anyway. He’d been awake since 4 a.m. to arrive at the studio by seven and shoot Magic Mansion’s intro. Each contestant would have their half-second in the spotlight at the beginning of every episode. They were to turn toward the camera and perform some sort of magical flourish. They’d been asked, in one of the half-million questions they’d been subjected to in the application process, whether they had a signature move. Those moves had been storyboarded, and focus-grouped, and finally pencilled in to a production schedule.

Ricardo was eager to show off his sliver rings. They lent themselves to all kinds of kick-ass poses.

He wondered what Professor Topaz had pinpointed as his own signature move—although, technically, Topaz didn’t have one. With the Professor, it was more of a word. “Behold.” The way he said it, as if he was alerting you to the moment when your perceptions about the world would be turned upside down and inside out, sent chills down Ricardo’s spine. Hell, even the memory of him saying it left Ricardo light-headed. Unfortunately, the Professor wasn’t taping his intro that morning, so Ricardo hadn’t seen him since the fateful encounter after the audition. Or maybe it wasn’t so unfortunate after all. Ricardo knew he was one of the lower-ranking magicians in the pack; he didn’t think he could afford to be known as the guy in the intro with the boner.

Three other magicians were currently in the studio. Ricardo assumed they were expendable too. They were all women—and women were usually relegated to the role of “assistant,” regardless of how talented they might be, or how much of the act was supported by their slender, glitter-rubbed shoulders. Stage magic was an old boys’ club, no two ways about it, and while male magicians (like the Professor) only seemed to grow more authoritative with age, in the eyes of the public, the female performers simply got old.

Which made it bizarre that the women seated to either side of Ricardo were his mother’s age. To his right, Muriel Broom sat browsing last week’s tabloids in her bangles and fringe. In a time where mediums did their best to seem relevant and modern, with new age MP3 downloads and cable talk shows shot in sterile studios, Muriel decked herself out in yards of brocade and dozens of clattering pendants inscribed with mystical symbols. When she announced that she was a spiritualist, he believed her.

And he wondered if she did trick table-rapping like the Victorians, or if she was more of a “I’ve got a message from your late grandmother” type of magician.

Either way, Ricardo had no idea how her specialty would translate into a competition.

Though Muriel’s spiritualism seemed like a more marketable selling point than Bev Austin’s act. Ricardo had initially taken Bev for a producer or a director. She wore a tea green pantsuit and a simple white blouse. Her gray hair was cut short, and a pair of pearl stud earrings and a wedding band were her only jewelry. Ricardo couldn’t quite tell if she was a lesbian, or just an older woman who’d never gone for the whole dresses and tresses thing. She hadn’t specified whether she had a husband or a wife, and it seemed tacky to ask.

He did ask about her act, though. She’d said, “I’m the Math Wizard,” as if he must surely have heard of her. He plastered on his most polite smile, and she added, “I’ve performed at every public library in the four-county area.”

And so, there he sat, Muriel Broom to one side and Bev Austin to the other. And there in front of the green screen, rounding out the bottom of the barrel, was a complete and utter newbie. Ricardo almost asked Muriel what the girl’s name was, but Muriel sat with her eyes closed, and the tabloid opened on her lap to a very fat-looking candid photo of Oprah. Either Muriel was communicating with the Other Side, or she’d also needed to get up at 4 a.m. to make it to the studio by seven. Ricardo leaned over to the Math Wizard, nodded to indicate the girl in front of the camera, and whispered, “What’s her name?”

“Sue Wozniak.”

“No…her stage name.”

“She didn’t say. She works in the gift shop at Magicopolis. Maybe she doesn’t have one.”

“But how could she…?”

“Look at her,” Bev said. “She’s just a kid. She doesn’t know any better. She hasn’t had the type of life experience we’ve had.” She indicated Ricardo and Muriel with a tilt of her head.

Ricardo gave his best gracious smile, and he supposed he should feel grateful that he was part of a “we” this early on in the process. Though the thought that the “we” included two older women with acts that looked none too promising was not exactly a comfort.

Iain and his annoying retro glasses were guiding the magicians through their shots today. He was trying to capture something elusive about Sue Wozniak that involved “twirl and smile.” Between takes, poor Sue looked like she was succumbing to the spins. She smiled bravely, though, and did whatever was asked of her. She was pretty and blond, but not Hollywood-pretty or bombshell-blonde. She was the type of girl who’d break hearts in Topeka or Gary or Appleton…but not the type anyone would look twice at in L.A.

“Swing your hair, smile. Great. Okay, Sue, we got it. Go take a seat.”

Sue wove back to the seats, still smiling, and said, “Wow, that was intense! Do you think I looked okay?”

“You looked great,” Bev reassured her automatically, while Ricardo said, “Totally cute.” She’d looked nervous, actually. But maybe that wouldn’t be too obvious once they floated in the graphics and effects.

“Next up,” Iain said, “would be Bev…where’s the chalk?” He turned to an assistant who looked young enough to be in high school. “Did you get the chalk?”

“We couldn’t find—”

Iain swung around to face the magicians, and with his clipboard rigidly between them, said, “Bev, could you stand up for just a sec and pretend like you’re writing on a chalkboard?”

Bev went still for a moment, and Ricardo felt a spike of panic from her. The performances at the public library had not likely prepared her for her time in this studio as much as she’d hoped. But like all of them, she was eager to please. She stood and did as she was told.

She was a numbers-person, however—not a mime. It just looked like she was waving her arm around.

“I need - the - chalk.” Iain snapped at the assistant. “Go find it. And if you can’t find that, saw off the end of one of those dowels and paint it white with correction fluid!” He sighed in disgust as the girl scurried away to do his bidding, then consulted his clipboard again. “Moving along, then. Ricardo. C’mon up in front of the green screen. God only knows how long it’ll take her to find the correction fluid.”

Ricardo stepped in front of the green screen, found a mark on the floor, and stood on it. He could see his own reflection in the massive camera lens. His shirt was very white. Silk. Not only did it flow well, it set off his last five visits to the tanning bed beautifully. And if he appeared in the opening credits in white while everyone else wore black, maybe he’d be perceived as one of the “good guys.”

One could only hope.

“It would’ve been easier if you wore a jacket today,” Iain said.

Ricardo steeled his face so it didn’t emote his dread. “The shirtsleeves look really good when you juggle the rings.”

“Oh. The ring things. That’s your big move, isn’t it? Don’t worry about that—we’re gonna have you handle a few different props. You’ll be more versatile for the show if we don’t pigeonhole you as a juggler.”

Ricardo was seized by the sudden urge to throw up. He smiled.

An assistant wheeled a green-painted cart over. Thankfully, there were were linking rings on it, but also silks, paper flowers, a length of rope, and some oversized playing cards. “What you need to do is keep your eye on the camera, smile, and pull this stuff out from behind your back. In post, we’ll make it look like you’re grabbing it out of thin air. Do a few practice tosses.”

If Ricardo had been forewarned, he would have practiced grabbing things from behind himself and tossing them with a flourish until he had the move down pat. All night, if necessary. But, like Bev and Sue before him, he desperately wanted to please—and so he stood in front of the green cart without complaint, reached behind his back, and mapped out the locations of the gear with his fingers.

To Iain, those things were merely props. In fact, most people would perceive them as a group of inanimate objects. But while objects didn’t possess a consciousness in the same way living beings might, they were still made up of molecules and atoms, as people were. Everything, when you broke it down into small enough particles, was essentially the same. That was why a mylar bird, in the right hands, could actually fly…at least, that was the reasoning Ricardo used in explaining True magic to himself. He was just a magician, after all, not a quantum physicist.

An assistant took readings with a light meter while a makeup artist powdered the shine off his forehead, but they felt distant to Ricardo, like window-shoppers on the other side of the plate glass. All his focus was on the props. Facing away from them, he tucked his hands behind his back and walked his fingers over the rings. Metal. Cool. Not his own rings, but similar enough that he felt as if he knew them. Not quite old friends, but maybe friends of friends. The silks—vibrant. He soaked up the vibe of them through his fingertips and tried to picture their colors. Blue. Red. Yellow. Ropes—clothes line, and not magician’s ropes, scarcely touched and fresh out of the package, with hints of plastic still clinging to the cotton. And then the cards. Playing cards were more difficult for him. Differentiating red from black was a snap. But the subatomic particles of the ink couldn’t tell a heart from a diamond, and so card tricks had never been Ricardo’s forte.

He pulled a length of rope from behind his back and tossed it toward the camera, and it fell to the ground like a dead fish. And then he got an idea. If he made the linking rings look more interesting than anything else, that would be the shot they’d choose in editing. But the trick would be to not actually fumble any of the other props—because he couldn’t take the risk that they were going to paint him as a bumbler. They could try—but he wasn’t about to give them any ammunition.

He pulled a card from behind his back and flipped it toward the camera. Of course, he put a slight spin on it for fear of being obvious about favoring the rings—no magician would toss a card without putting a spin on it—but as it left his hand, he implored it to show its back face to the lens. It obliged, of course. Paper was easy like that.

Once the props all lay on the floor in front of him, Iain said, “Enough rehearsal. Let’s get the shot.”

Ricardo managed to keep from scoffing. There was a word for a magician who practiced a move once: unemployed. But he’d touched each of the objects, and they seemed game enough to go along with his plan.

An assistant gathered them and set them back on the cart—in a completely different arrangement than they’d been before. No matter, though. He knew them now. Not old friends, no. But pleasant enough acquaintances—like Muriel Broom and Bev Austin and Sue Wozniak.

Iain said, “Okay, you ready to roll?”

Ricardo stood tall, checking in with each object behind his back. A silk? Ready. A card? Ready. A ring? Oh yes, he could be very good friends indeed with these rings.

“Ready.”

“Don’t worry about the audio, that won’t be used. Start off looking down at the floor, then look up, right into the camera, and pull something off the cart and toss it.”

The directions were simple enough. Tap. Jazz. Gymnastics. Moves in the Field. Ricardo had been priming himself since he learned to walk, and a take-snap-look-toss combo was child’s play. Head snap. He flung the rope. Head snap. He flung a silk. And another silk, and another, and then while the third silk floated, he sent a query to the ring: are you ready?

Ready.

Take-snap-look, but this was not a silk or a card or a rope. This was a ring, and he put a special backspin on it. It leapt up, sparkling in the studio lights, and twirled on his fingertip before he gave it another pop, and it spun away and clattered to the floor with the other props. It was perfect.

Ricardo looked to Iain, smiling for real now, not just camera-smiling. “Don’t you have one more card there?” Iain didn’t seem particularly wowed. “Pitch that over your shoulder and we’ll move on to Bev—it looks like her ‘chalk’ is dry.”

Though Ricardo was deflated about his spectacular ring twirl going completely unnoticed, he didn’t allow his smile to falter. A card. Fine. Whatever. He grabbed it from the green-painted cart and flicked it over his shoulder with hardly a thought. The card, thrilled it wasn’t getting left behind after all, did a jubilant swan dive, rising and falling in a spiral that seemed to hover in front of the camera on its way down.

It settled on the pile of silks face-up. The ace of hearts.

“Weird,” Iain said. “That almost looked like we did it on the computer.”

Great. Leave it to the take he hadn’t been trying to do well to come out the best. “Card tricks really aren’t my specialty,” Ricardo said. “Did you see the ring? The light was hitting it just right.”

Iain ignored him, turned to the cameraman and said, “You got that card, right?”

“Pretty cool.”

Ricardo said, “I think the ring will read better on tape.”

“We’ll see what the graphics department ends up doing with it,” Iain said. “Have a seat.”

While Ricardo well and truly thought that if he wanted to pick his battles, a decision about what he would do in the opening credits might very well be a crucial skirmish to win, he sensed that any amount of dissension with The Big Important Producer’s wishes would only make Iain more likely to use the footage of the card-flick, not less.

Maybe the editors would pick the ring after all. It really had been a very cool twirl. Ricardo gathered his pride and turned back toward his seat—though when he took another look at it the props on the floor, he had to admit, the ace of hearts was looking pretty damn pleased with itself.

Chapter 8

THE ARRIVAL

On warm days when nights turned cool, mist would often gather in Hollywood’s canyons and valleys. Tonight, though, it received the help of three strategically placed fog machines. John’s driver sighed as he rolled through the mist for an exterior shot. A dozen town cars crept up the drive—which was undoubtedly shot in such a way that the tattered trampoline across the street didn’t show, nor the house with the pair of recliners on the front stoop, indoor furniture with stuffing hanging out of the cushions where they’d been picked at by birds. The mansion itself likely belonged to a “flash in the pan” who’d needed to sell off the land around it, then sell off the mansion itself once his or her heyday came to a close. And maybe the same thing had happened to whomever purchased it from them. And no doubt there were plenty of slapdash repairs inside done by set designers with the intension of those fixes holding only as long as the shooting schedule.

But even in the context of the neighborhood in which it sat, and even with the likelihood of its unfortunate history, the mansion, with its manicured lawn and dazzlingly lit exterior, did indeed look magical as John approached. A director on the lawn signaled, and the town cars filed past the cameras more quickly, then swung out the U-shaped drive, only to begin their approach yet again. Once the cameras had filmed them from dozens of angles, they coasted to a halt, and John’s window rolled down.

The scent of dry ice crept into the car. Marlene poked her head in and said, “Good to see you, Professor. Right now we’re getting shots of everyone stepping out of their car. Then we’ll put you over by the juniper while you wait. Just remember, the only time we want you to look directly into the camera from here on out is when you record your video journal. Other than that, pretend it’s not ever there.”

John glanced over her shoulder. Pretending the cameras weren’t even there was nowhere near as easy as it sounded. It seemed like everywhere he looked, there was a camera.

“Once you get over there with the other contestants, talk to whoever you want—your reactions are being taped—but make sure you greet Fabian Swan. Play it up a little, since you both run in the same circles. You two are our mentor-types, so make sure you act like the mansion is no big deal and nothing fazes you.” She glanced at John’s immaculate new suit and spotless white gloves, and added, “Not that it probably does.”

As the window whirred back up, Marlene retreated into the fog to debrief the next car, saying into her cell, “No flash paper, no open flames—no exceptions. I don’t care who’s asking. We do not have the liability coverage for it.” John allowed himself a small smile beneath the camouflage of the mist. Unfazed? Hardly. But he could almost hear Casey now: You’ve got the world’s best poker face, babe. Make sure you work it to your advantage.

John was accustomed to performing live, not recorded, so the scrutiny of the three cameras when he exited the town car was definitely unsettling. Still, it wasn’t as if they would catch him smoothing his hair or picking lint off his sleeve. He was a professional, therefore, he did not fidget.

One of the cameras did a sweep around his face from a low angle. He could imagine how he might look in the shot, framed by fog and the night sky, and just as Marlene had warned him, he steeled himself from looking anywhere near the camera. Within the space of a few heartbeats, it almost seemed natural to just ignore the scurrying of the crew around him. Maybe he could actually get used to it, if only for a few weeks. He was a performer, after all. He was accustomed to being scrutinized.

The mist parted as he strode across the dewy lawn toward the juniper where a group of men and women in tuxes and sequins awaited. Magicians and their assistants…but one of the women was holding a child-sized ventriloquist’s dummy, and another wore a saucy top hat on her blazing red hair. He then realized that when he’d initially pegged them as assistants, it was really his age showing. That, and his life experience, because Rose Topaz could never have aspired to do her own act.

Though magic was a male-dominated profession, the Magic Mansion contestants wouldn’t all be male. This was prime time TV—and it looked like the ratio was half and half. The group he approached was not magicians with their assistants. Just magicians. And that was a relief.

It made John feel less alone.

But only slightly so. When he saw Fabian Swan in his dusky purple tuxedo, a sense of relief flooded him so profoundly, he suspected he wouldn’t have needed Marlene’s instruction to greet his contemporary warmly, though they’d never been formally introduced.

Fabian was a black man of sixty or so, with iron gray in his hair and mustache. He was medium height, though he projected an air of authority that made him seem taller. And while he wasn’t known for boisterous displays of good cheer any more than John was, when he saw John approaching him through the crowd of tittering magicians young enough to be their children, his gaze softened into what, on him, passed for a smile.

John extended his gloved hand. “Fabian. Good to see you.”

Fabian took it. He wore gloves, also. Pale yellow, to set off the plum. “You too, Professor.”

It seemed they should banter a bit for the cameras—but John had never been good with small talk, and Fabian didn’t seem inclined toward chitchat, either. The cameras sensed their proclivity toward quiet contemplation as John and Fabian appraised each other wordlessly, and then they sidled away to focus on the women in the glittery makeup and low-cut gowns.

Good. John knew he shouldn’t think so—the more face-time he got, the more likely he would be to advance—but right now he needed to evaluate his competitors. Friend or foe? Ally or enemy? He looked into Fabian Swan’s eyes, and he searched.

While age was not necessarily an indicator of depth, and there could theoretically exist a twenty-year-old of profound complexity and a seventy-year-old just as profoundly simple, Fabian Swan’s years had certainly shaped him. In his eyes, John read a life filled with dark lows and dizzying highs. The struggle of poverty, the pain of loss, the intoxication of success.

The glow of a good man? Yes. But the spark of True magic?

No.

He hadn’t realized he was on the lookout for the Truth—not until he didn’t see it. “Are you ready?” he asked Fabian, to cover his disappointment.

“Will we ever be?” Fabian turned to watch the latest magician to embark from his town car.

Fog—both real and manufactured—billowed. The car door opened. A graceful figure in a traditional tux with tails and red cummerbund stepped from the mist. John was filled with gratitude that the cameras were not currently trained on him, since his infamous poker-face was nowhere to be found.

The man in the tux smiled, and his smile lit up the night.

Ricardo the Magnificent.

A small gasp escaped John. Fabian leaned toward him and said, “You know that guy?”

“He’s…very talented.”

“Good to know. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

While John’s arrival had been forgettably low-key, Ricardo made a splash. Several women in the crowd cheered at his appearance. They greeted him with delight, hugging like long-lost friends, and even kissing him on the cheek. But before John could envy the ease with which Ricardo flowed through the crowd, the generosity of his warmth and his smile, the Truth within him flooded John’s awareness, and it took all his focus to keep from knocking the other magicians aside and embracing him.

Ricardo worked the line—a handshake, a smile, a clap on the shoulder—until he looked up and noticed John. And then his smile went even broader, and he darted past Fabian Swan with two cameras trailing him and said, “Professor Topaz!”

“Ricardo.” John would have liked to sound warm. Mostly, though, he came off as a bit dazed.

Ricardo thrust his hand out for a handshake, and John took it. He squeezed firmly, and he stared deep into Ricardo’s eyes. How much can a man say with just a look? They never told me you’d be in the mansion. I’m stunned that you made it in. I’m overjoyed to see you again. I’ve been rehearsing what I might say to you for weeks, now, and come up with absolutely nothing. And I hope you’ll forgive me if I’ve made a complete fool of myself.

John narrowed his eyes to see if any of this had somehow managed to be conveyed.

Ricardo gave his hand an extra squeeze.

“What a surprise,” John said.

That seemed to sum it up about right.

One more squeeze, and then Ricardo pulled his hand away with a long parting look before he turned to Fabian, offered a handshake, and said, “Great to finally meet you. That’s quite a tux.”

Another town car rolled up, and the cameras flocked toward it.

Ricardo turned to John again, and now his expression seemed less polished, more genuine. Relief? Anticipation? What? John couldn’t very well have a heart-to-heart with him, not here, not now. A young blonde lady in pink lamé tiptoed over to keep her spiked heels from sinking into the turf, and slid her hand through the crook of Ricardo’s arm. “Come wait for the big greeting with us,” she said, a bit breathlessly. John wouldn’t have been surprised if, beneath that unforgiving dress, she had quite the girdle on. There was a certain naive sweetness to her, though of course that might have been just the image she was trying to project.

Ricardo gave John a parting look, and allowed himself to be drawn away by the girl in pink, and into the circle of women who’d evidently adopted him.

The fog parted, and this time the young man who emerged was not wearing a tux. His clothing was likely just as expensive, though, from his stiff jeans to his baseball cap with its brim at a 45-degree angle. Diamonds glittered from his ears, his fingers, his belt buckle, and his heavy gold necklaces. His eyes were hidden by mirrored shades.

Beside John, Fabian sighed and said, “Bling just looks so wrong on white kids.”

John made a noncommittal noise in reply. He’d spent his life in suits. Street wear was hardly his forte.

The gangsta-style magician sauntered past the women and Ricardo and approached Fabian Swan first, with the greeting, “’Sup, man? I’m a huge fan—massive. Kevin Kazan.”

He didn’t offer a handshake, John noticed.

“Thank you,” Fabian said with no particular enthusiasm.

“Pro-fess-or,” Kevin said, nodding at John. “Kickin’ it oldschool.”

John supposed that was a compliment. “Pleased to meet you.”

Without acknowledging any of the other magicians, Kevin Kazan slipped into the group beside Fabian Swan as if he plainly deserved a position at his idol’s right hand, and then turned to watch the arrival of the next magician.

The technicians freshened up the fog, which was beginning to dissipate as the ground cooled, and Jia Lee stepped from the billowing mist in a floor-length red silk gown with a butterfly clasp at the high mandarin collar and a deep teardrop cutout over her cleavage. A black dragon embroidered in shimmery thread undulated down the dress’ right side. Each stride she took toward the group revealed a thigh-high slit in the skirt. Her hair was knotted in a sleek bun, and her Oriental makeup was flawless. Her look was traditional, yes, but also edgy in its severity. She nodded calmly to the group, then took her place by John’s side without a word.

Interesting, he thought, how she hadn’t gravitated toward the other women—though he wasn’t entirely sure what it meant, if anything. Quite possibly, she wished to align herself with the other “name” magicians, like John and Fabian. Certainly, she was the most well-known of the three of them, with her recent theatrical success. She only came up to John’s shoulder, and was probably a third his age. Not that it made her any less intimidating.

The fog released two more “name” magicians: Ken Barron, a middle-aged escape artist who was able to dislocate his fingers and shoulders at will, and Chip Challenge, who’d been working the comedy clubs for years with his Elvis-impersonator magic act. They gravitated toward Jia, though John wouldn’t say she’d ever actually met their eyes. And so the magicians sorted themselves, the unknowns at one end, with Ricardo among them, and the successful performers at the other.

John knew he should have felt grateful to count himself among the successes. Recent conversations with Dick might have suggested otherwise. But with Ricardo just a few feet away, he found it difficult to even care which end of the spectrum he occupied.

Cameramen took a few sweeps of the group, twelve magicians in all, while Marlene called out, “Look at the mansion—look lively,” but all John could think about was Ricardo. If the cameramen captured some fleeting expression of yearning in his eyes when they swung past him, the sight of the mansion was not its cause. Ricardo was.

Marlene said, “Step over here, folks, and arrange yourself around the front steps in a semicircle. If you’ve found a buddy, feel free to whisper to them, hold hands, what have you. The viewers thrive on seeing the chemistry between the contestants.” John glanced down at Jia, who stood rigidly, staring straight ahead. He couldn’t imagine holding hands with her any more than he could imagine high-fiving Fabian. He glanced down the line at Ricardo, who was captive in the middle of a chain of women—the young lady in pink lamé on one side and a pair of middle-aged women on the other. Ricardo met his eye, and gave a small “what can you do?” shrug.

It was good he had allies. Too bad they weren’t the same allies John had somehow begun to cultivate by the mere act of walking across a lawn. He supposed the sight of him holding hands with Ricardo wasn’t quite what the producers had been looking for anyway. Personally, it would have been a huge thrill to make such a bold statement…but professionally, it would have been a disaster. No doubt both magicians could be re-cast in the morning, with hardly a blip in the production schedule, for even attempting such a stunt.

A handsome young man off to the side read from a sheaf of papers while a stylist powdered his brow and arranged his blond hair. A producer spoke with him briefly, then he slipped into the mansion’s front door. That door hadn’t seemed terribly large from a distance, but up close, with a man beside it for scale, it looked easily twelve feet tall. At the sight of that door, the enormity of this strange adventure upon which John was about to embark came clear.

He might not be the hand-holding type, but he did exchange a look with Fabian before the doors swung open, and the handsome young man strode back out and announced, “Welcome, magicians. I’m your host, Monty Shaw, and this…is Magic Mansion!”

Chapter 9

FIRST CHALLENGE

Cameras zoomed in on the host. Still more cameras swooped past the line of magicians. Sue Wozniak, the gift shop girl, squeezed Ricardo’s right hand. Bev Austin, the Math Wizard, squeezed his left. Spiritualist Muriel Broom held on to Bev’s other hand, completing their clique—four strong, a full third of the players, bonded over the horrific morning they’d spent in front of the green screen. This was it—their big break. From here on out, they’d all be TV personalities…worst case scenario, only for one hour. But even then, they’d play on the intro for six more weeks, twirling and smiling and flinging cards and summoning spirits and writing with a pretend piece of chalk. Even that brief exposure would be enough to give any of their careers a meaningful boost.

“Welcome, magicians.”

Sue squeezed Ricardo’s hand so hard he began to worry she might strain a ligament. He gave her a quick double-squeeze and she let up. A bit.

“Twelve very different performers will enter these doors, but only one will emerge with the coveted title of Grandmaster Magician. Are you up for the challenge? Let’s find out. I’m your host, Monty Shaw, and this…is Magic Mansion!”

“One more time,” Marlene called out. “Softer on the A’s.”

Monty went back into the mansion, then exited again and repeated his lines. They did five takes, and then moved on to the next segment. By then it was after ten. The sky was dark, and the air had turned chill. Comfortable tuxedo weather, but not so comfortable ballgown weather. Sue was looking very…perky. No doubt it would only endear her to the male viewers in the eighteen to twenty-four group.

“Let’s form a cluster here.” Marlene indicated the front patio. “Taller magicians toward the back—Jia, you come up front. You too, Faye. Stand on that mark, Monty, and announce the challenge.”

Both Sue and Bev hauled on Ricardo’s hands, as if to say, What challenge? He gave them each a smile as reassuring as he could make it—because surely they wouldn’t make him eat worms or roll around on the ground in his new tux.

Would they?

He felt very alone as his cohorts filed to the front of the group, but the feeling was short-lived. Professor Topaz took Sue’s place—holding his hand? No. But pressing into him from elbow to shoulder?

Oh, yes.

Ricardo restrained himself from throwing back his head and whooping with glee.

He hadn’t been able to dig up much on Professor Topaz’ life. It wasn’t as if the Professor kept a Facebook page where he traded LOLs with his fans and blogged about whether he’d had the patty melt or the tuna on rye for lunch. So Ricardo tried his best not to presume the Professor was available, or even openly gay. The thing that had happened between them—the warning to Ricardo about keeping his real magic under wraps that took an unexpected turn—was quite possibly just some fluke, a reaction to the stress of the audition, a way to let off steam.

But in case it wasn’t, he’d had a little spiel prepared about how he was hoping for a chance to get to know the Professor better—though he’d somehow failed to prepare for the camera hovering beside him. He’d developed a lengthy and persuasive explanation about how he completely understood if the Professor was not in a position to develop that particular sort of relationship with Ricardo, and if so, it would still be totally awesome to get to know him as a mentor. And, hopefully, a friend. But with the camera there and the other magicians all around them, instead he condensed it down to, “It’s really good to see you, Professor.”

The Professor held his gaze for a long moment, then said, “Call me John.”

Magical words? Hardly. But they made Ricardo’s heart soar nonetheless.

“Everyone look excited,” Marlene told the group as the cameras orbited around them. “Monty just greeted you. You’re seeing the mansion for the first time. And you’re thinking to yourself, I might really win this thing.”

Ricardo had never entertained the notion that he might actually win the competition. But Professor Topaz—John—seemed happy to see him. And that made him feel even giddier than the prospect of being on TV.

A teleprompter off to the side of the magicians began to scroll words, and Monty read, “From Harry Houdini to Criss Angel, magicians have long been known for getting out of tight spaces. But tonight, we’re going to see how long you can stay in.” He lavished a bright white smile on them. “I hope no one’s feeling claustrophobic.”

Marlene signaled to the crew. “Okay, that’s plenty of tape. Let’s load up the golf carts and take the talent over to the fishtanks.”

At the front of the group, Sue whispered to Muriel, “Did she say fishtanks?”

“Maybe they’re full of Jell-o,” Muriel suggested.

Ken Barron, the escape artist, grumbled, “I just bought this suit.”

At least now Ricardo didn’t need to say it himself.

Golf carts pulled up, and it seemed as if Ricardo would get a moment alone (well, off-camera, anyway) with John. Was there any one part of his speech that he could do justice to on a three-minute drive to the other end of the estate? While he considered if it would sound noble without any context to let John know he was valued as a mentor as well as anything else, or if it would sound more like a weird brush-off, a familiar hand slipped into his, and pink lamé rustled against the side of his tux. “I didn’t know there’d be a challenge tonight,” Sue whispered. “This dress is held up by double-stick tape.”

While Ricardo’s attention was on Sue, Iain shuttled John onto a golf cart with one of the other magicians, and the need to sort through the Professor-speech for a key point evaporated.

Maybe that was for the best. Ricardo suspected he needed more than three whispered minutes to explain where he was coming from.

The group reassembled in the east garden of the mansion, where floodlights bathed four fish tanks on platforms in harsh halogen glows. Since escapology was involved, Ricardo had been expecting coffin-sized tanks, but despite all the tubes and hoses hooked up to them, these were small and unassuming.

The animal wranglers beside them in tall rubber boots, though, were not.

The cast was assembled, the teleprompter rolled, and on Marlene’s cue, Monty addressed the group from beside the four platform tanks. “Magicians, tonight you’ll be competing for the right to pick your teammates. And the top winners will receive a special reward—so you’ll want to do your very best. Most people can hold their breath for two minutes or so, but certain types of extreme athletes have been known to go far longer without air.”

Marlene said, “Stroll around the fishtanks now.”

Monty strolled. “The world record for holding your breath without loading up on pure oxygen first is eight minutes, fifty-eight seconds. But in Magic Mansion, you can beat that record—because we’re adding a little twist.”

Marlene said, “Stand beside the tank stage right.”

Monty stopped beside a tank. “Should I point to it, or…?”

“Don’t point. Don’t gesture. This isn’t The Price Is Right. Do you even have that in Australia?”

“When I was a kid.”

“Well,” Marlene said, “don’t be a showcase model. Just hold your arms naturally and talk. And repeat the last line. Make the twist sound ominous.”

Ricardo felt a camera lingering on him as he swallowed hard. He’d always thought of a “twist” as an ironic dance on the beach, or a slice of lime in his cosmo. A “twist” in the context of a challenge sounded plenty ominous already, thank you very much, without any additional effort on Monty’s part.

Monty smiled for the camera, then repeated, “But in Magic Mansion, you can beat that record…because we’re adding a little twist.”

It definitely hadn’t needed any help sounding more ominous.

“For your first challenge, your head (and only your head) will be sealed in these tanks, and the timer will start once the oxygen is removed. On the console in front of you is a red stop-button that will open the box immediately—but that button will also stop the timer.”

Presuming the buttons even worked. They must work. Right? They had to. Off-camera, an EMT lounged on the edge of a fountain. He had a crowbar and a sledgehammer within easy reach. Ricardo trusted the sledgehammer even less than he trusted the button. But he supposed brain damage was brain damage, no matter how you managed to achieve it.

“You’ll receive one point for each second you hold your breath,” Monty said. The magicians, as a group, looked up at a scoreboard-style timer. “But if you really want to pump up your score, hit the yellow button on the console in front of you. Turbo-charge your challenge, and we’ll pump in some water.”

A technician flipped a switch, and the tank beside Monty filled with water in a huge whoosh.

No wonder they hadn’t gone with the full-body tank. It wouldn’t have filled quickly enough.

“If you choose to hold your breath underwater, we’ll multiply your score by a hundred and fifty percent. Every forty seconds is as good as a minute.”

Bev muttered, “Good thing I’m wearing the waterproof mascara.”

Ricardo didn’t suppose math wizards got much practice holding their breath.

Monty strolled over to the tank on the other end, which filled with a whoosh. “And if you’re looking for a real challenge, mega-charge it. Hit the green button and we’ll add a little something extra.”

“Add the fish,” Marlene said, and an assistant opened the tank lid while an animal wrangler dumped a dozen fish into the water. “Go ahead, Monty.”

“Do the challenge with a little company, and we’ll double your score.”

“Are those piranha?” Kevin Kazan whispered. “I think they’re piranha.”

“They are no such thing,” Bev said. “They’re a completely different shape.”

Ricardo suspected Kevin knew full well what piranha looked like. He’d just been trying to freak everyone else out to gain an edge. Nice try.

“They’re doctor fish,” Jia Lee said blandly, which sounded vaguely reassuring. Until she added, “They nibble.”

“These little fellas originally hail from Turkey, though you’ll find them in spa waters of many parts of the world, including Belgium, Hungary and Japan. They’re used to exfoliate calluses and eczema because they feed on human skin—but if you’re feeling brave, a minute or two with the fishes could make a difference in who you room with for the duration of your stay…at Magic Mansion.”

Marlene called. “Cut. Empty the tanks and dry ’em out. First up, Fabian Swan, Muriel Broom, Bev Austin and Professor Topaz. Everyone else, stand on that concrete pad and look anxious.”

As if Ricardo needed any help.

Chapter 10

PRETENSE OF FAIRNESS

An assistant draped a towel around John’s neck as he placed his head inside the plexiglass box. Maybe, if he focused on keeping his suit clean, he could manage to stop thinking about the way that lowering his head into the U-shaped slot on the tank felt like positioning himself in a guillotine. Claustrophobia, he could handle. Water was fine, too—he’d done plenty of surfing in his teens and twenties, claiming the ocean would never harm him due to his Chamorro blood. Even the fish seemed too small to inspire terror.

It wasn’t the challenge itself that was daunting. It was the act of being so profoundly exposed that worried him. Most magical apparatus had sides or curtains that shielded the magician from the public. But this clear tank left everything in plain view—and the cameras circling them like buzzards ensured that no moment of panic would remain undocumented.

A fitting first challenge, John supposed.

Marlene headed off to the production trailer to enable herself to see the challenge from several points of view at once on her video monitors. Iain lined up the magicians alternating male and female, so John had Muriel Broom and Bev Austin to either side. Before they were interred, Bev muttered some numbers, then told Muriel, “The multiplier’s going to be the key. We should all add water.”

Muriel’s reply had been, “What do I look like, a Cup o’ Noodles?”

And so John wasn’t surprised that when he felt the vacuum draw the air from the sealed box that enclosed his head, felt his eardrums flex, and heard the announcement, “Timer starts…now,” it was followed by a great whoosh as the Math Wizard immediately filled her tank with water. John craned his neck to glance to the other side. Muriel had closed her eyes. Her long, wavy, once-brown hair filled the box, giving her head a sort of disconnected appearance from the rest of her body. Either she was deep in meditation, or she was simply biding her time until this initial humiliation was over.

John looked to Bev again. Her short gray hair floated, and small bubbles rose all around her. Her score on the scoreboard surpassed everyone else’s, gaining ground half a second at a time. Then, once she’d gotten her bearings, she jabbed the green button. Her tank lit up, and the animal wrangler approached with a cupful of fish and dumped them in. Her numbers on the scoreboard, which were already ticking by more quickly than her competitors’, began scrolling up even more rapidly.

John stopped deliberating and hit the green button straight away; his few seconds of initial pause may have already cost him dearly.

The sound of water rushing into a vacuum was peculiar, a deadening muffle so intense it seemed like it should have been labeled “loud.” Monty had been doing some kind of play-by-play banter, but as soon as the water filled John’s ears, the sound of his own steady pulse overtook everything else, and his world turned inward.

The water, on some level, resonated with his Truth. That Truth, and not the Islander heritage, was probably the real reason the ocean had been kind to him in his youth. Not only would his score rise faster from choosing to be underwater—he’d be able to hold his breath longer there, too. Because the water seemed to understand. It calmed him. And he felt his pulse ease back, and his heart slow—and though he’d only seen a frozen body of water on celluloid, in films where some unfortunate would plunge through a hole once the foreboding music had peaked, it occurred to him that hypothermia must work that way.

But then the fish plunked into the water all around his face, and his heart rate sped to normal, and beyond. Though water’s Truth should have felt alien compared to that of a human being, it was pure enough to understand at a glance. The fish were another matter: want, want, want, want.

Want.

He felt them exploring his hair, wriggling, touching, testing. His earlobe. His eyebrow. So close they were nothing but small, gray, nipping shadows. Reflexively, he tried to bat them away, but only succeeded in bashing his hand against the outside of the tank. Large bubbles rose as he released a gulp of precious air in his startlement. He looked to one side. Muriel—calm, dry. The other—Bev, gray hair spread in an underwater halo as she turned to see how Fabian, in the tank on the other side of her, was doing. Outside the tank, a loud and percussive sound, mostly muted by the water. And then Fabian’s timer stopped rising. His final score: one minute, twelve seconds.

John felt people rushing past him, but with his head locked in a tank, couldn’t see. With his ears muffled by water, couldn’t hear. Fabian was fine, wasn’t he? He had to be fine. The worst he would have was a snootful of water.

Unless he’d suffered a heart attack.

But, no. That wouldn’t have happened in just a minute.

Right?

John had no idea. He’d never had so much as a cavity or a sniffle, so he never actually read any of the articles Dick sent him about stress tests and HDL levels and colonoscopies.

He stared at the side of Bev’s head until she turned and locked eyes with him. John tried to gesture toward Fabian’s tank with his eyes, to see if she might be able to hint at what had just happened. But her face was distorted from the effort of holding her breath while the doctor fish picked at the corners of her mouth. Seeing those fish swarming her face made John’s own predicament feel even worse, so he fixed his eyes on the scoreboard instead—his and Bev’s seconds ticking by at double-speed, Muriel’s slower climb now surpassing Fabian’s final score—and he blinked away a greedy fish while he did his best to ignore the impending burn in his lungs.

A fish plucked at his eyelash, and he squeezed his eyes shut. He was unsure if it was better or worse with his whole world narrowed down to the sound of his own pulse in his ears. It seemed much faster than he cared for it to be, and he did his best to calm it, and to think about Rose. For years, she’d suffered being tied and trussed and locked inside painted boxes, all the while wearing four-inch heels and a bright, red-lipsticked smile. Surely her son could tolerate being nipped at by fish for a few more seconds. Even in front of the cameras.

He opened his eyes and saw his score was over three minutes now—which probably meant he’d been holding his breath somewhere around two, multiplied by the delayed addition of the water and the fish—and he didn’t see how he could last much longer. Between the excitement of the competition and the freakishness of the fish exploring his face, he simply couldn’t force himself to stay calm, and his diaphragm was screaming out with the need to draw breath. It hurt—but no doubt cramming oneself into a box in four-inch heels was no treat, either. Stage magic was all about self-control. So John acknowledged the hurt. But he held firm.

A muffled whoosh broke his concentration. The Math Wizard had punched the red button. Her tank drained immediately into the pedestal below, and the top popped open. Bev’s final adjusted score: four minutes, eighteen seconds. John felt people rushing behind him again—and finally his aching lungs would take no more. He pushed his red button. The water (and the fish) drained, the top opened, and sweet, sweet air rushed in. Four minutes, two seconds. He might have beaten Bev’s score, if only he’d been quicker to fill his tank with water.

Beside him, calm and dry, Muriel stood with her head inside a sealed plexiglass tank while her unadjusted timer ticked past three minutes.

Crew came and blotted down John’s hair, then gave him a hand to a dozen chairs arranged in three rows of four where, in the back row, Bev and Fabian were waiting. Fabian, John was pleased to see, looked damp, but very much alive. John sat beside his new friend while a stylist gave his hair a comb, a quick tousle, and a spritz of hairspray. “Damn fish went up my nose,” Fabian muttered. “I can hold my breath three minutes, easy. If I could do it again, I’d do it without the fish.”

_____

If there was one thing Marlene would never have anticipated, it was the oldest female contestant coming out of the first round in the lead without even touching a drop of water. Before the challenge, Muriel Broom would have been her pick for one of the first magicians to pack up and leave the mansion. But she didn’t mind being proven wrong. The executive producers had presumed a man would win the competition, for instance. Thanks to talent, and stubbornness, and plain dumb luck, Magic Mansion really could be anyone’s game.

Muriel Broom trouncing Fabian Swan proved as much.

The second tier of magicians lined up: Chip Challenge on the end in his Elvis sunglasses, Jia Lee beside him, then Ricardo the Magnificent and his ever-present cheesy smile, and next to him, the ventriloquist, Charity Young…and her creepy puppet. Or dummy. Or figure. Or whatever the hell she was supposed to call it—Marlene could never remember.

Through Marlene’s headset, Iain asked, “Do you want us to have Chip take off his sunglasses?”

“That’s okay, leave ’em on. It’s his trademark. Besides, it might be kind of funny.”

Iain allowed Chip’s glasses to stay. They did look pretty funny, on Marlene’s monitor. A camera swept by as the magicians put their heads in position. Chip with his sunglasses. Next, Jia, serious and calm. Next, Ricardo, no longer smiling. And next, Oscar.

That was the ridiculous puppet’s name.

Marlene tapped her headset. “Iain? What the hell does Charity think she’s doing?”

“I’ll talk to her.” Some static, and then Iain said, “She’s claustrophobic. Says we can do it as a gag—have the dummy in the box instead, and she’ll pull him out early and play it up, gasping for air, whatever.”

“That’s just weird.”

On the monitor, Iain turned so he was facing away from the contestants, cupped a hand over his mouth, and whispered to Marlene, “If we do it that way, it’ll give everyone else someone to hate. Think how cheated they’ll feel if she gets away without doing the stunt.”

It would make for some interesting footage. But Charity Young wouldn’t be the only one the contestants would hate if Marlene allowed it happen. “And where does the puppet doing her challenges end? No, we’ve got to keep up the pretense of fairness here. Put that damn thing in her chair and start the timers.”

Charity Young was not a particularly attractive woman. She was pushing thirty, and carried an extra dozen pounds that she camouflaged, not particularly well, behind a glitzy silver track suit. Her makeup was heavy, but the features behind it were ungainly, with long, horsey teeth and eyes that always looked nervous.

There was something “off” about her voice as she argued with Iain in the monitor, informing him that under no circumstances would she put her head in that box. It took Marlene a moment to realize what it was: she’d never heard Charity’s actual voice before. Because whenever they spoke, Charity would hold up Oscar and move his stiff little mouth, and deliver whatever it was she wanted to say in a silly falsetto.

“Look,” Iain told her, “just put your head in the box—”

“I won’t—”

“—and the minute the timer starts—”

“I can’t—”

“—hit the red button, and you’re outta there.”

“B-but I can’t.” Charity’s chin trembled.

“Do it,” Iain said, “or you’re disqualified.”

Marlene smiled. It was the type of decision he would have normally saddled her with to make her look like a bitch, but he’d actually made it himself. She checked the time. Half past midnight. You could practically set your watch by Iain’s temper.

Charity glared at him mulishly, until Ricardo put a hand on her shoulder and said, “Think of how far you had to come just to get here. You can’t throw it all away now. It’ll be okay. Just do it for a second, and it’ll be over before you know it.”

Charity handed the puppet to an assistant as if she was giving up her firstborn child, then treated Iain to one more parting glare, and said, “Fine. I’m ready.”

It was more like five seconds before she hit the panic button, with cameras swarming all around her. No doubt in edits they’d draw out those five seconds, showing them in the intro, the outro, and before every commercial break, until the audience was seeing them in their sleep.

“Good job, Charity,” Marlene said, microphone off, to the empty production trailer.

Based on the experiences of the first group of magicians, fewer in the second wave opted to be nibbled on by fish. Only Chip Challenge hit the mega-charge fish button, but he was so out of shape that even with his timer running at double-time, his score was still one of the lowest: fifty-nine seconds.

Ricardo, who immediately pressed the water-only turbo-charge button, held his breath underwater for just over three minutes. It gave him an adjusted score of four minutes thirty seconds. And Jia Lee managed three minutes as well—though she’d done it dry, so her score stayed low.

Marlene took a few deep breaths as the contestants joined the others in the chairs. That two-minute statistic the writers had fed through Monty couldn’t possibly be right. She’d been holding her breath along with the magicians, and she couldn’t manage to go more than forty-five seconds, tops, without breathing. Though she supposed having a quarter mil at stake would make all the difference in the world.

Chapter 11

PICKING TEAMS

Ricardo was pleased with his performance in the first challenge. By the end of his round, he was in the lead—though he suspected that Ken Barron, a professional escape artist, would beat his score. But when he saw Kevin Kazan hyperventilating on his way to the plexiglass tanks, he wondered if the escape artist might have some stiff competition. Barron must have seen it, too, because he opted to go for the mega-charged green button. Maybe he thought he was nervier than the other magicians who’d cracked under the probing mouths of the fish. If that was the case, he’d been wrong.

He clocked in at 2:43. Even with the fish.

Amazing Faye was even less impressive. She didn’t want to get her hair wet, and she complained bitterly when she broke a nail pressing the red button to open the tank’s lid. She managed a disappointing forty-nine seconds.

That left super-oxygenated Kevin Kazan…and Sue.

Ricardo felt sorry for her already, and he hoped that if she did experience a wardrobe malfunction, it could somehow be used to her benefit. Then he saw her inhale, and then swallow a couple of times—lung packing—just before the air was sucked out of her box, and he wondered if she might have a fighting chance.

Both Kevin and Sue filled their boxes with water immediately. Amazing Faye dropped out, and then Ken Barron, but Kevin’s and Sue’s scores kept climbing. They hit three minutes, adjusted. And then they hit four. Their timers both passed Ricardo’s 4:30, and continued to climb.

While Ricardo’s score had been the highest, it was Muriel Broom who’d spent the most real time without air—more than four minutes. It might not sound impressive compared to the world’s record, but in real time, the span seemed so excruciatingly long, it had left Ricardo wondering if maybe she’d actually passed out, and only remained standing due to some fluke of the way she’d planted her feet.

Sue and Kevin both surpassed that real-time, too. Their adjusted scores now read 6:45.

Kevin was massaging his diaphragm. Sue was still, except for one hand, which clenched into a fist, then released, clenched and released, as if she’d convinced herself it was doing the breathing for her. A flush spread over her bare shoulders. She squeezed her fist hard. But finally, at a whopping 7:02, she pressed the red button, released the water from her tank, and took a massive gulp of air.

Kevin allowed the timer to run an additional five seconds, as if to prove beating Sue was no big deal, before he released the water, popped the top on his box, and breathed.

All the magicians seated off to the side took a deep, sympathetic breath.

“Well done, magicians,” Monty said emphatically. “Well done. Let’s check the scoreboard.”

FISHTANK CHALLENGE

1. Kevin Kazan 7:09
2. Sue W. 7:02
3. Ricardo the Magnificent 4:30
4. Muriel Broom 4:22
5. Bev the Math Wizard 4:18
6. Professor Topaz 4:02
7. Jia Lee 3:02
8. Fabian Swan 2:49
9. Ken Barron 2:43
10. Chip Challenge :59
11. Amazing Faye :49
12. Charity Young and Oscar :05

Iain conferred briefly with Monty, handed him some props, and settled back behind the monitors. “Kevin Kazan,” Monty announced, “at seven minutes, nine seconds, you are the winner of tonight’s challenge. Not only have you established yourself as a force to be reckoned with…you’ve also earned yourself a place in the spotlight as the leader…of the Red Team.” He held up a gold medal on a wide red ribbon, and Ricardo’s world narrowed to the glint of the floodlights off the surface of the plating. Once upon a time, all he wanted was a chance at the Winter Games in Lillehammer. He hadn’t felt such sharp pangs of ambition at any point in his Magic Mansion journey (probably because he was distracted by Professor Topaz) but now, there they were, as plain as the shine on his patent leather shoes.

Magic Mansion was Ricardo’s Olympics.

Was anyone else as choked up as he was to see Monty holding that red ribbon meant for Kevin Kazan? Someone else there must have been an athlete once. The Professor—John—might understand, but John was behind him. He could hardly turn around and make eye contact without the cameras zeroing in on what he was doing. He glanced covertly at the magician seated to his right. Charity Young was there, holding her puppet, Oscar, at eye-level. She moved him gently, as if he was breathing.

Okay, not too many likely athletes among them.

Kazan approached Monty in front of the scoreboard and ducked his head to receive his medal—and Ricardo felt such a sharp pang of envy, it was a strain to force a smile. He would much rather have lost to Sue; at least she played fair. The only reason Kazan was on the show at all was because he’d cheated.

While it was a strain to keep the smile on his face, he held his head high with the knowledge that he had won his third place fair and square.

Monty held up a silver medal on a gold ribbon, and said, “Sue, come on up and take your place…as the leader of the Gold Team.”

Sue approached, a bit stiffly, possibly because her double-stick tape was finally giving way, and ducked to receive her medal. Ricardo felt a slight twinge of envy, but nowhere near as debilitating as the one he’d felt watching Kazan take his medal. The gold ribbon complimented her pink lamé nicely.

To Ricardo’s left, Jia Lee murmured, “Thank God they’re not going to make us wear those huge T-shirts in ugly team colors, like they do on Weighty Matters.”

And then Ricardo saw there were actually ten more medals waiting for them, twelve in all—six red, six gold.

“Or baseball caps,” Chip Challenge said, patting the watery wreck of his pompadour. “’Cos that would seriously cramp my style.”

“Kevin,” Monty said, “who will be your first pick for the Red Team?”

“Fabian Swan.”

Marlene’s voice threaded in through the monitors. “Kevin, act like you need to think about it. That goes for the both of you. I don’t care what you’re actually thinking about. Just look at everyone for a couple of seconds before you blurt out your answer and give our editors something to work with. You’re professionals. The less I have to coach you about timing, the sooner we can all go to bed.”

“Go ahead,” Iain told Kevin.

Kevin stared at the group of magicians waiting for their medals in the folding chairs—some of them wet, some of them fish-nibbled, all of them exhausted. Stared was probably the wrong word, Ricardo thought. More like he was gloating. I came in first. And you didn’t.

Jerk.

“The first magician I want on my team is…Fabian Swan.”

Fabian approached the podium, and Kazan placed the Red Team medal around his neck like some kind of hip-hop king granting a knighthood. Ricardo could relate to ambition; he’d been a competitive guy, back when he was skating. You couldn’t get very far without ambition. It wasn’t Kazan’s ambition that rubbed him wrong—it was the smugger-than-thou attitude.

He wanted Kazan to go down so badly he could taste it.

Monty said, “Sue, your first choice?”

Sue gazed out over the group, her hair in straggles, her mascara creeping, and a bright, triumphant smile shining through it all. She stared at Ricardo for a full two seconds, so excited she was fit to burst, before she finally announced, “Ricardo the Magnificent.”

Ricardo made sure to bow low to receive his Gold Team medal so Sue’s double-stick tape didn’t fail as she placed the ribbon around his neck. He might not have won the first event—but he did get picked first for his team. That mollified his newly-awakened ego. Somewhat.

“Pick Professor Topaz next,” he told her.

And then he saw Kevin Kazan was looking right at him. Kazan gave Ricardo a private smirk, gazed out over the magicians for an adequate pause, then announced, “My next pick is…Professor Topaz.”

Ricardo told himself to smile for the cameras, but his mouth simply would not comply. Kazan was lucky he didn’t treat him to a smack upside the head.

Sue squeezed Ricardo’s hand and whispered, “That’s okay, I just want to make sure I’ve got my girls with me.”

Ricardo squeezed back, hoping it wouldn’t be professional suicide to be known as “one of the girls.” He did his best to pretend it didn’t matter to him in the least when Kevin Kazan hung the Red Team medal around John’s neck.

_____

While everyone in the Mansion was an adult, and Marlene presumed they’d be able to handle sharing a dorm room with a member of the opposite sex, the network preferred to keep the kiddies separate, boys on one side of the invisible line and girls on the other. However, they’d also expected the gender ratio on the teams to be more or less equal. After all, if the last magician standing in Magic Mansion would be male, then any strategic player would load their team up with men first. And so the executive producers had fit the dorms with space to sleep three to four magicians each, just in case some unfortunate team ended up with more women than men.

They hadn’t planned on a girls versus boys situation.

Or mostly so, anyway. If they’d been divided cleanly down the middle, then it wouldn’t have been an issue. Both Red dorms would be all-male, and both Gold dorms would be all-female. But no. There was an odd man (or woman) out on each team. Jia Lee on the Red Team—probably because Kevin Kazan wanted to get down her pants, and Ricardo the Magnificent on the Gold Team. His teammates wouldn’t have thought twice about rooming with him, but come on. It was prime time. And someone somewhere in small town America would be shocked to learn the Gold Team considered Ricardo to be an honorary member of their tribe because he was g-a-y.

So Ricardo and Jia would get their own bedrooms, while Marlene racked her brain trying to come up with a way to score some bunk beds at two in the morning, since the other magicians would be crammed in five-deep.

Or would they? Maybe not for long.

She texted DOUBLE ELIMINATION? to the execs.

Within moments, she received the reply: DO IT.

_____

The grandfather clock in the mansion had just struck two by the time Iain led the magicians into the grand foyer. John felt the reverberation of the chimes hanging in the air that was sharp with the smell of anticipation and a new coat of paint. A fountain bubbled in the center of the room with blue lights making the chemical-laced water look much cleaner than it probably was, and the cracks in the plaster walls were hidden behind the boom operators.

Some of the magicians were clearly exhausted—either they were normally more diurnal, or the frenzied preparation for the show had drained their natural reserves. Ricardo, though, looked as if he had enough energy to go perform a set. And then go out for drinks.

And once the bars closed…maybe more.

When John was younger, he would have attributed Ricardo’s stamina to the lifestyle of a performer. But now he saw signs of strain in many of the younger performers who should have been able to pull a late night: squinty eyes, slightly red. A deepening of the faint lines around their mouths. A yawn when they thought no one was looking.

Not Ricardo, though. He looked…magnificent. Even with his water-tousled hair.

Especially with his water-tousled hair.

Casey had always been the same way, able to go without rest for as long as need be, as was John. Which led him to believe it had something to do with True magic rather than the ability to ignore exhaustion. In fact, he could probably look around and see if anyone else seemed raring to go…but that hardly seemed as important as picking up on Ricardo’s signals, which so far seemed positive beyond John’s wildest hopes.

Iain had the magicians gather around the fountain, then went off to the side to confer with his headset, one of the writers, and Monty. The larger camera rigs were currently unmanned, though two cameramen with handhelds circled the group. Perhaps that was as close as they would come to being alone for the rest of the filming. It was easy enough for John to sense when the lenses were on him. And when they weren’t, it was impossible to look at anything but Ricardo.

“Are we gonna get a smoke break?” Chip called out in a very un-Elvis like way. “We’ve been on for five hours without a break.”

“You had to go and mention it,” Charity Young said in her falsetto voice while working her puppet’s mouth. “Now I gotta take a leak.”

Sue, and then Ricardo, laughed uneasily in support of their teammate, but then Charity said even louder, “Tinkle. Pee. Whiz. Do a number one. Drain the main vein.” It grew so awkward that eventually the laughter stopped and everyone simply stared. Charity rolled her eyes as if to say, Puppets. You can dress ’em up but you can’t take ’em out.

Iain broke the huddle, Monty was positioned off to one side of the group looking fresh-faced and alert, though possibly that was because his body clock was running on Australian time, and the larger cameras rolled. John managed to tear his eyes from Ricardo. But only just.

“Well done on your first challenge, Magicians,” Monty enthused. “You’ve all had a long day, and no doubt you’re eager to avail yourselves of the mansion’s many comforts. But here’s the thing about being waited on hand and foot: if someone gets to relax, that means someone else needs to do all the work.”

John could think of someone he’d happily wait on hand and foot. But a camera was hovering at his side, and he put on his most stoic face.

“Kevin and Sue, you’re tonight’s big winners, which meant you got to pick your teams. But what about tonight’s biggest losers?”

Cameras swarmed as, no doubt, several of the magician’s faces registered panic.

Monty beamed at the group for an unnaturally long pause, until Iain murmured, “Go ahead.”

As easily as if he’d just taken a breath, Monty went on in his crisp Aussie accent. “Eight of you will enjoy hors d’oeuvres and nightcaps before you turn in. And who better to serve them to you than the four lowest-scoring players?”

Moaning and groaning and jeering broke out around John, but the thing that caught his attention was Ricardo looking back over his shoulder and catching John’s eye, and then his on-camera smile went ever so slightly…naughty.

As if to say, We’re having a drink. You and me.

As if the rest of the mansion, the boom operators, the camera crew, the producers, the production assistants, the host and the other contestants—none of them even existed.

And then the lights angled into Ricardo’s eyes, and the iris glinted the most haunting shade of dark blue, like the Pacific under a stormy sky, and John could hardly quell a smile in return.

Thankfully the production assistants began gathering them into the ballroom for the next leg of shooting before John succumbed to the urge to throw caution to the wind and cover their tracks so he could slip Ricardo aside into a place where truly, only the two of them still existed.

Unfortunately, that place would be tricky to find, especially while they were filming a segment.

And especially when the rest of Ricardo’s team was present. Sue and Bev immediately flanked him on the couch, and he would need to wait for a natural opening to break away and come to John if he wanted to avoid being completely obvious.

But then Fabian parked himself beside John, and wherever Fabian went, Kevin and his “bling” were sure to follow.

While the top-scoring magicians jockeyed for position, Chip Challenge, Ken Barron, Amazing Faye and Charity Young were taken aside by Iain. The lowest scoring men were given paper diner-hats, and the women ridiculous frilly aprons—but with a quick whispered negotiation, Chip and Charity swapped so that Chip could wear the apron as a gag, and “Oscar” could be the one handing out canapés. Though his puppet-hands were controlled by sticks, and couldn’t actually grasp anything.

John almost felt sorry for the Gold Team. But he presumed the deadweight would fall away soon enough.

Unlike Chip and Charity, Ken and Faye seemed to be taking their roles quite seriously. Ken mixed drinks strong enough to singe off eyebrows, and Faye tottered up to deliver them on spiked heels with her derrière thrust out and her apron cinched tight. When she handed John his Manhattan, she bent low, so as to bathe him in her perfume and treat him to a prolonged glimpse down her neckline.

Despite the artificiality and the hint of desperation, Faye was actually quite an attractive young woman. No doubt the sex-kitten act would get her somewhere with someone. After all, everyone was somebody’s “type.” Apparently, and against all odds, even John.

The restored ballroom was elegant, from the parquet floor to the leaded glass windows, and although it was lit up rather brightly to facilitate taping, the atmosphere was convivial. Food and drink flowed. Fabian grumbled about the fish that had gone up his nose and the fact that it was ridiculous he wasn’t allowed to call his wife, while across the room, the women hung on Ricardo’s every word like a devoted harem. John couldn’t say he blamed them.

It felt like a party—a late-night party that was winding down, but a party nonetheless. The whiskey was mellow, the caviar was mild, and Fabian’s company was a pleasant distraction. Even better, every now and then the most handsome man in the room treated John to a secret smile. After an hour or so, he’d just about forgotten about the cameras…until Ken Barron went down in a cacophony of shattered glass, and the cameramen swarmed him.

Both Chip and Charity were nearby. Chip reacted fast, kneeling in the spilled drinks without a thought for his Elvis costume. “Dude, are you okay?” Charity thrust her puppet in beside him, as if “Oscar” might be of some help to the situation, and Chip batted it aside with a dismayed, “What the fuck?”

Ken groaned and pushed himself up off the floor, and Chip said, “Oh, man.”

Iain had squatted down beside them, exchanged a few whispers, then shook his head and backed out of the shot.

“It’s fine,” Chip announced. “Just one cocktail too many.”

“He’s drunk?” Jia said.

“Not just drunk,” Kevin said. “Wa-sted.”

“When the heck did he have time to drink?” Jia said. “He’s been serving us all night.”

Chip slung Ken’s arm around his chunky shoulders and said, “Okay, buddy, time for bed. Party’s over.”

_____

About damn well time, too. Iain checked his watch. Three-thirty. If Marlene expected him to show up for work even one second before noon, she could come drag him out of bed herself.

A stylist blotted the shine off Monty’s chin while he read through his latest set of lines, and Iain broke another couple of glasses on the floor to ensure the scene of Ken’s drunken accident looked good on camera. He blocked the scene with a few simple directions, stepped aside, and said, “Action.”

Monty stepped up to the bar, squatted among the broken glass, smiled winningly at the camera, and said, “Some party! But what else can you expect from twelve wild and crazy magicians?” He straightened up and strolled to the end of the bar, where the lampshades in the background were now askew, and the set dressers had thrown some couch cushions on the floor. That, interspersed with a few shots of men sipping booze and women laughing, would make it seem like a night at Hugh Heffner’s place, rather than the awkward snoozefest it had actually been.

“The four contestants with the lowest scores in the first challenge think their punishment is over, but it’s only just begun. Tomorrow, they’ll stay behind and clean up this mess while the other magicians relax for a day at the spa.

“And that’s not all. While they’re here slaving away, the viewers at home will be voting to eliminate one player on each team.

“So who’s it going to be? It’s the comedian versus the escape artist on the Red Team, and the ventriloquist versus the femme fatale on the Gold. Cast your votes, and be sure to tune in next time to find out who gets to stay…in Magic Mansion.”

Chapter 12

SPA DAY

Last time, on Magic Mansion….

“Twelve magicians gathered for their first challenge, and street magician Kevin Kazan prevailed, earning him the title of the Red Team leader. Sue the gift shop girl was a surprise runner-up, and now she’s at the helm of the Gold Team.

“The lowest-scoring contestants on each team are stuck cleaning the mansion while the victors enjoy the spoils at a luxurious day spa. But what the magicians don’t know is that one member of each team has been voted off by our viewers.

“I’m your host, Monty Shaw. Stay tuned and find out who will be the first to leave…Magic Mansion.”

____

There were six people in the gold van: the driver, the cameraman, Sue Wozniak, Bev the Math Wizard, Muriel Broom, and Ricardo. “Talk, people,” said an irritated voice through the car’s stereo system. Iain was with them in spirit—via cell phone. Ricardo supposed that raised the count to seven. “Shots of the four of you just sitting there won’t make for scintillating TV.”

“So,” Ricardo said brightly, to no one in particular. “How did you sleep?”

“Like sardines,” Bev said. “There were four beds in the room, and then they wedged in an air mattress.”

It was ridiculous, in this day and age, that Ricardo hadn’t been allowed to share a room with any of his teammates. But he sensed it might veer into damaging territory if he complained about it, so instead, he said, “Oh. Who slept there?”

“I did,” Sue said. “I thought I’d be too excited to sleep anyway, but I guess I was more worn out than I thought. It was no big deal. Kind of like camping.”

There was a long, tedious pause—not because the magicians had nothing to say to one another, but only because the camera was more intimidating than any of them had anticipated. Over the car speakers, Iain said, “You’re killing me, people. Say anything.”

Muriel jerked her head up as if she’d been caught nodding off in class, and blurted out, “I felt that damn dummy looking at me all night,” and Bev, before she could stop herself, whooped in laughter.

It was contagious. The cameraman held steady—maybe he was a veteran at filming reality TV—but the driver did crack a smile.

Once the laughter finally calmed (taking much longer than it normally would have, given the thick level of anxiety in the van), Muriel added, “What’s that thing’s name? Oscar? That means it’s a male dummy. I say it stays with Ricardo from now on.”

The women laughed the rest of the way to the spa. Ricardo did his best to laugh along…though it was hard enough sleeping in the mansion without worrying about glass eyes staring at him in the dark.

In a way, though, wasn’t that exactly what he was already doing? Dummy or not, there was a night-vision camera in every room.

That thought was of no particular comfort.

Iain’s voice broke into the laughter with, “Okay, kids, here’s the deal. We’ve only got this place booked for three hours and setup took up two. It needs to look like you guys are here all day, so each of you will get a separate treatment where we can film you doing a bunch of different spa stuff. The seaweed wrap and the deep-tissue massage will flash the most skin. Then we have an aromatherapy thing and something else with feet. What’s that?” he asked, as if he was holding a phone up to his other ear and having a second conversation…which, probably, he was. “Oh. Reflexology. So decide amongst yourselves who wants to do what, and be ready to strip down when you get here.”

The van, which had just been filled with laughter, went heavily silent once Iain was done talking. Ricardo looked to Sue to see if she thought Iain was actually gone. She shrugged. Then Bev said quietly, “I’d prefer not to get undressed on camera unless I absolutely have to.”

The four contestants bent their heads together to confer. The microphone in the minivan would likely pick up anything they said, but even so, the semblance of privacy made Ricardo feel a bit better. “Okay,” he said, “who wants to do what?”

Muriel said, “The smell of seaweed makes me gag.”

“I’m fine with stripping down,” Ricardo said, “and I’m fine with seaweed. I can do the wrap.” At least he’d get his money’s worth out of the tanning salon by showing off all the time he put in by flashing some skin.

“I wouldn’t mind a massage,” Sue said.

Muriel turned to Bev. “Got any problems doing the foot thing?”

“No. That’s okay by me.”

“Then I’ll take the aromatherapy. Done deal.”

They all looked at one another expectantly—and Ricardo felt a surreal moment where he wondered if indeed this reality show was actually happening, or if he’d made it all up in an elaborate dream—and then Sue dropped her voice down to a hint of a whisper, and said, “Girls’ team kicks ass.”

Bev gave Ricardo a motherly sort of smile, then wagged her finger at Sue and said, “Gold Team.”

“Oh. Right.”

Luckily they pulled up to the spa before another spate of giggling ensued.

____

John supposed, were he predisposed to headaches, he would have been suffering one as he stepped out of the red minivan. Marlene had given them four spa treatments to divvy up between them, and Kevin Kazan had turned the simple decision into an ordeal. But he was their team leader, they’d each received their assignments, and that was that.

The gold van pulled up just behind the red van, and John immediately watched for Ricardo’s appearance. He was smiling as he stepped from the van in his midnight blue fitted T-shirt and slim black jeans, and the gold-ribboned medallion he wore around his neck—which he wore well, despite how silly it was. He turned to help the ladies out of the van, and they were all smiling too.

John felt a wistful smile touch his own expression, though it evaporated when Kevin took his place on one side of him and Jia on the other, both glaring out at the world, chins jutting forward, spines poker-straight.

Jia didn’t like being told what to do. Kevin didn’t like repeating himself. Nor being challenged…particularly by a woman.

John couldn’t speak for Fabian, but he personally felt like he was watching a pair of children squabble over who got to play first on the jungle gym.

Marlene Perez climbed out of a much more utilitarian van than the one the Red Team had arrived in. Her black hair was caught back in a hasty ponytail, but her black-on-charcoal sweater set was obviously new, and probably had a designer label sewn inside the collar. When she drew close, John caught a hint of her perfume. She smelled expensive.

“Okay, Red Team, listen up. You’ll be sharing a treatment room with a member of the Gold Team, and we want you to chat. Remember, you’re rivals now.” She led them to a spot off-camera, and said, “We’ll get some shots of you walking in, and then we’ll get you situated in your rooms. Have your talks, then we’ll get back to the mansion location and grab some more ‘domestic’ shots.”

As John strode toward the spa doors, Fabian, beside him, muttered, “And here I thought this would be relaxing.”

John gave a slight nod.

Once John was inside, Marlene caught him by the arm and led him deeper into the building, which was so thick with camera equipment and crew he had a hard time picturing it without all the extra gear cluttering it up. “Here’s the changing booth,” she said, as she steered him into a curtained stall. “Get dressed and meet me in the room across the hall.”

The curtain shut, and John was alone.

It felt good, this moment of quiet, like the gasp of air he’d taken when the lid of the fish tank popped open. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been among so many people for such an extended period of time. It was actually rather thrilling—when they weren’t all sniping at each other and trading attitude.

He hung his new shirt and slacks carefully, and stepped into the disposable thong-like garment. Quick costume changes were no longer a key part of his act, not like they had been in the 70’s and 80’s. Not like Rose, either, who could go through as many as a dozen costumes in a night, and tear them off in two seconds flat without smudging her lipstick or knocking a hair out of place. While John might never have imagined a costume would include this flimsy excuse for briefs, or the turquoise robe, or the bamboo spa sandals, it was exciting to once again be part of an act that required a wardrobe change.

He dressed in the spa gear and stepped out into the hall, where Marlene was jabbing at the screen of her smartphone, deep in concentration. She looked up and smiled. “That color looks great on you. Make sure you pause in the doorway and let the camera get a good shot of it.”

With all the video lighting, the treatment room was glaringly bright compared to the hall, and a pair of cameramen were mashed up against opposite walls with handhelds. Two treatment tables had been shoved side by side, each with a spa technician at its head. But John’s focus narrowed to a single, stunning thing: Ricardo, seated on a table with one knee bent, in nothing but a pair of skimpy disposable briefs.

Ricardo turned. His eyes widened and he hesitated briefly, then gave his showman’s smile, and said, “You opted for the seaweed wrap? It smells a lot better than they said it would.”

Both cameras swung over to John, who said, “I’ve always been fond of the ocean.” He put one foot in front of the other and stepped into the center of the room, moving on sheer instinct, because conscious thought seemed to have fled at the sight of Ricardo.

More specifically, Ricardo’s body.

John had suspected Ricardo would look good, but even his fantasies couldn’t compare with the reality of those long legs, that sculpted chest. Don’t gape, John managed to think (though just barely) and he turned away and looked to Marlene, who pantomimed undressing. He pulled his belt, and allowed the aesthetician to take his robe and guide him onto the table.

“It doesn’t smell like raw seaweed,” said the man who was painting a pale green gel on Ricardo’s back. “It’s mixed with a proprietary blend of essential oils.”

Ricardo and John stared—it seemed impossible not to—and finally Ricardo said, “Nice tan.”

“Actually, no. I’m Chamorro.” Which most people had never heard of—and it was a relief to have something, anything, to chat about. “From Guam. Some Pacific Islander blood, some Spanish.”

“Oh. Really? Because your aunt was so famous, and I don’t remember ever reading about….” Ricardo finished with a sheepish shrug, and John wondered if it was possible the camera was picking up the thick vibe in the room.

He watched his technician mixing a bowl of green gel as an excuse to tear his eyes away from Ricardo’s bare shoulders. “You wouldn’t have. Rose was always supposed to be coy about where she was originally from so she didn’t seem too foreign. It was a…different time.”

“We’ll apply the treatment to your back,” the spa worker told John, “then you can lie down.”

Ricardo’s technician had already covered his back in gel. The man guided Ricardo into a supine position—and John quickly found a picture on the far wall to stare at. It was something innocuous, something banal. A watercolor. Gestural, green. Perhaps a tea leaf. He focused on it, and saw it wasn’t really a watercolor, just a mass-produced print. Not from the image itself, which was blandly pleasant enough, but from the vibration of the cellulose and the thin varnish coat of the printing process.

As hard as he stared at that damn leaf print, all he could think of was the sight of Ricardo’s perfect abs bunching as he eased back onto the table. And imagining how they would feel sliding against his palms as the two of them rolled together. Skin on skin.

And then the seaweed touched him. Warm. Wet. Not unpleasant. It smelled herbal, like lavender, mostly. The technician applied it with a brush like he was painting the side of a house, with long, sure strokes. Then he asked John to lie down on the trough-like table, upon which was a layer of thick towels, and over that, a sheet of crinkly silver mylar.

The technician began painting John’s front. Marlene said quietly, “Chat.”

John turned his head. Ricardo was watching him. Smiling. Not the showman’s smile, but a private one. His front was now being painted, too. The gleam of the seaweed gel only enhanced his sleek muscles. “They say the seaweed draws out impurities,” John said…and then he wondered if that included impure thoughts.

“I hear your skin feels amazing afterward,” Ricardo added.

No doubt.

Ricardo’s technician finished coating him and began wrapping him in the mylar. “How long is it supposed to stay on?” Marlene asked him.

“Twenty minutes, half an hour. Enough time to work up a good sweat.”

Honestly, John thought. Must everything be a euphemism?

“I suppose we have time to go all the way,” Marlene said.

Yes. Apparently, everything must.

“Once they’re wrapped up,” she told the cameramen, “head over to the reflexology and get some close-ups of those feet. We’ll make sure to come back before they unwrap and get a few shots of these two looking sweaty.”

John’s technician spread the last of the gel over his stomach, then folded the silver sheet over him and tucked it in snugly. He brought up the other side and tucked that in too, then wrapped the sides of the thick towel around him as well. The cameramen trooped out, the technicians, and finally, Marlene.

John and Ricardo were alone. Swaddled in a pair of lavender-scented mylar cocoons, but alone.

John turned his head to face Ricardo. “How are you?” he whispered. He didn’t think there was a secret camera left behind, but according to the sheafs of documents he’d signed, there could be.

“Good. Really good. You?”

“Good.”

They stared awkwardly for a long pause, and then Ricardo said, “I really wish I could move.”

“It does seem to be your forte.”

Ricardo smiled. “What does?”

“Moving.” John wondered why he was admitting the thing that was keen on spilling out of his mouth. “I saw the videos on your website.”

“You did?” Ricardo’s cheeks flushed.

“They were…very good.”

Ricardo launched into a story about the venue where the videos had been taped, how he’d had a great audience there, a steady gig. How it had closed its doors during the latest recession and left him performing at parties. And John traded a story or two about some of the more unusual venues he’d headlined. A dot-com launch. A funeral, once. Twenty uninterrupted minutes felt like a decadent amount of time in which to talk—and perhaps it was fortunate that neither of them could move, because there could very well have been a hidden camera trained on them. And even so, if John had been capable of putting his arms around Ricardo, of drawing him into a kiss…he wouldn’t have been able to resist.

Chapter 13

TWO MAGICIANS LEAVE

UNEDITED VIDEO JOURNAL - KEN BARRON

“So I survived the first punishment, cleaning the bathrooms, making the beds. I don’t think the housework was the actual punishment. We’ve only been here one night, so it wasn’t particularly hard. It wasn’t as if anything was dirty. I think not being allowed to go to the spa, not getting to bond with our teammates…that was the real punishment.

“As much as it would kill me to do it because I’m so damn ashamed, I’m itching to call my sponsor. But I can’t. No phone calls, that’s part of the deal here.

“Last night…was out of control. Completely out of control. Totally…unbelievable. The way it feels, having cameras following you around, the idea that every move you make, every look that crosses your face, could possibly show up on someone’s high-def TV set, bigger than life—you can’t imagine the pressure. And maybe they’ll decide this ‘look’ of yours is raw enough to show over and over, every time they go into a commercial break. And then a DVD set will come out, and whatever look you had on your face will be there for people to laugh about, to mock…forever.

“And if it’s really humiliating, it’ll probably show up on YouTube, too. ’Cos the DVDs aren’t bad enough. People love that. Watching you die inside.

“Chip Challenge has been awesome through this whole thing. He’s like the kid brother I never had. He’s a good guy, you know? A sincerely good guy, deep down inside. You’d think this business would eat someone like him for breakfast. But there’s something resilient about him. And I hang out with him, the cameras don’t seem so bad, and I kind of feel like…well, I dunno. Maybe things can work out for me after all.”

____

As Ricardo finished changing into one of his “Magician Semi-Casual” outfits: tight black stretch jeans, a purple silk shirt (untucked), and a sixties-inspired pair of pointy suede wingtips, there was a tap on his bedroom door. He found Sue there in the hallway, just as moderately-dolled-up as he was in a glitzy clubwear blouse, crushed velvet slacks, and kitten heels. She slipped into his room and checked for cameras, and when she reassured herself of their relative privacy, said, “I still look like I’ve been crying, don’t I?”

She did. A bit. “Can’t say I noticed. I was wondering if I needed to get myself a pair of velvet pants. They’re hot on you, girl.”

She perched gingerly on one of the room’s two unused beds. “It was so embarrassing.”

“You don’t even know for sure the editors are going to show it.”

“Oh, they’ll show it all right.” She sniffled as if she might start crying again. “The minute the waterworks started, the cameras swarmed me. It was like a scene from a Hitchcock movie. But instead of birds pecking at me from all angles, I had cameramen.”

Who knew a deep-tissue massage would be so painful? Ricardo felt profoundly guilty, because he should have been the one to bear the brunt of it. His pain threshold had always been high. And he felt even more guilty that the worst thing he’d needed to contend with at the spa was the fact that he was swaddled so tightly he couldn’t reach out and run his fingers over John’s bare shoulder.

That was likely a blessing, given that a secret camera might have been hidden in a heating vent or a stack of towels.

When they’d picked their tasks, everyone had been so distracted by the aspect of who was willing to grin and bare it—and who was concerned with sparing their older teammates the discomfort of disrobing—that none of them had considered the specifics of the treatments themselves.

“They’ll probably show Fabian too,” Ricardo said. “He must have been wincing, at least.”

“Probably. He was making this weird groany sound. But he wasn’t crying—not like me. And the crying seemed to be what drew them. Like flies to…crap.”

Ricardo sat beside Sue and gave her a pat on the knee. She winced. He supposed it wasn’t the best time to mention that he smelled really good, and that his skin felt amazing, even his elbows. Or that John looked just as fine with his clothes off as he did in his tailored black suit.

And that John’s skin probably felt amazing now, too. And if they rubbed their amazing skin together, it would be so hot Ricardo might just burst into flames.

A double-knock sounded on the door, and an assistant called in, “Taping in the ballroom in ten.”

Ricardo gave Sue what he hoped was an uplifting smile, and said, “It’s showtime!”

Sue stood, unfolding painfully from the edge of the bed. “I want to die.”

“Come on.” Ricardo offered his arm. “We’ll walk nice and slow.”

They did walk slowly, and consequently, were the last two to enter the ballroom. With the Gold Team standing there framed by the gilt fireplace, Ricardo experienced a moment of disorientation at seeing Amazing Faye and Charity there with Muriel and Bev—because during his morning at the spa, he’d forgotten them. Intellectually, he knew they were part of his team. But in his heart, his teammates were the women he’d met while he was taping the Magic Mansion intro.

Faye’s semi-causal outfit consisted of a halter top and clingy tuxedo-inspired pants with sequins running up the sides. Charity had on a bubblegum pink tracksuit—and her puppet was now wearing a bow tie. Ricardo looked more closely. No, Oscar had on a whole new outfit. Right down to the shoes. His fuzz-like hair was even styled a bit differently, parted to the side.

Did Oscar wear pajamas, too? Ricardo had been a bit lonely in his own room, but the thought of Oscar watching him sleep made him experience a surge of gratitude for his solitary accommodations.

The Red Team stood beneath a massive Impressionist depiction of swans and water lilies, a towering canvas at least ten feet high. It seemed a bit festive behind them, the men all in black—even Chip Challenge, though his rhinestones, cuffs and fringe were colorful. Their sole female contestant, Jia Lee, was once again fabulous in red: a short, tight red sheath dress with a mandarin collar.

Around the perimeter of the room, camera operators got themselves settled in, while assistants took readings with light meters and fussed with the curtains. A makeup artist touched up Sue’s lipstick, but must not have seen anything to correct on Ricardo. And then Monty Shaw walked past with a quick, “G’day,” and took up his station on a piece of tape beneath an ornate arch that led to a smaller parlor, or something—Ricardo couldn’t quite say what it had once been, only that there was a tapestry screen blocking the view of its interior now, and the set assistants went in there every time they needed a power strip or a roll of gaffing tape.

Iain came in last, murmuring to each of the cameramen. He conferred briefly with Monty, then seated himself behind the boom operator, where he crossed his legs and began chewing on his thumbnail. He did not, Ricardo noticed, say hello. He only said, “Action.”

“Hello, magicians!” Monty said brightly.

Both groups cautiously said hello. Ricardo felt the camera sweeping him, and he hoped he’d hit the right note with his greeting. Too subdued, and he might come off as bored. Even arrogant. Too enthusiastic and he’d seem like a loser.

Maybe he shouldn’t have gone for the exfoliant after all. He’d need his thick skin if he hoped to stand up to the continual scrutiny of the camera.

“I trust you’re all rested and rejuvenated?”

Sue managed to smile and act like she was. Even if she was grinding her teeth to keep the ache in her thighs at bay.

Once the magicians all made their sounds of affirmation, Monty said, “Then you’ll be eager to hear about your next challenge.”

Not really. What Ricardo was eager to do was ditch the show and go back to the spa with John. Or go anywhere with John, for that matter. But he supposed every challenge he endured put him one step closer to an off-camera meeting with the Professor.

“In this challenge, you’ll be working as a team. But…” he looked from one group to the other, and the cameras panned over everyone’s fretful expressions, “you’ll be doing it one teammate short. Because two of you…have been eliminated.”

Eliminated?

Two?

Ricardo felt physically ill. No one said anything about one elimination, let alone two. And Monty hadn’t said they were going to be eliminated, either. He said they had been.

What if the spa were some kind of test?

What if Ricardo was supposed to do the deep tissue massage and leave the seaweed wrap for one of his teammates? Just a second ago he’d been fantasizing about leaving Magic Mansion behind and cruising off into the sunset with John. But now that his possible cut from the team was imminent, he realized he didn’t want to leave at all. Not really.

Because Ricardo was a competitor. And, damn it, he wanted to play.

He swallowed hard.

Maybe (he hadn’t allowed himself to even think it) what he really wanted was…to win.

Across the room, Kevin Kazan planted his feet wide and crossed his arms in a thuggish stance. His stiff black baseball cap sat high on his head at an angle that made Ricardo itch to straighten it out, and his neck was so thick with oversized necklaces that the Red Team medal just looked like part of his jewelry collection. When he saw Ricardo sizing him up, his eyes narrowed, and he tipped his chin up as if to say, You want a piece of me?

Ricardo swallowed again, and considered the revelation he’d just had.

He wanted to win.

Yes, he did.

He looked Kevin Kazan right in the eye, and he smiled.

“Last night,” Monty said, “in the fishtanks, your physical limits were tested. Some of you competed successfully. And some of you…did not.”

He paused while the cameras roved past the magicians, attempting to capture whatever dismay was lurking behind their polished smiles or sneers.

“Would the magicians who stayed behind at the mansion today please step forward?”

Iain said, “Stand on the tape mark,” which would be edited out.

Faye strutted up to the tape in her silver high heels and thrust out her chest. Charity took her place between Faye and Chip, who greeted Oscar, and even shook his puppet-hand. Beside Chip, Ken shifted uneasily and cracked his huge knuckles, pulling each finger so hard it looked as if he might rip it right out of its socket.

With a nod from Iain, Monty said, “Magicians must be able to endure a certain amount of bodily discomfort, whether that means holding their breath, or keeping calm inside a confined space. Amazing Faye, you held your breath for less than a minute. Not only that, you didn’t mega-charge your tank with fish, or even turbo-charge it with water.” He gazed at Faye pityingly, and said, “You didn’t even try.”

Ouch. It was a scripted admonishment, no doubt. But still. Ricardo would have died inside to have someone tell him he hadn’t even tried.

“Charity,” Monty said, “you suffer from claustrophobia, a most unfortunate phobia for a magician. Sadly, that condition has cost you.”

Charity looked down at the floor. But Oscar’s mouth was moving, as if the puppet was whispering in her ear. And right next to it, Chip looked rather puzzled.

Monty turned to the men. “Chip, while it’s true that the King packed on some extra weight in his later years, your faithfulness to his legacy has done you no good. You held your breath for an unhealthy fifty-nine seconds.”

Chip did some Elvis-like posing while the cameras focused on him, tugging on his forelock, planting his foot so his bell-bottomed trousers flared noticeably. But even as he tried to take advantage of his moment in the unwanted spotlight, his attention was drawn away from the camera yet again by Oscar.

Monty went on as if he didn’t notice. “Ken Barron, you’re an escape artist by trade. And while everyone has an off-night once in a while, yours picked a pretty bad time to show up.”

“This is bullshit.”

This time, Chip wasn’t the only one to be distracted. There was no mistaking that creepy falsetto. And it wasn’t Charity they were looking at, either. It was Oscar.

“We weren’t told about no elimination round. This ain’t fair.”

Faye blushed to the roots of her flaming auburn hair, and said, “Any of us can get eliminated at any time. Deal with it.” She was talking to Oscar, too.

“This is BULLSHIT.”

In a very good Elvis-like Tennessee drawl, Chip said, “Now if we can all just calm down a minute.”

“BULLSHIT!”

Faye held up her hand as if to shield herself from Charity, and said, “You think having a puppet in your hand gives you the right to act like a spoiled little brat?”

“It’s not me,” Charity said in a quavery voice, a completely different voice from Oscar’s, and an actual tear rolled down her cheek.

“THIS - IS - BULLSHIT!” Oscar’s head popped up and down like he was on a pogo stick.

“Okay,” Iain told Monty, “That’s good. Go on, now. And talk over her if you need to—your mike will pick it up—but switch the order of announcing the vote-offs from the way we had it written…for obvious reasons.”

“BULLSHIT! BULLSHIT! BULL…SHIT!”

Monty nodded succinctly while Charity carried on via Oscar, and when she paused for a breath, he said, “The first player voted out of the mansion by our studio audience is…Chip Challenge.”

Everyone went quiet. Even Oscar.

Chip nodded, gave a sad smile, and dipped his head in a brief bow. “Thank you—thank you very much.” He swaggered forward from the rest of the lowest-scoring group, and turned to wave goodbye with one fringe-trimmed, rhinestone-studded arm—to the Red Team, to the Gold Team, to Monty, and finally, to the cameras.

“Oh, right,” Oscar’s shrill voice cried out as Elvis left the building. “Vote off the only member of the whole cast who’s actually entertaining!”

Faye covered her face with her hands and said, “This is not happening.”

“One more player is going home tonight,” Monty said, “and that magician is…Charity Young.”

It felt as if everyone—the cast, the crew, the room itself—held their breath. The moment hovered there, filled with mortifying possibility, while Charity gaped at Monty, stunned.

And then her face twisted, and the tears started flowing in earnest.

Sue hadn’t been kidding when she said cameras swarmed a weeper like flies on…poop, or whatever she’d called it.

The weird part was, Charity was definitely crying. Hard. Huge, wracking sobs, with tears and even snot running down her face. But through it all Oscar, somehow, was still screaming.

“Big surprise. Vote Charity off first to keep her from winning.”

Iain said, “Just let her keep going ’til she wears herself out.”

“The first challenge was a joke!” Oscar hollered. “Charity had all the talent! You never gave her a chance to perform! You never gave her a fucking chance!”

Faye backed away, returning to her team without Iain’s permission, and hid behind Ricardo. She was shaking. Ken Barron was left alone in the middle of the room with Charity and her meltdown, and he watched in rapt horror as if her tirade had frozen him to the spot.

“This mansion is a joke! Set dressers try to make it look fancy, but it’s all a sham. Half the rooms are falling apart, there are mice in the walls, and the first floor smells like a petting zoo!” Charity swung around and looked at the Gold Team, and Ricardo’s bemused shock turned to dread, as he wondered if he’d somehow managed to incur Oscar’s wrath, and he was about to be outed in front of the cameras. “You probably won’t win,” the puppet said—not to any specific teammate, but to the team in general. “Not without Charity. But if one of you does…hire yourself a good lawyer. This whole place is a joke, and they’ll probably try to cheat you out of the prize money.”

Charity, meanwhile, wept. She stumbled toward the exit, then paused in front of the Red Team, and let Oscar shrill, “Your captain’s an asshole. They’ll probably rig it so that he gets crowned the Grandmaster Magician.”

And with that, they strode out the door, Charity sobbing, and Oscar with his head held high.

Chapter 14

METAMORPHOSIS CHALLENGE

Cast, crew…everyone stared at the empty doorway in shock once Charity Young departed. Iain was the first one to speak—into his phone. “Yeah, we need security up here to escort the rejected players off the property. We’ve got a sore loser.”

Ricardo shuddered.

“Well,” Muriel said placidly, “I didn’t see that coming.”

“Maybe it’s an act,” Bev suggested.

“No,” Faye said. She was so spooked, she looked close to tears herself. “No one’s that good. That was a real freakout. Maybe a psychotic break.”

“We have been under a lot of stress,” Bev said.

Sue cocked her head, considered the tape mark on the floor, and said, “But you’ve got to admit. She was a really good ventriloquist.”

“Okay, everyone,” Iain called out, “deep breath. Think of it as trial by fire. You’re going to see some weird things over the course of the game. That’s good. In fact, that’s preferable: it’s engaging TV. No one’s gonna tune in to see you guys sipping tea and playing tiddlywinks. Got it?”

Tea and tiddlywinks—what the hell did that mean? Ricardo wondered if it was a veiled homophobic remark…or if Iain was just a dismissive prick who thought insufferable-hipster-producer was a more respectable career than magician. Probably both.

Iain turned to some grips and said, “Wheel in the boxes.” The burly assistants went behind Monty, into the room blocked off by the fabric screen, and wheeled out a pair of trunk-sized boxes. One black and gold, one black and red. Ricardo was more proficient at juggling than cabinet tricks. Even so, he could think of a dozen possible ways for the painted boxes to play out. Once the trunks were parked in front of their respective teams and the hand-carts were rolled away, Iain said, “Ken, get back with your team. Everyone, stand up straight and listen. Monty, you make the next announcement.” He sat down and steepled his fingers. “Action.”

“Now that the poorest performers have been eliminated from your teams,” Monty said, “it’s time to show off your magician skills by performing a classic trick that takes flexibility, timing, and precision.”

A camera swept the Gold Team as its members eyed the box. Across the room, another cameraman did the same to the Red Team.

Once the cameras got whatever it was they were looking for, Iain told Monty, “Go ahead.”

“This illusion has been around since 1865, when it premiered with the name The Box Escape. When Houdini borrowed the trick in 1893 and put his own spin on it, he re-named it Metamorphosis, which it is still known by today. In this trick, a magician seals an assistant in a bag, places them inside a trunk, ties the bag shut and climbs up top. A curtain is then raised to block magician and trunk from view. When the curtain falls—usually just a second or two later—the assistant, in an entirely different costume, has taken the place of the magician. The trunk is untied, and then the bag, so the magician can show off a costume change of his or her own.”

Iain said, “Both teams, step up to your cabinets. Open them, tap on them, check them out.”

As Ricardo approached his box, he heard Bev whisper, “That’s it. I’m finished. I don’t even know how it’s done.”

Muriel shushed her, and said, “We’ll work it out.”

Sue explained quietly, “This lid slides open while the magician straddles it, see? Right between the legs. The rope holding the top on isn’t really tied on tight. The slack is hidden in the box. By the time the magician is standing on top, the assistant’s changed costumes and ready to hop out and take his place. That’s why they spend so long securing the bag shut. It gives the assistant time to swap her wardrobe.”

Ricardo glanced at the Red Team while his teammates explained the trick to Bev. All five of the Red Team members poked and prodded their box as if they were on a car lot shopping for a new Ferrari, and though they looked like they’d probably done the trick a hundred times before, they probably wouldn’t mind taking their red and black box for a spin.

Once everyone had a good look at their prop, Monty said, “While Houdini performed Metamorphosis underwater, we wouldn’t dream of making you get wet two challenges in a row. Besides, the trick has as many variations as it has performers. One thing those variations do have in common: they’re done behind a curtain. But since you’re all magicians—and you all know the secret—that’s not going to be the way we do it today. You won’t be aiming to impress an audience. You’ll be trying to beat each others’ times.”

Ricardo felt a twinge of queasiness. Bev was adorable, no doubt. But he had a hard time picturing her doing a wardrobe change in a box. And Muriel said the funniest things…but she wasn’t exactly quick on her feet.

“Confer with your teammates, and pick two magicians to represent your team in the Metamorphosis Challenge.”

“Yes,” Ricardo hissed—and though he worried that maybe he’d offend his older teammates by doing so, when the Gold Team huddle formed, they looked just as relieved as he felt.

One of the Gold Team members, Amazing Faye, had been a magician’s assistant for an unspecified number of years before she got sick of playing second fiddle and decided she should be running the show. Ricardo assumed she was somewhere around his age, mid-thirties, though under all the concealer and glitter it was kind of hard to tell. She seemed like she was in great shape, and that’s what mattered. Plus she had a lot of experience. “I do Metamorphosis all the time,” she said. “I’m so fast I can even pop out with a different lipstick on.”

Things were looking better and better.

“I could do it,” Sue said. “Normally.” Her voice went a little wobbly, and she said, “But, guys? I’m so sore from that awful massage I can hardly even move my arms.”

“Hey.” Ricardo squeezed her hand. “I know the trick. It’s been a few years since I’ve done it, but even if they don’t let us practice it, I’m fast.”

“You don’t mind?” Sue said.

“Are you kidding? Lemme at it.”

“Thank God,” Bev said. “Because if Gold Team had to rely on me, we’d be up a creek.”

“Any day I don’t get stuffed into a pine box is a good day,” Muriel agreed.

“All right, Gold Team,” Monty said. “Who is the first player to represent you in the Metamorphosis challenge?”

Sue squared her shoulders, though it probably pained her to do so, and said, “Monty, the first team member who will represent Gold Team is…Amazing Faye.”

Monty said, “Faye, can you tell us a bit about your strategy?”

“Well, Monty, it may not look like it’s possible, but I’ve been performing Metamorphosis for over fifteen years. I can get in and out of that box in no time flat. It’s like this challenge was tailor-made for me.”

“Very good, Gold Team. Now, we’ll check in with your competition. Red Team, who is the first team member you have selected?”

Kevin Kazan puffed himself up, crossed his obnoxiously-muscled arms, and said, “Our first pick is Ken Barron. The man’s an expert at escape, and if anyone can change costumes in a bag, it’s him. Plus, it’ll give him a chance to prove himself after the major fail of his first challenge.”

Ricardo wondered if anyone on the Red Team wanted to slap Kevin Kazan as badly as he did. But then he realized he should probably formulate what he wanted to say for himself when Sue announced him as their second competitor. That he was eager to perform such a classic? That he was game to try to see what kind of score he could make? He didn’t want to sound like a braggart, so—

“And now,” Monty said, “here’s the twist.”

Oh God.

“You’ve each picked someone to be the second performer in your act…but your competitors might have someone else in mind. Teams, you will decide who the second person to perform for the opposing team will be, and you will have sixty seconds to do so. Your time starts…now.”

Gold Team re-formed their huddle, though Ricardo was so numb with panic he was practically on auto-pilot. With Sue injured, he was the only member of the team other than Faye who was capable of doing the stunt in a reasonable amount of time. The only one.

“That’s it,” Bev said. “We’re done.”

“Forget about that,” Muriel said. “We can’t worry about which one of us they pick. We can only try to pick someone worse from their team.”

“Not Kevin,” Sue said. “I get the feeling he was about to nominate himself as the second performer anyway.”

“Not Jia,” Faye said. “She can change in two seconds flat, and she’s the smallest one on the team.”

“Professor Topaz is really tall,” Sue said. “Would he have trouble changing in there?”

Muriel glanced up from their huddle, looked over at the Red Team and said, “I doubt it. Sure, he’s got a little snow on the roof, but have you noticed how limber he is?” Limber? “I’m sure he knows all those classic cabinet tricks like the back of his hand.”

“Then we pick Fabian,” Sue said. “He’s old, he’s not in great shape…and he had the same awful massage I did.” Her voice petered out toward the end, and Ricardo wondered if she was going to start crying. Again.

“It’s a competition, kiddo,” Muriel said. “Don’t think for a second they’ll take any pity on you.”

They finished their decision with five seconds to spare, then looked over at the Red Team. Jia and Kevin were fighting in heated whispers, while John, Fabian and Ken watched in resignation.

Sue leaned in to Ricardo and said, “What if they pick me? My muscles are all seizing up. What if I lose the challenge for the whole team?”

Ricardo knew a thing or two about working through pain…though with his True magic, he possessed an unfair advantage over most figure skaters in terms of recovery time. “If you do get picked,” he whispered, “do a gentle stretch before you get in the cabinet. Not now—just watch me.” He folded down into a hamstring stretch. “Imagine your muscle fibers relaxing. Imagine the toxins flowing out. Do both legs. And remember to breathe.”

_____

John had always considered himself a patient man. Fabian, probably not. Lately, every time Kevin spoke, Fabian’s eye twitched.

“Ain’t no way that Math Wizard gonna get in and out of that box faster than any one of us,” Kevin said. “And you can tell by the look in her eye. She’s scared.”

Jia said, “But the deep-tissue massage—”

“Miz Blondie over there can ignore her pain. Don’t let her fool you. I seen it in the challenge. That girl held her breath almost as long as I did. And that ol’ gray-haired bag nearly did, too.”

“Muriel,” John said. He almost didn’t—they only had a minute, after all, and it would be counterproductive to spend it arguing—but he couldn’t let it pass.

“Do you realize what an asshole you’re going to look like if you pick Bev?” Jia said. “Use your head. It’s not only about winning the challenge. It’s about making sure you don’t get voted off fast ’cos everyone hates you.”

“Does it look like I care?” Kevin said. “I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to win.”

Ken cracked his knuckles.

Jia said, “You will make us all look bad.”

“Don’t worry, pretty lady. Lots of people root for the bad guys. ’Sides, alls I gotta do is keep coming in first. You wanna make sure you stay in the game, then you got to bring it.”

Fabian made the grumble deep in his throat he’d been making ever since his spa treatment. It sounded vaguely like some unseen part of the mansion, off in the distance, had finally decayed to the point of collapse.

John looked at Fabian to see if he was okay, then noticed the Gold Team, beyond him, in their huddle—more specifically, he noticed Ricardo bending over and stretching in a gorgeously form-fitting pair of jeans…and it put him in a happy enough place that he could forget about Kevin, if only for a moment.

Until Kevin spoke directly to him, at least. “That seaweed-shit you did at the spa. Did it hurt?”

What? John turned and looked down his nose at Kevin, wavering between giving him a straight answer and asking him what business it was of his, when Monty called out, “Time’s up! Team leaders, step away from your groups.”

Once Kevin swaggered out of earshot, Fabian said, “So help me, I wanna wring that thick, white neck of his.”

Jia said, “Make sure I get a front row seat.”

“He’s a jerk,” Ken said, “but maybe he has a point. If Red Team wins the early challenges, chances are, more of us will make it through to the later rounds.”

John, who had been told flat out by Marlene that he was not expected to win Magic Mansion, found it difficult to muster up any concern over which team won the Metamorphosis challenge. Not only that, but he envied the camaraderie on the Gold Team…and not just because Ricardo was on it.

Once Sue and Kevin were standing on their marks, Iain gave the go-ahead, and Monty said, “Gold Team, who did you select to perform Metamorphosis for the Red Team?”

“Monty, we chose…Fabian Swan.”

“I knew it,” he muttered. “I just knew—”

“Fabian Swan,” Monty said, “you will join Ken Barron in representing the Red Team.”

Cameras swung toward the cluster of magicians in which John stood. Fabian stopped muttering and nodded grimly.

“Red Team, who did you pick from the Gold Team to compete in the Metamorphosis Challenge?”

John wanted to turn away when Kevin announced Bev. Although the Gold Team had chosen the weakest member of the Red Team (in John’s opinion, at least taking into consideration the deep tissue massage) at least they looked a bit chagrined about it. He yearned to find something else to focus on, but he forced himself to watch. He felt he owed it to his fellow magicians—Gold or Red.

Kevin somehow managed to swagger in place by shifting his stance. He smiled, and he said, “Red Team picks…Ricardo.”

What?

What about Bev?

The baffled expressions on the Red Team’s faces were not lost on the cameras, who panned frantically between them. The Gold Team, too, looked surprised. And relieved.

“Interesting choice, Red Team,” Monty said. “We’ll see how it plays out. It’s Ricardo the Magnificent representing the Gold Team with Amazing Faye. Now it’s off to wardrobe with the four performers, while the rest of you settle in and prepare to enjoy the show!”

When Kevin swaggered back to his team, three cameras trailed him. “What the hell was that?” Jia said.

“Whoa, girl. Chill.”

“Ricardo? Of everyone you could have picked…Ricardo? That guy can bend like a pretzel.”

“Y’all might not have noticed, but Ricardo’s the one to beat.” Kevin gave the group a smug look as if to say he just might be crazy…like a fox. “But right now? He’s hurt. And he’ll probably hurt hisself worse doing the stunt. Might even get hisself eliminated.”

“What makes you think he’s hurt?” Jia demanded.

Kevin made a V with his fingers and pointed dramatically to his own eyes. Jia whirled around and strode over to Iain, who looked startled to be confronted directly by one of the players, and said, “Can we drink during this challenge?”

“Well I, uh…I’ll need to check.”

“Because I want a drink. With plenty of tequila.”

“Checking.”

“Or a gun. If you can arrange that.”

Iain mumbled into his phone, then said, “No drinking until after Metamorphosis.”

She huffed at him in disgust, then came back to the group, standing as far away from Kevin as possible with her arms crossed.

Her loathing only seemed to spur him on.

Indeed, he seemed to revel in it.

Chapter 15

INTO THE BOX

The teams themselves were able to choose who would be first in the box and who would be second, probably since both roles involved the same skills—namely, slipping into (or out of) a big wooden box with a trick closure, getting into (or out of) a bag with a trick bottom, and losing a tearaway costume at some point in between.

Only a rack of costumes divided Ricardo from Fabian and Ken—and their strategizing was making him antsy. “We got this,” Ken was telling Fabian. “I’ll be in and out in no time flat, then you can bring home the win.”

Ricardo cut his eyes to Faye, and whispered, “You want first or second?”

She considered the question, held up her arms for the costumer to slip a sparkly black spandex sheath—stretchy enough to slide right out of—over the top of a punchy gold mini dress. “Let me ask you something.”

“Sure.”

“You’re gay, right?”

What did that have to do with anything? “Well…yeah.”

“Then let’s go traditional, me first. Normally I’d say we should change things up and have you play the role of the assistant. But I don’t want the act to devolve into something campy—that just cheapens everything, makes a big joke out of it. That’s not going to help either of us once this gig is through.”

“Oh.” She seemed so matter-of-fact that Ricardo wasn’t sure exactly how he should feel. And he wasn’t sure he’d even thought that far ahead. “Okay.”

“Like that first challenge.”

“What do you mean?”

“Head in a fish tank,” she said, “what was that all about? That stunt’s something I’d expect from The Big Gross-Out, not this show. This is about talent. Not playing a kazoo with my nose, or piling raw meat on my head, or getting dunked in tanks of slime and making myself look like a huge idiot.”

Ricardo slid a black shirt with gold vest combo, held together by velcro, over a reverse gold shirt with black vest. His gold tuxedo-styled pants hid a black pair underneath. “Is it really? About talent, I mean.”

“What else could it be?”

Iain appeared in the doorway. “Are we ready, kids? Let’s go.”

Ricardo motioned for Faye to precede him, then murmured, “It’s spectacle,” and watched her shoulders rise and fall as she sighed, possibly in agreement.

While Ricardo and Faye were in wardrobe, the ballroom had been rearranged. The cabinets were now in the center of the room, about ten feet apart, with the scoreboard looming behind them. The remaining three members of each team sat on a long sofa off to the side of their respective cabinet. Except for Kevin Kazan, who was too cool to sit, and instead perched on the red sofa’s arm.

The Red Team watched stonily as the challenge players entered. Sue, Bev and Muriel gave their teammates a coordinated thumbs-up.

Iain went over the rules with the four players—they were allowed to communicate as they did the stunt, with no part of the illusion hidden from the cameras, since the mechanics of the trick had already been exposed on national TV some years before. The timer would stop once the bag was untied, revealing the second magician in his costume change—and that timer was the only thing that mattered. Not style. Not showmanship. Only speed.

Although, as Ricardo took his place beside the cabinet and waited, heart pounding, for the timer to begin, the conversation he’d had with Faye did cause him to consider: in the big picture, form always mattered. He was a performer. And appearance, charisma, style…those things mattered. And so he took a deep, calming breath. And he smiled for the camera.

Monty did his spiel, explaining a simplified version of the rules to the audience, but Ricardo was so focused on mentally rehearsing his moves that he could hardly hear them. One word permeated his concentration—“Go!” And then they were off.

He dashed up to the cabinet, shoved open the top and hoisted Faye into it, careful to set her precisely in the bag without her heels catching. “You come down on this side,” she said, pointing stage right.

“Got it.” Ricardo yanked the bag up over her head and looped the top shut with a slipknot. Traditional? No. Usually the bag was knotted well, to give the assistant plenty of time to undress. But they were racing against the clock. “Slipknot,” he said, as Faye crouched down in the cabinet, bag wriggling. She’d be out of the stretch dress by the time he closed the cabinet’s top, and out of the trick bag-bottom before he tied the cabinet’s lid shut—which he considered doing with another slipknot, then decided against it. The trick lid slid forward, thanks to rope slack inside the bottom of the cabinet. If it pulled too hard against a slipknot, the rope could come undone and disqualify them. Better to play it safe.

A quick granny-knot, and Ricardo leapt up on top of the cabinet, feet planted wide on a narrow ledge on each side of the lid. Immediately the lid slid forward, and Faye squirmed out in her gold mini dress.

Ricardo dropped into the cabinet stage right, shedding his gold tuxedo pants, and ripping off his outer shirt and vest. He wadded the costume into the corner of the cabinet, and then snatched up the bag. The bag was tricky. It felt like he was turning it around and around endlessly in his cramped semi-fetal position, searching for an open bottom that had somehow ceased to exist, as the seconds on the scoreboard ticked relentlessly away. And he wondered, while he did it, if Kevin had somehow known it would happen. If he had some way of predicting that for all his training and all his experience, Ricardo would be bested by something as stupid as a trick bag. Monty’s voice filtered through the sides of the box, punctuated by the sound of rope rasping on wood as Faye worked the granny knot open. Of course Kevin couldn’t have known. Even if he was a True magician, he couldn’t see the future…could he? Finally, Ricardo forced out all thoughts of Kevin Kazan, took a calming breath, focused, and felt his fingers slip into the bag’s bottom. He pulled the bag over his head and called, “Ready!”

It was less than a second between his signal and the moment that Faye slid open the lid—couldn’t possibly have been more than that. But in that brief pause, Ricardo felt a sense of déjà vu rush over him—and it was as if he was back on the screened-in porch in St. Paul…thirteen years old? No, younger than that. Twelve. And Krista Franke, his very first assistant, had just duct-taped him into a refrigerator box.

Krista hadn’t stood on top of that corrugated cardboard cabinet while Ricardo freed himself from a laundry bag, though it probably would have borne her weight. She’d never exceeded a hundred pounds, even when the two of them were carb-loading as competitive skaters. She had a figure like Faye. Tiny, but strong.

Strong enough—years later—to leave a hand-print on his cheek when she discovered the Tom of Finland chapbook in his skating bag (pages full of swarthy men with lusciously rounded asses, and dark nipples gleaming as if they’d been oiled) and she realized the reason he’d become so unaffectionate, so distant, had nothing at all to do with her being the one to nab the McLoraine Figure Skating Scholarship.

She’d been looking for his ever-present pack of Trident. Ever since then, the taste of chewing gum turned Ricardo’s stomach—even now. Half a lifetime away.

A tug—it was Faye hauling on the slipknot now, not Krista. Heck, back then, Ricardo hadn’t even known how to tie one. A quick smooth of his hair, and Ricardo held his head high as the bag fell away, and he turned toward the cameras—surely he was allowed to look in their direction during a challenge—and smiled.

“That’s one minute, fourteen seconds for the Gold Team,” Monty said happily, but his tone was nothing to judge by. He always sounded perky.

Ricardo bent toward Faye and said in her ear, “What about Red Team?”

Faye nuzzled Ricardo’s cheek with her head and said, “They never stood a chance.”

Red Team’s cabinet lid hit the floor with a clatter, and Fabian, covered by the bag, stood. Ken untied the bag and revealed a rumpled-looking Fabian a full twelve seconds after Ricardo had emerged, smiling, from his own bag. Though they hadn’t won, the Red Team members faced the cameras with dignity and good sportsmanship, and gave a bow. Then they turned toward the Gold Team to give them a congratulatory salute.

As Ricardo waved back, he saw Ken’s fly was open.

On television.

He was so mortified for Ken, so completely flabbergasted, he actually froze for a moment with his hand mid-wave, and it took all his effort to keep his smile from slipping.

“So close,” Monty said to the Red Team. Hard to tell if he could even see the open fly from where he stood. “You were fast, but unfortunately, not fast enough to beat the Gold Team.” He turned to face Ricardo and Faye. “That means, Gold Team, that you win the Metamorphosis Challenge. And as your prize, you’ll spend tomorrow getting your own personal metamorphoses—that is, makeovers—from stylist to the stars, Eliza Watt!”

“Makeover?” Faye said through her smile, between clenched teeth. “If they’re planning on messing with my hair, they can think again.” She was almost as good a ventriloquist as Charity…who really could have used that makeover.

Ricardo had just had his hair trimmed and his brows waxed that week, but heck. He wasn’t averse to a bit of star treatment. Maybe it was exactly what he needed to stop rehashing the Worst Days of his Life at the first sign of stress.

“Unfortunately, Red Team,” Monty said, “you’ll be participating in a metamorphosis of your own. Some hedges behind the mansion were skipped on the last round of garden maintenance. You’ll spend the day trimming them back into shape.”

“I guess I’d rather have the makeover,” Faye whispered. “As long as they don’t try to give me a haircut. My hair grows really slow.”

“Okay, everybody,” Iain called, “that’s a rap. Eat, drink, be merry, have a cigarette, go back to your room and cry, or do whatever it is you do. A small camera crew will be present, as usual, to record your reactions to the day’s events. We expect you to be up and at ’em bright and early, ten a.m., for your makeovers or your slave labor. Any questions?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Ricardo flinched, startled.

Apparently Ken Baron had finally noticed the state of his fly.

_____

“Looks like another wild night at the mansion is already underway. The Gold Team is enjoying its moment in the spotlight, with champagne flowing all around. Amazing Faye and Ricardo the Magnificent truly earned their appellations in this challenge.

“The leader of the Red Team took a gamble with some risky strategy, and his gambit didn’t pan out. His team is not feeling the love for him tonight—and they’ll be even more disappointed come morning when they see the state of the grounds.

“What they don’t know is that while they’re out back trimming hedges, our home audience will be trimming down their team. The Red Team lost the challenge, and the price must be paid. One of them…is going home.

“Will it be escape artist, Ken Barron? Or will it be master illusionist, Fabian Swan? We leave it up to you, the audience.

“I’m your host, Monty Shaw. Don’t forget to tune in next time and see…who will stay, and who will leave…Magic Mansion.”

Chapter 16

MANUAL LABOR

“Last time, on Magic Mansion….

“Our winning magicians were treated to a day at the spa, but some of the treatments were anything but relaxing.”

(Sue) No, seriously, let up—it really hurts. -CRYING-

“Meanwhile, the losers spent the day cleaning up after their teammates.”

(Faye) I don’t care if you’ve got a puppet on your hand or not. I am not scrubbing out the toilets myself.

“Once the teams were reunited, they discovered that two of them…had been eliminated. One of them will be dearly missed…”

(Ken) Chip Challenge has been awesome…like the kid brother I never had….

(Chip) Thank you. Thank you very much.

(Oscar) Are you -BLEEP- kidding me?

“…and one of them…will not.”

(Oscar) This mansion is a joke!

(Muriel) I felt that damn dummy looking at me all night!

(Oscar) It’s bullsh-BLEEP-!

“Now ten magicians remain, but one of them…is going home. Which member of the Red Team has been voted out of the mansion? Is it aging illusionist Fabian Swan?”

(Fabian) -GROAN-

“Or is it double-jointed Ken Barron?”

(Ken) Maybe things can work out for me after all.

“The Gold Team was victorious in the Metamorphosis Challenge, and now the Red Team is stuck clearing an overgrown spot on the Mansion’s grounds, and one of them is about to be rewarded—with elimination. I’m your host, Monty Shaw. Stay tuned and see who was voted off…Magic Mansion.”

____

“Sunscreen?” Marlene said, looking up from her checklist. John nodded, though he’d never worn sunblock a day in his life and wasn’t about to start now. “Insect repellent?” Likewise. “Fabian, you’ve got your back brace? Good. Professor, you’re sure you won’t reconsider?”

“No, thank you.”

“It won’t show. We’ll make sure.”

“Really. It’s not necessary.”

“If you start feeling any twinges,” Marlene told him, “go talk to the medics and strap one on. I don’t want any more replays of the deep tissue massage incident. Dirty? Fine. Tired? Fine. Uncomfortable? Fine. But hurt? Not fine.”

“I will. At the first sign of a twinge.”

Marlene planted her hands on her hips and looked John square in the eye—with a surprising amount of authority, considering she needed to crane her neck back to do it—and said, “All right. You’d better.”

“Cross my heart.”

Marlene was about to look away, but then she did a double-take, met John’s eye again, and gave a vulnerably silly half-smile. Inside her, the spark of life—of Truth—flickered as she allowed her sense of humor to feed it. Casey had been fond of reminding him, You’re as dry as a martini in the Mojave. And so John could spot a kindred spirit by seeing if they noticed his passing attempts at frivolity.

Too bad the spark was too small to qualify as full-blown True magic. No doubt it would make for an interesting phone call, once the Magic Mansion show had wrapped, if John offered to be her mentor.

Then again, there was someone else in the mansion who had Truth, in spades. Would it be strange to cast himself in the role of Ricardo’s teacher? Probably. John’s interest in Ricardo was anything but academic.

“Okay, magicians,” Marlene called out, “here’s the drill. The greensman didn’t cut back the weeds on the west side of the lot, and now it’s a jungle back there. Your punishment for losing last night’s challenge is to cut down the growth between the two lines of orange tape. A pair of production assistants took a whack at another overgrown section, and we timed them. Judging by that, it should take you a good four to six hours to trim back the weeds and pile them in the designated area, so you’ll need to pace yourselves.”

She signaled to an assistant, and he whisked the tarp off a cartload of tools while a handheld camera filmed the reveal. “You’ll have shears, axes, rakes…but no power tools. This is a punishment, after all. Step up to the cart and pick your poison.”

Ken Barron fell into step beside John. He said, “Shouldn’t Monty be explaining the challenge?”

“I suppose they can overdub it later.” After all, Monty probably hadn’t signed a contract that stipulated he’d be working 24-hour days, not like the magicians had.

“Unless they’re not even gonna show it,” Ken said.

“What do you mean?”

“They can’t show everything, right? They’ve only got an hour…well, forty-two minutes with ads, minus a ninety-second intro and a thirty-second recap every time they come back from a commercial. So really, they only use half an hour of material for each show. And most of that’s gonna be the next challenge…and the next elimination.”

“Precisely which half hour they use, though,” John said. “That’s what you need to watch out for.”

Kevin Kazan was first at the tools. He took up a small, curved scythe and gave it an experimental twirl.

“Don’t even think about juggling that,” Marlene said.

He grinned at her.

“If that thing leaves your hand,” she said, “you finish clearing the lot yourself while your teammates sip lemonade. And I don’t care if it takes all night.”

“Got your message, Miz Perez. Loud an’ clear.”

Jia grabbed a small axe out of the cart—and twirled it as neatly as Kevin had the scythe. She was looking directly at his throat while she did it, too. And the cameras seemed to have noticed.

Fabian chose a set of long-handled pruners. He made no attempt to twirl them.

John glanced at the overgrowth—grass, brambles and weed trees—and opted for a saw. It seemed to him that one cut to the trunk of a woody shrub was more efficient than hundreds of smaller snips. Ken took a pair of shears. The magicians handed over their red-ribboned medals for safe keeping, then pulled on their gloves and approached their punishment.

John had never been one for gardening—not that he didn’t think he would have a talent for it if he ever applied himself, just that he’d always been too much of a nomad to develop the requisite skills. Casey was the one who’d grown up in a sprawling ranch house in the suburbs with a garden in which every bud, leaf and stem had its place. Not John.

Casey’s childhood home in Whittier was still there—though whether the gardens were still as immaculate as they had been while Casey was alive, John couldn’t say. Maybe so, if Casey’s mother (Mrs. Cornish, to John) had opted to hire a gardener to help with the more arduous spring cleanup. If she even still owned the home at all. John hadn’t seen her since the funeral. Since he’d never been acknowledged as anything more than Casey’s “friend,” whether because it seemed useless to press the more intimate details of their eighteen-year relationship on her, or because her well-timed avoidances discouraged them from trying, John really had no reason to visit. Staring up into the browned fronds of a palm that was surely rotten inside, John wondered if it might have been better to lay all the cards on the table—even the doctored aces. Especially those.

And then if Mrs. Cornish still needed to use the word “friend” for John, so be it. At least everyone would have known where they stood.

Besides, it was likely that Mrs. Cornish had been well aware of the nature of their relationship all along…how could she not be? John knelt beside a gnarled weedy bush with a stem almost as thick around as his wrist, and began sawing while he mulled over the probability. Two men in their forties (and fifties, and sixties) didn’t share a townhouse merely because they were bachelors who could agree on the thermostat setting and the best wine to accompany that night’s entree.

Wood cracked, and the weedy shrub sagged, its branches still tangled in its neighbor’s. Amazing, really, how much of John’s life had been spanned by his time with Casey. And how little he had to show for it.

A few yards away, commotion flared up and cameras converged. Kevin was swinging his machete wildly as if he was doing some sort of exotic sword dance. A few small brown bats fluttered out of the tree above him, moving deeper into the brush. Marlene and a phalanx of staff determined that Kevin hadn’t been bitten, and that all the bats had fled to the neighboring property. But the magicians ended up spending an hour in shade while they waited for the crewmen to determine another patch of overgrown grounds was bat-free, and then cordon off a big enough swath to constitute their “punishment.”

While they waited, Fabian sat himself down beside John on the edge of a retaining wall, fanning himself with a creased takeout menu he’d found in the litter that ringed the edges of the property that the cameras didn’t film. He was still moving stiffly, though not as badly as the day before. “I did a show,” he said, “guess it’d be fifteen years ago now, for cable. You probably didn’t see it.”

“I don’t watch much TV.” Fifteen years ago, Casey had surprised John with a two-month European adventure for his forty-eighth birthday—and with both of them between gigs, it seemed as if providence had arranged everything so they could enjoy it to the hilt. While Fabian had been appearing on cable—local cable, most likely—John had been relaxing in a gondola, or strolling through Madame Tussauds, or sampling the wares in an Amsterdam coffeeshop.

“We didn’t keep stopping the camera,” Fabian said. “A couple of takes, then get to the next scene.”

Jia boosted herself up to sit beside Fabian, feet dangling a few inches off the ground. “How come Kevin was the one to find the bats? Now they’ll show him before every damn commercial swinging that stupid machete around.”

Fabian grunted an assent.

A handheld wandered past. Jia and Fabian let their expressions go grim—though it wasn’t much of a stretch, since both of them looked that way naturally—and John felt his own face follow suit. It occurred to him that if the editors needed to make one of the teams look like villains in post-production, with ominous music, uncomfortable pauses and dramatically manufactured shifty-eyed glances, the Red Team would definitely be the one.

Especially since the Gold Team was continually hugging each other. And smiling.

John sighed.

Jia pulled out a pack of cigarettes, offered one to Fabian and John who both shook their heads, then tapped one out, lit it, and took a deep, thoughtful drag. “So you’re married,” she said to Fabian, “right?”

“Thirty-seven years,” he said.

She looked for John’s left hand, but he hadn’t bothered to remove his gardening gloves. “What about you?”

“No.”

The terseness of his reply didn’t seem to discourage her. She didn’t strike John as someone who lacked for audacity. “Because someone on the crew may have let it slip that I’d be way less likely to be voted off the show if I could get a little on-camera romance going.”

John wondered what she wanted from him. His blessing? Doubtful. Maybe some advice. “I suppose it might make interesting drama.”

Fabian made a scoffing sound that sounded like, “Psheh.”

“I know, lame, right?” Jia bent forward to peer around Fabian at John. “But give it some thought, Professor. ’Cos I’m betting the Red Team gets pared down for losing last night’s challenge—no offense, Fabian—and I’m not ready to go home just yet.”

“Give what…?” Oh, hell. She’d been looking for a lot more than John’s advice. Casey would have found his shock over the thought of romancing her, even faux-romancing her, laughable. Then again, Casey let everything roll off his back. Maybe even things he should have taken a bit more seriously.

“All right, everyone,” Marlene called out. “Your bat-free zone is ready. And don’t think we’ve spared you any effort to move things along. There’s plenty of time before your next challenge. So let’s get chopping.”

Kevin Kazan sauntered over in John’s general direction, and Jia shot up off the retaining wall and stomped to the opposite end of the designated punishment zone. He tagged along, saying, “Yo…yo!” as if he thought he had a chance of getting her to answer to “Yo.” Fabian shook his head and veered toward the corner of the lot with his pruners, where he started whacking off huge chunks of bramble.

John took a moment to size up the patch of neglected yard. No rotten palms here, that was good. He glanced up. No bats either that he could see, though they looked a heck of a lot like leaves when they hung there sleeping. He placed a hand on the trunk of an opportunistic weed tree that had sprung up to nearly eight feet, and he felt. Whatever life touched it seemed small to him. Ants. Beetles. Nothing larger than that.

He planted his feet and began to saw.

“Good plan,” Ken Barron said, falling in beside him. “Take care of the big stuff first. Get it out of the way. While you’re fresh.”

“That’s the idea,” John said, although in actuality he’d never been much of a planner. Since he was slow to speak his mind but his eyes were shrewd, people had a tendency to assume his actions were always unfolding to the scheme of a master plan he was constantly assessing and tweaking. But nothing could be further from the truth. John had discovered life was more like surfing. You could try to plan, but in the end, there was nothing to do but keep your head above water and do your best to catch the waves so they didn’t pound you.

“You’re in pretty good shape,” Ken observed.

For his age—that was probably the unspoken part of the sentiment. Though with last night’s defeat fresh in his mind, it was more likely Ken meant, compared to Fabian.

“I suppose.”

“A century ago, a magician who was forty, fifty…he’d be in his prime. Not like today.”

“So my agent tells me.”

“Houdini was fifty-two when he died,” Ken said.

“Indeed.”

“But now? No one looks twice at a middle-aged magician unless he’s already got a following under his belt. So I heard about this show….” Ken lopped a few branches off a shrub that would have been better tamed by snipping it off near the root. “And I just thought…if I can’t crack this thing by the time I’m forty…if I can’t make my name now…well then, what’s it all for, anyway? I might as well hang up my handcuffs and go sell insurance.”

John stopped sizing up the next weed tree and turned to get a better look at Ken. Not full-on, of course, because Ken clearly had the very male approach of sliding his important personal revelations into the conversation while everyone’s attention was focused instead on the task at hand. But in his peripheral vision, John saw that Ken was lopping at the bush a bit harder than he needed to.

John moved closer and began sawing at the bush’s base. “You have a name, Ken. You’re the biggest escape artist on the circuit. And now that you’ve landed this show, a whole new audience knows who you are.”

Ken made a sound that John initially took for a laugh, until he realized it was more likely a sob. Ken began lopping the bush even harder. “An idiot. A fool. That’s what they know.”

Emotion—anger, or maybe despair—could have been the cause…or maybe it was simple physics, the lopper blades glancing off a burl in the wood. Whatever the reason, the results were the same. The garden tool skidded, down and at an angle. Directly toward the spot where John knelt.

He sensed it just before it hit, and he jerked away. The duration of the incident was a fraction of a second. It sounded no more threatening than a snip and a rustle.

“Oh, man,” Ken said. “That was close. I’m really sorry.”

John stayed right where he’d landed—on the lawn, back on his elbows, as if he’d just been relaxing on a deck chair, sipping a mojito, and levered up a few inches to check out the pool boy. His heart hammered so fiercely that the pulse pounding in his ears blotted out the rest of the sounds in the yard, as if the water tank from the first night’s challenge had been placed around his head again to narrow down his auditory landscape to the beating of his own heart.

“Holy crap. You’re bleeding.”

John made out the words, but they sounded muted. Distant. And then Ken flung down the sharp tool and knelt beside him.

John caught the sweet tang of alcohol on Ken’s breath.

“It’s okay,” Ken said, possibly speaking loudly. “Just a scratch.”

The sound of Marlene’s voice threaded into John’s awareness, and he supposed it meant his cognizance was synching back into speed with the rest of the world again. And he also supposed he’d be well and truly afraid once he remembered how to think.

Ken’s face was ashen. “I am so sorry.”

John touched the spot on his cheekbone before he even realized it stung. Cameras swarmed. Marlene pushed through them. “What happened? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” John’s voice sounded like his own—maybe. Yes, he supposed it did.

“It was an accident,” Ken said, backing away. “I mean, I can’t even say for sure it was the shears. Could have been something else—a briar, or maybe a sharp twig that snapped back at him.”

Marlene’s frown lines intensified as she scowled at John’s face. He touched his cheek again. His fingers came away sticky. Clotting already. It really wasn’t that bad.

“I’m calling in a plastic surgeon,” she said.

“Marlene,” John protested.

“You’re a performer. I don’t take a facial injury lightly on someone who makes his living with his appearance.”

Well. Since she put it that way. She slipped an arm through his elbow to march him over to the standby medics, ordering up a specialist on her phone by the time they were across the lawn. No less than three handhelds jockeyed for position as the medical technician flooded the small wound with a sterile solution and began cleaning off the blood.

Maybe Kevin’s bats wouldn’t be the headlining melodramatic commercial bumper after all.

The plastic surgeon was there within fifteen minutes—this was L.A., after all—and he took a good look at the injury with a magnifying light that made sparkles dance in John’s peripheral vision. “You’re dark-complected. Do you scar easily?”

“No.”

“Any keloids?”

“No.”

“Prior surgeries? Anything I can look at to get a sense of…?”

“None.”

The surgeon glanced at John’s forearms as if surely there would be a scar or two present to give him away—after all, one didn’t spend as many years on the planet as John had without picking up a souvenir or two—but there were none there for him to see. The worst damage was on John’s lower legs. Coral. Driftwood. A broken bottle buried in the sand that nearly cost him his small toe. But those scars were not only ancient, they’d been the results of injuries that were a heck of a lot more severe than this new scratch on his cheek.

Marlene, who had been wrangling the rest of the magicians, rematerialized in John’s spotty vision once the magnifying light just under his eye was switched off. “Does he need stitches?”

“No. I put a clear sealant over the wound—”

“How about one of those butterfly bandages? That would look kind of tough.”

John almost laughed at the notion of being called “tough,” though he supposed he was still too dazed to properly react.

The doctor said, “It’s really not deep enough to warrant—”

“But it wouldn’t hurt anything,” Marlene said. “Right?”

“Of course not.” The surgeon gave a you’re-the-boss nod and pulled a butterfly suture from his kit. He applied it just below John’s eye without shrugging or apologizing in any way. Though John suspected he might have wanted to.

Chapter 17

RED TEAM ELIMINATION

An unmanned camera on a tripod was in the ballroom with John where he rested up from his big injury and attempted to pass the time by reading a magazine. He could have gone back to his room, but the dorm-style 4-bed layout reminded him too much of his college days. Not that those were bad days. Many of them, in fact, were rather good. Just that they were so long past, it seemed disingenuous to go through the motions now.

It felt strange to sit outside the action, with the sounds of the outdoor filming carrying on just beyond the window. He supposed, were he a heavier drinker (like a certain member of the Red Team) he might be tempted by the proximity of the decently-stocked bar. But John had always preferred to have company and conversation with his liquor.

As well as…other things.

As John realized he’d just entertained a notion which, while perfectly natural, had been scarce in his repertoire of thoughts lately, he marveled at the idea that Ricardo hadn’t even needed to be present to elicit the unexpected flush of desire. The mere thought of him could start John’s pulse pounding as surely as a sharp implement swung at his head.

“Professor Topaz?”

John looked up from the tedious issue of People and found the object of his fantasies there, framed in the archway as surely as if he’d just been summoned, clutching shopping bags in both hands. He wore black trousers, a gold vest and a rose-colored silk shirt with billowy sleeves, and his Gold Team medallion glinted as if a lighting team had arranged for a spotlight to hit it just so. His posture was straight and tall, like he was about to use the bags for balance while he strode across a tightrope, head high, and smiling.

He looked absolutely radiant.

“Oh my God…what happened to your face?” Ricardo’s smile vanished; he dropped the bags and sprinted across the room. The soles of his dress shoes slid the last few feet across the polished marble. “Are you okay?”

John stood, and mouthed the word “camera.” Once Ricardo nodded to show he’d understood, John said, “It’s just a scratch.”

Ricardo planted his hands on his hips. His hair—the makeover team had done something to his hair, something subtle, but even more flattering…which John wouldn’t have even thought possible. John stared at Ricardo’s hair. Ricardo stared at the butterfly suture. And when the pull between them reared up, it was heady and strong, overwhelmingly strong—so strong that John repeated, “Camera,” this time nearly aloud.

Ricardo narrowed his eyes. The late afternoon light hit them just so and lit his irises the color of the stormy Pacific, and the undertow of his nearness began dragging at John yet again—this time so intensely it pulled him forward a full step.

Ricardo took a step forward too, and now their chests would be touching, if either of them leaned in…and it was taking all of John’s focus to resist doing just that.

Ricardo parted his lips, and wet them with the tip of his tongue. John felt himself groan. “Camera,” he said—aloud now—and a heated look flashed in Ricardo’s eyes… just before the Mansion trembled.

Not a quake, nothing quite so obvious. A mere flicker. A twitch.

Above the camera rig, rotten lath in the ceiling gave way with a creak and a sigh, and plaster hunks rained down upon the equipment as surely as if the building itself had aimed them there.

The corner of Ricardo’s mouth quirked.

“Control yourself,” John forced himself to say. Because if anyone were to ask him in that moment what he actually wanted, it would have been to see Ricardo, beautiful Ricardo, saying To hell with it all! and letting the dams burst wide, and allowing the full force of his True power to surge forth.

But instead, Ricardo merely touched his fingertips to John’s wound, and cocked his head, and said, “Do you realize how close this came to your eye?”

With Ricardo’s nearness singing through his veins, John managed to utter, “It’s nothing. It’s fine.” And before they could say anything more, the room flooded with crew, and then the rest of the Gold Team trooped in laden with shopping bags filled with styling products, and then Iain with his cell phones and his perpetual annoyance. But even as Ricardo turned away, the headiness of his touch lingered, and John decided that despite the risk of discovery, and despite the chaos his ill-advised action had caused…despite everything, that single brush of Ricardo’s fingers had been worth it.

___

Once the dust settled, the plaster was cleared, the ceiling was shored up and the handhelds were once again making their lazy circuit around the ballroom, Ricardo lined up with his teammates and watched the Red Team troop in. While it was true that no magician on the opposing team was a jovial, smiley sort of performer, it seemed to Ricardo that tonight they were particularly angry.

Gold Team had debated whether or not to buy their competitors anything on the shopping spree that followed the salon visit—but Faye had insisted that when the chefs on Out of the Frying Pan brought home token gifts for their opponents, it had been viewed not as gesture of inclusion, but one of condescension.

Ricardo was glad enough to not feel pressured to buy anything for that jerk, Kevin. And no one needed to know he hadn’t picked out the pearlescent gray bow tie for himself. Having something to give John once their part of the shooting had wrapped would be the perfect ice-breaker, and so really, the afternoon had been as full of “win” as Ricardo could possibly have hoped.

“Take a look at you,” Monty exclaimed in his cute Aussie accent as he strode by the Gold Team on his way to his mark. “Very spunky.” He gestured to include the whole team, though Ricardo noticed it was actually Sue who’d caught his eye. Eliza Watt, stylist to the stars, had managed her crew with an iron fist. She was apparently a big fan of “lowlights,” which made Sue’s dark blonde hair glow like warm honey. Even Bev had been convinced to try some…once she was informed she had all the fashion sense of an ex-nun.

Faye had refused everything but a facial and a deep condition, and her red dye-job now looked a bit tacky compared to everyone else’s fancy refinements. Everyone but Muriel, actually, who’d been game to go along with a rather bizarre addition of glittery blue filaments in her long gray hair and an extreme eyebrow wax that left her looking somewhat surprised.

It had been a relief when Ms. Watt pronounced Ricardo’s hundred-and-fifty-dollar haircut, “Not bad,” though she did tweak it (herself, no less) with some micro-adjustments she claimed would accentuate his eyes. Maybe she knew what she was talking about. John sure seemed to like what he saw.

Luckily, the rest of the Gold Team was smiling just as wide as Ricardo, so he didn’t need to tone it down. It felt good to be happy. In fact, it felt awesome.

Especially when John’s eyes met his across the room, and John’s gaze softened. He didn’t quite smile, but Professor Topaz had never been an ebullient kind of guy. No, the Professor was intense. And that was even hotter.

“Greetings, magicians,” Monty read from his teleprompter. “Some of you spent the afternoon being pampered, while the rest of you endured a day of grueling labor. Hopefully the lesson you’ll take away from today’s events is how critical it is to win these challenges.

“Keep that in mind tonight, when you’ll be able to strategize for the next challenge, which I’ll announce in just a few moments. First, though, I have some sad news for you. The Red Team’s punishment is not quite finished.”

Ricardo felt their anger surging through the room like a pressure change in an airplane cabin, though not one member of the Red Team had so much as moved. In fact, they were preternaturally still. Except for Kevin Kazan, who’d narrowed his eyes.

“Will the two members of the Red Team who lost the Metamorphosis Challenge please step forward?”

Fabian stepped forward stiffly—though it was difficult to tell if that stiffness represented anger, or the residual effects of the deep-tissue massage, or the day he’d spent wrangling weeds. Ken was stricken.

“I’m sorry to say that the audience has voted one of you out of Magic Mansion.”

As much as Ricardo reminded himself that the whole point of a competition was to eliminate players, it still managed to surprise him. Each and every time.

“The magician who will be leaving tonight is…Ken Barron.”

Ken closed his eyes, and he swallowed so hard that his Adam’s apple rose and fell, casting a distinct shadow on his sinewy throat. Even from across the room, Ricardo swore he could feel the man’s heart breaking.

“Thank you, Ken,” Monty said—compassionately, though of course he’d probably been told to say it that way. “It’s time to say goodbye.”

For a moment it seemed as if Ken had frozen to the spot, and despite his dismissal, would continue to stand there, throat working, until the same burly security guard who’d escorted Charity and Oscar up for their luggage and out to the parking lot might come in and flank the escape artist now, too. But then one of the stolid Red Team magicians broke rank.

John stepped forward and placed a hand on Ken’s shoulder, with his stern expression shifting to one of regret. Although John was tall and slim and austere, it looked easy enough for him put his arms around Ken and offer comfort. It seemed as though he might speak, but then Ken’s shoulders shifted, and he hugged John back, tightly, and words were no longer necessary. They clasped one another fiercely, but only for a moment.

John’s decision to embrace his eliminated teammate caused a ripple of compassion to spread through the Red Team. Fabian turned to Ken and hugged him too, though it was more of a manly clap-on-the-back type of gesture. Jia stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek, and finally Kevin, possibly the least inspiring team leader that ever existed, gave Ken a hearty handshake, followed up with a salute.

“Spare me,” Sue muttered. “Kazan can’t even say goodbye without looking like a douchebag.”

As one, the Gold Team waved at Ken while he walked past them on his way across the ballroom, and Ricardo did his best to not allow his expression to convey his relief that, in this round anyway, it wasn’t a member of his own team heading out that door. And that farewell wasn’t something he’d had to say himself.

“Okay, kids,” Iain barked, jolting Ricardo out of his sobering turn of mood. “Form a group in front of the fireplace so you can all hear the next thing Monty tells you loud and clear.”

The taller magicians fell toward the back, Ricardo and the Professor drawing together like magnets in the center. At least it hadn’t been John to leave—as hard as it was to say goodbye to Ken, who’d wanted to win so badly it was palpable, Ricardo consoled himself with the fact that John was still there.

Though he wanted to slip his hand into John’s so badly it physically ached to keep himself from doing it.

Once a stylist smoothed out a wayward tuft of Monty’s hair and then got herself out of the range of the cameras, Iain gave the go-ahead, and Monty turned his dazzling smile toward the magicians, and began.

“Your next challenge involves another traditional cabinet trick: the Zig-Zag Lady. Though since we’re more of an equal opportunity type of show, for your stunt, it’ll be known as the Zig-Zag Cabinet. The way this trick is traditionally performed, the magician places his assistant inside a three-sectioned box. Cutouts in the front of the cabinet reveal the assistant’s face, fingers and toes. After a wide blade is slipped horizontally between each of the segments, the center section is slid to the side, creating the illusion that the assistant has just been sliced in three.”

Faye, who was standing directly in front of Ricardo, said, “Yes,” under her breath. No doubt, given the number of years she’d put in as an assistant, she’d done the Zig-Zag Lady countless times. And no doubt she was good at it. The crux of the trick involved the assistant turning only her body sideways and sucking in her middle, and then some clever painting and foreshortening to make the blades look as if they sank into the box much farther than they actually did, and the cabinet segments to look more drastically misaligned than they actually were.

But Kevin Kazan answered her with a leery, “Huh,” as if he didn’t think it was going to be that simple. And though it galled him to admit it to himself, Ricardo suspected Kazan was right. There would be a twist. There always was.

“But here’s the twist,” Monty said brightly, as Ricardo steeled himself against sighing, groaning, or rolling his eyes. “Not only will you be responsible for performing the illusion….”

“Hold the pause,” Iain said, as the cameras circled the magicians intently to capture their budding unease. Ricardo held his breath and steeled his expression into one of polite interest, though he noticed that Muriel and her surprised eyebrows were drawing more than their fair share of attention from the handhelds. Once all the contestants could be represented as sufficiently awed by the “cleverness” of the program, Iain said, “Okay, lights.”

He signaled to the gaffer, who fired up a bank of lighting, and suddenly a tarp-covered bulge was the central focus of the set. Ricardo hadn’t even noticed it until the lights hit the canvas. Had he made the mistake of assuming it was just leftover cleanup from the ceiling incident—or had he been too busy ogling John to care about it one way or the other until it was pointed out to him?

Either way, it was sloppy. And Ricardo, who’d spent most of his life in a state of keenly focused awareness, was disturbed he’d failed to notice a detail that prominent—too prominent to technically be called a “detail.”

Iain called out, “Do the reveal.”

A couple of grips picked up the edge of the canvas. One camera was trained on the pile. The others continued swarming the magicians. The grips heaved off the canvas, revealing a stack of plywood and lumber.

Maybe it really was something to do with the ceiling repair, and Iain had just gotten his tarp-covered piles mixed up. But then Fabian made a low chuckle in his throat, and Ricardo decided that although he didn’t know what it was supposed to mean, it wasn’t all just some sort of crazy mistake.

Iain said, “Take it from the last line,” and Monty repeated, “Not only will you be responsible for performing the illusion….”

Muriel let out an involuntary snort. Ricardo glanced at her to see what she’d just kenned to that he hadn’t quite figured out, and found her new eyebrows had quirked up impossibly high. “Oh,” she said, “that’s rich.”

“…but first, you’ll need to build your own apparatus.”

Build?

Ricardo swallowed. His magic construction skills went as far as large-appliance boxes and duct tape. And he was the only man on his team. He cut his eyes to the Red Team. Fabian was sizing up the pile like he had a tape measure in his head, and Kazan was literally rubbing his palms together in eager glee.

Someone did take Ricardo’s hand then, but it wasn’t Professor Topaz. It was Sue. She squeezed his fingertips and smiled up into his eyes, and said, “Don’t worry, it’ll be fun.”

Chapter 18

CONSTRUCTION PLANS

Dinner, served family-style that night at a long dining room table (rather than the catered buffet they shared with the crew the prior evenings) was a profoundly awkward affair. John felt so much tension emanating from Fabian, it was a wonder his tepid carrot soup didn’t burst into a rolling boil. Kevin Kazan chewed his steak so hard his jaw creaked. The two of them wanted to inhale their food and get down to planning the the Zig-Zag Cabinet…and so Iain had ensured the meal was sent out one lingering course at a time.

“It was sad to see Ken leave,” Sue offered up to the room’s silence, and immediately her teammates all murmured their assent.

“It will only get harder,” Bev said.

“True,” Muriel agreed. “The longer we stay here, and the closer we get, the worse it’s gonna feel as they boot us out of here one by one.”

The closer they got? John imagined that between the arguing about the Zig-Zag Cabinet that would shortly ensue, close would be an understatement. More like stifling.

And, of course the one player he did want to get close to seemed a million miles away—even as they stole glances across the table despite their best efforts to keep from being too obvious.

The dessert was served, finally, and as the strangely festive pink parfaits were placed in front of them, Muriel added, “Plus, Ken’s nose-whistle was a hoot. Sometimes I thought his left nostril was gonna break into Stairway to Heaven. Or maybe Freebird. I’ll miss that.”

Jia took two bites of her parfait, then stood up so quickly her chair teetered, and said, “Are we through? Can I go now?”

Iain tapped off his bluetooth headset and sighed. “Do you need me to get you a nicotine patch?”

“I’m wearing one.”

Iain looked at the remains of the dinner, then shrugged and said, “Fine. That’s a wrap. You’ll each have a cameraman in your room to grab more dynamic footage of your strategizing than the ceiling cams would pick up.”

Jia put her hand on the back of John’s chair. “Come have a smoke,” she said quietly.

John almost declined. But since she probably hadn’t presumed he’d picked up the habit over the course of the last few hours, there must have been something she wanted to tell him…alone. John stood. The subtle fidgeting of his other teammates—Kevin clenching and unclenching his shoulder muscles, Fabian realigning his salad fork every few moments—had caused him to be glad enough to stretch his legs. The only one who really took note of him leaving was Ricardo—and Ricardo simply gave him a small but encouraging smile, then went back to the “chitchat” he and his team managed so effortlessly.

They slipped past a pair of stylists who were comparing their latest iPhone apps and let themselves out into one of the less photogenic parts of the grounds, a corner where several ladders were stored on a cracked concrete pad. Jia didn’t bother offering John a cigarette. She lit one up and blew the smoke up toward her forehead, and her hair fluttered. “Slick move,” she said, “getting yourself hurt like that in the garden. I can guarantee they’ll show that blood at least two or three times. I hope you didn’t do it to get out of giving me your answer.”

John hadn’t realized she even thought he’d actually been considering an onscreen romance. “It was an accident,” he said. An accident…which was the very thing that had left John in a cardboard box of an apartment, alone, instead of an artsy townhouse with Casey. Maybe that was the deeper reason John didn’t feel particularly sorry for Ken getting voted off. Or perhaps it was relief over the fact that he now wouldn’t need to decide whether or not to say anything about the alcohol.

“I don’t believe in accidents any more than I believe in luck.” Jia clasped her free hand around her middle, and planted her other elbow against the forearm, cocking her cigarette just so beside her lips. “You designed yourself a solid persona that’ll get better and better as you age. You’re a man. And that’s what happens. With every year that passes, you grow more authoritative, more distinguished, more mature. Not women, though. In the eyes of the world, women just get old.”

John shuddered as if someone had stepped over his grave. Jia sounded suspiciously like his mother—his mother in 1970. She looked a bit like Rose, too. Especially when she took a punishing drag off her cigarette.

“I need to win this. And I could really use your help.”

“I’m sorry,” John said. “You’re not my type.”

“It’s not because I’m Chinese, is it?” John didn’t dignify that with an answer, and Jia said, “I didn’t think so, since you’re Hawaiian or whatever yourself. Look, I don’t care if you’re actually into me or not. I know I’m young enough to be your daughter. But I think you’re classy enough to carry off a little pretend-fling without making yourself look like a creep.”

John gazed up through the trees and looked for the stars, but the nearby floodlights blotted out his view of the heavens. “Who else have you asked?”

“No one. Who else is there? Fabian’s married, and Ricardo’s a flaming queen.”

John smiled sadly. “I suppose it’s all a matter of context. In my social circles, Ricardo wouldn’t even be considered particularly effeminate. The flaming queens I know wear short-shorts and sing Barbara Streisand showtunes and call each other ‘Miss Thing.’”

Jia stared at him for the duration of three long drags, then finally said, “Oh. No offense.”

“I’ve heard worse.”

She stewed for a while, then said, “And then the other two straight single guys got themselves eliminated.”

“What about Kevin?” John suggested.

“What about him?”

“I can’t imagine he’d turn down an alliance.”

“I can’t imagine I could resist kneeing him in the balls if he even thought about touching me.” She crushed out her cigarette, pulled out her pack, and shook it to see how many more were left.

“This undercurrent of animosity the two of you have—”

“All the animosity’s on my part, Professor. He’s nothing but nice to me. In a leering, macho, idiotic way that I’m sure he has absolutely no control over.”

“This…tension, then, if that’s what you want to call it. I’m sure it will make much more interesting drama than some trumped-up affair. I think people can tell the difference between what’s genuine and what’s contrived.”

“Says the guy whose livelihood depends on illusion.”

“Well. I still think authenticity matters.”

She considered putting her cigarettes away, then changed her mind and lit a second. “So what about Ricardo—is he your type?”

John looked to the invisible stars, and said, “I might not have thought so a few weeks ago.”

“But now he is. Wow. I didn’t pick up on that at all. Is it mutual?”

John thought briefly about what he stood to gain or lose by admitting it, and nodded.

“Then you’d better watch yourselves. Remember that guy on Genuine Friends who turned out to be gay? Once his whole past came out, they raked him over the coals for the rest of the season.”

True, but that participant had been dating a woman on the show, then was discovered to have done gay-for-pay Internet porn. That was different, intrinsically unsavory; the woman he was sleeping with felt deceived, violated and confused. Surely, two unattached gay men coming together simply because they were drawn to each other wouldn’t invoke the same condemnation?

Jia shook her head as if she’d lifted the whole rationalization right out of John’s mind, and said, “Maybe you can afford to throw caution to the wind—and given the way you don’t seem to be trying particularly hard, I’m guessing you agreed to get voted off before the end.”

“I agreed to nothing of the sort.” Though it had been implied, hadn’t it?

“Well, I’m pretty sure Ricardo didn’t, either. Kevin’s been going apeshit trying to figure out how to knock Ricardo out of the show before it comes down to the Final Four. So even if being outed doesn’t make any difference to you personally, there’s Ricardo’s career to consider.”

John reminded himself, as Jia said it, that Ricardo could very well win. Not only was he young and handsome, talented and charming—but he was a True magician. John looked down at Jia and sought her eyes, and she exhaled a stream of smoke and looked back at him. There was no Truth in her. Only ambition.

If Ricardo did take home the trophy, what then? Would he be free to go, or would he be obligated to continue living a sanitized persona where everyone essentially knew he was gay, but the subject would be tacitly avoided?

John and Casey had never needed to downplay their relationship. Neither of them had been famous enough to worry about sweeping the strides they’d made at Stonewall under the carpet by concealing their sexuality.

Magic Mansion’s victor wouldn’t be nearly as famous as the winners of, say, National Treasure—but within the magic community, whoever conquered the Mansion would be an instantaneous superstar.

A superstar who may or may not want to deal with the fumbling start of a publicly gay relationship.

Something to ponder, John supposed, as Jia finished her cigarette and they moved to rejoin their team.

___

“I did set construction both junior and senior years of high school,” Sue told Iain. “I won’t need some guy to run my circular saw.”

“Sorry,” Iain said, without sounding particularly sorry. “The word’s come down from on high. You guys don’t get to handle sharp objects bigger than a breadbox. Not after what happened in the garden.”

“C’mon, kiddo,” Muriel said, steering Sue into the Gold Team women’s dorm room. “Be thankful for small favors. It’s bad enough we need to draw up some kind of plan that’ll actually work.”

They piled into the room, five team members and a cameraman with a handheld, and proceeded to attempt to formulate a game plan. No actual construction could begin until morning, when a union carpenter would be on hand to work the power tools. But even though it was late, a majority of the planning would need to be done then and there, before some guy in a toolbelt was waiting for the Gold Team to give him orders. Besides, it wasn’t as if any of them could fall asleep without assembling and disassembling a Zig-Zag Cabinet in their mind until the wee hours of the morning. They might as well get it on paper.

Because Red Team sure as hell wasn’t waiting until morning.

Faye took the pad of paper they’d been given and split it into five parts so that everyone could sketch while they talked, and Ricardo handed out the pencils. They pulled a pair of beds closer and sat on the edges facing one another, three teammates on one side, two teammates and the cameraman on the other. The plain white paper on their laps formed a blank mosaic waiting to receive their ideas.

Muriel began by drawing a rectangle and dividing it in three. “I take it there’s some kind of frame involved. Maybe fitted with channels, like a dresser drawer. Something that’ll let the middle part slide over without flopping onto the floor.”

“Right,” Sue said. “They’ve got one of these at Magicopolis.” She reached over and drew a wide frame around Muriel’s rectangle. “But the frame is kind of thick, see? The eye doesn’t really pick up on the thickness. It just looks decorative, like it’s part of the design. But that’s where the assistant stands while the box is split up.”

Ricardo stared at the rectangles. They could have represented anything. A TV dinner. A medicine cabinet. Until Muriel drew a smiley face in the top section to indicate where the magician’s face would show through—though, as smiley faces went, it looked misshapen and perhaps a bit unsure of itself, with one eye higher than the other and a lopsided, lackluster smile.

Its expression seemed strangely apt. Ricardo was not currently experiencing the pinnacle of his own confidence. It was one thing to know how the trick worked. But it was something else entirely to figure out how to build it.

“So,” Faye said, “we need three boxes with fronts that can open and close, with cutouts for a hand, a foot and a face. We need the center to slide sideways on a track. And we need two channels to hold the blades.”

Overwhelm washed over Ricardo. He’d be lucky if he could put together a plain box and have the sides stay level and plumb, let alone making something that could open and shut, and slide around.

“How deep?” Bev asked.

“Deep,” Ricardo said…although representing three-dimension depth on a 2-D sheet of paper was beyond him. “So there’s room for the blades.”

“And how tall?”

The Gold Team members all looked at each other.

“It matters,” Bev said, “because if we build the box for Ricardo, who’s maybe what, five-ten and a half? Then it won’t work for Faye, who’s five-two. Her head won’t reach the top cutout.”

Ricardo was actually five-ten and a quarter…though with the product currently shaping his coiffed hair courtesy of Eliza Watt, he probably was closer to Bev’s guess. Which she’d made without even looking at him. While he was sitting down.

“We’ve been so busy worrying about building the box,” Ricardo said, “that we never asked who’d be inside it.”

Faye clucked her tongue. “That’s probably exactly what they were hoping for.”

“I’ll go ask,” Sue said. As soon as she climbed over everyone’s knees to get to the door, Bev’s pencil was flying across her paper.

Ricardo couldn’t have said how long Sue was gone. He was too busy watching the cabinet take shape on Bev’s sketchpad. She worked quickly and decisively, and the drawing took form so fast that it seemed like it had been filmed with a time-lapse camera, and in such perfect perspective it looked as if it could leap right off the page. Sue returned at some point during the rendering, but everyone was so mesmerized by the strokes of Bev’s pencil that no one even bothered to look up, let alone ask her what she’d learned, until finally Bev drew a set of casters on the bottom of the cabinet and finished the the final wheel with a dot in the center.

Everyone sat back in a daze. Even the cameraman.

“Wow,” Sue said reverently.

“I’ll still need to add the dimensions,” Bev said. “Assuming they told you who needed to fit inside the box.”

Sue shook her head no.

Bev scanned her teammates and said, “Fine. Then we build it for the shortest player,” she glanced at Faye, “and the fattest one.” She indicated her own thick middle. “Assuming Ricardo can scrunch himself down into it if he needs to.”

“Sure.”

Bev’s pencil hit the paper again, and a series of numbers, lines and arrows cascaded from it as quickly as if she was just doodling nonsense loops.

“You need to figure in the thickness of the plywood,” Faye said.

It seemed to Ricardo a bit like informing a duck that water was wet, but Bev just said, “Three-eighths inch,” as she continued to jot down her dizzying spill of figures. Ricardo considered offering to go and check—Bev had only seen the stack from across the room—then again, he tended to get the eighths and sixteenths on a ruler all turned around, so it was just as likely he’d screw it all up by reporting back with the wrong measurement.

When Bev was finished, she scowled at the drawing for a moment, then said, “The optical illusion won’t be nearly as good as it would be in a taller, thinner box. But we don’t even know if the visual effect is what we’re competing for, do we? It could be another timed competition. Or it could be that we don’t even perform with the darn thing at all. They might trample them with a team of elephants to see which one’s the first to break. We just don’t know.”

“You’re right,” Faye said, “we don’t.” Why was she being such a Debbie Downer? Most likely, she saw Bev as nothing more than a dowdy, middle-aged woman, and not a “real” magician. She took the sketch from Bev and looked it over critically, top to bottom and side to side. And then, as Ricardo steeled himself to leap to Bev’s defense, she added, “But we can’t prepare for everything. They might have us perform. And if they do, we’ll be damn well ready.”

___

When John rounded the top of the stairwell that led to the dormitory, voices carried into the hallway through the closed bedroom doors. Not just any voices. Red Team voices. Fabian and Kevin.

“Great,” Jia told John, “I’ve got a headache already. Do you care if I just hide in my room?”

Personally, he didn’t. And, in fact, he wanted to go with her…though that might be construed as an overture toward a fictitious on-screen romance he had no desire to pursue. “You’d better join us. There’ll be a camera there, after all. You don’t want to look like you’re not contributing.”

“Please. Like they’d take woodworking advice from the only woman on the team, anyway.”

“Even so, it would be in your best interest to stay. In case things don’t go well.”

Jia turned and looked up at John, cocking one eyebrow quizzically.

He elaborated, but only vaguely. “In case we happen to need a three to one vote. For any reason.”

“Vote?” she said as she turned the doorknob, “Ha. Where’d you get the idea that the Red Team was a democracy?” John shrugged. “Too bad you don’t want to be my fake boyfriend,” she tossed over her shoulder. “I could do with having some of your optimism rub off on me.”

With that, she opened the door, and Fabian’s raised voice bellowed out. “You don’t know that.”

“Know what?” John said.

Fabian and Kevin had converted the Red Team men’s dorm into a war room. Beds and luggage were piled against the walls. Four nightstands pushed together formed a large table in the center, the surface of which was covered with hastily-scrawled diagrams. Fabian and Kevin stood on opposite sides of the table, both of them palms-down, leaning in menacingly, hovering over their plans. The cameraman stood between them at the far wall, focusing momentarily on the doorway with John and Jia framed in it, and then widening its angle again to monitor Kevin and Fabian.

John stepped around Jia and considered repeating himself—drawn up to his full height, and twice as loud—but he opted to reserve the machismo in case he needed to pull it out later on in the competition. After all, one didn’t pull every last silk out of one’s sleeve the moment the footlights came up. Instead, he simply said, “Fabian?”

“This fool thinks he can outsmart the show.”

“Yo, yo, yo,” Kevin said, strutting up to John as if he was delighted to see him—as if John would naturally side with him, whatever the current disagreement might be, because John would surely see he was so terribly clever. “Check dis out, Prof. They say we gotta build us a Zig-Zag Lady, right? But they didn’t say we’ll be the ones to use it.”

“That’s a crazy leap,” Fabian said, “and you know it. We build the cabinet the best we can—”

“Tell me there ain’t some ‘twist’ every time we turn around,” Kevin demanded.

“Yeah,” Fabian said, “there’s a twist. But we don’t know what that twist is going to be. We can’t count on—”

“Hold on,” Jia said, and turned to Kevin. “What exactly is this bomb you’re expecting the producers to drop?”

“The way I see it, here’s how it’s gonna go down: we build us the cabinet. We meet in the ballroom like we’re all ready to do a show. Then Monty comes out…and he tells us to switch boxes.”

The room fell silent. John had to admit, now that Kevin laid it all out, he could see events unfolding in that very way.

“And so if our cabinet don’t slide apart like it’s supposed to,” Kevin said, “Gold Team can’t use it to get ahead on all our hard work.”

Fabian snorted in disgust. “And if you’re wrong, there we are, stuck with a useless cabinet. Losing another group challenge. Two in a row. All because you’re overthinking this whole thing and trying to make yourself out to be some kind of strategic genius.”

Kevin gave a thin smile. “Opportunities multiply as they are seized.”

Jia said, “Don’t quote Sun Tzu at me. Just don’t even…go there. The only reason we lost the Metamorphosis challenge was ’cos you picked Ricardo to play instead of Bev. What the hell was up with your precious strategy then?”

“I saw a chance,” Kevin said unapologetically, “and I took it. It didn’t pan out. But if it did, you’d all be crowing over the way I knocked his magic ass outta here.”

While the idea of Kevin gunning to eliminate Ricardo made John’s stomach clench, he also couldn’t shake the comment Jia had made in the yard, the one where she accused John of not even trying to win. Might they be told to switch cabinets? It certainly seemed in keeping with the other “twists.” Then again, it was entirely possible that if Red Team sabotaged their own cabinet, they’d be stuck with it themselves.

And then John realized exactly what they’d have to do.

It was tempting to hold his tongue—to allow the rest of the team to hash it out, and perhaps even shoot themselves in the foot. But when it was all said and done, John wasn’t sure he could live with himself if he didn’t at least take a good shot at winning the challenge.

“What we should build into the cabinet,” John finally suggested, “is a malfunction we can secretly turn on and off.”

Kevin, Fabian and Jia all frowned in thought. And finally Kevin said, “See? That’s what I’m talkin’ about. Using our heads.” He clapped John on the shoulder. “They don’t call this man ‘The Professor’ for nothing.”

Chapter 19

ZIG ZAG CABINET

Ricardo filed into the ballroom behind Sue, eager to see the Gold Team’s cabinet unveiled. Though their carpenter had been discouraged from chatting with the contestants, once the cabinet’s construction was done and the handhelds were switched off for the night, he’d actually offered Bev a job after the show was done shooting. She’d demurred, telling him her true calling was to dazzle children with the magic of mathematics. But Ricardo could tell she was flattered by his gruff approval.

Sue’s high school set design experience hadn’t gone to waste, either. The team had been responsible for painting the cabinet themselves, and it came out pretty spiffy, if Ricardo did say so himself. They’d even had enough time to rehearse the routine, with each of them taking a turn as the zig-zag lady. Even Ricardo.

The two cabinets, which had been constructed in great secrecy all week on opposite sides of the building, now stood side by side before the grand fireplace. Each cabinet was draped in a cloth, one red and one gold. A round area rug, also red or gold, had been placed beside each box, and as Ricardo stepped onto the rug to await his cabinet’s unveiling, he watched the Red Team gather on their side, and he noticed there was something strange about them. It took him a moment to pinpoint exactly what was different, until John locked eyes with Ricardo from across the room, and John’s expression sobered. It came to Ricardo then, exactly what was so out of place.

The Red Team was smiling.

“What the hell are they so giddy about?” Muriel said.

Faye tipped her chin up, tossed her auburn hair, and said, “Who cares? Just wait ’til they get a load of our kick-ass cabinet. That’ll wipe those grins off their faces.”

Monty Shaw greeted the contestants and then found his mark, trailed by an assistant director who was whispering a few last-minute instructions. Then the lights came up, the cameras swooped, and Monty’s face shifted into its on-camera expression as he said, “Well, magicians, I see you’ve been quite busy. What was once a pile of lumber has now been transformed…into this.”

A pair of grips whisked away the red and gold cloths, and cabinets were revealed.

They were so different, it hardly seemed as if they went with the same trick.

Both of them were trimmed in black, since the black frame was an integral part of the illusion. But that was where the paint jobs diverged. Gold Team’s cabinet showed the silhouette (non gender-specific, in case Ricardo got zig-zagged) of a person painted on the front, which would fool the viewer’s eye into thinking the performer was still facing forward even as they turned their body to the side. The Red Team’s cabinet had been painted with aggressive, graffiti-like strokes of red, black and white. It looked modern and fresh, and somehow even a bit threatening.

“Teams,” Monty said, “why don’t you tell us a little bit about your project?”

Iain directed the cameras to focus on Sue, then said, “Go.”

“Well, Monty, what Gold Team made is a traditional Zig-Zag Cabinet piece.” She seemed at a loss for words to describe it, compared to the balls-out audacity of the Red Team’s creation. Then she added, “It’s very well made.”

“And that accuracy will be put to the test in just a few moments. So tell me, Sue, which team member would you say was your most valuable asset in this particular leg of the challenge?”

“Who else but the Math Wizard?” Sue beamed at Bev, and the rest of the team murmured their agreement and patted Bev on the shoulders.

“Very good, Gold Team. Well done.” Monty turned to Red Team, and the cameras shifted. “Kevin, what was the concept behind the Red Team’s cabinet?”

“Yo, check it out. Dis ass-kickin’, mind-trippin’ box gonna blow y’all away—and if you think it just looks badass, you gonna find out when you see it in action…it is badass. Inside and out.”

“A bold assertion, Red Team. And who would you say was the team member most responsible for the success of your project?”

“Aw, that’s easy.” Kevin Kazan crossed his massive arms, ensuring his biceps bulged, smiled wide and said, “That’d be me.”

Three faces fell. Behind the camera, Iain motioned for them to bring their dismay up a few notches…not that they needed his direction to do so.

Jia was the first to find her voice. “No way.”

“How can you…?” Fabian spluttered.

John pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

“What’s that, Red Team?” Monty said. “You don’t agree?”

“No,” Fabian said. “I do not. I was the one who drew up the plans. I was the one who supervised the construction.”

“And don’t forget the Professor,” Jia said. “He made an important contribution too. All Kevin did was paint the damn thing. And even then, he only did the fun part and left all the boring detail work to me.”

“What you forget,” Kevin said smugly, “is that Fabian made his plans because I inspired him to draw them up. And the Professor got his idea from something I said. A team ain’t nothing without a good leader…and who’s the leader of this team?”

Jia crossed her arms, clamped her jaw shut, and said nothing. But her glare was as sharp as a circular saw.

“Well, Red Team,” Monty said without any particular regret, “your leader has spoken. Too bad you’re not in agreement about who deserves all the accolades for building the challenge cabinet…because the player who was named by your team leader is eligible for much more than just praise.”

Jia’s eyes narrowed. Fabian shook his head in disgust. John sighed…again.

“Math Wizard, Kevin Kazan, please step forward.”

Even with her new lowlights and a palate of eye makeup chosen for her by the Stylist to the Stars, Bev looked totally middle-aged and frumpy as she stepped up to the tape mark on the floor beside swaggering Kevin Kazan in his red satin track suit and glittering gold jewelry. But she had truly outdone herself in the challenge, and her team had unanimously heaped praise upon her, so she held her head high, and she beamed.

“Now that you’ve created your Zig Zag cabinets,” Monty told them, “it’s time to put them through their paces. One member of your team will step inside, while the other team members insert the blades and slide out the center piece. But here’s the twist.”

Kevin turned to the Red Team and gave them an elaborately gloating look. Sue nudged Ricardo in the ribs.

“You probably have a certain team member who’d be perfect for this challenge. Someone spry. Someone flexible. Unfortunately, the opposing team is going to select which of you performs inside the cabinet. And once the cabinet has been opened up to its most widely-spread position, our team of carpenters is going to measure the distance between the farthest edges.

“The box that opens the widest wins.”

Bev turned and looked at the pair of cabinets, and then raked her eyes over the opposing team. No doubt a tickertape of figures was running through her brain. Was she as good at calculating everyone’s waistlines as she was their height? Ricardo didn’t doubt it. She’d probably never even given a Christmas sweater the wrong size, unless she’d bought it with the intention of it being something to “grow into.” And even then, she’d be able to calculate the exact day by which the thing would be a perfect fit.

“Kevin Kazan, Math Wizard, the two of you will be offered a choice. Immunity from participating in the challenge, or a thousand dollars. Consider your decision carefu—”

“Immunity,” Bev blurted out, without even being asked. Everyone looked at her. Iain shrugged and made a “keep going” motion. “I don’t want to compete, Monty. Any other member of my team would be better at the task than me. I don’t care about the money—I want my team to win. I want immunity.”

“The Gold Team magician knows what she wants,” Monty said. “And so, Kevin, what do you say? Immunity, or a cool grand?”

Kevin thought for a good, long time. Was he just cherishing the feel of all the cameras pointed directly in his face, Ricardo wondered, or were there really pros and cons to consider? Or, was he just pissed off because he didn’t really care about either of those rewards…but if he’d cited Fabian, the portliest member of the team, for his contribution, Fabian would have been able to opt out, leaving Red Team with a much better chance of winning the challenge. Kevin pondered whatever it was he was pondering for a good long moment, then he gave a disgusted half-shrug, and said, “I’ll take the cash.”

___

“Well,” Fabian said under his breath, “it was nice knowing you.”

“You don’t know how the challenge will play out,” John said.

Fabian looked down at his ample stomach, and said, “Yeah. I do.”

Kevin’s expression, as he rejoined his team, was blank. But the tendons in his neck flicked as if his whole body was spasmodically clenching. John looked away. All the strategizing, all the planning, had been for naught. They had been so sure that they’d need to switch cabinets that all their energy had gone into concealing the latches that would lock the center section into place and prevent anyone who didn’t know about them from successfully using the device—a brilliant idea, everyone had agreed.

Brilliant…but ultimately, useless.

To make matters worse, while the team valued John’s contribution, the home audience (the voting audience) wouldn’t even get to see the modification in action. Even if Red Team lost the challenge because their stockiest member was forced into the Zig-Zag cabinet, who was to say it wouldn’t be John who would get voted off once they lost the challenge?

“Listen up,” Iain called out. “We’ll give you three minutes to decide who’s doing the stunt for the opposing team. Bev is off-limits. Everyone else is fair game. Time starts…now.”

Across the room, the Gold Team immediately formed a huddle, arms around each others’ shoulders and heads bent together.

The members of the Red Team all crossed their arms and glared at each other.

“Well?” Jia said, once half a minute had ticked by. “Who’re we gonna pick?”

“Like I give a fuck,” Kevin said.

“Don’t you dare snap at me,” Jia warned. “If you hadn’t gone and nominated yourself as MVP, we could’ve had that immunity on a team member who actually needed it.”

Kevin didn’t reply. He simply puffed himself up larger and glared twice as hard.

“C’mon, now,” Fabian said. “We got two minutes left to decide who we’re picking. How about Sue? Maybe she’s still sore?”

“Maybe Sue,” Jia said. “Not Ricardo, for sure. You saw how he could move in Metamorphosis.”

John’s mouth went a bit dry, but he managed to say, “Not Faye. She’s the thinnest one on the team.”

“Not Sue,” Kevin said grudgingly, watching the Gold Team huddle through narrowed eyes. “Girl’s fine.”

“Okay,” Iain announced. “Time.”

Iain lined the teams up on their color-coded carpets, and the cameras swept the teams’ faces. Monty cleared his throat experimentally a few times, then said, “Red Team, have you made your decision?”

Only then did Kevin look over at the Gold Team, as if he was still mulling over his choices. His flair for timing, John noted, was uncanny. After a perfectly timed pause, he said, “Red Team picks Muriel Broom.”

Gold Team responded by more of their enthusiastic back-clapping and high-fives.

“And Gold Team? Who are you sending into the Zig-Zag Cabinet?”

Sue squared her shoulders. She was wringing her hands—John wondered if she was conscious of the fact, or if she was just perpetuating the goody-two-shoes image of her team. And then he wondered how his brief tenure on the Red Team had encouraged him to become so cynical.

“Monty, we’d like the Red Team to be represented by Fabian Swan.”

While Red Team had been expecting it, the decision felt like a blow, all the same.

Adding insult to injury, Sue gave a little, self-conscious shrug, and mouthed the word, “Sorry.”

“Magicians,” Monty said, “step up to your cabinets.”

John approached the box. The secret catches he’d had installed seemed to glow through the plywood, accusing him of stooping to Kevin Kazan’s level for the sake of winning.

Which begged the question: if John wasn’t expected to win, then why did Jia’s assertion that he hadn’t even been trying bother him so much…enough to make him begin plotting and scheming with the rest of the Red Team.

Fabian stepped into the box. John murmured the locations of the secret catches, though of course Fabian knew. He’d overseen the cabinet’s construction himself. While Kevin looked on, arms crossed, expression blank, Jia slipped the blades in…or tried to. The side of the upper blade caught on something. John focused on it harder. Fabian’s stomach. “Just breathe,” John said gently. “Relax. In. Out. And now, pull your stomach in.”

A grunt, a slide, and the dull blade slid home. It was nothing dangerous, though it probably felt like he was getting stabbed by a cookie sheet.

“Slide it,” Jia said, and John gave the center of the cabinet a push. It slid sideways—but not all the way.

“Keep going,” Fabian whispered. “Push hard. I can take it.”

John glanced over at the Gold Team’s cabinet, where the carpenters were already taking their tape measures to the device. Muriel Broom’s face smiled placidly out of the head cutout, eyebrows raised high, while her fingers and toes wiggled in their respective holes. The cabinet was spread open so wide that even accounting for the optical illusion, she did indeed look like her middle had been severed and completely displaced.

Fabian’s box would need to slide over another half a foot to even approach it. And a man could only squash himself so flat.

Still, since he could see that trying meant something to Fabian, at least, John gave the cabinet one final shove. In the uppermost cutout, Fabian’s face grimaced. “We’re ready,” John said, and the carpenters came and recorded their measurements. When Fabian was allowed to step out of the cabinet, his forehead was gleaming with sweat. John looked at him harder, deeper, seized with the worry that maybe the pressure had ruptured something inside him: a weak gall bladder. An inflamed appendix. A hernia. But thankfully, no, Fabian was still whole and sound. Only profoundly disappointed in himself.

As the scoreboard was readied and the cabinets, now open and empty, were arranged behind the two teams, John decided that if he did end up voted off at the end of this loss, at least he knew that he actually had tried. And that once the competition was over, he would see Ricardo soon enough.

Hopefully.

Unless Ricardo was too busy making appearances. Because whether or not Ricardo ultimately won, there was no way he would need to go back to working bachelorette parties now that America had seen him in all his handsome, perfectly-poised glory.

John almost looked up and sought Ricardo’s eye—almost—but at the last moment he changed his mind, unable to bear an apologetic look like the one the Red Team had elicited from Sue. He found his teammate Jia’s eyes on him instead. She looked angry enough to scream. He could only imagine how badly she wanted a cigarette. Or ten.

When Monty announced the Red Team’s final score, 38-1/4 inches, John presumed (solely by the fact that their score had been announced first) that they’d been completely trounced.

“And now, Gold Team, you’ll need to come in at thirty-eight and a half inches or more…”

Bev was nodding and whispering to her team, who were all hanging on her every word.

“…and your final score is…wow, a whopping forty-three and a half inches. Gold Team won with room to spare.”

The Gold Team clasped hands all around and jumped up and down, whooping and hugging, with Bev at the center. John couldn’t exactly begrudge them their win. They’d come by it fair and square. But even more than this single battle’s victory, John envied the spirit of the Gold Team, the closeness they’d spoken of at dinner earlier that week.

And then he realized that one of his team members was probably feeling even worse than he was.

He slipped his arm around Fabian, gave him a very un-magicianly squeeze, and said, “You did your best. We all did. And that’s something nobody can take away from us.”

Iain called a five-minute break while he whispered heatedly into his cell phone, and Monty strolled over and peered into the Red Team’s cabinet, saying, “Tough break, yeah? She’s a beaut.”

The Red Team members were spared from coming up with any sort of a reply when Iain signaled Monty over and began whispering to him with great enthusiasm. “I don’t like it,” Jia said. “He’s looking way too intense.”

“Nothing we can do about it now,” Fabian said.

A script supervisor handed Monty a sheet of lines, which he glanced over, and Iain called for the cameras, crew and magicians to take their places again. John stood at the back of his group, fixed his eyes on Monty and waited.

Iain said, “Take it from the last line.”

Monty nodded, composed himself with a few breaths, then lit with sudden excitement and said, “Gold Team won with room to spare! Unfortunately for you, Red Team, that means that one of you…will be eliminated.”

Fabian made a very quiet noise in his throat that plainly conveyed, “See? What’d I tell you?”

“And that player is the one who cost the Red Team their victory tonight: Fabian Swan.”

No vote?

John felt as if his heart had stopped. As if he’d surely not heard what he thought he’d just heard. But then Fabian’s head sagged down as he absorbed the words himself, and he shook it slowly side to side, and he made not a sound.

“I’m sorry, Fabian,” Monty said sadly. “It’s time for you to bid your team goodbye.”

Fabian gathered himself, bent and gave Jia a polite kiss on the cheek, then turned and shook John’s hand without meeting his eyes. John couldn’t say whether or not the departing magician wanted to even shake Kevin’s hand, but what happened next must have surprised Fabian as much as it did John.

It started with a handshake…but then Kevin hauled on Fabian’s arm and dragged him into a solid embrace. And he held him there, patting his back, and rocking side to side. And then, after long seconds, he spoke. “I didn’t know, swear to God. If I knew, man, I never would’ve…I just didn’t know.” When he let Fabian go, tears were coursing down Kevin’s cheeks. He swiped at them angrily, defiantly, and said, “It was an honor to be on your team, Fabian Swan.”

___

Marlene rewound the dailies from cameras three and seven. One caught the light reflecting off Kevin Kazan’s tears just right. In the other, it was obvious how red his eyes were, how his eyelashes had glommed together into shiny wet points.

Great footage.

She sorted through a few more angles even as the trailer door opened, and Iain collapsed into the chair beside her. It must have been past midnight. He’d thrown himself down with such force he nearly split the chair in half.

“It’s a damn good weeper shot,” he finally said, “I’ll admit that. But I still think you owe me an explanation.”

“Oh, really?” Marlene reversed in slow-mo and a tear crept up Kevin’s cheek and disappeared into the corner of his eye.

“If you played it my way and switched the boxes, you would’ve had that big payoff when the Red Team’s cabinet trapped one of the girls inside and wouldn’t budge. It would’ve been great.”

It would have—and it would have made Professor Topaz out to be the big hero. But he’d come as far as he had by flying under the radar and avoiding making enemies, and to draw attention to him like that would be as effective as painting a big target on his forehead. Marlene had no intention of telling Iain that she was secretly hoping to get Topaz into the Final Four, despite what the executive producers wanted. She couldn’t have explained precisely why she’d developed a fondness for the old man herself.

“Here’s the thing, Iain. If we really did use that cabinet-switching idea as our twist, the audience wouldn’t have thought we were watching their footage and then decided it actually was a pretty cool idea. They would have assumed we leaked our plan to the Red Team somehow—and if there’s one thing that pisses off a viewer, it’s cheating.”

Iain shrugged sullenly. Once he’d heard that the Red Team had rigged their own cabinet, he’d been dying to see the sabotage in action.

“Even better,” Marlene told him, “audiences love a good comeuppance. The way we worked it tonight—instant karma. Kevin Kazan acts like an idiot and ends up getting his own idol thrown off the show. Satisfying, or what?”

“Yeah. That did work out okay. I guess.”

Way better than okay. Who knew Kazan had that kind of waterworks in him?

Iain stretched and said, “If that’s all you need….”

“One last thing.” Marlene sent a document from her PDA to the printer, and handed him the printout. “I had Monty and a couple of cameras stop off in the library. Give this to him, then go grab Sue and have her meet him there for one quick shot.”

Iain perked up. “Are they gonna, y’know…go at it?”

“What? What do you…? No. Of course not. That’s crazy.”

Chagrined, Iain pried himself from his chair and slunk toward the door.

Before he left, Marlene added, “I’d never stage an affair with an amateur like Sue. You’d be able to spot the lack of chemistry a million miles away.”

___

“What is it?” Sue whispered as Iain pulled her into the hallway. “Is everything okay? Is my family okay?”

Man oh man. These contestants were wound up tight. Normally, Iain would have enjoyed being as ambiguous as he could and watching Sue work herself into a tizzy by the time she got to the location—but his eyes were full of grit, he was dying for a shower, and the sooner they got the damn shot, the sooner he could go home and go to bed. “It’s nothing like that. You’re fine. Team leader stuff. That’s all.”

“Oh…okay, then. I guess that’s to be expecte—”

“And here we are. You stand in the doorway. Monty’s going to read something to you. You give him an answer.”

“But why—?”

“Was there some part of those instructions you didn’t understand?”

“No,” Sue said quietly. “I understand.”

Iain turned to the ornately carved wooden desk. It was one of the few original pieces left in the mansion, and likely Marlene had nixed his cabinet-switch idea just to get a chance to showcase it. Monty, for all his blond surfer-babe charm, looked very official, even imposing, sitting behind that desk in his charcoal pinstripe suit, with the lighting low, and a crystal glass at his elbow… “Is that scotch?” Iain sputtered. “Drinking on the job—are you insane? Who do you think you are, Ken Fucking Barron? I’m giving you exactly one take—”

“No worries, mate. I won’t touch it ’til you say it’s a wrap.”

Iain’s head throbbed. He pinched his temples, then turned and backed out of camera range. “Okay, fine. Just…go on. Go.”

Tape rolled, and Monty said, “Hi, Sue, come on in and have a seat.”

Sue did as she was told. She looked good and nervous.

Monty continued. “Congratulations on Gold Team’s victory tonight. Kevin was on to something when he said a team was nothing without a good leader. Unfortunately for him, that good leader is you.”

“Thanks, Monty,” Sue said hesitantly.

“Which is why we’re giving you a little heads-up on the next vote.”

“Another elimination? But how…?”

“Not an elimination, but a vote that will affect you, all the same. You’ll need to say goodbye to one member of the Gold Team, but that magician won’t be voted off the show. They’ll join your competitors instead.”

Sue looked thoroughly aghast at the mere thought.

“Since you won tonight’s challenge,” Monty said, “I’m able to give you a little perk. While I can’t let you choose the magician who gets switched…I can allow you to select one teammate you’d like to keep on your team.”

Sue groaned and put her face in her hands.

“Choose wisely, Sue. You’ve got a diverse and talented bunch—and you’ve made friends with them all. Which of them do you need by your side to keep winning challenges?” Monty leaned forward and steepled his fingers. “Which of them would turn around Red Team’s losing streak if they were to switch sides?”

Sue twisted the edge of her nightgown and blinked back tears—she was a pretty good weeper herself, though Kevin’s outburst was better, since you’d expect plenty of crying from someone like Sue.

“Who’s it going to be, Sue? Who will you grant immunity from getting voted off your team?”

Sue took a few deep breaths to compose herself, then said, “I choose Ricardo, Monty. I want to keep Ricardo.”

___

“The Gold Team leader has spoken. She’s decided she wants to keep Ricardo the Magnificent by her side. And so, one of her other talented teammates will join the ranks of the enemy. Who’s it going to be? That’s up to you, the audience.

“Will it be the oldest female contestant in the game, the spirited spiritualist Muriel Broom?

“Will it be the beautiful and talented assistant-turned-magician, Amazing Faye?

“Or will it be the Gold Team’s MVP from tonight’s challenge, the clever Math Wizard, Bev Austin?

“I’m your host, Monty Shaw, bidding you happy voting. Remember, your vote will decide who dons the Red, next time…on Magic Mansion.”

Chapter 20

UNEVEN TEAMS

VIDEO JOURNAL - AMAZING FAYE

When Red Team unveiled their Zig Zag Cabinet, I’ll admit, I was a little scared. It looked really, really good. They’ve got some serious talent over there—especially now that all their deadweight is gone. They’re all pros. Not that the Gold Team members aren’t…we’ve got Ricardo. He’s good.

What’s funny is, back on the first day, I wasn’t exactly thrilled when Sue picked me—because, come on, she works in a gift shop. I really thought it was some kind of fluke that she’d come in second place on that initial challenge, and Red Team was going to be the team to beat. I even figured if there was one consolation to being on a team full of losers, it would be that I could outshine them.

And then we won. Every single challenge.

I think sometimes luck, or fate, or whatever you want to call it…I think that plays a big part in people’s lives. I wouldn’t have chosen to be on Gold Team myself, but now look at us. We’re kicking some serious ass.

Which isn’t to say that providence is just going to hold your hand and present everything to you on a silver platter. You’ve got to work for the things you want. And I’ll be damned if I ever bomb another challenge.

___

“Can’t you get a move on?” Iain said. Interns. Honestly. Sometimes it seemed like they were more trouble than they were worth. Even the free ones. But Iain needed to make do with what he had, and he’d be damned if he ended up on the receiving end of yet another one of Marlene’s snotty looks. And he’d be damned if these little twerps kept him from going home at a decent hour, too. “Paint faster, people. It’s not the Sistine Chapel.”

In an ideal world, the studio’s prop room could have provided the necessary accouterments for the show. “I need lots of wands,” Marlene had told him. So he’d put a call in, and they’d sent down a good two dozen of them.

To which she’d responded with a “look.”

If she meant a thousand, she should have been more fucking specific.

When he finally found a manufacturer who was willing to overnight the damn things to him, they cheerfully informed him that they would do just that…after an eight to ten day manufacturing period. Because apparently the need for magic wands was not so great that anyone in the whole damn country would stock a thousand of them.

Which, of course, Marlene needed for tomorrow.

Luckily, once Iain ducked back into his trailer to pace and swear, he spotted the piece of “chalk” he’d given the Math Wizard during the filming of the intro, a piece of dowel covered in white correction fluid, and he had his great idea. Not terribly great—magic wands made from dowels didn’t look nearly as good as the wands from the prop department, which were tapered on one side and carefully finished, with a glossy ebony body and a faux ivory tip—but at least he’d have them in time for the damn stunt.

If only the pathetic interns would stop screwing around and get to work.

___

As much as Ricardo enjoyed the company of his teammates, the time they spent waiting for things to happen was nerve-wracking. There was a pool on the property, but it was out of repair, drained and off-limits. There was a workout room, but Kevin Kazan was usually in there pumping iron—and the grunting noises he made with each and every curl, extension or raise were, frankly, disturbing (plus there was the thought of his perspiration coating everything…just, ew.) There was a full bar…but with handhelds drifting through their living space hoping to spy a bit of interpersonal conflict, even between challenges, it seemed unwise to give in to temptation and go the unfortunate Ken Barron route. And there was a hastily-manicured section of backyard that seemed ideal for sunbathing, but once Ricardo and Sue spread out their towels, they soon discovered that clouds of gnats from the unkept areas were quick to descend on them. Besides, it turned out the grass had only been painted green. It poked right through the towels and prickled their backs, and it crunched every time they rolled over.

So it was with a certain dread-tinged relief that Ricardo greeted Iain when the producer strode into the front hall, where the Gold Team members were perched on the edge of the fountain, wagering guesses as to what the odd chemical smell in the water might be. Dread, because the sight of Iain meant the announcement of some weird, contrived activity that would ultimately end in someone getting voted off. But relief, since the anticipation was killing them.

“Heads up, kids. It’s time for your next stunt. Swing by wardrobe, then meet me in the basement at five-fifteen ready to roll in your brand-spanking new swimwear.”

The basement? That part of the mansion had been strictly off-limits to the contestants.

Iain turned and left. Ricardo looked at Sue, who shrugged. No one tried to stop Iain. It wasn’t as if they were under the illusion that he might tell them what they were up against.

As the teammates stood to head over to wardrobe, Muriel said, “Do you think there’ll be pudding involved?”

Faye grumbled, “There’d better not be.”

“I dunno,” Muriel said as they trooped into wardrobe and began making their way past racks of sequins and satin. “I could really go for some pudding.”

While Ricardo scrutinized the three-way mirror to determine which sparkly gold briefs made his butt look shapelier, it occurred to him that he’d presumed he would only don such a costume while lounging beside a serene, blue in-ground pool. The word “Mansion” in the show’s title was no doubt to blame for his misconception that anything in his reality TV experience would actually be glamorous. Then again, some things you just can’t anticipate. Like painted grass. Or giant vats of pudding.

The wardrobe assistant stuck her head into his makeshift changing stall, looked directly at his butt, and said, “Definitely that pair.”

Ricardo took a deep breath and nodded. He supposed there wasn’t anything left to do, other than show up and try to make the best of things.

The basement, it turned out, was vast. Its ceilings were high and there were no exposed beams or concrete walls, as would be found in any normal middle-class home. But there was still a dank, utilitarian feel about it, all the same.

The tile floors were set with drains, and the camera rigs and lighting hugged the wall with the electrical box and hot water heater. A four-foot-tall pool with inflatable sides took up most of the set. Hard to say what it contained. A silver solar cover shielded the contents from view.

Bev, Sue and Muriel were right behind Ricardo. Sue looked like Miss Nebraska in her new low-lighted hairdo, spike heels and gold lamé one-piece with high cut legs. Muriel wore a suit with a plainer cut and a gold snakeskin pattern that left the eye wondering where to look. Bev seemed awkward in glasses, earrings, and geriatric-looking gold paisley swim dress that managed to highlight every unflattering bulge.

Faye brought up the rear in gold kitten heels and a thigh-length gold sparkle wrap cinched tight over her swimsuit. She strode to a piece of gaffing tape on the floor Ricardo hadn’t even noticed, and gazed at the wall on the far side of the basement. No doubt steeling herself for whatever new challenge was in store. And hoping there’d be no pudding involved.

Across the pool, the Red Team gathered…what was left of it. Kevin Kazan wore huge red swim trunks with elaborate black criss-crossed lacing at the fly and the side seams. They hung low on his hips, boxy and stiff, and above the waistband, his tattooed abs were so cut they didn’t even look real. Jia wore a low-cut red one piece with a glittery black dragon emblazoned down the side. And John towered over them, smooth and tan, lean and natural, in a pair of simple red racing shorts. From across the basement, he looked statuesque, and timeless.

While Ricardo didn’t quite need to give himself a mental cold shower by imagining income taxes or prickly spray-painted lawns…he couldn’t resist admiring. Kevin looked back at him, arms crossed and chin tipped up, as if he read Ricardo’s attention in the Red Team’s direction as a challenge.

Whatever. Professor Topaz rocked a swimsuit like nobody’s business.

“My, my, my,” Monty purred with mock lasciviousness as he was ushered in past the Gold Team. “I’m stoked for tonight’s challenge.”

Sue tittered. Faye was so focused she didn’t even notice. Muriel looked down at her snakeskin bathing suit, then told Ricardo, “You think that was directed at me? Hot damn. Maybe I should’ve gone for the bikini.”

While Ricardo wouldn’t have dreamed of telling Muriel not to get her hopes up, he highly doubted she’d been the object of the announcer’s playful leering. Then again, considering the age difference between himself and John (and the unabashed enjoyment he was getting from those red shorts) he supposed he could be wrong.

Crew shuffled, cameras swept, and finally when everyone was in place, Iain gave his signal.

“Good evening, Magicians,” Monty read from the teleprompter. “Water and stage magic have long gone hand in hand. Back at the turn of the Twentieth Century when it was considered scandalous for a woman to show so much as a bare ankle, Harry Houdini was being chained up in a water tank wearing nothing but a pair of woolen shorts.”

A camera hovered to the side of Ricardo. He put his weight on one foot and made sure his body was at a pleasing angle. But subtly. He didn’t want to look like he was posing, after all.

“Another magical prop that’s withstood the test of time—a prop that is now synonymous with stage magic—is the magic wand.

“Wands are one of the many props typically employed for close-up magic: drawing the viewers’ eyes to the very spot the performer wishes his or her audience to look, to distract from their sleight of hand. They’re not typically used in underwater cabinet tricks.

“So tonight in Magic Mansion, we thought we’d try a little twist…and combine water with wands…in the Wand Pond.”

Grips whisked the cover off the pool while cameras circled. The pool was full of water. Muriel sighed. There’d be no pudding tonight.

“Inside this pool, you’ll find a thousand wands.” A spotlight blinked on, shining on a board with four black-painted sticks pinned to it like specimens. “Nine hundred of them are the same size, ten inches long.” Ricardo noted the demo-wands were, indeed, different sizes…but only marginally different. Which would be basically impossible to tell, underwater. “Ninety wands are ten and a half inches long. Only nine wands are eleven inches long. And a single wand is a full twelve inches.

“You’ll be searching for the longest wand. You have fifteen minutes to complete this task. You may only hold one wand in each hand at any given time, and anyone who picks up more than two at a time will be disqualified. In the event that the longest wand found by each team matches, the team who found that wand first and exited the Wand Pond will win the competition. So when you’re satisfied with your wand, hop out of the pool.

“The winning team will spend tomorrow wining and dining with a special V.I.P., but more importantly than that, they’ll go into the next challenge with a big advantage. You’ll have three minutes to confer with your teammates on your strategy, and then it’s time for a dip.

“And if anyone should happen to find the single longest wand, not only will their team win the current challenge…but that magician will be immune in the next elimination round.”

Two handhelds edged into the Gold Team’s huddle. Ricardo saw that, across the pool, they were doing the same for the Red Team…which only had three members.

That wasn’t very fair. Gold Team had five chances in a thousand to find the longest wand. Red Team had only three.

“It’s statistically improbable anyone will find that twelve-inch wand,” Bev said. “And since it’s entirely possible that everyone comes up with a short wand, one of us needs to grab the first wand she sees and hop right back out. That way, we’ll win the time-score. Who wants to do that? Faye? You’re quick.”

“No…not me,” Faye said. “Someone else.”

“Not Ricardo,” Bev said, “Assuming he doesn’t have a problem with water. You don’t, do you?” Ricardo shook his head no. “He’s got the longest reach. He should stay ’til the very end and keep comparing every wand he grabs to the one already in his hand. Chances are, he’ll end up with one of the ninety 10-1/2 inchers.”

“Not you,” Muriel said to Bev. “I got a feeling you’ll be able to spot a long one. Heh.”

“Accounting for the motion and the refraction of the water…well, it’s hard to say what I’ll be able to see until I get in there. But maybe.”

“I’m quick,” Sue said. “I’ll make a grab and jump right out.” Either Sue was a phenomenally generous team player, or she didn’t seem to think she needed immunity, not at this stage of the game. And Ricardo suspected she didn’t.

“Okay,” Bev said. “Good. And since we’ve got a huge advantage in having five players, we should have someone else jump out with their best wand at the five- and ten-minute marks.”

“Instead of grabbing for wands yourself,” Sue suggested to Bev, “what if you worked with the other players and point out which wand we should take?”

“Good,” Bev said. “I like it.”

“Except me,” Sue said. “I’ll just grab and go as fast as I can. Okay, so who wants to go in what order? Me first, Ricardo last, Bev second-last….”

“I’ll come out after five,” Muriel said. Which would make it unlikely she’d gain the immunity…though, Ricardo reminded himself, Bev said it was improbable anyone would find the twelve-inch wand. While she hadn’t said “impossible,” chances were she reserved that word for literal impossibilities, like Kevin Kazan one day waking up as a tolerable human being.

“Okay,” Sue said, “that leaves Faye at the ten-minute mark. Is everyone on board? High five!”

As Sue high-fived Ricardo, Iain called out, “Okay, enough talking. Everyone face the cameras. Monty, you read that next part.”

While facing the cameras didn’t put Monty in his direct line of sight, something compelled Ricardo to sneak a quick look at him. As the announcer read through whatever was on his teleprompter, his eyes widened. Only briefly, but Ricardo saw what he saw. A cold knot of dread formed in his stomach.

On Iain’s signal, Monty smiled broadly at the contestants and said, “Before you dive in, Magicians, there’s just one more thing. Playing with only three team members would put the Red Team at a serious disadvantage.”

Oh, great, Ricardo thought. Just when we get our plan all hashed out, they’re gonna tell us to have two people sit out. Maybe Muriel would volunteer. And who else? Maybe Faye…she hadn’t seemed too keen on the challenge during the whole planning process, anyway.

Monty took a deep breath, and went on. “And so, to even the odds, we turned this decision over to our home viewers—and they have spoken. Red Team, say hello to your new member…Amazing Faye!”

Ricardo had been so sure he was about to hear a directive to sit someone out, Monty’s words didn’t even make sense to him. Not until Faye whispered, “I’m sorry, guys…nothing personal,” and gave the belt of her gold sparkle wrap a tug. It slid to the floor, pooling around her kitten heels…and there she stood in a shimmering scarlet bikini. The gold wrap lay on the floor like a shed skin as she strode away to join the other team—who looked just as shocked as Ricardo felt.

“How long did she know?” Sue whispered, bewildered.

“Wardrobe,” Ricardo decided, because to think she’d been in on the switch any sooner was just plain creepy. “They must have told her then, when they gave her a red bathing suit. Unless she’s colorblind.”

Kevin Kazan welcomed Faye with a courtly kiss on the back of the hand, and she proceeded to whisper urgently to the Red Team while they listened, and nodded.

“Well, that’s just great,” Bev hissed, “she’s taking our whole strategy to our opponents.”

Ricardo had never seen Bev so angry. Cameras swarmed.

“Don’t worry,” Muriel said, “she can steal our strategy, but she can’t take away our talent. Gold Team will win it, because that’s how we roll. We’ll do everything as planned, and with Bev’s eagle eyes, Ricardo will be the one to find the big stick.”

Sue looked like she was about to burst into tears, but she nodded extra-hard in agreement and said, “That’s right, guys. We’ll show them. We are totally winning this challenge. Group hug.”

Ricardo put his arms around Sue and Muriel and bumped heads with Bev. There they were, just “the girls” who’d shared their reality TV initiation on day one with the obnoxious taping of the show’s opening credits. But instead of feeling solid and unshakeable, Ricardo felt suddenly vulnerable, and profoundly exposed.

Chapter 21

THE WAND POND

“…so I’ll hop out first,” Faye said. “I’m quicker than the rest of you, and I’m taller than Jia, so it’ll be easier for me to climb out.”

“A’ight,” Kevin said, “so to figure out who’s staying in the longest…who’s wearing contacts? ’Cos I can’t see shit once my contacts start sticking to my eyeballs.”

“I had LASIK when I was eighteen,” Jia said. “But I’m not a big swimmer.”

“I’ll do it,” John said. “I swim.” And while he’d never taken an eye test in his life, he had every reason to believe his vision had never been anything less than perfect. The acuity had become obvious in his early fifties, when he and Casey noticed a preponderance of reading glasses cropping up among all their non-magic friends. They’d even tried a few pairs on, for a lark. Casey had looked distinguished in his pair. John’s did nothing but make the room wobble.

Kevin was giving John a hard look—possibly trying to see if he was being overconfident, or maybe if he was wearing contact lenses too, but was willing to risk the discomfort of wet lenses for a chance at winning immunity.

Which, when John considered it against Red Team’s horrific losing streak, seemed like it might not be such a bad thing to have. According to Faye, the Math Wizard had said it was statistically improbable.

No doubt. But there were statistics, and then there was Truth.

“Magicians,” Monty said, “take your places.”

Tape marks ringed the broad, shallow pool, interspersed with a pair watertight camera rigs positioned underwater at opposite sides. John found a tape mark and stood on it. He felt a cameraman behind him as he calculated whether it would be foolhardy to take a shallow dive. Not dangerous, no, not if he did it with control. But why hurry? He’d have the entire fifteen minutes to find his wand.

Faye, however, would really benefit from a quick entry.

“On your marks…get set….”

John turned to Faye, whispered, “Leg up,” and cut his eyes to the pool.

Faye understood immediately. She gave a curt nod.

“Go!”

All around the pool, magicians in glittery red and gold swimsuits began boosting themselves over the pool’s sides. John, however, knelt beside Faye instead. He almost catapulted her right to the center—she weighed next to nothing, and her foot felt as small as a child’s against his palm—but at the last moment he reined in and aimed her closer to the pool’s side. She splashed down, went under, burst back up with a wand, then swung herself out over the edge. Sue followed close on her heels, but the seconds the jump-start had gained Faye proved to be crucial.

First wand to Red Team.

John swung his legs into the pool. Immediately, he was startled by the feel of the rods beneath his feet, uncomfortable to stand on, and strangely slippery, too. Wherever a number of them had fallen parallel, they functioned as a sort of conveyor belt, rolling the contestants out of their strides.

And if that wasn’t enough, there were cameras to avoid. And splashing.

And screaming.

He was unsure who’d started the screaming. Possibly Jia—the water was unexpectedly cold. But the manic energy spread fast, and pretty soon Muriel was whooping, Kevin was bellowing, and Bev was hollering over the top of it all, “Not that one! The other one next to it!”

John went under and picked up two wands. Were they ten inches? Ten and a half? He emerged and compared them. They were the same size. Or were they? Maybe they weren’t. Maybe he was holding them wrong. And maybe, in his apprehension, he would throw away the longer wand if he wasn’t careful, thereby letting victory slip right through his fingers.

Honestly, don’t be such a drama queen. The words popped into John’s mind as if dear departed Casey had been commentating on the whole fiasco, lounging on the sidelines with a mai tai in his hand and a lazy smile on his face. If nothing else, you get to ogle the cute twink in the gold trunks. So live a little. Relax.

John took a steadying breath, then searched through the splashing, screaming, wand-waving melee. Sue and Faye stood outside the pool, dripping on the tile floor, adding to the chaos by shouting encouragement at their teams. Muriel slogged through the water with her hair a mass of heavy gray tangles that covered her face. She seemed to be laughing. Jia bobbed up holding her nose with a wand hooked awkwardly in the pinkie finger of that hand. She compared two lengths of wand, threw one back in, then held her nose and went under again. Ricardo broke the surface of the water with a wand in each hand, compared them, and tossed one away while Bev shouted, “Not that one!”

Kevin lurked behind them, eyes riveted to the spot Bev was pointing at.

And despite the fact that he was standing nearly chest-deep in water, John felt somewhat…soiled. Because while he did want to win—enough to launch his new teammate into the pool—it just didn’t seem right to prey on the Gold Team’s strategy.

You can’t control what other people do, Casey used to say. You can try, but the only thing you accomplish is driving yourself crazy.

Too true. John took a deep breath, bent his knees, and went under.

The pool consisted of inflatable blue vinyl sides with a rigid framework holding it up, a sort of semipermanent structure that could be disassembled and stored in the garage at the end of the season. With all the harsh studio lights shining on and through it, the water took on the gentle blue cast that it would in a much deeper pool. It was cold, as if it had recently come from the garden hose. And all the splashing was stirring up plenty of bubbles.

John turned his attention to the wands. They covered the pool’s bottom like a fantastic black coral reef. He saw them, beheld them…and then looked deeper. An image popped into his mind. Pine needles. Of course. What else would cheap lumber be made from but fast-growing pine?

The lumber held a stronger sense of itself than a man-made object might, and so it was quite possible that the longer pieces might be located by something a bit more precise than simple trial and error. If only John could figure out, between the splashing and the timer and the cameras, how to communicate “length” to a thousand simple pieces of wood.

Normally, John would take a few breaths to center himself. Underwater, this was not very practical. He closed his eyes, opened them again, and willed himself to feel stillness. A pair of gold trunks flashed by, and…my, what an ass. Stillness. Not so easy. He stood, broke water, took a breath, and went under once more.

He focused on the wood again. It felt somehow…scattered. Baked dry, lathed into smooth regularity, chopped into bits, and painted black. Despite its confusion, it did, however, seem to be “listening.”

John sent the tendril of thought: long?

No, no, no. Not long. The image of the green-needled tip of a tree reaching toward the sky fleeted through his mind. Now that was long.

John broke the surface again. Three minutes had elapsed. He began to doubt he could convey the concept of “twelve inches” to a bunch of painted dowels in fifteen years, let alone fifteen minutes. He took another breath and went under once more.

He pictured a tall tree, and a small tree, and he conveyed that for as long as he could hold his breath. When his lungs began burning a few images drifted up from various wands…but it was more along the lines of, Yes, this is where I came from.

John surfaced again. Jia was swinging herself out of the pool at four and a half minutes to ensure they’d gain another time advantage over Gold Team’s five-minute member. This counter-strategy had stirred up more chaos than the wand-diving. Faye was hauling her out, shouting, “Go! Go! Go!” while Sue leaned into the edge of the pool, screaming, “Stay in, Muriel. You might as well just stay in now!” Muriel, blinded by her own hair, slid on a dowel and splashed under. Ricardo came up with a wand in each hand, and his shoulder connected with Kevin Kazan’s chest. He looked, for a moment, as if he would snap at Kevin to back the hell off—especially as Kevin puffed out his chest and began posturing for a fight. But instead, Ricardo responded with a cool “I know exactly what you’re playing at” look, turned his back to Kevin and went about trying to grab whichever wand Bev was pointing out before Kevin did.

Kevin was gunning for Ricardo. No two ways about it. That realization settled like a stone in the pit of John’s stomach. Because there was competition…and there was spite. And spite, he’d always found, was a True magician’s greatest enemy. It was spite that caused normal, everyday folks to turn on people like John. It was spite that had ejected him from his work at the hospital. And it was spite, John was convinced, that energetically drew in the bizarre accidents that would be their ultimate demise.

In which case…how safe was it really to be prancing around on a reality show, exposing oneself not only to everyone else’s envy, and criticism, and spite…but to drowning, and potentially dangerous spa treatments, and pruning shears? Best not to think of it. Not in the middle of a timed challenge.

John took a breath, went underwater, and tried to convey a little bit longer to the wood. No images came back to him, and no wonder. The concept was too abstract. He took two dowels as he came up, and compared them. They looked the same. And while he suspected that it was counterproductive to attack the problem both mentally and physically at the same time, the screaming and the commotion was making it impossible to focus on just one or the other.

He dropped a dowel, went under again, and tried to convey the concept of “different.”

No. All the same. In every way that really matters.

He broke the surface with two more wands. Yep. The same, all right.

Two, three more dives, and still the dowels were the same. John checked the clock. Five minutes left. Theoretically, Kevin should leave the pool and gain another time advantage. But despite his wet contact lenses, he was circling Ricardo like a shark. And although both teams had planned to leave the pool at timed intervals, other than the ladies who had stepped out when they were supposed to, the rest of the magicians were sticking with the task in a stubborn game of “chicken.”

John gazed at the splashing, screaming hubbub for a moment, considering whether he should simply get out with whatever wand he had in hand…but then he looked above the fracas and saw the sample board on the wall. The wands were arranged from smallest to largest, like the bars of a cell phone service area. Maybe that was a strong enough visual to go on.

He stared at it for a moment, fixed it in his mind, then took a deep breath, and went under.

A few wands stirred as contestants’ bare feet kicked them up. But mostly, they lay still. Waiting.

John pictured the image of the four wands side by side as clearly as he’d just seen it with his physical eyes, and then he sent it to the wood. He held the image patiently, as long as he could while also holding his breath, in hopes that somewhere the barrier between incomprehension and understanding might break. That his intention might leak through.

Yes.

That’s all? Yes? Yes what? Time was running out.

Another image came to John, a tree with snow on the branches. Yes, some of the lumber in the pool was from the same tree as the lumber on the wall.

He grabbed two random wands, splashed up, and drank a breath of air as he checked them against each other.

The wands he held were still the same length.

He threw them down in disgust.

Longer, he thought, focusing hard on the longest dowel in his mental image. In return, he received flashes of many disjointed ideas. The gentle prick of a bird’s claws. The kiss of the wind. The sound of chainsaws. None of these were good or bad. They simply were.

Another gasp for air, and now the clock had ticked down to the final minute. “That one!” Bev was shrieking. “That one!” and Ricardo and Kevin both dove. John took several deep breaths, and went under himself for the final grab.

As he plunged down and ran his fingers over all the wands, his thumb dragged across the slightly ragged cut edge of the lumber, and a final image occurred to him. The dowels must have been cut on the miter saw from the Zig Zag Cabinet competition…but not one at a time. The saw was massive. The nine hundred short wands would have been cut in huge batches. The ninety medium wands, also. But the nine large wands? The single immunity wand? That would have gone through the miter saw practically alone…or in a pair, if one were to consider the sample on the board.

John sent the images quickly, with no time to spare, of huge stacks of dowels being chopped up in the saw.

Yes.

Then he sent the notion of only a few. The feeling of the metal table on one side and the air on the other, without a stack of other dowels piled on top. The sound of the blade cutting briefly. There was a pause in which he thought he might be understood—and in that pause, he wondered. Maybe he should have sent the image of only two wands being cut—the largest wand, and the sample. But no, that would be silly, to emerge from the pool with the twelve-inch wand. It was impossible, and anyone who did it would be accused of cheating. And all John would accomplish was drawing the sort of suspicion, the sort of lethal malignant energy to himself that he was always so careful to avoid.

He focused on his image of a small stack being cut, and he waited.

Yes—oh, yes.

John’s eyes went to a stick that looked just like all the others. He picked it up, then picked up another at random and compared them.

The first stick was significantly longer. At least half an inch.

John’s heart began pounding.

As his excitement welled in him with a wand in each hand, that elusive gap was bridged, and “yes” made total sense now. The underwater landscape of the wands lit up to John’s inner knowing, most of them aglow with the same intensity. A few, though, glowed brighter. And a very few (like the one in his right hand) glowed bright, as the concept of “longer” was communicated and disseminated.

He had one of the longest wands…in his hand. Now.

Out of the pool then, right away, to secure a time score. He surfaced just as Muriel climbed out and Sue wrapped a towel around her shoulders. No matter, it looked as if Bev, Ricardo and Kevin were going to stay in until the bitter end and attempt to win solely by the size of their wand, so even a few-second advantage might help him. He took a step toward the nearest side just as Ricardo surfaced—with a wand in his hand that shone so brightly to John’s inner senses, its brilliance stunned him.

The twelve inch wand.

And Ricardo, with water shimmering off the hard curve of his shoulder, the chiseled planes of his chest, was perfection itself. Yes, John had wanted that wand. And no, he didn’t for a moment begrudge Ricardo for it. Inside, he felt elated.

Until Kevin erupted from the water a heartbeat later, collided with Ricardo, and sent the wand pinwheeling away from his slippery grasp.

“No!” Bev shrieked, as dramatically as if someone has just been killed. And all at once, John saw she was going to dive for it.

He also saw that she was so ungainly in the water, he had a good chance of grabbing it for himself. Even from where he currently stood, three yards away.

He focused, and he dove.

Underwater was a churning mass of wands and bubbles kicked up by flailing feet. Both Kevin and Ricardo had fallen back, knocked apart by momentum and surprise. But despite all the confusion, John focused, and he looked. And there, shining like an invisible beacon among a half dozen other whirling wands, was the longest of them all.

John was almost upon it when Bev crashed down like a cannonball.

A siren shrilled, audible even underwater, and John got his feet under himself and stood.

“And that’s time, Magicians,” Monty said. “Let’s see your hands.”

John was surprised to see he was still holding anything at all. It was the larger wand…he hoped. He looked to the other three magicians to see what they’d come up with…and saw Ricardo covered in blood. “What happened?” John demanded, striding across the pool while the dowels beneath his feet stilled themselves to allow him to keep his footing. “Are you all right?”

Ricardo stuck his tongue out and touched it gingerly with his first two fingers. “Th’s fine. Bith my thung.”

“Wow,” Muriel said, “it’s bleeding like all getout.”

Kevin surreptitiously prodded at the side of his head. He was bleeding a bit too, John noticed. But only a trickle.

“Everybody just stay where you are and let the pros handle this,” Iain said, striding into the frame with two medics in tow. One of them set up a folding chair while the other came to assist Ricardo out of the pool. “Everyone’s got their tetanus shot, nothing to get worked up about.”

John slung an arm around Ricardo to help him to the side, although Ricardo attempted to brush off the assistance. He was unsuccessful; John was bigger. “Th’s fine,” Ricardo insisted. His chest was striped with stark runnels of blood.

“I got a ding on my head,” Kevin pointed out.

Iain squinted at him for a moment, and said, “Okay, fine, get over here and we’ll take a look. But hand your wand to the production assistant first. We’re not shooting this scene again.”

As Ricardo swung his leg over the side of the pool with John steadying him, he met John’s eyes. So much blood. “I’m otay,” he said.

John gave his arm an extra squeeze, anyway…and Ricardo returned the sentiment with a secret (if bloody) smile.

John climbed from the pool numbly. Accident? He wasn’t even sure if his own definition of the word fit with the one in the dictionary. He was given a black robe and directed to join the rest of the Red Team, who waited off camera, watching the medics. Maybe being voted out of the Mansion wouldn’t be such a terrible thing for either of them. Not if the alternative was attracting spite…which might make a True magician’s fortunes take a sickening little twist for the worse.

“Look at him bleed,” Jia murmured…and she wasn’t referring to her team captain who, it appeared, was receiving no more treatment than a dab of iodine.

“It’s mostly water,” Faye said. “It wouldn’t run down Ricardo’s chest like that if it were dry. But I’ll bet he gets a ton of screen time out of it.”

“Maybe next time you should hit me,” Jia said.

Faye shrugged and said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Chapter 22

SIZE MATTERS

According to the medic who’d stuffed his fingers into Ricardo’s mouth (Bob? Bill? something like that.) tongue injuries did tend to bleed profusely, but thankfully, they healed fast. Good to know. He also hinted that once it did heal, he’d be up for coffee. Or drinks. Or whatever. Thankfully, he didn’t find it odd when Ricardo declined to answer, given that he was covered in blood, and practically choking on moist gauze.

Since it took nearly half an hour before Ricardo could talk without re-opening the cuts, the makeup team descended with their spray bottles and made sure everyone looked wet once again before they heard the results of the challenge.

The magicians stood, tallest in back, with their wet hair attractively tousled, Gold Team in white terrycloth robes, Red Team in black, like exhausted boxers who’d just gone twelve rounds. The scoreboard had been set up against one of the more attractive walls, and a single camera was planted in front of it. Iain gave the signal, and Monty said, “Remember, magicians, whichever team located the longest wand in the shortest amount of time will win an advantage in the next elimination challenge. And, if any magician has located the single twelve-inch wand, that magician will be immune. In addition, the winning team will be having dinner tomorrow…with David Blaine.”

Kevin Kazan made a startled noise that sounded like a cross between a screech owl and a whoopee cushion.

“That’s right. The winning team will get to pick the brain of the world’s most cunning street magic performer…while the losers clean up the mess left behind from the building of the Zig Zag cabinets.”

Iain shoved a PA into the frame, and Monty paused in his reading while the awkward kid with the clipboard whispered in his ear, then scuttled away. Monty appeared to assimilate the “new” information (though Ricardo suspected it had been on his teleprompter all along) and said, “And I’ve just learned that someone may have found the twelve-inch wand. Let’s find out.”

“Monty?” Iain said. “Marlene doesn’t like the way you just said ‘learned.’ Try it again, a little less Aussie.”

“Learned,” Monty murmured. “Learned. Learrrrned. Okay. Got it.”

“Go ahead.”

Ricardo hardly noticed the line being repeated, because seriously? He dry-swallowed around the taste of copper that lingered in his mouth. All that pointing and screaming Bev had done…could she have actually spotted the single twelve-inch wand out of nine hundred and ninety-nine others? And if she did, who had ended up with it? Ricardo? Or Bev? Or that asshole, Kevin?

“Close-up on Faye,” Iain called out, and a pair of handhelds and a jib swung their focus to her.

“Amazing Faye,” Monty said, “you were the first out of the pool. And the length of your wand was…ten inches. That’s the shortest length. If everyone else also finished with a short wand, Red Team will win this challenge.”

Faye shrugged as if she wished she’d randomly grabbed something in the longer ten percent, but she was satisfied enough that she’d at least been the quickest. Her name appeared at the top of the lit scoreboard with a 10 beside it.

Close-ups were directed toward Sue, and Monty said, “Sue, Gold Team leader, you were second out of the pool. Your wand was also ten inches, which means Red Team is still in the lead.”

Ricardo patted Sue on the shoulder as her score was put up. “Good try.” She sighed, and he whispered, “At least you stuck to the plan.” Though they all knew she would have been faster if someone had thought to help her in or out of the pool. But Gold Team had been working with only their own strategy; thanks to Faye, Red Team had had access to both.

Cameras turned to Jia. “Jia Lee, you might have been the third magician out of the pool, but you were the first magician to find a ten and a half inch wand, thereby cementing your team’s lead so far.”

Jia nodded with satisfaction when she saw her score. Iain told Monty, “Put a long pause before the next number. We’ll break for a commercial there.” Cameras moved on to Muriel.

“Muriel Broom, Magic Mansion’s oldest female contestant, was the next out of the pool. Muriel, do you have any idea how long your wand was?”

“Last time I checked, I was more of an innie than an outie.”

Once the crew stopped laughing, Iain said, “Could you give him a more conventional response in case we need to edit that out?”

“What for? It wasn’t explicit.”

Iain sighed.

“Oh, all right,” Muriel said. She looked at Monty, and said with false brightness, “Why no, Monty, I haven’t a clue how long my wand was. But I sure hope I grabbed a nice big one.”

Monty looked like it was paining him to keep a straight face. “Well, Muriel, you’re in for a treat. Because the wand you found measures…eleven inches.”

The startled silence that followed Muriel’s score didn’t even need to be orchestrated by Iain. Once the shock wore off, Gold Team huddled, and Sue said, “Can you believe how lucky that was?”

“What’s that,” Muriel said, “Like one in a hundred odds?”

Bev said, “No, it depends on how many wands you picked up and compared to—”

“Hello!” Iain shouted. “Did I tell you to talk amongst yourselves? Pipe down and get with the program.”

Gold Team sorted themselves back out according to height. Ricardo observed the Red Team from over the top of Bev’s head. They did not look amused. Cameras backed up to include entire teams in their shots. Monty said, “That puts the Gold Team in the lead. The other four contestants were still in the pool when time ran out, and so none of them has a time advantage. The only way another player can take the lead from Muriel is if he, or she, has indeed found the single twelve-inch wand. Any magician who’s done that will also get immunity in the next elimination round.”

Ricardo’s heart began pounding. The way Bev had been screaming in the pool for him to pick up a particular wand, he’d had himself convinced that she’d spotted the immunity-wand. But in his haste to grab it before time ran out, his jaw collided with Kevin’s head so hard, it was a wonder he’d ended up with a wand in his hand at all.

“Kevin Kazan,” Monty said, “you were one of the magicians with no time advantage. The length of the last wand you discovered was…ten and one-half inches. I’m sorry. You are not the winner of this challenge.”

Kevin glared at Ricardo.

Monty said, “It appeared that both you and Ricardo the Magnificent were after the same wand,” he turned to face Gold Team, “and that the Math Wizard was the one who pointed it out. Bev, is that true?”

“I believe I saw the twelve-inch wand, Monty. But it’s hard to say. My glasses were wet from all the splashing.”

“Ricardo,” Monty said, “do you think you managed to pick up the wand she was pointing to?”

Ricardo’s heart hammered so hard, he thought his tongue wound would burst open and he’d answer Monty with a spray of blood. But his tongue stayed intact as he said, “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Ricardo, the wand in your hand when time ran out was, in fact…ten and one-half inches.”

Across the pool, a grim smile spread over Kevin Kazan’s face.

“Professor Topaz,” Monty said, “you were also one of the last in the pool, and the wand you selected measured in at…eleven inches. Well done. But Muriel also found an eleven-inch wand, and she’s got a time advantage over you, so unfortunately, you are not the winner of this challenge. Gold Team remains in the lead.”

John nodded stonily.

“That leaves one magician,” Monty said. “Bev Austin, the Math Wizard. At the last moment, Bev, you went under yourself.” Bev nodded. She seemed to be holding her breath. The entire Gold Team was holding its breath. “It seemed like a last-ditch effort. Can you tell us what was going through your mind?”

“Well, I…I can’t even say for sure. I thought I saw the wand. And it looked to me as if Professor Topaz was on a perfect trajectory to get it himself. And then…well, all I could think of was that the Gold Team had to win.”

“Bev, the judges have reviewed the underwater footage from the last seconds of the challenge, and it showed that when you dove down to pick up your wands, you grabbed with both hands, and you picked up a total of three. We did confirm that one of those wands actually was the twelve-inch wand. Unfortunately, because you broke the rules and picked up more than two, your score is disqualified. You will be eligible for elimination in the next challenge. But cheer up, Bev. The Gold Team has won the Wand Pond challenge, and is going into the competition with a huge advantage. And tomorrow, you’ll be spending the afternoon with David Blaine!”

Once most of the camera crew went home and the magicians headed back toward the dorms, shaking with adrenaline and chill, Ricardo heard Bev whisper, “David Blaine, didn’t he used to be on Saturday Night Live?”

Conversation turned to whether Kevin had injured Ricardo intentionally or they’d just managed to bang heads. Ricardo wouldn’t have put it past Kevin to slam into him accidentally-on-purpose, but Muriel said it looked as if everyone was just super-focused and super-motivated, and that they’d all flown into a tizzy when the last few seconds ticked by. And while Ricardo might have nearly lost his tongue to Kevin Kazan’s hard head…at least he had the satisfaction of knowing that while a middle-aged mathematician who didn’t know David Blaine from David Spade would be wined and dined by the most infamous street magician of their time, Kazan would be busy sweeping up sawdust.

___

Though it would have been sensible to try to get some sleep, John wandered the grounds instead until after midnight wondering if the best thing for him to do would be to take a dive and remove himself from competition entirely. Because obviously, in going for the twelve-inch wand (which should have been basically impossible to find, and yet fully half of the remaining contestants had been vying for it) he’d nearly exposed the very secret he’d implored Ricardo, on the day of their first meeting, to keep to himself at all costs.

The secret that a few individuals had access to the Truth, while the rest of the world did not.

His pacing brought him no clarity of mind, but he supposed it would be best to turn in before he drew a freak sinkhole to himself, or a rabid raccoon. Or a rusty nail that might manage to circumvent the tetanus shot John’s contract had obligated him to obtain.

Thankfully, the lights were out in the Red Team’s dorms when he returned. Though the room seemed much more spacious now with only him and Kevin in it, John missed Fabian’s company, and didn’t particularly care to be alone with his team leader. It was a relief to find him already asleep. John undressed and slipped between the sheets of the strange bed with the lights off, and began searching for a pleasant memory to lull himself to sleep—the Alaskan cruise he’d booked to celebrate Casey’s successful run at the Starlight Lounge was usually a good one…though lately he found it seemed a bit stilted and out-of-focus compared to his sharp, vibrant memory of Ricardo taking the stage with him at the tryouts, breathlessly graceful…and, yes, a very cute twink, as Casey would have said.

John was just beginning to drift off to the memory of Ricardo’s eyes flashing as he chimed his silver linking rings together, when Kevin Kazan, in a quiet, singsong voice, said, “Don’t go thinking I didn’t notice, back there in the pool, Ricardo was the one you chose to help.”

John considered mentioning that while their collision had left Kevin with a nick on the head, Ricardo had been gushing blood…but he decided it was better to keep his eyes shut, and pretend he was asleep.

Allowing themselves to be drawn into altercations was another common way in which True magicians met their ends.

It was well into the wee hours before sleep finally came.

___

Ricardo poked the steak on his plate. It was too rare, swimming in a pool of its own red juices. Just what he needed to see after all that blood last night. Muriel took a bite of tiramisu and sighed happily. Initially, it seemed that she’d opted for three desserts rather than an appetizer or an entree just for the sake of being…Muriel. But given that Bev’s halibut was dry and Sue’s pasta was mushy, Muriel might actually have been on to something.

Sue poured herself another glass of merlot. “Not that I believe anything they say at this point…but didn’t it seem like David Blaine was actually going to be eating dinner with us?”

“He did try a breadstick,” Muriel noted.

“He stayed eleven minutes, thirty-two seconds,” Bev said. “And I’ll bet it gets edited to make it seem like we were together all afternoon.”

“I wish he could have stayed longer,” Sue said. “He had great hands. But at least he showed us that card flourish. Now we can all say we’ve had a personal lesson from David Blaine.”

Ricardo smiled to himself. That would really stick in Kevin Kazan’s craw.

Bev said, “So have we given any thought to how we want to play tomorrow’s big challenge?”

Gold Team had earned the advantage of knowing what the challenge would be, a head-to-head competition in handling four specific props: hats, cards, silks and rings. They would be allowed to choose which team member played in each round. Red Team was going in blind and being deployed at random (or, more likely, at a producer’s whim.)

Although, did that really matter? Each member of Red Team was a skilled magician. Every one of them was probably good with all four props. Ricardo supposed he should be glad Gold Team won the advantage. At least he wouldn’t need to watch one of his teammates handling the rings while he fumbled through a deck of cards.

___

Between the dust masks and the leather gloves and the steel-toed boots, John felt as if he should be riveting a skyscraper together instead of swabbing off the wainscoting with a tack rag. But Marlene had insisted there’d be hell to pay if anyone shed so much as a single drop of blood. Plus, the extreme wardrobe probably made Red Team’s “punishment” look significantly more difficult than it actually was.

Another advantage to the dust masks was the fact that they didn’t exactly encourage communication between the team members. John had gone into high avoidance-mode with Kevin, though he had the sneaking suspicion that it was too little, too late. Never perform True magic when the rabble is close enough to see it’s no trick…including fellow magicians with plenty of technique and no Truth. Especially those. Because they could sense the inner circle to which they would never belong, and their envy was particularly toxic.

Perhaps, John thought, it would have been best to play the assertiveness card earlier, back when they were planning the cabinet, and Kevin had started butting heads with Fabian. Not now that Fabian was gone, and the biggest threat to Kevin’s machismo from his own team—really, the whole game—was John.

Chapter 23

CARDS AND HATS

Shooting began early on the day of the Four Props Challenge. Ricardo barely had time to finish his crunches before a PA came to the dorms and told him to meet his team in the ballroom. He chose his stretchiest outfit—no binding waistbands or even flowing sleeves today. The sparkly black stretch top and lycra slacks fit like a skating costume. He didn’t want anything to get between him and those rings.

It occurred to him, as he soared down the stairs two at a time, that this was the first challenge he’d actually been excited about participating in. And maybe, if he was really lucky, he’d even be up against Kevin Kazan. Because if that jerk wanted to butt heads again, Ricardo was totally up for it. Big time.

He paused in the doorway and scanned the ballroom. Something tall and tarp-covered dominated the far end of the room. The scoreboard, currently unlit, lurked to the side. Still more crates and boxes waited among the lighting and camera gear—stacks of them.

It looked like it was going to be a long shoot.

He joined his teammates on a sofa covered with a gold throw. Sue had on an adorable pink hotpants outfit, Muriel was in her traditional fortune teller getup, and Bev had chosen a tweed pants suit. Ricardo supposed it looked better on her than the swimdress. Across the room, the Red Team assembled on a couch covered in a red throw. They all wore black—Kevin annoying in a glitzy track suit, sideways baseball cap and too much jewelry, John sleek and elegant in a formal suit, Jia particularly stunning in a tuxedo-styled bodysuit with a halter closure that bared her arms and shoulders, and Faye looking like Faye, intense and slightly too thin, in a very short mini dress. He didn’t suppose he missed Faye, exactly, because she’d never really bonded with the team, not in the way everyone else had. But even though her defection hadn’t been her own idea, the way she’d gone about it left a bad taste in his mouth that went far beyond his wounded tongue.

Which still throbbed…though he wasn’t going to let that discomfort get in the way of showing whoever would oppose him that if there was one thing he knew how to handle…it was linking rings.

Crew milled around and fussed with small details, while stylists made the rounds and primped everyone’s hair and the script supervisor went through some lines with Monty, and finally, about an hour and a half later, a hush fell over the bustling people on the sidelines (who the home audience never got to see) and cameras rolled.

“Today,” Monty said, “the Gold Team will pit their skills against the Red Team in a multi-part challenge that includes four classic stage magic props: playing cards, colored silks, top hats, and linking rings. Since Gold Team won the Wand Pond competition, they’ve been able to select which player they think will handle each particular prop the best.”

Damn straight, Ricardo thought. I can hardly wait.

“The member of the Red Team who will play in each leg of the challenge will be chosen at random.”

And if I end up pitted against Kevin Kazan, I’ll show him a thing or— Ricardo’s thoughts cut off abruptly as his eyes fell on John’s.

Oh my God. What if they pit me against John?

As though he’d thought the very same thing, John cocked his head and gave a very slight nod, as if to reassure Ricardo that it would be okay. Which wasn’t actually all that reassuring…because in a one-on-one competition, someone would win, and someone would lose.

“And tonight,” Monty said, “any members from the losing team who do not win their leg of the challenge…will be up for elimination.”

There was a pause while Iain put a couple of grips in place for some sort of big reveal, in which Bev whispered, “But how will they determine the losing team? There are four competitions—what if each team wins two?”

Great. Not only do I need to worry about being put up against John…but at the same time I’ll probably be getting judged by some other criteria I’m not even aware of. In a way, figure skating had been a hell of a lot easier. At least when he was on the ice, he knew what he was being judged on.

Once the scene was blocked, taping resumed. Monty said, “The first part of the Four Prop Challenge is the playing card shuffle. Math Wizard, you have elected to represent Gold Team in this round.”

“That’s right, Monty. I’m very good with cards. I use them extensively in my act to teach addition and subtraction—and the children pay much closer attention when you present the cards with fancy cuts and flourishes.”

“Very good, Bev. And the Red Team magician you’ll be playing against in this challenge is…Kevin Kazan.”

Oh Jesus. Sure, Bev could handle a deck, but Kazan could cut and shuffle with a hand tied behind his back. Literally. He was going to eat Bev alive. Not only that, but pitting him against Bev raised the odds (to a point that even Ricardo could calculate) of going up against John himself: one in three.

“Your objective,” Monty said, “is to hold on to as many cards as you can, and finish your round with the highest number. Rank cards are worth their numbered value. Face cards are worth ten. Aces are worth eleven, and jokers are worth twenty. And you’ll be gathering those cards…in these.”

Grips hauled off the tarps and revealed a pair of tall, clear-sided cabinets.

“What are those,” Sue said. “Phone booths?”

Muriel said, “I was thinking shower stalls.”

Iain called, “Hit the air,” and a pair of compressors chugged to life. Motion erupted inside the clear cabinets as if they were a pair of giant snow globes. But instead of snow swirling through them, it was a red, black and white flurry of cards.

“Aren’t those things usually filled with dollar bills?” Muriel said. “You’d better watch it, Bev. A playing card’ll give you a pretty wicked paper cut.”

When the footage of the unmanned cabinets was adequate, Iain cut the air, and let the cards settle, then handed Bev and Kazan each a pair of safety goggles. Bev struggled to put hers on over her glasses. “They don’t fit. Can’t I just get a sports strap for my glasses?”

“Seeing’s overrated,” Iain said.

“But….”

“This stunt involves more luck than skill. Besides, you chose the challenge—Kevin didn’t. You don’t hear him whining, do you?”

Bev balanced her prescription glasses on the tip of her nose outside the goggles, and stepped into the cabinet without another word. Cameras rolled. “You’ll have one minute to gather all the cards you can,” Monty announced, “and your time begins…now.”

Kazan’s hat flew off, which made Ricardo smile…until he saw that Bev’s glasses had blown off, too. Thankfully, the glasses seemed to be the only vulnerable part of Bev’s costume. Her suit was sturdy and her short gray hair, even being whipped around, didn’t seem to get in her way. “Good thing I picked the scarves,” Muriel whispered. “Can you imagine me in there with my skirt flying up around my neck? Though it would be pretty funny….”

Bev flailed. Kazan flailed. And both of them were pelted by cards. It was difficult to tell if either of them had managed to catch any, let alone who was in the lead. Ricardo couldn’t imagine what it must feel like from inside the booths. Like trying to catch butterflies without a net. In a tornado.

But what if those butterflies were willing to meet Bev halfway?

There was no time to lose. Almost ten seconds had already elapsed. Ricardo threw his attention toward Bev’s cards, focused his ability, and nudged them toward Bev. And act natural, he hastened to add. He didn’t need a replay of the pink mylar dove incident from tryouts.

It was subtle, but the cards around Bev took on a different type of swirl, as if maybe she’d just planted her foot in front of the blower in such a way that the wind cabinet’s dynamic changed. Instead of bouncing into the ceiling and then falling down the sides, the cards formed a cyclonic loop—a good portion of them at the level of Bev’s grabbing hands. Ricardo was so pleased with their performance that he didn’t get a look at what Red Team was up to until it registered, in his peripheral vision, that Kazan had gone completely still.

Ricardo shifted his focus for just a split second, and the cards he was coaxing toward Bev erupted in an ecstatic, chaotic dance. As for Kazan…well, he’d apparently discovered that he could trap the cards against the top of the booth. And Bev? If the thought had even occurred to her, it probably wouldn’t have mattered. Even if she stretched high, her fingertips couldn’t quite reach the ceiling.

Before Kazan managed to grab too many cards, the timer buzzed and the cards dropped. But Ricardo had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that the discovery of the trapped cards by the ceiling had given Kevin an unbeatable edge. Stagehands released the magicians from the booths, and they stepped out, Bev with a windswept hairdo at odds with the rest of her outfit, Kevin with his necklaces all spun around the wrong way and hanging down his back. “All right, magicians,” Monty said brightly. “Show us your cards!”

“Make sure the numbers are visible and face them toward the camera,” Iain called out. “Hold ’em steady for a dolly zoom.”

Bev arranged her cards, frowning, and held them up. There was a face card in front. That was good. Right?

But then Kevin fanned his hand…and Ricardo saw he’d captured at least twice as many. At least.

“Let’s start with Gold Team,” Monty said. “Bev, you’re holding a queen, a jack, and a nine. That gives you twenty-nine points.”

Bev nodded. She didn’t look thrilled.

“And Red Team leader, Kevin Kazan, you have a three, a five, a seven, a king, a two, and a four.”

The moment Monty announced the number on Kevin’s last card, Bev’s face fell, and Ricardo knew he wouldn’t have to bother trying to add them up.

“The winner of the first leg of Four Prop Challenge,” Monty said, “with thirty-one points, is Kevin Kazan for the Red Team.”

A PA traded Bev her glasses for the safety goggles. Ricardo watched Bev walk back to the gold couch with a sinking feeling in his chest, but he greeted her with, “Good try, Bev, you did great,” to which Muriel and Sue added their own sympathetic encouragement. Grips hauled away the clear booths, and several large cardboard boxes were dragged to the center of the ballroom floor. A props assistant pulled a top hat from one of the boxes, then another, then another, setting them upside-down on the floor until the entire center was covered by a sea of top hats.

“One hundred and forty-four,” Bev said. “Twelve dozen. A gross.”

Once the hats were arranged, the assistants cleared the set, cameras rolled, and Monty said, “The next leg of the challenge involves magic hats…and the Gold Team selected Sue, its leader, to perform this challenge. Come on up, Sue, and tell us why you were the best person for this challenge.”

“Well, Monty, since I work at the gift shop at Magicopolis, I’ve handled lots of different props, from toy magic tricks for children, to cheap souvenirs, to decently-made entry level props. If we needed to demonstrate the use of a false chamber hat, I would be the most familiar with it.”

“Good reasoning, Gold Team. We’ll see if it pans out for you. And the randomly selected magician you’ll be competing against from the Red Team…”

Please be John. PLEASE BE JOHN.

“…is Amazing Faye.”

Ricardo’s heart sank. He was going to be put up against John, he just knew it. And if they competed with linking rings—be it juggling them or counting them or marching around with them stacked on top of their heads—Ricardo would win. Because the rings were his props. Even if he wasn’t trying to influence them like he did with Bev’s cards, he was so connected to the way they felt and sounded (and even smelled), they’d still pick up on whatever it was he wanted them to do.

“What’s the matter, kiddo?” Muriel whispered. “You look a little green.”

Ricardo shook his head, said, “I’m fine,” and shifted his attention back to Monty.

“Pulling a rabbit out of a hat,” Monty read from the teleprompter, “is such a common magic trick that one might say it’s even become a bit of a cliché. But finding a rabbit in a hat among a sea of other things…might prove to be more difficult. Especially when your opponent is trying to find that rabbit first. Ladies, take your places, and when you hear the buzzer, begin searching. The first magician who finds a rabbit is the winner. Ready…set….”

The buzzer sounded. Sue dropped to her knees, while Faye bent at the waist to thrust their hands into the nearest hat. Sue pulled out a stuffed ladybug. Faye pulled out a small teddy bear. Both of them flung the toys over their shoulders and reached for another hat. Sue pulled out a plush monkey, a stuffed dog, a rag doll. Faye pulled out a plush parrot and toy cat. Sue waded forward on her knees. She was quicker, and the pile of stuffed carnival toys behind her was obviously growing faster than Faye’s.

Sue’s progress was not lost on Faye, who decided to use the fact that she was still standing up to her advantage. She leapt into the center of the field of hats in her stiletto heels and began working from there. It hadn’t seemed as if the assistants who’d set up the stunt placed a “winning hat” in any one particular spot…but Faye’s decisive move toward the middle made Sue start working even faster, grabbing hat after hat. She tried to speed things up by shaking the stuffed toys out, one hat in each hand, but the contents were packed in tightly enough that she needed both hands to get them out. In her excitement, she began flinging both the toy and the hat, and soon so many plushies and hats were flying, it seemed as if the whole ballroom had turned into one big card-grabbing booth.

Soon there was a cry—a triumphant shriek so startling Ricardo couldn’t say who it had come from. But then he saw Faye standing tall, brandishing a blue and purple stuffed rabbit over her head, waving it gleefully, while Sue sagged down onto her hands, hair hanging in her face….and the churning dismay in Ricardo’s gut told him that now he’d not only end up pitted against John, but now he’d need to try for all he was worth just to keep Gold Team from losing a member….

“Faye,” Monty called out, “that is not the winning rabbit. The judges are telling me you’ve found a donkey.”

“A what?” Faye turned the stuffed animal around and looked at it as if it had just spoken to her itself. “That’s no donkey! How is that a donkey?”

Sue barked out a gleeful laugh and dove back into searching while Faye was still stunned by the revelation that the long-eared toy in her hand was not, in fact, a rabbit. “Ha!” Muriel said. “Look at the tail! It’s got a little donkey string-tail!”

Faye flung down the purple donkey so hard it bounced.

“Go, Sue!” Muriel called out, and Ricardo and Bev joined in. “Go, Sue! Go, Sue! You can find it, Sue!” And the Red Team began cheering, too—although it had not occurred to them to do so until they heard it start in the Gold Team. Everyone was shouting. Hats were flying—and giraffes and bumble bees and even a smiling hot dog—until finally Sue surged to her feet, held a fuzzy pink animal high, and shrieked, “Is this it? Is this the rabbit?”

From the tip of its long ears to the end of its cotton tail, it sure looked like it was. Faye reached into one more hat (pulling out a stuffed guitar) as if she figured she should keep on searching, just in case, but the look on her face told Ricardo what Monty finally confirmed just a moment later. “That is indeed the elusive rabbit, Sue. Congratulations. Gold Team wins the second round of this challenge.”

For just a moment, Ricardo was elated. But once the floor was cleared of hats and covered instead with silver rings, he somehow registered that he was hearing his own name…and that the time had come for him to face his signature props.

“Ricardo the Magnificent,” Monty said, in that dazzling accent of his, “why have you chosen to represent the Gold Team in the Linking Ring portion of the Four Props Challenge?”

Against John, no doubt. Against Professor fucking Topaz. His idol. Jesus. Who he would need to try and beat. Now he knew how dumbass Kevin Kazan felt when he got Fabian Swan eliminated. Ricardo swallowed hard, but the lump in his throat stayed exactly where it was. Was it possible to forfeit? No, he couldn’t do that. He owed it to Bev and Muriel and Sue to win. But it was what he wanted to do—crawl away and go back to working bachelorette parties and be tipped with singles in his g-string and the occasional margarita.

“Hello?” Iain called out. “Answer the man…sometime today.”

“Uh…what was the question?”

Iain made a “go ahead” signal, and Monty repeated, “Why have you chosen to represent the Gold Team in the Linking Ring portion of the Four Props challenge?”

“Linking rings are my best trick, Monty. I’ve been juggling them ever since I was twelve. When I heard there was a ring challenge, I jumped at the chance.”

“Fair enough, Ricardo. You’ll have your chance to prove just how adept you are at handling the rings. And the Red Team player you’ll be pitting your prowess against—”

I think I’d prefer to die rather than hear you say it. Can that be arranged?

“—is Jia Lee.”

Chapter 24

RINGS AND SILKS

Ricardo couldn’t have been more stunned if Monty had marched up and bitch-slapped him.

“Are you okay?” Sue whispered. “Iain just said for you to go stand on your mark.”

Ricardo stood. His feet felt numb. His hands, too. And he wasn’t sure he remembered exactly how to breathe.

Jia waited for him at the gaffing tape X. Although she was just over five feet tall, she managed to look a foot taller, imperious and stern. Ricardo belatedly reminded himself that his stretchy outfit wouldn’t allow for sloppy posture, and he squared his shoulders as he tried not to be too obvious about swallowing past the lump that remained in his throat.

“Miss Lee,” Monty said, “you’re known for taking the traditional acts of magicians like Ching Ling Foo and Tchin-Chao, and performing them with a modern twist. Even today, these rings are sometimes called Chinese Linking Rings. Do you think that will give you any advantage?”

Jia stared at Monty coolly for a long moment, and then said, “I guess we’re going to find out.”

Ricardo looked at Jia, and then at the rings. And then he realized that she had a linking ring routine in her own wildly popular act, Apple Blossom Vanish.

And she was good.

“Magicians, you will have three minutes to see exactly how many of these rings you can link together. But to make things a little more interesting….”

No—I don’t want interesting. I want to perform with my linking rings!

“You’ll do it…wearing mittens.”

Ricardo attempted to smile gamely for the camera…but he simply couldn’t do it. Early on in the competition, he’d told Amazing Faye that Magic Mansion had nothing to do with talent. It was about spectacle. But now, as he truly felt that sentiment deep in his gut, his disappointment was overwhelming.

Maybe Faye had been right. Maybe it really was all about humiliation, so the viewers could bask in their schadenfreude as they picked each magician off, one by one.

As the thought crossed his mind, he heard the minuscule whir of a handheld lens zooming, and he felt someone lurking just to his side. Closeup. He forced himself to smile.

Assistants brought out the fleece mittens—one gold pair and one red—and Ricardo and Jia were positioned face to face in the center of a great spread of silvery rings. And even as Ricardo was balking at the thought of groping through them with ridiculous mittens on, as well as the cameras and the humiliation and the pressure (and the strangely sickening relief that he was not actually competing against John after all, at least not today)…Ricardo realized that he could feel something.

Cool. Round. Shiny. Filled with that delightful chimey sound they’d make if he struck them together.

Their familiarity calmed him. And so he was able to meet Jia’s eyes, and wait for the signal.

“Ready? Set?” The buzzer bleated. “Go!”

Jia and Ricardo both dropped to their knees. It hurt when his kneecap struck metal. He ignored the pain.

The whole trick of linking rings was that some had a small slot in them that allowed another ring to pass through. No big surprise there. The pleasure the audience took when they watched a linking rings act was all about the performance. They knew there was a slot somewhere, probably covered by the performer’s thumb, but they were willing to suspend disbelief as long as that performer could juggle, or do handstands, or dazzle them with witty banter, or mince around in high enough heels.

Ricardo always focused on his slotted rings rather than his solids. Knowing where the gap was positioned at all times was critical in keeping the chain from falling apart. Slotted, he thought, and the first ring his mittened hand fell on was slotted. It took three tries to pick it up with the fleece mitten—that thing was slippery—but he did it. Slotted. Then he grabbed two solid rings, forced them in, and pulled them to either side so the slotted ring was in the center.

He looked up. Jia had four rings linked already.

Slotted! Again, he found the correct type of ring immediately, but needed to try multiple times to grasp it.

“So, linking rings are your big thing,” Jia said, “huh?”

Why was she talking?

“Are you scared I’m going to use my ancient Chinese secret on you?”

Did she know Ricardo was talking to the rings, and she was deliberately trying to throw him off? He grabbed at a solid ring several times, then looked up to see if she was still ahead of him. She was—now by two rings.

“I’m not even very fond of the trick,” Jia said. “It’s kind of obvious, when you think about it—but it is tradition. Have you seen my act?”

“Yes.” Ricardo pawed desperately at a ring, then linked them as quickly as possible. “It was great.”

“Thanks. You know why it’s so popular?”

Ricardo linked another ring, and then looked up, expecting to see Jia ahead now by three. Instead, he saw why she was linking circles around him. She had hung her ring-chain from the crook of her elbow, and was using two hands to pick up the ring, one to push down one side of the ring so the other side popped up, and then the other hand to actually grab it. “Because you’re good?”

“Because I’m the only female Chinese conjurer on the whole circuit. That’s why.”

Ricardo popped a slotted ring up on one side and grabbed hold of it in a single try. Much better. He began linking as quickly as Jia.

“The first week-long engagement I ever landed, you know what the promoter said to me?” Jia slammed two rings together with a chime. “That maybe I should turn up my accent a little.” She grabbed another and shoved it onto her chain. “I don’t have an accent.” Another ring. “And I’m sure as hell not going to put one on like Margaret Cho when she’s making fun of her mother on Comedy Central.”

Ricardo’s chain was now trailing along behind him. He added a ring. “So…you want to be known as a good magician. Not just a Chinese magician.”

“You don’t get it—I’ll always be a Chinese magician. At least here, in America. That’s all I will ever be.” Jia linked another ring. “If I went to China, I’d probably be known as the American magician.”

Ricardo’s concentration slipped, and he felt his chain grow lighter. He looked, and three rings at the end of the chain had slipped the slot and fallen off. Should he grab the three rings together and add them back on? He didn’t know. The rules hadn’t specified whether he could pick up more than one ring at a time or not. And after Bev getting disqualified with the one-in-a-thousand twelve-inch wand in her hand, he wasn’t about to tempt fate. He just needed to work faster and keep his focus.

“Maybe I grew up in Oakland and maybe I don’t have an accent,” Jia said, “but I’m still proud of my heritage. So I don’t do a Chinese conjurer act just because I’m Chinese.”

I can’t lose another ring. Please, please, please stick together. Ricardo sent the thought urgently as he linked another ring, and the timer ticked down to the last ten seconds.

Jia’s rings chimed. “Because if I don’t do the act and do it with dignity, with pride, someone else is going to come along and exploit themselves for the novelty. I need to be so good that no one would even bother trying to imitate me.”

Apple Blossom Vanish had stuck with Ricardo for days afterward. And, if he were to be completely honest with himself, he’d even felt somewhat envious that Jia (who was ten years younger than him) had such an elaborate set and gorgeous costumes. But he’d never once questioned that she deserved them. Because she really was that good.

“And that,” Jia said, as the last seconds slipped away, “is why I need to win.”

The buzzer sounded. Ricardo tried to see how long Jia’s chain of linking rings stretched, but it was impossible to discern which were linked, and which weren’t, among all the other rings on the floor.

“Magicians,” Monty said, “You may take off your mittens. It’s time to see how you scored. Holding only the last ring in your chain, you will step away from the linking area. When the final ring clears the other unlinked rings, you’ll be told to stop. Ricardo the Magnificent?”

Ricardo nodded. His knees felt shaky and his wounded tongue tasted like raw liver. But when he pulled off the stupid mittens and touched the bare metal, he felt a tingle. A connection. A joy.

“Step forward.”

Please hold together.

Though he had the advantage of being able to talk to the rings, Ricardo walked slowly, deliberately, aware that with every step, he faced the possibility of one of the rings snagging on the pile, and a slot turning and aligning with its neighboring ring, and a big hunk of his chain dropping right off.

Please hold together.

“Stop,” Monty said, and Ricardo froze. He looked back over his shoulder—carefully, moving only his head—and saw his chain of linking rings extended several yards back before it ended just at the edge of the remaining unlinked rings. “Jia Lee? Step forward.”

Taking her cue from Ricardo, Jia stepped out of the ring pile with excruciating slowness and grace. She might not have had any choice but to embrace her roots and play the role of “Chinese conjurer,” but seeing her there in her black halter dress and Geisha-inspired makeup, Ricardo had to admit: she damn well played the hand she’d been dealt for all she was worth. And if she ever wanted to retire from magic…she’d make a kick-ass Bond villain.

Closer, she stepped. One pace. And another. And just as Ricardo realized, numbly, that she might keep on walking—she drew abreast of him, and Monty said, “Stop.”

“Okay, kids,” Iain called out, “stand still. We’ll have the official counters in and out before you know it.”

Ricardo listened to his pulse pounding in his ears as the chains were counted and then double-checked. If they were being that careful…the score must be close. Horribly close.

After approximately forever, Iain called out, “Got your numbers, Monty? Okay, go ahead.”

“Jia Lee. In three minutes, you’ve managed to link thirty-eight rings. Unfortunately, four of those rings slipped off the end of your chain as you walked out of the linking area, which leaves you with thirty-four. Will that be enough to clinch this part of the challenge for the Red Team?

“Ricardo the Magnificent, you lost a few rings early on in the challenge. Did you manage to keep enough together to beat Jia’s score?

“The tally is in. Ricardo, your final score is…thirty-six rings. Gold Team has won the linking ring phase of the Four Props Challenge!”

Ricardo was aware, numbly, of cameras scrambling and his teammates cheering as he rejoined his team. He wanted to be happy. But mostly he was so overwhelmed, he just wanted to vomit.

___

“You know you got to win this one,” Kevin told John, “if you want to stay on the show.”

John sat on the red sofa, back straight, legs crossed. He kept his eyes on the assistants clearing the rings, and didn’t respond. After Kevin’s middle-of-the-night accusation following the Wand Pond, whether he realized John had heard it or not, it seemed silly to reward him with anything more than the most minimal civility. It felt liberating, in a way, to be able to stop pretending he thought Kevin was anything more than an odious little punk.

“’Cuz if Red Team loses this challenge,” Kevin went on, “and the home audience gotta vote someone off it, and I’m immune ’cuz I won my round…who you think they gonna pick? One of them foxy babes? Or you?”

John kept looking straight ahead. If there’s anything that makes a heckler crazy, Casey used to say, it’s when you don’t even notice they exist. While John wasn’t exactly shocked that a member of his own team had turned on him, he was a bit surprised it had happened so soon.

Crew swept the rings away, then the burliest grips brought out a table-shaped item draped in cloth. A pair of chairs were placed on each side of it, facing one another, as if they were setting up a tea party for John and Muriel rather than a challenge. Once the props were in place, Monty read, “Last but not least, we have the magic silks portion of the Four Prop Challenge. Gold Team, you selected Muriel Broom to perform. What was your reasoning behind that?”

“Isn’t it obvious, Monty?” Muriel smiled and patted down her peasant blouse. Tiny bells jingled from her bracelets as she shook out her flouncy skirt. “I’m the one who’s best at accessorizing.”

“Very good, Muriel. And joining you in this challenge is the last randomly-selected Red Team member, Professor Topaz. Magicians, have a look at what’s in store for you this final round.”

Grips whisked off the covering and revealed a table constructed of plexi. Its top was a deep box, filled entirely with colored scarves. John craned his neck to see the upper surface of the tabletop. It was opaque, with two holes cut through it, one on each end.

“Magicians have long been known for producing silk scarves from a number of unlikely places,” Monty said. “The fabric is durable enough to make parachutes from, yet it’s whisper-thin, and can easily be packed into a ball, palmed and concealed. Tonight you won’t be concealing a silk, though. This challenge is about finding one.

“This specially-constructed table holds over three thousand squares of silk—and while the contents are visible to both your teammates and the cameras, you’ll only be able to touch the silks, not see them.”

“Get a jib shot of the black tabletop,” Iain directed, and the jib camera rolled in and swooped over the table, while a few handhelds circled it.

Once the cameras backed up, Monty added, “Here’s how it works, magicians. You’ll place one hand into the box and draw out a silk. You must remain seated at all times, and you may only pull out one silk at a time. If two or more silks stick together and you pull out more than one square, you will earn points in the amount of the total number of silks in your hand. In other words, two silks, two points, and so on. You will continue drawing silks for three minutes. At the end of that time, whichever magician has the least amount of points—the lowest score—will be the winner.”

Iain said, “Let’s get a shot of the magicians behind the table, looking down at it.”

John and Muriel stepped over to the table. John nodded at Muriel. She smiled at him, eyebrows high, as if she’d just asked him a question and was waiting for the answer. Although…maybe that was just the way her eyebrows looked.

With John and Muriel in position, Monty continued. “This might lead you to play slow and careful. After all, if you don’t draw as many silks, you won’t have as many chances of incurring a penalty. However, there are several white silks scattered throughout the table. If one of you pulls a white silk, and only a white silk, you will be the immediate winner of this portion of the challenge, regardless of how many points you’ve racked up. In addition, you’ll win a week-long stay valued at five thousand dollars in a luxurious terrace suite at the Las Vegas MGM Grand, and a special guest appearance in the show of the legendary David Copperfield.”

“Well, that’d be fun,” Muriel said, “wouldn’t it? Maybe they’ll give us a comp to the buffet line, too.”

“Hold on, Monty,” Iain said. “The light’s bouncing off that table and creating a glare. We’ll need to change the angle.”

Several grips and a technician came out to reposition the table—apparently it was quite heavy—while John turned over Kevin’s warning in his mind. He would need to win this challenge. Not for the week at the MGM Grand or the phenomenal opportunity of appearing in the show, but to stay in Magic Mansion for one more challenge. Because if that bully Kevin stayed focused on John…maybe he’d leave Ricardo alone.

If John won, it meant Muriel would not, and John wasn’t thrilled about that…though since it was a competition, one of them would need to lose. He turned to her, and she to him (eyebrows raised) and he offered his hand, saying, “Good luck, Muriel.”

She smiled and reached toward him…and when her hand touched John’s, her True magic jolted him like an electrical current. She pulled him down to her level, and his body obeyed like it had no will of his own. He bent his head so she could whisper in his ear, and she leaned into him and said, “Don’t let that dumb gym rat intimidate you, John. Loosen up and enjoy the ride. You didn’t even notice that cute twink’s ass in those stretch pants—and him all hot for you. I’m going to be seriously disappointed if you don’t hit that.”

As if a breaker had flipped, the Truth, suddenly, was gone. It drained from Muriel’s hand like water. “Casey?” John whispered.

Muriel blinked. “Is that what I said? Casey? Heh, whatever that’s supposed to mean. Anyway, good luck.” She pumped his hand up and down a couple of times, then released it. “You’ve got to take me with a grain of salt, Professor. I dropped a lot of acid in my day.”

John was seated at the table, Muriel across from him. He could see through the hole, which was barely bigger than the diameter of his arm. Red, green, black, gold, blue. No white. Digging around in the silks without pulling any out was a viable strategy if he didn’t want to risk getting points off. But, as with life, caution would have its own risks. If John acted by choosing not to act, Muriel could very well pull a white silk and win everything: the trip, the show, and the entire Four Props Challenge for the Gold.

John shifted his gaze and saw the Gold Team watching him over Muriel’s shoulder. Ricardo’s eyes widened when John met his gaze. Nothing ventured, nothing gained—and perhaps he had Casey’s blessing to actually pursue something beyond a furtive tryst with Ricardo, or perhaps Muriel had just been reading John with her talent and channeling it into the sort of message John thought he would want to hear.

Whichever the case, with the alluring weight of Ricardo’s gaze on him, John resolved that it was, indeed, time to really try.

“Rolling,” Iain said. A buzzer sounded, and Monty called out, “Go!”

John pulled a silk. Red. And blue…damn.

Monty announced, “Red Team starts with two—and remember, in this challenge, the magician with the fewest points will be the winner.”

Across the table, Muriel teased a single green silk out of the hole. Then a black.

John pushed his hand deep into the silks to try again.

“To your right, Professor,” Faye yelled.

The focus of the Gold Team shifted, as the other three members kenned to the fact that they could be helping Muriel. John reached in and to the right. “Farther,” Faye yelled, and Jia called out, “A little more. A little more.”

Bev screamed, “Right there, Muriel. Right there!” and Muriel pulled. White flashed, but green also.

Monty said, “It’s not alone, so it doesn’t count. Two points to Gold Team.” Muriel was undaunted. She flung it to the side and thrust her hand back into the hole while the mingled silks floated gently toward the floor.

“There! There!” Faye called, and John pinched the scarf that seemed to be closer to Faye’s line of vision and teased it carefully from the mass. It cleared the hole by itself…but it was yellow.

“Not that one,” she called.

Muriel laughed, and drew a pink scarf. “There’s a trick to pulling just one, huh?” she said to John. “But you get the feel for it after a few.” She pulled out another green.

“Indeed.” John reached back in, and tried to find the spot Faye had been guiding him to before. “Right there,” Jia called again. John pulled…and saw the scarf was blue before it even cleared the hole. He pulled hard, and two more came out with it.

“That’s five for the Red Team,” Monty said.

Half a minute was gone. John reached and pulled. Muriel did the same. They each found a rhythm, a speed, that allowed the silks to slide out without bringing along one of the others more often than not, though John racked up another five points, and in a particularly clingy draw, Muriel four.

Two minutes had passed, and it became obvious that if he didn’t find a white silk, Muriel would claim this challenge. And although John was loathe to do it for fear of drawing more spite toward himself, he focused on his True power, sent it surging through his fingertips…and then zeroed in on the idea of “white.”

It was so much easier to convey “white” than “the longest wand” that the response from the silks was practically immediate. Yes came from a place somewhere in the middle. Yes, from deep down in the pile. Yes, from the opposite corner.

Yes, from the spot toward which Faye and Jia had been trying to coax John.

John walked his fingers through the silks carefully. White?

No. No. No. No. Yes.

He pinched it between his fingers. White—are you sure?

Yes.

The timer was ticking. Only fifteen seconds to go. If John pulled more than one silk, he’d never have time to find another white, and Muriel would win the stunt. Slow. Steady. But were there any other colors stuck to it? Hard to say. And just as he began to draw it from the opening, he sent the request, only white.

Whatever silk had been trying to cling (red, it seemed like, because it thought he could do with a darker pocket square) understood him, and released.

With ten seconds to spare, and Jia and Faye screaming themselves hoarse, John drew the silk from the hole.

“Is that…?” Monty said. “Yes, it’s a white silk. Professor Topaz has successfully drawn a single white silk. Not only will he spend a week at the MGM Grand and enjoy a guest appearance with David Copperfield, but Red Team wins the silk scarf portion of the Four Props Challenge.”

Chapter 25

FAREWELL DINNER

Ricardo covered his face with his hands. He tasted blood…God only knew what he’d done to his tongue during the last few seconds of the damn scarf challenge. He had no idea how his reaction would be interpreted. Disappointment over Red Team stealing the victory at the last second, he hoped. When really, he was just excruciatingly relieved it hadn’t been John who’d lost.

“Well, that does it,” Bev said. “Two Reds and two Golds. I’m sure they have a nice twist in store.”

“Don’t think that way,” Sue said. “Maybe they’ll let us all—”

“Okay, kids,” Iain called out, “line up in front of the table and pay close attention to Monty.”

Ricardo tended to think Bev was on to something. Whatever a tie meant, it probably wouldn’t be good.

They lined up, John center back, as the tallest contestant, Ricardo to one side of him and Kevin Kazan to the other. Sue, on Ricardo’s other side, was tall enough to stand in the back row, especially in her heels, and she took Ricardo’s hand and squeezed. Thankfully, Ricardo caught himself before he slipped his other hand into John’s. He turned to him instead, looked him in the eye, and said, “A spot with David Copperfield? Way to go.”

“Thank you,” John said gravely. Which gave Ricardo a special thrill, since onstage, it was the way Professor Topaz said pretty much everything.

“Tonight,” Monty told them, “eight magicians battled it out head to head. We had four winners, and four losers—two on Gold Team, and two on Red Team. There is no losing team.”

Sue squeezed Ricardo’s hand hard. He squeezed back and told himself to be happy that even though he couldn’t do the same with John, at least they were standing there side by side—and (barring a very cruel twist) neither one of them would be going home.

“Unfortunately, there is no winning team either, and only one person can be dubbed the Grandmaster Magician in Magic Mansion. And so, in the interest of fairness, our viewing audience will be sending home one member from each team.”

Sue gasped, and Ricardo held on tight as she swayed. Sue hadn’t had one of “her girls” go home since Charity Young…and truth be told, no one missed that awful dummy of hers.

“You’ll have tonight to celebrate the winners and say goodbye to your fast friends at a lavish dinner party in your honor. And next episode, we’ll announce who the viewers have chosen to stay…and to go.”

The formal dining room looked pretty enough, with its champagne fountain, white roses and sparkling candelabra. But Ricardo was exhausted, bone tired, and nauseated from the stress of the day. His tongue tasted like pennies and he suspected if he did manage to swallow any food, it might very well come right back up.

His teammates’ voices registered: Bev saying it was statistically unlikely she would get to stay much longer anyway, and Muriel saying that she’d had a blast at the Mansion, and she’d only done it for a lark anyhow, and Sue saying that it wasn’t fair one of them had to go home since Gold Team, in her opinion, had not officially lost. But mostly he allowed himself the luxury, while the cameras were still setting up and scoping out their best spots, of gazing at John. He tucked a red silk into his breast pocket, then looked up at Ricardo, and smiled. It was a sad-ish smile, and heart-wrenchingly handsome in the way it fit him just so. Like the black suit, and the pocket square.

“Earth to Ricardo,” Muriel said. “Have some champagne. You look like you can use it.”

As Ricardo sipped his champagne, which helped numb the awful taste of his tongue a bit, the catering staff hauled in huge platters of finger-foods, cheeses and fruit, canapes and shrimp. The dining room was in fairly good shape, even the spots the cameras weren’t shooting, and the food was actually better than the fancy dinner they’d had for eleven minutes with David Blaine. And slowly, between the champagne and the camaraderie of his teammates, despite the fact that he would need to bid one of them goodbye, Ricardo felt the horrific anxiety of the day begin to ebb. He wouldn’t go so far as to say he was enjoying himself. But eventually his knees stopped trembling, and he felt he could carry on a conversation without marking the location of the nearest trash can in case the urge to spew took over.

He was actually a bit tipsy by the time he wandered off to the bathroom, which only made sense. Even though the food was pretty good, his tongue wasn’t allowing him to enjoy anything that needed chewing, and the bubbly went down crisp and smooth.

The parts of the Mansion that weren’t currently taping were poorly lit and even a bit ominous. Ceilings were high, and in the dark, Ricardo’s footsteps sounded strange. It didn’t smell like a regular house. It smelled like a museum, or maybe an old library. And the mirror in the bathroom closest to the dining hall was speckled with dark spots where age had worn the silver backing away, which gave it a spooky, decayed feeling. He was glad enough to do his business and return to the party, but as he hurried back with his mind on the dining room, someone grabbed him by the elbow and spun him against the wall.

Kevin Kazan itching for a fight was his first thought—but Kevin Kazan was roughly the same height as Ricardo, so Ricardo wouldn’t find himself looking at a goatee and a red bow tie rather than Kevin’s stupid sideways hat.

Lips fell on Ricardo’s mouth. Urgent. Needy.

Kevin Kazan probably didn’t kiss like that, either.

Ricardo slid his arms around John’s neck, though he turned his mouth aside. “My tongue is a mess,” he said.

John stiffened. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even think—”

“Don’t be sorry.” Ricardo held on to him and stopped him from pulling away, and even managed to coax him into another brush of the lips. “Just be careful.”

John pressed his lips to Ricardo’s, more gently now, but not chaste, not at all. He held Ricardo to the wall, pinned by chest and hip, with a chair rail prodding into the center of his back and a rough bit of plaster catching at his hair, while his tongue teased at Ricardo’s mouth.

When John broke the kiss, he was breathing hard. Ricardo, too. “We shouldn’t stay out here in the open,” John said, but before Ricardo could protest that he frankly didn’t care, John added, “Follow me.”

John slipped around the corner, stealthy as a secret agent in his trim black suit, and Ricardo followed. He headed into the ballroom, then made a beeline for the screened-off parlor where props and equipment were stored. Perfect. If there were cameras in there, they’d be piled on the floor, not rolling, which meant…Ricardo’s heartbeat thrummed at the thought…that they could get away with doing pretty much anything.

The room was dark, but enough outdoor security lights seeped through the filmy curtains to allow them to pick their way through the clutter of furniture and gear. John paused in front of an old love seat at the far wall, turned to Ricardo, and held out his hand. Ricardo stepped forward, and in that moment, the disappointing reality of Magic Mansion fell away, and he could ignore the smell of sawdust and distant decay, and pretend that it was just him, and just John. They were together, alone. And this was their mansion. Their window, their curtains. Their love seat. And yes, it was a silly fantasy, since John probably just wanted a quickie, and Ricardo was probably reading into things, and no one owned a mansion these days, but who cared? Because this really was Professor Topaz, in the flesh. That was the only part of the fantasy that actually mattered. And that part was definitely real.

Ricardo stepped into John’s arms, and John bent his head to press his forehead to Ricardo’s. Not kissing him, not yet. Just holding him. And even that motion sent Ricardo’s heart soaring. “You look fabulous,” John said. His hands slid down the stretchy top. “Did you wear this to distract me?”

“Oh my God, no—”

“Shh. I’m kidding. I do that, sometimes.” John murmured the words against Ricardo’s lips as his hands dropped lower, hesitated, and then slid lower still, to cup Ricardo’s ass.

Now there was something to fantasize about. John grabbing him. Spreading him.

Taking him.

Ricardo moaned.

He nearly thrust his tongue into John’s mouth, but at the last moment a metallic taste threatened to spoil the mood. He turned his head so his face was buried in the crook of John’s neck instead, and he rubbed up against John, hungry to press together everywhere. His groin butted John’s thigh, and John let out a small gasp. “You’re so hard,” he whispered, fingers pressing deeper into Ricardo’s glutes, kneading them roughly. “I haven’t even touched it yet.”

“Please,” Ricardo gasped.

“Why?”

Ricardo almost didn’t catch the question. It sounded more like a breath. But if John thought it was a turn-on to hear Ricardo begging, he was more than happy to oblige. “Because I want you so bad it hurts. Because every day I see you and I can’t touch you and hold you and kiss you, it’s like torture to remember how you kissed me, and how you touched me, and I’m dying for you to do it again. To do more. To do it all.”

John guided Ricardo to the love seat and lay him back. It smelled faintly of mildew—but even that couldn’t detract from Ricardo’s hottest fantasy come true. John covered Ricardo with his body, kissing him slowly, gently, and occasionally his hips dipped down and brushed their groins together—and within a few slow grinds, John’s straining bulge caught up with Ricardo’s. And maybe they’d get off like that, rubbing together like a couple of college kids in the utility closet at a mostly-straight kegger. It wouldn’t be quite as good as the main event—feeling John inside him—but it would be a pretty damn satisfying opening act.

“Yeah, like that,” Ricardo said, when their bodies brushed in a particularly keen way. John dipped his hips and did it again. He fit his mouth to Ricardo’s and allowed their bodies to slide, for the sensation to build—and maybe it would be just as intense like this. Maybe more. “So good,” he breathed into John’s mouth as everything rushed down, down, down, and the tingle of impending release began to build. The slowness of the stimulation, the indirectness of it, made it all seem even headier. And when he came, he could already tell…he was going to come hard.

When John stilled, and when that elusive stimulation ebbed before his climax, Ricardo actually whimpered.

John shushed him quietly.

Once Ricardo wrested his awareness from his own throbbing dick, he realized he heard something other than the sound of their breathing and the gentle creak of the love seat.

He heard footsteps.

John put his mouth to Ricardo’s ear, and said, “Be still.”

Ricardo nodded.

The footsteps echoed through the ballroom, ringing loud. High heels. Ricardo wondered if maybe Sue had come to check on him and make sure he was okay—and that would be fine. Sue wouldn’t make a big stink about finding him in a compromising position with the Professor. But then someone spoke, and it wasn’t Sue at all.

“Where you wanna go?”

Holy crap. Kevin Kazan?

“I dunno.” And Amazing Faye? What the heck? “Where’s a good spot?” she said. “Here?”

“Okay. Get yo’ fine self over here, then. Let’s get busy.”

No one else, right? Ricardo hadn’t even heard Kazan coming. His gym shoes barely made a squeak on the parquet floor. He hoped there would only be the two of them.

But, no. There would only be two people present for what they began doing. Rustling sounds ensued. And then wet sounds: mouth on mouth sounds. And breathing.

Ricardo almost laughed—not because the situation was even remotely funny, but as release for the anxiety that had been building all day. His erection seemed like it would be happy to keep on going with what he and John were in the midst of—he was that close—but after a minute or two, it grudgingly began to flag.

Eventually, Ricardo attempted to distract himself by counting. He was somewhere around the three-hundred mark when finally the deep-kissing sounds stopped, and Faye said, “How’s my hair?”

“It’s good.”

“Okay. We should go back.”

John held Ricardo still for a long moment after the sound of her heels receded on the ballroom floor.

“I hope that’s not the standard Red Team greeting,” Ricardo whispered.

John sniffed out a small laugh. “Don’t worry about Kevin. He’s very much not my type. And the feeling is mutual.” He brushed his lips against Ricardo’s forehead and then pushed himself into a seated position. “I’m sorry. This was too risky.”

Ricardo sat up and pressed his chest to John’s side. “No, don’t say that.”

John hesitated, then said, “I haven’t felt like this about anyone in a long time.”

Really? Ricardo’s heart pounded wildly, and before he could check himself, he said, “Me too.”

“Come with me to Vegas. I want you there, at the MGM Grand.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

And the silence that hung between them once they had both said their piece was awkward, but profoundly wonderful in a way that Ricardo would cherish forever.

“John,” Ricardo said finally, because he’d had a roller coaster of a day, and it seemed that he couldn’t just let it slide, “when I thought I was going up against you, head-to-head, I nearly choked.”

John sighed.

“The chances of that happening are getting pretty good,” Ricardo added. “The longer both of us stay here, and the more players get voted off.”

John found Ricardo’s hand, took it between both of his, and squeezed it. (And it felt nothing like holding hands with Sue.) “Promise me something,” John said.

“Not until I hear what it is.”

“Promise me that when that time comes, you won’t pull your punches.”

“Do you even realize what you’re asking? I can’t try to take you down.” And then the laughter Ricardo had needed to swallow down just moments before threatened to turn to tears, and his voice went wobbly. “You’re my hero.”

John raised Ricardo’s hand and brushed his lips across the knuckles. “Then give me the respect of your full effort. If I should happen to earn the title of Grandmaster Magician…I would hate to think it was because you’d gone easy on me.”

___

“I haven’t felt like this about anyone in a long time.”

“Me too.”

The trailer door slammed, and Marlene hit the digital marker to take the footage back to the point where Faye and Kevin entered the storage room, before Iain could fling himself down in front of the monitor. “Well,” he said. “How’d my lovebirds do?”

“See for yourself.”

In the greenish night-vision glow, Kevin and Faye kissed and grappled. She kept her hands planted firmly on his shoulders. He looked as if he couldn’t tell if he was supposed to cop a feel. Despite their stiffness—which wouldn’t be too noticeable in a two-second clip—they both managed to kiss with lots and lots of tongue in a decent semblance of enthusiasm.

“Not too bad,” Iain said. “And how about that ‘I’m so Chinese’ speech from Jia?”

“That was actually pretty impressive,” Marlene said. “I think we can use the whole thing. Did the writers come up with that?”

“Nope. I told her that if she wouldn’t go make out with Kevin, then she’d need to find some way to endear herself to the audience, or else pretty soon the mansion door would be hitting her in the ass.”

Marlene might not be fond of Iain’s tactics, but he did know how to motivate a contestant. That much was true. “And what about Muriel and Bev?”

“What about them?”

“Any particular footage where they had their moment in the spotlight?”

“Oh, who cares? All those old farts should’ve been gone by now. Nobody wants to see someone their grandma’s age in a bathing suit.”

Marlene ignored him. “Bev’s enthusiasm made the Wand Pond pretty lively. I’ll recommend that.”

Through the speaker, the Professor’s voice said, “I’m sorry. This was too risky,” and Ricardo answered, “No, don’t say that.”

“What the…?” Iain sat up straighter, and clapped his hand over the control pad before Marlene could stop the playback.

“I haven’t felt like this about anyone in a long time.”

“Me too.”

“Oh my God. The Professor is kissing Ricardo’s hand.”

“Iain….”

“Hot damn, look at ’em. Now that’s what I wanted to see from Kevin and Faye.” Iain watched with rapt fascination as the Professor lovingly stroked Ricardo’s cheek, and Ricardo clasped his hand there for a moment, then turned it to kiss the palm.

“We should go,” Ricardo said.

“Holy crap—now they’re frenching each other.”

“Honestly, Iain, like you’ve never seen two men kiss.” While Iain flailed his hands in an “icky” motion, Marlene reached over and stopped the playback.

Iain treated Marlene to a bratty smirk. It was the most alert she’d ever seen him after 10 p.m. “So Topaz has been a fag all along?”

“Don’t use the word fag, you’ll get sued. And, yes, don’t you know anything? John Topaz and Casey Cornish were a big item.”

“Professor Topaz has been your favorite since day one. Maybe you should recommend these two homos as Magic Mansion’s big romantic couple.”

Marlene sighed. “You know that’s never gonna happen.”

“Why not?” Iain put on a mocking voice. “It’s not as if the viewers have never seen two men kiss.”

“You know all the giddy thirteen-year-olds on the network’s message boards think Ricardo and Sue are an item.”

“Future fag hags.”

“Go home, Iain. Just go home.”

___

“The dining hall is empty now, save for the echoes of the laughter and voices of eight formidably talented magicians. And of those magicians…two will be eliminated.

“On the Gold Team, it’s spiritualist Muriel Broom versus The Math Wizard, Bev Austin. On the Red, it’s lovely Amazing Faye versus exotic Jia Lee.

“I’m your host, Monty Shaw. Be sure to cast your votes, and tune in next time, when the female population will be drastically reduced…in Magic Mansion.”

Chapter 26

PRODUCER’S WARNING

Though the previous night’s farewell dinner had been congenial enough, it followed on the heels of a shoot so long it had drained everyone giddy. That morning’s breakfast felt depressingly sober to John in comparison. Faye, who Jia had immediately embraced as a potential ally, was now the team member who needed to be voted out of the mansion to ensure Jia would stay. Faye had betrayed her winning team, and was now poised for elimination. And Kevin had simply drained a protein shake in two swallows and stormed away in the direction of the gym.

Strains of laughter emanated from the small parlor where the Gold Team congregated over coffee and bagels. John considered joining them. After all, it wasn’t like his presence was any comfort to Faye and Jia. And yet…did he really want to announce his lack of support by blowing off his teammates like Kevin had? No. Better to stay with the Red Team. Dismal as it might be.

High heels on parquet cut the thick silence as the producer Marlene crossed the ballroom. Red Team observed her approach in silence. “Where’s your fearless leader?”

“The gym,” Jia said. It sounded like a snarl.

“How are the three of you holding up?” Marlene asked. “Do you need anything? Aspirin? Self-tanner? A fresh pair of socks?”

“I don’t know,” Faye said. “Do we? I thought one of us was going home.”

“Spare me the melodrama, princess. It’s not as if all twelve of you were going to win the competition. If you don’t need a supply-run….” Faye, Jia and John shook their heads. Marlene planted her hands on her hips and considered them for a moment, and said, “Okay, then. We’re taping the announcement at eleven and going right into the first challenge. There’ll be running involved, so it’s low heels and activewear outfits.”

John expected her to leave and touch base with the Gold Team, but instead she plucked his sleeve and said, “Come take a walk, Professor.”

John kept Marlene in his peripheral vision down the hall and out into the yard, but he didn’t have a clue what it was she needed to tell him that couldn’t be said in front of his teammates. Unless she wanted a specific reaction out of him once the eliminated player was announced. He supposed he could manage that.

A dry wind played over the loose strands of Marlene’s messy up-do as she turned to face John. She hooked stray hairs out of the corner of her mouth, looked him in the eye, and said, “So this thing between you and Ricardo.”

Inside, John groaned as everything came crashing down. But he didn’t allow it to reach his face. He stared at Marlene unblinkingly until she saw he wasn’t going to react, and she went on.

“I get it,” she said. “Do you believe me?”

John narrowed his eyes.

“Reality shows are brutal,” she said. “With regular TV, game shows or sitcoms or dramas, there’s a point at which the camera shuts off. Not here. And, as a culture, I think we value our privacy—probably more than we know, since aside from extreme circumstances like hospitals or prison, most of us never need to experience life in a fishbowl. Because of that…” she wrapped her too-thin arms around herself and gave herself a squeeze… “you bond.”

John sighed.

“I know it’s hard,” Marlene said. “I know. But pretty soon we’ll be in the Final Four…and then one last big spectacle of a challenge…and it’s done. You take your trip to Vegas, you schmooze with Copperfield’s guys, you ride the fame wagon as far as it’ll take you, and you and Ricardo can see if you find each other anywhere near as fascinating out there in the real world. Don’t blow it now by getting caught with your pants down. Because if you do—”

“Where did you tape us together?”

“Sonofa—there’s more than one possibility? The prop room, John. There were night-vision cameras in the prop room. I deleted the footage before it went to editing, but let’s face it, there are twenty-four hours in my day just like everyone else’s, and in that time we shoot about two hundred hours’ worth of footage. I can’t screen it all. And frankly, I shouldn’t need to.”

“I understand.”

“If you don’t want to get lynched, stop pulling the rope out of your sleeve and handing it to the mob.”

“No, it’s…it was only last night.”

Marlene looked at him hard. “You’re sure?”

Was he? John’s time in the Mansion and the lengthy shoots were beginning to take their toll. “I think so.”

“Oh, hell.” Marlene shook her head. “You think some of the shit they put you through now is humiliating? Try adding a score. You could be out taking one of your lost-in-thought strolls around the estate—yeah, they’ve taped you doing that—add some dopey music to it, and you come across like you’re on the brink of senility. Or how about some clever editing cuts? Juxtapose a shot of you staring at Ricardo all goo-goo-eyed with one of him curling his lip at the sight of Kevin Kazan. Only it’ll look like you’re the one who turns him off, a dirty old letch pestering him with unwelcome advances. Ricardo is the audience’s darling. If you care about him as much as you say you do…don’t blow it for him.”

While John was delighted to hear that Ricardo was faring well with viewers…. “And going public about a relationship with another man would compromise that? Come on, Marlene. We’re both out. And he’s hardly butch.”

She shook her head. “People see what they want to see—and then they gossip about it on the message boards. There’s a whole thread about how and where he should propose to Sue.”

Of course, Marlene was right. Only a few more challenges, and then he and Ricardo would be absolutely free to do as they pleased.

Unless Marlene was right about their bond being volatile, and outside of the Mansion, their chemistry would fizzle.

John couldn’t say what the future would hold, but for now, he could certainly wait a few more weeks to put the Mansion behind him. He was about to tell Marlene as much and thank her for her warning, when she added, “Neither of you have anything about your personal lives online, so there isn’t any dirt for the casual fan to dig up. And Ricardo might not be particularly masculine, Professor, but you are. I think you should consider feigning an interest in Jia so the powers that be won’t have any reason to read into your longing looks.”

Marlene fussed with her thin cardigan in a finicky gesture eerily like Rose Topaz…and as vividly as if it had just happened that very day, he heard his mother’s voice, sharp and incisive, seething up out of his long-forgotten memories.

What you reading? I never give you this. What you care about Guam for? You born in California. You American, Johnny. American. You go around and tell the other kids you Chamorro? You think that make you a big shot? Huh? You special? You different? You stupid, Johnny, that what you are. It no good to be different. It only make people hate you.

Every spiteful accusation was accompanied by a page torn from the book…a library book. Later, John’s stepfather had quietly slipped him two dollars and fifty cents, which covered the cost of having it replaced. But once John had mumbled the excuse about his nonexistent dog eating it and handed over the fee, he’d been too ashamed to show his face in that library again.

The desire to acquiesce to Marlene’s wishes evaporated.

“I appreciate your concern,” John told her, “but I’m too set in my ways to duck back into the closet. And I respect Jia. She deserves better.”

Marlene didn’t blow up. She simply shrugged. She didn’t have as much personally at stake as Rose had. “Out and proud. Well, good for you, Professor. I guess at the end of the day, you’re the one you’ve got to live with.”

“But it shouldn’t reflect on Ricardo. If he’s the viewers’ favorite…” dare he read into what Marlene was saying? That Ricardo was poised to win? “Don’t let my personal decisions stand in his way.”

___

Eight magicians gathered in the yard. The wind was still high and dry, and Iain had set a few crewmen with leaf blowers to flush out debris from the perimeter of the location and minimize the potential of a wayward leaf or candy bar wrapper flying into a shot. Ricardo was wearing another one of his clingy, sparkly outfits. John had only allowed himself a glance. But the glance was enough to test his newfound resolve to keep his eyes on the prize.

The prize (for John) being the chance to distract Kevin Kazan so Ricardo could take the win.

Hopefully Marlene hadn’t been exaggerating about Ricardo’s chances. It appeared she’d been correct so far about the physical nature of the upcoming challenge. Huge circus props were arranged the length of the back lawn, too many to cover with a tarp for a dramatic reveal. It was the type of setup an animal trainer might use—platforms and hoops and a giant ball. But given that the magicians hadn’t even been allowed to use power tools, it was unlikely they’d be coaxing any big cats through the performance. Or even house cats, for that matter.

At one end of each course was a pegboard full of pegs. The other, a fiberglass tiger with a roaring, open mouth.

No, there wouldn’t be any real animals. Just the magicians. And whatever ridiculous task the producers had dreamt up.

The lighting director selected the best spot to have the contestants stand while the sound men miked Monty. Gold Team was pointing and whispering, trying to work out what the challenge might be. John might break the ice with Jia and Faye since he liked them well enough, but they were both wound up tight with the knowledge that one of them was going home.

And, John realized, he knew which teammate that would be…if Marlene had been steering him right, anyway. Because Marlene wouldn’t have suggested he make romantic overtures toward someone who was leaving.

Interesting.

Once the futzing and positioning and throat-clearing was complete, cameras rolled, and Monty donned his on-camera smile and said, “Greetings, Gold Team. Red Team. As you know, circuses are home to many types of entertainers: clowns and acrobats, jugglers and side shows. Another staple beneath the big top is, of course, the magician—and many of you should feel right at home. Welcome, Magicians, to Circus Week.”

The closest John had come to performing in a circus was the county fair. And that was a standard close-up coin and rope act. Judging by the unenthused looks on the faces of the rest of his team, none of them possessed circus experience, either. Not that it would matter. The stunts’ themes were usually tacked-on, flimsy at best.

Although if any juggling were to be involved…John allowed himself a momentary glimpse of Ricardo, who would surely come out ahead in that case. Ricardo had his arm around Sue, who was whispering in his ear. Ah. Yes. The golden couple.

John supposed their closeness could be presented as romantic, even without any clever edits.

He looked away before his own interest could be filmed, and edited into anything it was not. John had no doubt they could dig up some jealousy music readily enough.

“Many great magicians,” Monty said, “use animals in their acts, creatures as harmless as rabbits and doves, as common as trained horses or dogs, and as exotic as elephants and lions. The animal you’ll be training for this stunt is a Bengal tiger.”

“Get some closeups of the fiberglass tigers when we’re through here,” Iain told an assistant, who jotted it on a clipboard.

Monty paused to give the editors somewhere to cut, then went on. “Training is achieved through patience and repetition, modeling the behavior you wish the animal to perform, and then rewarding him with plenty of treats. Today, each team will ‘train’ their tiger.

“First, you’ll model the behavior by running the course yourself. Jump from platform to platform, leap through the flaming hoop, and roll the ball across the white line.”

The three round platforms were close enough for an easy jump, the hoop’s “flames” were yellow mylar streamers, and the ball looked to be a red spray-painted yoga ball with a few gold stars stenciled on.

“Next, secure your tiger’s reward, and run back across the lawn as quickly as you can to ‘feed’ your tiger. The treats are waiting for you inside the pegboard at the far end of the course. Each treat looks the same from this side, but when you pull it from its slot, its ‘flavor’ will be revealed. Green pegs are veggies—worth one point. White pegs are grains—worth two. And brown pegs are meat—worth three whole points. Once you’ve pulled your peg, run back to your tiger as quickly as you can with its treat.”

John glanced at the red-decorated course, and then at the pegboard on the far end. Brown?

Several pegs answered. Yes, yes, yes.

Very good.

“As for the repetition—you’ll do it in the form of a relay race. Only one player at a time may run the team’s course, and at the end of ten minutes, the team who feeds the most points to their tiger will win a critical advantage in the next elimination challenge. So be quick, and take as many trips to the pegboard as you can.”

John considered the pegs again. Brown, brown, brown. Yes.

Monty said, “And…one more thing. You’ll be pulling the treats from their pegboard stash and carrying them back to the tigers…in your mouths.”

Faye gave a quiet grunt of disgust. Kevin sniffed.

“After all,” Monty said brightly, “what better way to bond? Unfortunately, not all the magicians present will have the chance to train these fine beasts. The votes are in from the last elimination challenge. One magician on the Gold Team, and one magician on the Red Team…will be going home.”

Monty turned to the Gold Team. “Math Wizard, Muriel Broom, please step forward.” Gold Team gave its ubiquitous group hug, and then the two older members of the team presented themselves on a piece of tape stuck to the grass. “Bev, you might be going home today. Have you got anything to say about your time in the Mansion?”

“Oh, I, uh…. Nobody told me to prepare a….”

Iain made a “keep going” motion.

Muriel whispered encouragement to Bev, who sighed and shrugged, and then said, “Magic Mansion has been quite an experience, Monty. I’ve come a lot farther than I ever thought I might—me, a fifty-nine year old trigonometry teacher. I’ve had some incredible experiences, and I’ve made a lot of good friends.”

“That you have, Bev. And what about you, Muriel?”

“It’s been a wild ride! Who would’ve ever thought I’d be sleeping in a mansion with a camera crew following me around all day? I’ve crossed at least four things off my bucket list in the past couple of weeks. But if it’s my time to go—no biggie. I’ve been itching to spend some quality time with my boyfriend…if you know what I mean.”

Iain went a bit green.

Monty turned to the Red Team. “Jia Lee, Amazing Faye, please step forward.”

In a sudden burst of compassion, John patted Faye on the shoulder. She shot a slightly confused look back at him as she stepped up to her tape mark.

“Jia,” Monty said, “if this is your last day in the Mansion, what have you got to say?”

“I’m a fierce competitor, Monty, and I gave every challenge my best shot. I was also a team player. I have no regrets.”

Team player? Whose expense was that dig meant to be…ah. Faye was turning redder than her hair. John had assumed they were allies. But perhaps alliances could only take the magicians so far.

“Amazing Faye? Any final words?”

“I want to win, Monty—and anyone who tells you anything different is lying through their teeth. We’re not here to have fun and make friends. This is a game, and we’re all playing it to win. Every last one of us. Red Team, Gold Team, it doesn’t make any difference. I am here to be crowned the Grandmaster Magician, and the color of my medallion doesn’t change that.”

“Strong words, Faye. Unfortunately…you will not take the Grandmaster Magician title. You have been voted out of the mansion. And you’ll be going…home.”

It did indeed seem, thus far, that Marlene had been telling John the truth.

Chapter 27

TIGER TRAINER CHALLENGE

Faye tore off her Red Team medallion and flung it to the ground in what, John assumed, was a melodramatic display designed to get the best screen time out of her few remaining seconds. But then she turned and said to Jia, “I’m soooo disappointed I won’t be running around with a mouthful of painted pegs. Make sure the cameras get your best angle while you make a big ass out of yourself.”

Jia crossed her arms coolly and said, “Have a nice trip…home.”

As Faye stalked off the set, Iain followed, begging her to go say goodbye to Kevin. But he would be as likely to stop a speeding freight train. “Oh well,” he told his assistant. “See if we can shoot a private goodbye later, once she’s calmed down. Okay, Monty, go ahead.”

“Gold Team, I’m sorry to say, the player who has been eliminated…is Muriel.”

Another group hug ensued…a very long hug. Long enough that John expected Iain to yell something charming like, “Break it up, we don’t have all day.”

Except that he didn’t. He just watched, while the handhelds circled. And when Muriel finally pulled free from the embrace of her team, she was smiling—but her teammates were all in tears. Ricardo, crying freely. Bev with her glasses off, wiping them on the hem of her blouse. Sue with mascara making twin tracks down her cheeks.

“I love you guys,” Muriel said, walking backwards with the dry wind whipping her gypsy skirts and her long gray hair as she blew them all elaborate kisses. “Remember—Gold Team rules! Now go kick some ass!”

Once Muriel exited the set, the contestants were situated by their fake tigers while a pair of stylists repaired the damage to Sue’s makeup. Kevin, Jia and John studied the course. John rehearsed the moves in his mind: jump, jump, jump. The hoop would be the trickiest part for him, because of his height. But he was also a fast runner. He’d do well on the straightaway return trip. “A’ight,” Kevin said, “I’ll go first, y’all can watch, and plan your strategy.”

Jia shrugged. John wondered if by helping the Red Team win, he was stacking the deck in favor of keeping himself around, or making it more likely that Ricardo would get voted off in the next elimination. He didn’t know. But if Ricardo was as popular as Marlene had said, he stood less of a chance of being voted off. Plus, John would feel insulted if he knew Ricardo was holding back on his account; wouldn’t Ricardo feel the same? And so John set his sights on a brown peg, and he said to Jia, “I’ll go next, if you don’t mind.”

She shrugged.

An assistant came around with clear mouthguards for all of them to wear, two individual pieces, top and bottom. John bit them into place. They tasted terrible.

“How’m I supposed to grab a peg with this hunka plastic in my mouth?” Kevin complained to Iain.

“Take it up with Marlene. She’s worried you klutzes will knock your teeth out.”

“What difference does it make?” Jia said, muffled through the plastic. “We’re all wearing them. Everyone will have trouble. Not just you.”

Not to be outdone by a girl, Kevin pressed his mouthguards in, crossed his arms, and waited for the signal. An assistant brought Monty an airhorn, which he raised above his head, blasted, and cried, “And you’re off!”

Sue started for the Gold Team. She raced through the course, athletic and strong, while Ricardo and Bev cheered her on.

John, however, kept his eye on his teammate as Kevin navigated the obstacles. He wasn’t a very surefooted jumper, though his hours of inclined crunches had given him a certain amount of physical control. Three jumps across the platforms, through the hoop, roll the ball, and a head-first lunge into the pegboard. Even from where John stood twenty yards away, he saw the flash of white Kevin held between his mouthguards. He’d found a two-point peg.

So, however, had Sue.

Jia elbowed John in the ribs, and whispered, “Cheer.”

John supposed he should. He clapped his hands and called out, “Come on, let’s go, almost there!” While Jia yelled, “Whooo!”

The moment Kevin spat his white peg into the tiger’s mouth, John was off.

The Gold Team had sent Ricardo second, and Ricardo was already at the hoop. Apparently Sue was quite the runner. She’d put her team in the lead already. John didn’t waste any time watching Ricardo—he focused only on himself. Three jumps—there, easy. Through the hoop, with mylar streamers tickling his cheeks. Roll the ball…and then, the pegs.

Brown?

Yes.

He grasped a brown peg in his teeth and ran back toward his tiger, fast enough to begin closing the gap between the Gold and Red Teams. He spat his peg into the tiger’s mouth, and then Jia took off.

Jia was small, but she was fast and agile. The jumps were no problem, and she made it through the hoop much faster than either Kevin or John. Her opponent, Bev…was not quite so dexterous. And that was putting it kindly.

It appeared that Bev was afraid to make the short jump between the platforms, despite the desperate “you can do it” cheers of her teammates. She moved between them with large, cautious steps instead, and rather than jumping through the hoop, she climbed through it one foot at a time.

Jia was already back to the Red Team’s tiger by the time Bev reached the pegboard. Kevin took off.

Gasping for breath, Jia took out her top mouthguard and said, “I could tell that damn thing was green. I could see it past my nose. If I get another green peg, I’m gonna spit it out and take a different one.”

“They didn’t say we could do that.” John cautioned.

“They didn’t say we couldn’t.”

John didn’t like the risk. “Don’t give them a reason to disqualify us.”

“There’s no rule against it.” Jia scowled at the obstacle course. “And to do that whole circuit for just one damn point? I don’t think so.”

Kevin was running back with a one-point green peg in his mouth. John told Jia, “Don’t risk it,” and focused hard on the jump to the first platform. He was ahead of Ricardo now—Bev’s slowness had cost the Gold Team any advantage Sue’s speed had initially won them. Three jumps, through the hoop, roll the ball…and dare he take another brown? There were fewer brown pegs than the others…but not so few that it would be terribly suspicious of John to take a second brown. He seized the three-point peg from the top row with his teeth. That left one in place lower down on the board for Jia. It was tempting to simply point it out to her to keep her from spitting out pegs and costing the Red Team a potential penalty.

But since John wouldn’t be able to explain how he’d come by the information, he supposed he would need to let the cards fall where they may.

As soon as he spat his peg into the tiger’s mouth, Jia was off, and Ricardo, who’d been neck and neck before with John, was only now turning away from the Gold Team pegboard. He had a brown three-point peg in his teeth. He raced back as Jia leapt through her hoop and bit a peg from the Red Team’s board.

And spat it out.

“Crazy-assed chick,” Kevin muttered, through his mouthguard. “What she doin’?”

Jia spat another, and another, and finally settled on the fourth peg she’d chosen. She turned to run back, and John saw she’d decided to keep a two-point white.

John eyed Iain on the sidelines, a cellphone on each ear in a heated discussion with his unseen superiors. Evidently the producers weren’t the only ones who knew how to deliver a twist.

Jia returned and Kevin was off yet again as the timer ticked past the midway point. Over on Gold Team, Ricardo spat his brown peg into the tiger’s mouth, then looked up to watch Kevin bang through the hoop, while on his own team, Bev struggled across the platforms. Just as Kevin lunged for the pegs, a dry wind kicked up and engulfed him in dust. He doubled over, knuckling at his contact lenses, and Iain paused in his multi-phone conversation. “You need a medic?”

Kevin straightened up and blinked away tears, and then shook his head and barked out, “I’m good.” But the momentary lapse had allowed Bev to catch up to him. The hairs on the back of John’s neck prickled, and he turned to see Ricardo watching Kevin’s struggle with a self-satisfied smile.

At least this slip-up wasn’t as obvious as the mylar dove. Though calling it a slip-up was probably quite a stretch.

Kevin grasped a peg and turned toward his team. The peg was green. Bev began her laborious jog back to her tiger with a two-point white peg in her mouth.

“If they disqualify your pegs,” John told Jia, “then that’s it. We lose.”

“And how is that different from every other challenge?”

She had a point.

Bev was no sprinter, and despite the momentary reprieve the dust cloud had given the Gold Team, Kevin outpaced her easily. John glanced over at Ricardo, who was giving Sue a pep talk as she readied herself for her third circuit. Ricardo caught John’s eye and gave a slight shrug—busted. It was time for John to run again before he could come up with a response.

Jump, jump, jump, clear the hoop, roll the ball. Sue had grasped a peg and was on her way back, running hard, when suddenly she went sprawling. Monty’s voice, saying, “Sue is down!” rose over the collective indrawn breath of everyone who’d seen what happened, but Iain called out, “keep going,” and so John left Sue to the care of the medics, stepped up to the pegboard and located yet another brown. How suspicious would it look if he took a third brown peg? Maybe he should settle for green this time…but without knowing whether Jia’s pegs would count or not, could he risk losing yet another challenge? In John’s pause, Sue must have made it back to her starting line, and the sound of Ricardo leaping from platform to platform with unerring accuracy and speed rang through the yard.

John grasped a brown peg and ran back toward the tiger.

“That’s nine points Professor Topaz scored for Red Team!” Monty cried. So much for flying under the radar.

Jia was hopping the platforms as Kevin readied himself in case he might be able to make one more circuit—though the timer now had less than thirty seconds to go. Jia made it to the pegboard, spat out a green peg, and kept the second peg she’d chosen. John saw it was a brown.

Kevin looked back over his shoulder at John. His eyes were red. “Wanna tell me where the other browns are?”

John stared at him blankly.

“No? You sure? ’Cos you don’t wanna mess wit’ me, old man.”

“It’s random,” John said calmly. But Kevin didn’t buy it. He gave a derisive scoff, then set off for yet another leap through the course as Jia brought home a brown.

Ricardo came in with another white, and Bev set off for her final circuit, but as Kevin grabbed another peg and pounded back toward the Red Team’s start line for all he was worth, she’d barely struggled through the hoop. Kevin’s hard-won peg was a low-scoring green. But he gave John a pointed look as he spat it into the tiger’s maw anyway.

The airhorn sounded to end the challenge. Bev spat the green peg she’d been carrying out on the lawn, threw her arms in the air, and slowed to a walk. “Good try, Bev,” Ricardo shouted. “Good try.”

“Everybody take five,” Iain called out. “Medic, go have a look at Sue’s knee. Jia—you’re a royal pain in my ass, you know that, don’t you?”

Jia tossed her hair.

Kevin dropped his spitty mouthguard into an assistant’s bucket, and said, “The two of you should leave the strategy to me.”

“And you should leave the comedy to Chip Challenge,” Jia said. “Your precious strategy is a joke. It hasn’t panned out once.”

John relieved himself of his mouthguards, and kept an eye on his opponents as Jia and Kevin squabbled. Gold Team was huddled together, hanging on Bev’s every word. No doubt she’d pieced together each team’s score.

And no doubt it all came down to Jia being disqualified or not.

Stylists came around to blot Jia’s brow and tousle John’s hair more attractively, and a medic brought Kevin some eye drops. The remaining contestants—only six of them now—were lined up opposite the scoreboard, three men in back, three women in front. John couldn’t say anything to Ricardo, even though they were standing side by side. Because the cameras were on him—and he was just as close to Kevin.

Once the crew cleared the set, Iain said, “Go ahead.”

“It was a very close race,” Monty said. “Let’s take a look at how each team fared. Gold Team—”

“Cut,” Iain said. “Marlene doesn’t like the way you pronounced ‘fared.’ Do over.”

“Faired,” Monty said, missing the R completely. “Faired.”

“Replace it with ‘did.’”

“Got it.”

“Go ahead.”

“It was a very close race. Let’s take a look at how each team did. Math Wizard Bev, you struggled through the circuit. If you had been able to complete your last run, you would have netted your team a total of four points. However, the clock ran out on you, and your final score was three.”

Bev nodded grimly. Monty wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know.

“Jia Lee, the luck of the draw was not on your side. The first peg you selected was green. And so you decided to take matters into your own hands…or, should I say, teeth. What was your strategy?”

“I could see the color of the peg once I pulled it out, Monty. And I wasn’t going to settle for another green.”

“Jia, with your unconventional methods, despite the poor start, you ended up scoring six points for the Red Team.”

Jia crossed her arms and nodded.

“Ricardo the Magnificent, you seemed right at home running that course. And you also didn’t end up with a single green peg. Your first run netted you a two-point white, your second run a coveted brown, and your third run another white. Your final tally is seven points.”

In John’s peripheral vision, Ricardo nodded. John didn’t dare turn to look and gauge his expression. Who knew how an on-camera “look” of any sort could be construed?

“Sue, you took quite a spill there.” Monty’s voice softened. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Monty. I’m tougher than I look.”

“Indeed. You picked yourself up and brought home one white peg and two browns, scoring a total of eight points for your team. Well done.”

Gold Team clapped. Kevin shook his head, fuming.

“Kevin Kazan, you were the only magician to bring four pegs back for your team. An impressive effort. Unfortunately, two of those pegs…were green. Your final score…is six.”

Kevin stared fixedly at the scoreboard and didn’t move a muscle. Neither Jia nor John commended him on his four complete runs. Jia, because she loathed him. John, because he was busy wondering how he’d gotten so carried away with the game that he’d given in to the temptation of pulling three brown pegs. Not one other contestant had drawn three pegs of the same color. Not one.

“And, of course, our big winner tonight with nine points is…Professor Topaz, our oldest remaining contestant at sixty-three years of age. Not only were you incredibly lucky with three brown pegs, Professor, but you sailed through that circuit faster than any other contestant. Our producers tell me you were an accomplished surfer in your day.”

As John admonished himself not only for choosing all three-point pegs, but for drawing the envy of every other player by also beating them in time, every handheld turned to him. And he realized he was expected to give a response. “Yes,” he said, searching for banter, and failing. “I was.”

There was a long silence, and Iain made a “keep going” motion.

John said, “I’ve always been fond of the ocean.”

When Monty saw John had nothing more to add, he said, “Well, you’ve certainly kept yourself in great shape and given all the younger players a run for their money. You, Professor Topaz, have proven yourself a force to be reckoned with.” Meant as a compliment, no doubt, but the other players didn’t need him to keep fanning the flames of malice. “That’s nine points to the Red Team, thanks to you.” Would he ever stop hammering it home? “That means Red Team has won their very first challenge. Well done, Professor. Well done, Red Team.”

John did his best to appear satisfied when, in fact, all he wanted to do was groan. He inclined his head gravely.

The final score read:

TIGER TRAINER CHALLENGE

RED TEAM - 21 points

Professor Topaz: 3 − 3 − 3 (Total 9)

Kevin Kazan: 2 − 1 − 2 − 1 (Total 6)

Jia Lee: 1 − 2 − 3 (Total 6)

GOLD TEAM - 18 points

Sue Wozniak: 2 − 3 − 3 (Total 8)

Ricardo the Magnificent: 2 − 3 − 2 (Total 7)

Math Wizard: 1 − 2 (Total 3)

“Red Team, please step forward.” John, Jia and Kevin separated themselves from the Gold Team. John put his hand on Jia’s shoulder—not so much as a show of support, but because his knees were shaking with more than the fatigue of running the challenge. Jia reached up and placed her hand over the back of his. Kevin crossed his huge arms. “As the victors in the Tiger Trainer Challenge, the Red Team has won the opportunity to make an important strategic decision. This choice will affect the course of the rest of the competition, so use it wisely.”

Jia squeezed John’s fingers. John tried to steady himself with a slow breath.

“Jia…Professor…Kevin…you may continue this challenge as the Red Team…or you may dissolve the teams entirely, and proceed as individual competitors. Consider your decision carefully, because once the team colors come off, there’s no going back.”

The end of Red Team would mean John would be free to ally with whomever he chose.

The end of Red Team would mean he could take Kevin out.

But the end of Red Team would also mean there’d be nowhere to hide. John would need to play hard to stay in the game. Even though that meant drawing the caustic envy of the other players, and worse, all the other players’ supporters, onto himself. If he did that, though, he’d be deflecting the spite from Ricardo’s True magic. So that was what he needed to do.

Before John could decide whether he would need to use reverse psychology on Kevin to make him dissolve the team, Kevin took two steps forward and said, “Monty, it’s time to see what everyone here got. I say bring it. I ain’t scared of y’all. Y’all want a piece of me? Come and get it. Fuck Gold Team. Fuck Red Team. ’Cos I’m gonna win dis thing. Me. Kevin Kazan.”

The set went deathly quiet, except for the sound of the wind rustling the palms. Iain lowered his phone, and said, “That’s fine. Go ahead.”

“Red Team,” Monty said cheerfully, “or should I say, ex-Red Team…how do you feel about Kevin making that decision without consulting you?”

Jia let go of John’s hand, tipped up her chin, and said, “It wouldn’t be the first time, Monty. There was a reason Red Team lost almost every challenge. It carried its deadweight right at the helm. I say good riddance to the Red Team. I’m better off without it.”

“Strong words. And what about you, Professor?”

As diplomatically as he could, John said, “Now, it’s every man…and woman…for themselves. We’ll see how it all plays out.”

Iain called out, “Let’s get a shot of you throwing your medallions in a pile over there on that green patch of grass.” The magicians arranged themselves in a semicircle and did so. The red-ribboned medallions were pitched in first…but Sue, Bev and Ricardo couldn’t seem to let go of theirs. Sue sniffled back a tear. And then Bev stifled a sob. Soon Ricardo was hugging them both and kissing their hair, while Jia tapped her foot and Kevin Kazan rolled his eyes. Cameras circled them for a minute or two, but finally Iain said, “Come on, kids, chill out. Nobody died here. You’ll get to keep the damn medals.”

Sue shot him a disgusted look, but then she obediently stepped forward and dropped her gold-ribboned medallion into the pile. Bev pitched hers forward in an awkward underhanded toss. And Ricardo stood with his medallion in his hand one final moment, gazing at it thoughtfully. He kissed it, and dropped it onto the pile.

Yes, indeed, John thought. Every man for himself.

Chapter 28

SPECIAL SURPRISE

“Red Team is gone,” Monty told the magicians, “and Gold Team is gone, and instead the strongest half of the contestants remain—three women, and three men, each of you with a very good chance of making it into the Final Four. The former Red Team won the privilege of deciding your fates…for all of you. But in doing so, they’ve not only done away with the teams…because, you see, there’s a twist.”

Just when John had assumed things couldn’t get any worse. Two more weeks, he told himself. Hang in there two more weeks.

“The power to decide whether to play in teams or singles wasn’t the only prize up for grabs in this challenge. There’s a second reward at stake.”

Monty turned to the scoreboard, and immediately, all the letters and numbers began scrolling and flashing into random characters as the board rearranged itself. When the cameras had all the footage they needed, Iain signaled to a gaffer who pressed a single button, and when the lettering unscrambled, the board read as follows:

TIGER TRAINER CHALLENGE

1. Professor Topaz: 3 − 3 − 3 (Total 9)

2. Sue Wozniak: 2 − 3 − 3 (Total 8)

3. Ricardo the Magnificent: 2 − 3 − 2 (Total 7)

4. Kevin Kazan: 2 − 1 − 2 − 1 (Total 6)

5. Jia Lee: 1 − 2 − 3 (Total 6)

6. Math Wizard: 1 − 2 (Total 3)

“Since there are no longer teams, the Magicians who will receive the second prize are the top three scorers: Ricardo, Sue, and the Professor. Kevin, it looks like your own strategy has served you poorly yet again.”

“I don’t care ’bout no dumb-assed challenge reward,” Kevin said belligerently. “I’m here to take the top prize. Everything else is weak. Think you can distract me with some stupid dinner, some shopping spree? Nuh-uh. I’m better off finishing this competition myself.”

“All right, Magicians,” Monty said, “you’ve worked hard today. Go get some rest. Later this week, the top three will get their special surprise…and then you’ll all compete in an elimination challenge.”

John walked back to the mansion numbly, losing himself among crew so he didn’t need to figure out which contestants he should or shouldn’t talk to, and what he should or shouldn’t say. Though it was awkward when the stylist who usually did his hair fell into step beside him said, “You’re not seriously sixty-three, are you? I’d put you at fifty. If that.”

“Clean living,” he told her. And Casey would have laughed himself silly at that, given that they would snort, smoke or swallow whatever their friends put in front of them—though neither of them were enamored enough with the party drugs to take their relationship with them anywhere past a simple flirtation. Ah, Casey. You’d have plenty to tease me about over this fine mess.

Too easy, babe. It’s like shooting fish in a barrel. You give me scads of ammunition by taking everything so damn seriously.

“Good genetics,” the stylist said. “Men inherit their hair from their maternal grandfathers.”

John had never known any of his grandparents, but he wondered if Rose would have been pleased to hear it. You could never tell with her. Although she considered Guam a dirty word, and every reference to it was taboo, occasionally she seemed as if she regarded her heritage with a certain truculent pride. He veered away from the stylist, planted himself at the bar, and set about helping himself to the very good scotch, though he supposed he should be careful not to overindulge. He didn’t want to roll into his room stinking drunk and give Kevin a chance to erode his confidence even more.

Or to let Kevin provoke him into revealing a Truth that couldn’t be un-shown.

“There you are.” Marlene parked herself beside John as he swirled the remains of his first drink around the bottom of his glass and did his best to talk himself out of a second. “Somehow I imagined that the guy who crushed the competition and rid himself of team leader Kevin Kazan all in one fell swoop would look a little bit happier. What gives?”

“It’s just nerves,” John said. “The stress of the unknown. Nothing I can’t handle.”

“You should be celebrating the fact that you made it this far and not drowning your sorrows.” She considered her next words for a moment, and the plunged ahead. “Initially, you were picked for the show because we had a race quota to fill. You know how it is. Token black. Token Asian. And those Tongan guys on the last few seasons of Weighty Matters were a big hit among several demographics, so a Pacific Islander was a big score for the Mansion.”

“What are you saying…you picked me because I’m Chamorro?”

“Not me, personally. The executive producers. Plus you’re older, too. And gay—Ricardo hadn’t signed on yet at that point. They wanted to represent a wide range of races and ages and everything else, half women, half men. You, Bev, Jia…quotas. Remember how I said you wouldn’t win? That’s because nobody expected anyone other than the young white men to still be standing this far into the game. Well, except Jia—she’s got a pretty vocal following and a reputation for being a good performer and a smart businesswoman. You, on the other hand, haven’t made any big waves lately in the magic community—and yet, here you are. Which just goes to prove that you never can tell who’s going to crumble under the pressure and the competition, and who’s going to thrive.” She screwed the top back onto the scotch, and said, “Believe me, Professor. You’re thriving. But this week, you’ll need your strength. So cut yourself some slack and figure out how to go to your happy place. Without this.”

John allowed himself a small smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

Marlene held his gaze for a long moment, then reached into the pocket of her black cardigan, and pulled out a key. She dangled it in front of John.

“What’s this?” he said.

“Since you’re not on the Red Team anymore, no sense in you bunking with Kevin.”

Frankly, that was the best thing John had heard all day…but he’d never had access to a room that locked. It didn’t make sense. Not with the dorm-style arrangements and the players and staff going in and out. While Marlene was friendly enough with him, he sensed a test of some sort…especially right on the heels of her warning that he keep his hands to himself when it came to Ricardo. “And what have I done to merit a lock?”

“Only four dorm rooms were set up—the other big bedrooms had problems that couldn’t be patched up with a few coats of paint, but the servants’ quarters are still in pretty good shape. I’ve had your stuff—and Bev’s—moved down there so that each player is truly on their own now. But it’s pretty far off the beaten track. We wouldn’t want any interns stealing your underwear and selling them on eBay. So…they’re locked.”

Most definitely a test. Probably another night-vision camera.

Still, John was eager to tuck himself into bed without waiting for Kevin Kazan to accuse him of some sort of nonsense in the middle of the night in that ridiculous, trumped-up ghetto patois of his.

Marlene led John past the crowded kitchen, through the catering crew, into a plain, sturdy hallway with several small bedrooms branching off either side. Two rooms across the hall from one another had a paper star taped to the door: one had Mrs. Austin written on it in marker, and the other, Mr. Topaz.

“We’re sending dinner to your rooms tonight. Chicken, fish or veggie?”

“Fish, please.” John supposed he should be glad his meal wouldn’t consist of painted pegs.

While he waited for dinner, he checked his things. Everything appeared to be intact—even his underwear. His new room didn’t have much to explore. There was a narrow twin bed that smelled of mothballs, a plain bar on which to hang his wardrobe, and a nightstand. At least there was a small window, and it looked into an overgrown part of the yard that John could potentially pretend was anywhere. The solitude was the thing he welcomed the most. And he hadn’t allowed himself to fully acknowledge how much he’d been missing it.

The mattress squeaked as John lay down with his dog-eared Hemingway, but despite the bed’s discomfort, he felt more at home, more relaxed, than he had since he’d first arrived. He read, but only perfunctorily. Mostly he listened to the sounds of the house: the dry wind outside, the rap of the pneumatic nail gun in the yard, the clatter of gear being shifted, the rise and fall of crew’s voices down the hall. He was half-asleep by the time he realized that the rapping had changed, and it was no longer the construction crew outside, but someone tapping on his own door. Marlene, no doubt, making sure he hadn’t gone back for the scotch. Or maybe his new neighbor Bev, seeking to form an alliance with him.

What he really hoped was that it was Ricardo. Despite Marlene’s cautions. And despite the fact that he was doing his best to pretend he didn’t. He opened the door, and yes—it was Ricardo…who slammed the door behind him and threw his arms around John’s neck, silencing the protest John was about to make with a lingering kiss.

Though John regretted it, he was the one to turn his mouth aside, and say, “Wait.”

“My tongue’s a lot better today—almost good as new.”

“Not that. I’m sure we’re being taped.”

“There’s no camera in here. I asked the gaffer. He said there wasn’t.”

John touched Ricardo’s hair. It was free from styling products, soft and natural. Without makeup, in his jeans and his T-shirt, this would be how he would look at home, just him and John. The anticipation was a tantalizing pang in John’s chest. It seemed as if he’d forgotten how to look forward to something…until now. “We can’t be sure. And whatever we do in these next few days, these last few challenges, could affect us for the rest of our careers.”

“Why would anyone care about us?”

“You never know. The less gossip we provide people with, the more we can keep the focus where it needs to be. On our talent.”

“Talent?” Ricardo scoffed. “This show doesn’t even have anything to do with magic. If there was one thing I agree with Faye about, it’s that. Magic Mansion stunts aren’t about anything but dumb luck.”

“Like the grit that happened to blow itself into Kevin’s eyes.”

Ricardo couldn’t quite suppress a smile. “You could tell, huh?”

“Ricardo…” John stroked his cheek. “Be careful. When you’re obvious about using True magic…it doesn’t end well.”

“It’s fine.” Ricardo rose onto his toes and coaxed another kiss from John. His lips were too sweet to resist—but thankfully he showed mercy and ended the kiss before it went anywhere John would regret. “No one will ever know.”

“Humor me. You’ve got looks, and talent, and style. Enough to win on those qualities alone.”

“You really think I could win?”

John gazed hard into Ricardo’s eyes. “I know you can.”

“I dunno.” Ricardo slipped his arms around John’s waist and trailed his fingertips down the seat of John’s pants. “I’ve got some pretty stiff competition.” A few more of those caresses and that would be true…literally. Ricardo released John and took a step back. “But I’ve been thinking about what you said. If it ever does come down to you against me, I want you to go full-out and give it everything you’ve got. If it turns out I lose to you—that would be just as satisfying to me as winning the big prize myself.”

___

The matter of whether or not his room had come with a hidden camera or two did plague John, just on principle. Over the next few days, when he returned to his new room, he scoured the molding and the wallpaper. Plaster? Yes. Wood? Yes. Metal? Yes. The mansion showed him the impression of dozens of tiny nails holding the lath to the studs.

Camera? The house didn’t answer.

Fine, what was a camera made of? John thought. Circuitry? Glass? Plastic? No, the mansion claimed. Nothing like that.

It was somewhat reassuring, he supposed, but revealing something with his True magic was certainly not foolproof. Not if he couldn’t figure out the right questions to ask.

After a few tedious days where the talent had nothing to do, an assistant tapped on John’s door and told him to be in the lobby by eleven in his formalwear. John did his best not to read into it…though he dreaded that the formalwear had something to do with the “special surprise” he’d won with the conspicuous use of his talent. The other magicians joined him in the lobby, looking sparkly or sleek. Except Bev, who seemed to have dressed for a PTA meeting in a wool suit and sensible shoes.

A black stretch limo with Magic Mansion decals on the doors awaited them at the foot of the stairs—a tight squeeze for all six of them plus a handheld. But at least the cameraman was willing to sit next to Kevin. “What do you think your big surprise is going to be?” Bev asked Sue and Ricardo; although they were no longer wearing their Gold Team medallions, they still functioned as a single unit.

“I dunno,” Ricardo said. “Do you think we’ll finally get to perform?”

Kevin’s overly loud reply startled them all. “Why don’t y’all ask the Professor? He seem to know a lot o’ things.”

Everyone went quiet. Jia narrowed her eyes as if she might be ready to launch into yet another squabble…but instead she opted to watch and wait.

When no one took his bait, Kevin went on as if someone had indeed prompted him. “Like the brown pegs. Seem like he knew were all o’ them were. Don’t it?”

“Oh, shut up,” Jia spat. “You’re just jealous.”

“I got nothin’ to be jealous about. I made four runs by myself. None o’ y’all made four runs. Only reason I didn’t win…was ’cos I didn’t have Miz Marlene whispering sweet nothings in my ear.”

“What are you accusing him of, exactly?” Bev demanded. “Cheating? Or sleeping with the producer?”

The limo pulled up in front of a theatre before she could make Kevin explain himself. He just crossed his arms and smiled knowingly as the moods of all the magicians took a steep plummet.

John knew he should have gone for at least one white peg. Now look where his poor judgement had gotten him.

When the limo doors opened onto a red carpet, there was no time left for should-haves and what-ifs. Dozens of Magic Mansion fans were gathered, many in red or gold, since they wouldn’t know the teams had been dispensed with until that week’s taping had been edited and aired. A few young Asian women appeared to be cosplaying Jia Lee in Geisha makeup, dragon gowns and haughty sneers. Someone toward the back was waving a hand-lettered sign that read Bev equals Winner! And a pair of awkward pre-teen girls in front wore custom jerseys with Team Ricardo stretched across their training bras.

Iain, already in place with a bullhorn, said, “There’ll be time for autographs after the show. For now, just act excited and cheer as each contestant walks from the limo to the building. Magicians, one at a time.”

John watched each of his competitors disappear through the limo door to bursts of raucous cheering. Of everyone, Ricardo did seem to inspire the most adulation. When John unfolded himself from the confines of the limo and donned his top hat, the crowd actually went silent for a moment, staring up at him as if they were startled by his physical presence…but then someone called out, “Professor!” and a cheer rang up for John.

He nodded to the fans as he strode regally up the red carpet—particularly the youngest of them. He’d always connected well with children who hadn’t yet had their sense of wonder stolen from them. Though he did note, as he stepped into the theatre, that the crowd cheered just as enthusiastically for Kevin.

Chapter 29

BLAST FROM THE PAST

John waited stage right for the lighting techs to finish their tweaks and the audience to be seated. He peeked out at the theatre, a new 120-seater on Le Brea, red velvet upholstery disappearing behind the fans as they filed in and found their places. Kevin, Jia and Bev were positioned in the front row with a pair of empty seats buffering them from the rest of the crowd, and a handheld parked in front of them to capture their reaction to whatever was about to unfold. Ricardo and Sue were sequestered off-stage. Apparently they were to receive their “surprises” separately.

Unless the surprise was, as Ricardo had guessed, simply an opportunity to perform. John found a gap in the curtains and scanned the audience while a sound man miked him. Not a full house. But almost. Not bad at all for a weekday matinee. It had been at least five years since John had performed in a venue as classy as this. And as Iain cleared the stage and gave the lighting tech a final note, the house lights dimmed, and John found the dread in his heart begin to lift…and eagerness take its place.

Monty stepped out from stage left, followed by a spotlight. Applause rang through the auditorium.

“Welcome, Mansioneers, to a very special taping of Magic Mansion in which you’ll get to know your favorite magicians…a little bit better.”

An assistant told John to hit the mark stage right. John stepped out to a blinding spotlight and a swell of applause. Monty was polished and handsome in the intense stage lighting, and for all that he and John had never spoken more than a few pleasantries over the crafts service table, it felt comfortingly familiar to see him in this strange and public context.

“Professor Topaz,” he said, “your career in magic spans the longest of anyone in the Mansion, stretching all the way back to the fifties, when you handled doves for your uncle, Illusionist Glen Forrest.”

The lighting engineer killed the spotlight, and a slide appeared on the wall behind John, twenty-five feet high. It was so oversized, it took him a moment to recognize it—though it was perfectly clear to the audience. It was a shot that had appeared in Hugard’s Magic Monthly in 1958—the halftone big and grainy at this size. Glenn, Rose, and John in the middle, with Glenn’s too-big top hat sliding over his eyes.

“Your act took a detour when you went off to college…” The slide changed. John in his cap and gown, with hair past his collar and the then-new beard he’d grown so attached to. A draft dodger if ever there was one. “…which led to your stint teaching at Berkley that earned you the name ‘Professor.’”

Two semesters as adjunct faculty in the English and Lit department. Hardly a stellar career.

“But the call of magic ran deep in your veins…and soon it was no longer enough to wow your audiences on weekends and semester breaks.”

The shot of John performing at Marin County Sunflower Fest in a skin-tight long-sleeved T-shirt with hair down to his shoulders flashed onto the wall. Well, it was fashionable then. Where did they get these snapshots, anyway?

“Many magicians take assistants, but you preferred the focus and intimacy of solo performing and close-up illusions.”

The ubiquitous promotional shot John used for most of the eighties covered the wall. Tuxedo, top hat, gloves, and a single coin poised between his fingers. Aside from the ruffles on the tuxedo shirt and the absence of gray streaks in his beard, he looked very much like he did today.

“Although when you were forty-four, you finally did take on a partner.”

Of course not. John always performed alone.

And then a shot of John and Casey on the beach in Laguna appeared. Shirtless. Laughing. In shell necklaces and horribly dated hair. With their arms around each other—clearly more than just good friends.

“Casey Cornish was known as the Gentleman Magician—quick with a joke and a smile. The complete opposite of the ultra-serious Professor Topaz. But as they say, opposites attract.”

Another shot of them dancing at their neighbor’s wedding, Casey in a white tux and John in black. Slightly drunk, judging by the way they were clinging to one another. Only marginally less intimate than the photo of them feeding each other wedding cake that they would hide when Mrs. Cornish visited.

Someone in the audience gasped. But other than that single indrawn breath, it was quiet enough to hear the whir of the slide projector fan and the backstage murmurs as crew shuffled people around behind the curtains.

Monty said, “Those were some very good years…”

More photos. A few performances, but more personal shots of Casey and John. The Halloween they had dressed up as each other (John had even shaved for the occasion—their friends went crazy over that). Their fifth anniversary in Maui. The two of them posing with the red convertible Casey had surprised John with when he turned sixty—where they’d christened the front seat. And the minuscule back seat. And the hood.

“…until last year, when your partnership came to a sudden…and tragic…end.” Before the final image shone forth, John knew with cold certainty what it would be.

Casey’s obituary.

He felt the shape of it as its projected image covered his body—Casey’s last promotional headshot, smiling wide, blond and blue-eyed and devastatingly handsome. And the headline, Beloved Entertainer, “The Gentleman Magician” Casey Cornish, 64.

John’s name hadn’t appeared in the article. A few highlights of Casey’s career, a brief mention of the accident, the fact that he was survived by his mother, Irene Cornish, and donations to cover the expense of the cremation requested in lieu of flowers. What the obituary hadn’t said was that everything Casey had amassed in those sixty-four years of his—including the trip to Maui, the red convertible, and indeed the very townhouse where they lived—had never been paid for. Certainly, Casey had intended to settle his tab—someday. But he’d always presumed he had plenty of time to chip away at the debt, since undoubtedly, he would live forever. He was an optimist that way.

Quite the opposite of John.

John was aware, distantly, that the stage lights had come up. But the shock of seeing his life so crassly splayed across the stage and summarized in a few glib sentences had left him completely and utterly stunned.

“Professor Topaz?” Monty said quietly.

John forced himself to focus…and only then noticed the tension in Monty’s shoulders, and the fine lines of strain around the eyes. And that he’d clenched his own hands into fists. He took a deep breath and released them. His palms stung where his fingernails had dug in.

“Your friends tell us it’s high time for you to spread your wings and make your big comeback, and they’ve elected one of your oldest and dearest pals to come and wish you well…in person. Your agent, Dick Golding.”

Well. That explained where the photos had come from. Dick would never stop pestering John for that big gay memoir now.

John turned to watch Dick’s appearance stage left, and Monty added “…and your late partner’s mother, Irene!”

But….

John’s mind stalled on the very notion of seeing Casey’s mother—even as she appeared, with her ninety-year-old’s bursitis gait, waddling across the stage toward him on Dick’s arm.

I don’t even know what to call her.

Monty turned to Dick and said, “How does it feel watching the Professor on prime time TV?”

“I always knew he had it in him, Monty. He’s got star quality. Always had it.” He locked eyes with John. “You’re doing great, John. Keep it up. Hang in there.”

“Irene, what do you think Casey would say if he could see Professor Topaz now?”

There was a lag between the question and the answer, as there usually was with Mrs. Cornish. Her hearing was not what it had once been, and it took her a moment to piece together whatever she’d lip-read with the context and come up with an appropriate response. “My son would be dreaming up all the ways he could spend the quarter-million grand prize,” she declared loudly. The audience laughed; they thought she was joking.

Monty thanked them for coming, and then Dick stepped up for a handshake that turned into a hug while the audience applauded. And John supposed he would need to hug Mrs. Cornish too—though when he’d attempted it thirteen years prior, she’d stiffened up so badly he hadn’t tried it since. She felt a lot smaller now—but this time she actually leaned into his embrace and held him for a moment, and patted his back with a few good whomps. “Come by the house when you get a chance,” she said, no doubt thinking that speaking directly in John’s ear negated the fact that she was miked. “The yard looks terrible.”

___

Ricardo wasn’t sure who he thought Dick and Irene were as they waited together in the wings. John’s agent and Casey Cornish’s mother? Wouldn’t have occurred to him in a million years.

He was too busy trying to wrap his head around the fact that John and Casey had been a couple! Of course Ricardo was familiar with Casey—the Gentleman Magician embodied a kind of dazzling flamboyance another gay magician could hardly miss. Ricardo should have figured out John’s passions ran deep, but John was so impenetrable, it took a hand down the front of Ricardo’s pants for the attraction to register. And of course John hadn’t been single all this time just waiting for Ricardo to show up. But before he’d seen the photos, he would have found the notion of Casey and John together totally implausible.

There they were, though. Holding one another. Laughing.

What hit Ricardo the hardest was the knowledge that John’s smiles hadn’t always been mostly sad.

John, Dick and Irene exited stage right as the slide changed to an adorable blonde majorette, and Sue stepped out, dazzling in four-inch heels and a glittery silver gown with a plunging neckline.

“If you’re planning on making a move on her,” a voice behind Ricardo whispered, “think again.”

Ricardo swung around nearly expecting Kevin Kazan…though Kevin was in the front row. Plus the fake ebonics weren’t there. The guy behind him—decidedly Caucasian in his Brooks Brother suit—was most definitely not Kevin. “What are you talking about?” Ricardo said.

“Whoa, just kidding.” The guy shifted a dozen pale yellow roses to his left hand and presented his right for a handshake. “I’m Gary. Sue’s boyfriend.”

Ricardo shook Gary’s hand numbly. He was still reeling from the John-and-Casey revelation.

“You are gay,” Gary said. “Right?”

“What do you—? Yeah. So what?”

Gary wiped his brow in an exaggerated “phew” gesture. “You know how it is with magicians. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

Sue’s slideshow began, though of course, it wouldn’t span nearly as many years as John’s. She was barely twenty-three years old. There she was, adorable in a peanut costume. And jumping on a trampoline with her sister. And chubby-cheeked and pot-bellied in a pink leotard and ballet shoes.

“Every time your theme song comes on,” Gary said, “I have a good laugh.”

“What?”

“Your theme song. You and Sue.”

“Gold Team had a theme song?”

“No, no, no…when you guys are holding hands or whatever. Lovebird music.”

Sue playing a grand piano at a recital. Sue with a Miss Teen North Dakota sash and rhinestone crown—she actually had been a Midwestern beauty queen. Ricardo had just been wrong about the state. Wow.

“So how’s she doing, really?” Gary said. “What do you think her chances of winning are?”

Did this Gary guy not realize Ricardo was competing for the same prize? “Fine. I guess.”

“Because there’s really no money in magic. Not unless you’re one of the top acts. But the two-hundred-fifty grand would really launch her modeling career.”

All she ever talked about was wanting to take the stage at Magicopolis as more than just an assistant. “She never mentioned modeling to me.”

“Not yet. She needs some work. Shave a little off the nose, some lipo around the waist, and she’d be damn near a perfect ten.”

What? Ricardo turned and took a better look at Gary. How old was he, twenty-five? His hairline was already starting to recede.

Onstage, Monty said, “And now, Sue, your very own cheering section is here to root for you…can you guess who it is?”

Sue smiled widely. “Is it my parents? My sister?”

The moment during which Sue and Monty held eye contact stretched—another of those pauses where a commercial break could be inserted—and then Monty exclaimed, “It’s your boyfriend, Gary.”

Sue’s smile shifted. Even from where he stood, Ricardo saw it go brittle.

Gary didn’t notice. He strode out onto the stage and presented Sue with the bouquet, and said, “Golden flowers, for the leader of the Gold Team.” When she accepted the roses, she looked every inch the starlet—how dare that balding douchebag say she needed work? She bent to accept a kiss on the cheek, taller than him in her heels. And she stood with her arm around him and proclaimed, when Monty inquired how she felt, that it was a good thing she’d made such great friends in the Mansion to keep her from getting homesick.

The “happy couple” exited stage right. An assistant told Ricardo to take his place, and Ricardo put on his broadest smile and walked out onto the stage. The audience erupted into applause—not just applause, but a standing ovation. His smile went wider still, genuine now as he sketched a magician’s bow for them, theatrical and good-humored, and the applause swelled even louder, sustained for a moment, and finally ebbed enough for Monty to begin speaking.

“Ricardo the Magnificent—better known then as Ricardo Hart—got his start in the frozen north, in St. Paul.” The stage lights dimmed, and a shot of kindergartener Ricardo, his cousin Joey from Minneapolis, and a skinny, grayish snowman with a decidedly weird look on its face appeared behind them, filling the far wall.

“Ricardo’s love of show business was apparent early on.” A third-grade Ricardo dressed as Dracula for Halloween replaced the snowman shot. Ricardo stared at the saucy tilt of his head, and deep in his gut, recalled the exhilaration of donning the cape and dabbing on his mother’s lipstick. Even then, clearly, he’d been gay. He never realized his infatuation with men in tuxedos had begun that early.

“But he didn’t always want to be a magician.”

“Yes, I did,” Ricardo said under his breath.

“Ricardo’s first love was sports. A powerful competitive skater, Ricardo placed in the Marshall’s World Cup, took second prize at Campbell's International Figure Skating Classic, and even trained for the Winter Olympics in Lillehammer.”

A shot of Ricardo with a mullet and Krista with extreme mall hair in painfully nineties black-and-aqua costumes mugging triumphantly around their Campbell’s trophy filled the stage as the audience murmured. “Krista Franke, his skating partner and high school sweetheart, the recipient of the prestigious McLoraine Figure Skating Scholarship, was the perfect match for Ricardo’s athleticism and flair.”

Another shot of Ricardo and Krista, this time in a spiral sequence, Krista in a catch-foot position and Ricardo in an arabesque. Good form.

“Unfortunately, life had other plans for them. Accepted by different colleges, the pair found the distance between them prevented their Olympic dreams from becoming a reality.”

And the Tom of Finland comic book might’ve had a little something to do with it, too.

“But there was another arena in which Ricardo could put his athletic skills, and his discipline, to work.”

Ricardo smiled and nodded, baffled by the way Monty’s script kept emphasizing what a jock he was.

“Magic.”

A publicity shot of Ricardo juggling rings in his first and only headlining show appeared. Ricardo’s costume was so clingy you could bounce a quarter off his athletic ass. Someone in the audience wolf-whistled, and then a spate of laughter rippled through the crowd.

“And here he is today, at the height of his career.” A bachelorette party photo with a drunk bridesmaid on either arm appeared. Thank God he was wearing a tux, and not a g-string full of dollar bills. There were certainly enough of those pictures to go around.

“Ricardo, how would you rate your chances of taking Magic Mansion’s top prize?”

Better than he’d ever dared hope. Pretty damn good, in fact…but Ricardo knew better than to gloat. “Hard to say. There’s some tough competition here, but I’ll do my best, Monty.”

“That’s the spirit—the competitive spirit!”

Ricardo didn’t think he’d just said anything particularly competitive.

“And to celebrate, we’ve arranged for someone to be here who’s always fueled that competitive drive!”

The stage lights came up, and curtains parted stage right…framing a small dark-haired woman in an elegant black gown and a gold corsage. It wasn’t until she’d walked halfway across the stage that Ricardo realized it was Krista Franke.

Ricardo embraced her, flashing back to all the times he’d lifted her on the ice. It hardly felt real. Monty asked her what she’d been doing—coaching skating, and raising two beautiful girls—and Ricardo stammered out how great she looked, and after a few more lines about who might win the grand prize in Magic Mansion, Monty bid the audience goodbye, the house lights came up, and the cameras turned off.

Iain strode out with a wireless handheld microphone and said, “That’s it, folks, thanks for coming. You can pick up your posters in the lobby—and the magicians will meet you there for photos and autographs in ten.”

Krista Franke on one side of him and Iain on the other—it was like Ricardo was half in and half out of a dream. “You really do look great,” he told Krista. “All grown up.”

“And you look like you’ve aged about two years in the past twenty,” she said. An assistant directed them backstage, and they made their way toward the dressing room. “It’s kind of weird, actually, watching you on the show. It’s like the only thing that’s changed is your hair. I thought you might look different in person. More made-up. But you don’t.”

Ricardo blotted his forehead, which felt clammy now that the hot spotlight was no longer on him. “The years have been great to you, too. You’re in fabulous shape. Two daughters. Wow.”

“Our oldest, Michelle, is fourteen.”

“Wow.” It was the only response Ricardo could think of.

“When they flew me out here, she was dying to come. I had to tell her no, she needed to stay in school. She was so devastated she cried until she threw up.”

Ricardo turned to look at Krista to try to figure out what the sudden edge to her voice was all about. “Teenagers,” he said.

“You think I care if she misses a few days of school?”

“I don’t—”

“I couldn’t stand the thought of her fawning over you—because you are all she ever talks about these days. She eats, sleeps, lives and breathes Ricardo the Magnificent.” Krista glared at him while he scrambled to figure out what she expected him to say, and then she turned away and whispered, “Just like I did.”

“Krista….”

She was stiff when he gathered her into his arms, but eventually she relented, and allowed herself to sag against him. “I told myself I wouldn’t cry.”

“Seriously, don’t. The cameramen can sense it a mile away.” Ricardo waited while she took a few deep breaths to try to stave off the tears, and then he whispered, “I really am sorry about the way it all turned out. You were my best friend. The last thing I wanted was to hurt you.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling myself all these years. That you couldn’t help it. That you didn’t know. That you never intended to hurt me.” She did look up and meet Ricardo’s eyes, then, and fresh tears glittered on her lashes. “And now, here you are, doing the same exact thing to Sue.”

“Hold on—Sue? This is about Sue? Krista, she knows I’m gay—and as far as Gold Team’s concerned, I’m one of ‘the girls.’ I’m crazy about Sue—she’s my best friend in the mansion. But that’s all she is.”

“Then why are you going along with this whole ladies-man persona? Are they paying you? Did you sign some kind of contract? I figured you’d finally be in touch with who you are—but now you’ll need to keep playing it straight to appease all your…your… fans.”

A handheld wandered in when Ricardo was trying to comfort Krista, and Ricardo snapped, “Just give us a minute.” An assistant followed, and told him he needed to get to the lobby for autographs. It was hard to say whether any amount of explanation would make Krista believe he’d had no idea he was being butched up in post-production. Or, for that matter, whether anyone else would believe it…or they’d simply presume Ricardo didn’t have the integrity to be as open about his true self as John.

“C’mere, Krista,” Ricardo said. “Look up.” He fixed her eye makeup with a few dabs of concealer. Her face had matured, but her eyes were still the same. “I haven’t even seen the show. I hadn’t realized anyone was putting a spin on me. And now that I know, I’m putting an end to it.”

The autograph session wouldn’t have been nearly as uncomfortable if Ricardo hadn’t known about Krista’s fourteen-year-old. But now when a dozen high school girls mobbed Ricardo in the lobby, he found himself baffled by the intensity of their adoration. Unlike Ricardo’s fans, Bev’s came in all ages, from children to retirees. Jia attracted mostly Asian girls dressed like her, and leering men of every race…who would be nearly as happy to pick up a Jia-lookalike as they would be to score with The Scarlet Dragon (as she was now being called) herself. Sue’s fans were mostly twenty-somethings, both men and women, and Kevin’s fans were mostly overweight males, and a couple of girls with boob jobs and too much makeup. John had the fewest fans gathered around him…although the ones who approached him were in tears.

The staff had told the small crowd to get their posters signed and move along, but the teenagers had plenty of practice at being devious by hiding whatever it is they did from their parents. A cluster of girls in gold-sparkle hoodies positioned themselves so that they were blocking the view of Ricardo from the nearest assistant, and the one in front whipped out a shiny pink scrapbook and said, “Can you autograph this instead?”

“Sure.” Ricardo hoped he didn’t screw it up. It looked like a lot of work had gone into it.

The girl fanned it open…and Ricardo saw it was full of photos. Photos of him. Every publicity shot from his website had been printed on glossy photo paper, pasted in, and surrounded with glittery dove and star stickers. The bachelorette party shot where his silk shirt was open to his navel was featured…on at least half the pages.

He hadn’t realized how creepy the adulation of a group of teenage girls might actually feel.

“There’s a good spot,” he said, and signed it quickly so she could get it out of his sight.

Then her girlfriend said, “Can you sign my arm?” and all of them giggled.

Ricardo glanced up at Kevin Kazan. The women flanking him were more the “sign my tits” type. The thought of these kids shedding their acne and awkwardness and braces, and growing into that sort of fan, made it difficult for Ricardo to write his own name. He suggested signing the backs of their hands—which they thought was a stellar idea—and then posed for a photo with his arms around all of them holding up their autographed hands proudly like glittery pink-nailed gang-signals.

It was barely three by the time the Magicians were loaded back into the limo, but Ricardo felt worn out and used up, as if he’d just done back-to-back matinees. The other contestants looked just as beat. Although the handheld had stayed behind and the players were all alone, no one spoke until they pulled into the Mansion’s circular drive. And then, just before the limo door opened, Jia turned to Kevin and said, “So, genius, you still think the Professor’s sticking it to Marlene?”

Chapter 30

AFTERMATH

Marlene scrolled through the latest script, gearing up for the next elimination. As the weeks went on, emotions flared high as the audiences’ favorites started getting knocked out of the competition. Still, the fewer contestants she had to deal with, the easier it was to divide the face-time between each of them.

The trailer door banged open, killing her concentration. “What is it,” she asked Iain, “here to gloat about the look on Ricardo’s face when you paraded his old girlfriend out?”

“So that’s what the two of you do in here.” Definitely not Iain, given the sharp Australian accent. Marlene dropped her PDA and turned. Monty stood in the doorway, hands on hips, looking pissed—and surprisingly threatening for a vapid blond him-bo. “Figures.”

The very last thing Marlene wanted was a big scene. “C’mon, get in here. Close the door behind you.”

Monty slammed the door. “It’s not right, what you did.”

“Let me explain something to you. The contestants’ contracts are nothing like yours. You’re an announcer. You say your lines, and you go enjoy your work visa. What they signed up for was different. Anything goes.”

“Just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should. You’re driving down the street and a puppy runs across the road. Which way’re you gonna swerve?”

“Although I doubt you’re willing to let me convince you, I’m being honest when I say these were not random acts of cruelty. We de-villainized the Professor from the taint of the Red Team, and helped Ricardo into the heartthrob role he was meant to play.”

“Yeah? And what about Sue?”

Ah…so that’s what was eating him. “I seem to recall advising you to wait until she was eliminated…and remember what you told me?”

“This is all a big power trip for you, right?”

“You said, ‘Sue’s a big girl. And there’s nothing here that says we can’t see each other.’ Sound familiar?”

Monty held himself so taut he was shaking, and Marlene prepared herself for a barrage. But after a few careful breaths, he only said, “She’s gonna leave him, you know.”

“Then you have nothing to be upset about.”

Monty probably had a few more angry accusations to hurl, but instead he just shot Marlene his best blue-eyed prettyboy fuck-you glare, and turned toward the door.

“Since you’re here,” Marlene supposed she really shouldn’t give in to the urge to be catty, but she didn’t take very kindly to threats, “I have a note for you. Read all your lines. Seems that you skipped one in your conversation with Professor Topaz, when you were supposed to ask him how seeing his boyfriend’s obituary made him feel.”

“Yeah?” Monty headed out of the trailer, then tossed back over his shoulder, “There must have been something in it I didn’t know how to pronounce.”

___

Funny, how things could turn on a dime. Earlier that week when Ricardo had slipped through the kitchen into the old servant’s quarters, his belly had been aflutter with the giddy prospect of being alone with John. Now it felt like it was full of lead.

He stared at the paper star with Mr. Topaz written on it for a moment, and considered simply turning back around and soldiering on through the rest of the show…but the thought of doing that made him feel even worse than he already did. And so he knocked.

John answered. He’d hung up his tuxedo jacket and removed his cufflinks, and his bare wrists flashed through the cuff plackets—fodder for Ricardo’s fantasies if ever there was any. But that wasn’t why Ricardo was there.

Tears? No, John was dry-eyed. As somber as it was humanly possible to be? Yes, that. And Ricardo wouldn’t have realized the depth of John’s sorrow were it not for all the shots of him smiling and laughing that had just played across the backdrop of the stage. “Are you okay?” Ricardo asked.

John closed his eyes for a moment, gathered himself, and then opened them again and said, “Actually, it’s a relief.”

“What is? Being outed?”

“And having Casey’s death thrown in my face.”

“How could that possibly be a relief?”

“It was the most painful thing they could have done. Now…anything else they follow up with…I frankly don’t care.”

It was John who initiated the embrace—or tried to. Ricardo was all stiffness and tension. John disengaged, and murmured, “What is it? Are you angry with me?”

“With you?” Ricardo wrapped his arms around his leaden stomach and shook his head. “Meeting you is the only good thing that’s happened to me here.” Scenes from the last few weeks played through his mind like a slide show. “And you know what the crazy part is? I don’t actually know you at all. It’s my own damn fault, too. I fell for my own idea of Professor Topaz—that poster of you with the gloves and the coin and the one eyebrow raised? Oh yeah. I have it hanging on my bedroom wall. In my mind, that was you. Tux, top hat, and that smoldering look like you have X-ray vision—that’s how I imagined you were. All the time. Twenty-four seven.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t you dare apologize. It’s not you. It’s nothing to do with you. Fan-worship isn’t about the star. It’s about the fan, whipping up some completely fabricated image in their mind and then glorying in it and pretending it’s real—but there’s no actual relationship there. It’s totally one-sided. And I think what scares me the most is that I almost let myself be so carried away by the Professor Topaz who lived in my mind…that I would have missed getting to know the real John.”

John reached for Ricardo’s hand, slipped his agile fingers into Ricardo’s grasp, and gently pried Ricardo’s arm away from his body. Ricardo did allow himself to be held now, but his heart was still heavy with disappointment and anger. “They’ve taken Ricardo the Magnificent and run with him,” Ricardo said, “and I don’t even recognize him now. They’ve been doing it for weeks. I had no idea. And I won’t be a part of it anymore.”

John pressed a kiss to Ricardo’s temple. “It’s almost over.”

“No…that’s not good enough. It is over. For me. Whatever the next challenge is—I’m throwing it.”

John tightened his arms around Ricardo. “Even if you did, you wouldn’t be voted off. Ricardo the Magnificent is too popular. Whether you approve of him or not.”

“Then I’ll quit.”

“You signed a contract—and it’s not worth damaging your career for the sake of making a statement now. Once we’re out of the Mansion, you’ll have plenty of chances to tell your side of the story. Everyone will be salivating for an interview. You’ll get your chance to set everything straight.”

“Straight. Right.” They stood together in their awkward embrace while crew bustled in the distance of the Mansion, and finally Ricardo said, “If I got hurt doing a stunt, they’d need to let me out.”

“Don’t say that,” John snapped, flinging Ricardo away to arm’s length and digging his fingers hard into Ricardo’s upper arms—and that X-ray vision look from the Professor Topaz poster blazed forth, far more intense in real life than it could possibly be in a photograph. “Don’t ever say that.”

“But I—”

“Don’t even think it.”

“Oh, hell…I can’t believe I just—”

John backed Ricardo into the wall and pinned him there. “Life…is so precious. Promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I’m sorry. I will.”

John’s mouth found Ricardo’s, more with desperation than with passion. This was Ricardo’s idol—not just a performer named Professor Topaz, but a person, an actual, real man. A man with hopes and dreams, disappointments and fears. A man who’d had a life full of experiences for Ricardo to share and understand. And though it was tempting to not only think “Professor Topaz,” but “Professor Topaz half-undressed from his tuxedo,” as strong hands raked down Ricardo’s sides, when a breath caught as their kiss deepened, mostly what Ricardo thought…was “John.”

John slid the kiss from Ricardo’s lips, whiskers tickling over jaw, and buried his face in the crook of Ricardo’s neck. The sound of breathing filled the room then, as if their lungs sought to find something in the very air to anchor them together. Ricardo wouldn’t have thought he’d be capable of responding to a kiss or a caress—not now, when reality as he knew it had just been stripped bare, and revealed as a trite charade. And yet, John’s hands sliding around his ass, grasping it, working it, John trailing scorching kisses across his throat, now felt like the only reality that was actually worth knowing.

When John’s hands shifted and slipped down Ricardo’s waistband, Ricardo actually moaned. John was relentless in his persuasion. “Don’t use your True magic,” he pleaded against Ricardo’s neck. “Not here. It’s too dangerous.” His hand closed around Ricardo, stroked him to stiffness in a few sure caresses. “I won’t lose you too.”

“John….”

“Promise.”

John slid his thumb over Ricardo’s slit, once, twice, and a spot of wetness welled to slicken the tiny stroke to devastating perfection. “I promise,” Ricardo gasped. John thumbed him again, and a shiver raged through Ricardo’s core. “I swear.”

John’s other hand wrapped around Ricardo’s ass, fingertips prying the cheeks apart, and everything else fell away—the Mansion, the competition, the hideous autograph session and the awkward limo ride afterward and the knowledge that Ricardo was being presented to the world as something he was not—and everything ceased to exist but a fingertip teasing at Ricardo’s hole. Teasing…and making its own promise.

Need blossomed in Ricardo, so strong and pure it washed away the anger and the dismay. It might only be a temporary solution to obliterate the events of the day in an act of passion, but at the moment, that hand, those lips, those fingers, were the only thing that mattered anymore.

“Please,” he said raggedly. John shifted his grasp on Ricardo’s cock and treated it to a slow, deep stroke…and with his other hand, he pressed the very tip of his finger in.

The need deepened into a desperate ache—as if John’s caresses had not only found the real Ricardo Hart beneath the veneer of Ricardo the Magnificent, but gone deeper still, to a place where names meant nothing, and instead there were only wordless, formless Truths surging together in all their blazing glory.

John flicked his wrist, and Ricardo’s stretchy pants snapped down around his thighs, exposing him in all his throbbing need. And before Ricardo registered what was happening…John knelt before him, and took Ricardo’s cock deep into his hot, wet mouth.

Bliss.

Someone made a very loud sex sound…and Ricardo realized distantly it must have been him. He didn’t care. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but that amazing thing John was doing with his tongue, that sublime flutter while he sucked, and sucked, and sucked, and now his finger was buried to the knuckle and oh my god you have to stop because if you don’t I’m gonna—

“Wait.”

John paused.

“In the bed. Please.”

John stood, towering over Ricardo briefly, then swung him around and lay him down on the narrow bed. Ricardo was helpless to assist as John yanked off his shoes and pulled down his pants. His arms felt numb, like he’d forgotten how to work them, but once he managed to get his own shirt off, he couldn’t stop staring at the bulge now straining at the front of John’s trousers. “Do it all,” he said, because a blowjob really wasn’t enough at this point—and yes, it seemed reckless to tell someone to take him without a condom, but all the rigamarole they’d gone through to get into the mansion had involved not only vaccinations and physicals, but a totally clean bill of health. It hadn’t actually been “tetanus” Iain was referring to when Ricardo had bled out into the Wand Pond, after all.

John trailed a caress down Ricardo’s belly, smiling his sad smile, and then sat up straight and began unbuttoning his tuxedo shirt. As if he’d just read Ricardo’s mind, he said, “Don’t worry about that. The Truth is more powerful than a condom, anyway.”

“It is?”

“Just…not strong enough to stop a car.” John slipped his shirt off and hung it from the footboard. If this act had been happening anywhere else, Ricardo would have begged him to leave it on—to simply open the front of his trousers and go at it half-tuxedoed. But what they were doing, here and now, was more important than any fantasy, however well-cherished it might be. Once he was shirtless, John stood, watching Ricardo watch him. His body was tall and lean and dusky-skinned. Classic and timeless. And then he eased his slacks open…and revealed his thick, dark cock.

Ricardo arched his back, yearning to feel it sink in—now, finally. For real. He fumbled the lotion from the Magic Mansion welcome basket off the nightstand and squeezed half the tube into his palm. “Hurry,” he said—and he couldn’t have articulated what the rush was all about, just that he needed it—now.

He took John’s cock in hand—so solid—and pumped it in his slick fingers. John closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, and breathed in great, deep gasps. Ricardo drew his knees up, spread his legs and guided John there between them, pleading with the tilt of his hips for John to do it. After all this waiting and wanting and hoping, to finally make everything complete.

The entry was bright with pleasure-pain, sparkly as sequins on lamé, and the penetration felt as if it would go on and on and on…but finally, John’s pelvis pressed into the curve where the backs of Ricardo’s thighs met his ass, John’s entire body covering his…and then a pause, so he and Ricardo could bask in that magical moment.

When the bliss ebbed enough for Ricardo to seek more, he flexed his hips and encouraged John to keep going. John planted his elbows in the mattress, repositioned his knees, and began the primal grind where their bodies would start to get acquainted. Ricardo’s hands were free to roam, mapping the hills and valley’s of John’s back. Lower still, he paused—top, or switch? John made a small sound of encouragement against Ricardo’s mouth, and Ricardo worked his fingers into the cleft of John’s ass, stroking his taint, teasing his hole, dizzy with the desire to give John as much pleasure as John was giving him.

They moved together, finding their stride, chests pressing, hips clashing. The room was awash with the sound of their desperate breathing, punctuated by the rhythmic creak of the ancient bed. When John slipped a hand between them, a few strokes was all it took to bring Ricardo to the brink, and he clutched John’s ass hard as he peaked—a moment of sure and utter joy, fleeting—and although it couldn’t last forever, profound. His awareness changed once he’d climaxed, allowing him to be conscious now of John’s breath huffing against his neck, the sheen of sweat covering them both, the scent of his own seed as their bellies smeared it between them.

He clutched John tightly, urging him deeper, harder, whatever it took to bring him the same sweet release where Ricardo was now basking in the aftermath. With a contented sigh, he wrapped his thighs around John—and something shifted, something very, very good, and John’s breathing grew erratic, his thrusts turned to hard jabs, and finally he stiffened all over, gasped, and shuddered his warm, wet release.

Ricardo could have stayed that way forever, clenched against John, with abs, hips and ass deliciously sore, both of them reeking of wilted hairspray, designer lotion and sex. And for all that John was continually pleading caution, he was content enough to stay that way too—and finally his breathing deepened, his leg twitched once, twice…and Ricardo realized, as he drifted off too, that he’d never thought John would let his guard down enough to actually fall asleep.

Maybe John truly did feel like there were no more twists the mansion could throw his way.

Chapter 31

BIG TOP CHALLENGE

-DRAMATIC MUSIC-

“Last time, on Magic Mansion, we said goodbye to some special players…”

(Muriel) Remember—Gold Team rules!

(Gold Team) -CRYING-

“…and the teams…were dissolved.”

(Kevin) -BLEEP- Gold Team. -BLEEP- Red Team.

(John) Now, it’s every man…and woman…for themselves.

“The three top Magicians won a special prize.”

(Jia) Wooo!

“A visit from their loved ones…”

(Sue, to Monty) It’s a good thing I’ve made such great friends in the Mansion to keep me from getting homesick.

“…that could spell trouble.”

(Gary, to Ricardo) If you’re planning on making a move on her…think again.

(Ricardo, with Krista) Just give us a minute.

“The competition is heating up.”

(Faye) This is a game, and we’re all playing it to win.

(Sue) I’m tougher than I look.

(Faye, privately) -CRYING-

“And soon, someone else…will be going home.”

(Bev) I’ve come a lot farther than I ever thought I might.

(John) We’ll see how it all plays out.

“I’m your host, Monty Shaw, inviting you to stay tuned. It’s up to you to decide, who will make it to the Final Four…in Magic Mansion.”

___

Wrenching himself away from the narrow servants’ bed in the cool gray dawn was one of the most difficult things Ricardo had ever done—particularly when he wanted nothing more than to run up to the turret, fling open the window and shout at the top of his lungs that he was falling madly in love with John Topaz.

He’d slept better in John’s arms than he had since he’d arrived, so he was able to shower, hit the treadmill, and duck back into his room before any of the other contestants stirred. He was working off his post-coital giddiness with an extra set of crunches when an assistant brought him a breakfast bagel and told him to be at wardrobe in twenty.

Today’s costumes were circus-themed. The wardrobe assistant gave Ricardo a few leotards to try on. The white spandex number made Ricardo’s careful tan look amazing. He turned and regarded his profile in the full-length mirror, and said, “Do you have anything…gayer?”

The assistant gave Ricardo her typical doesn’t-miss-a-thing once-over. “Costumes don’t get much gayer than that.”

Ricardo turned to the other side and eyed his butt. “You think?”

“Not without adding chaps…and I’d never hear the end of that. Besides, your package looks great as it is. Chaps would be overkill.”

True.

She wrapped his wrists in tape to complete the acrobat look, then told him to send Professor Topaz in. John murmured, “You’re killing me,” as they passed each other in the hall. Ricardo did his best not to indulge in a happily-gloating smirk.

Sue and Jia were waiting by the vestibule fountain, both of them cute as can be. Wardrobe had put Jia in a slinky red snake-charmer ensemble, complete with latex snake, and Sue in pale blue stunt-rider costume with a cowboy hat, high-heeled white cowboy boots and decorative silver spurs. “Holy crap,” Jia said to Ricardo, looking directly at his crotch. “Watch where you point that thing.”

Ricardo and Jia laughed, and it seemed as if Sue would too…until her chin trembled, and she gave a loud sniff. Tears welled in her eyes. Ricardo knelt beside her, took her hand, and said, “Suze? What is it?”

“I can’t stop thinking…about yesterday.”

Neither could Ricardo. But not for the same reason. “Homesick?”

“What? No. Not at all.”

“Okay….” Then Ricardo had no explanation for the tears.

“It’s the boyfriend,” Jia said. “Gotta be. Probably something he said.”

Sue squinched her eyes shut, then nodded. “Gary. His name is Gary.”

“Did he propose to you?” Jia asked.

Sue nodded again.

Maybe they were tears of joy. “And…you said yes?” Ricardo guessed.

Sue screwed up her face and shook her head no.

Ricardo supposed they hadn’t actually looked like tears of joy, only that he’d been hoping they were. One thing was for sure. He felt relieved Sue hadn’t accepted that weenie’s proposal. He sat down beside Sue and put his arm around her, and the dam broke. She mashed her forehead to his shoulder, cupped her hand below her eyes to keep from getting mascara on his leotard, and started to weep. “I told him…we’d talk about…it later.”

“Hey, c’mon,” Ricardo said. “We’re gonna be taping a challenge any minute now. Stop making your eyes puffy.”

“He’s right, you know,” Jia said. “And that was smart, what you told that guy. What was he thinking, trying to force you into making a decision like that when you’ve got this competition on your mind? Some people just don’t get it. He probably thought he was doing you a favor. Self-centered dope.”

Sue did laugh, then. A timid, wet chuckle. “He is kind of a dope.”

Jia patted her knee. “Just because someone asks you to marry them doesn’t mean you’re obligated to say yes. Women are trained to put everyone else’s happiness above their own. But you wouldn’t be doing him any favors if you went ahead with it when you didn’t really love him.”

Sue’s tears slowed as Jia warmed up to her own tirade of advice.

“Who says you need to get married, anyway? You know what I think? You need to get to know you better. Work on your career. Pick up a few hobbies. Figure out what you want out of life. And this guy, if he’s not willing to wait? Then screw ’im.”

“Screw him,” Ricardo repeated.

“Yeah,” Sue echoed. “Screw ’im.”

“Screw who?”

Kevin Kazan. Ricardo felt his heart sink at the sound of Kevin’s voice. Why couldn’t he have been the one eliminated instead of Faye? The three Magicians sitting on the edge of the fountain looked up—screw you undoubtedly hanging there at the edge of Jia’s tongue—but she contained herself, and instead they just looked.

Kevin was all bulging oiled pecs and blackletter tattoos in a strong-man costume, with a broad leather belt, leopard print shorts, and thick leather cuffs.

Ricardo’s wardrobe assistant had been wrong. There was a costume gayer than the white leotard. It just wouldn’t have fit him. And, damn it all, the black bowler they’d dug up looked good on that creep, too. Ricardo was jealous for a moment there…until John stepped out of wardrobe.

John towered over Kevin in his trademark top hat—but this one had a red band to match his red bow tie and brocade vest. The vest was fitted within an inch of its life—no doubt a few staple-gun tacks were in place to make it look as painted-on as it did, contrasting gorgeously with the flowing sleeves of the white silk shirt. His plain black slacks were tighter than he normally wore them, too, leading Ricardo’s eyes down, down, down the long stretch of his thighs. To his over-the knee black leather boots.

And his whip.

“You’re drooling,” Jia whispered.

Iain bustled into the foyer with his phone at his ear, saying, “…I know it doesn’t look as realistic, but if we used actual popcorn we’d be fending off seagulls all day….” He trailed off his phone conversation, gave the contestants each a long look and said, “Not bad. But where’s Bev?”

The door to the third wardrobe room opened, and there Bev stood, all in white, filling the doorway. The entire doorway.

They’d dressed her as a clown.

It was a Perrot clown at least, classic white-on-white, and not the comedy whiteface type that’s the subject of many a phobia. Even so…it wasn’t exactly Bev’s most flattering look. Perrot’s outfit was supposed to be elegant. Bev appeared as if she’d just wandered out in her very large pajamas.

Iain stared for a moment, and then said, “Okay, let’s go. We don’t want the big slushie melting on us.”

They trooped outside, where Iain took a second look at Sue and sent her off to the stylists to have the bags under her eyes dabbed with hemorrhoid cream. Ricardo didn’t have much attention to spare for Sue’s predicament, though. He was too busy taking in Monty in his ringmaster ensemble, all skin-tight white riding pants, shiny knee boots and high-cut red tux jacket with tails and yards and yards of gold braiding and fringed epaulets.

And the bleachers.

And the bouncy house.

And the crane at the far end of the lot with six trapezes hanging from it.

“Wow,” Bev remarked. “Is that red Kool-Aid in the swimming pool? Muriel will be so disappointed she missed it.”

A carpenter tacked a sign that read Kevin above one of the trapezes. A sound man at the top of the bleachers announced a check, and a musical note blasted from the platform that shook the palm trees. A pickup truck with a bed full of ice backed up to the red swimming pool and a bunch of assistants started shoveling it in.

“They’re not gonna make us go in there,” Jia said, looking apprehensively at the pool. “Are they?”

Ricardo suspected they were. And that once he did, his package in its white leotard would look nowhere near as impressive.

Once the shuffling and the prep were complete, the contestants lined up with Monty facing them, and the cameras rolled.

“Welcome, Magicians, to the final challenge of Circus Week. In many ways, life is like a circus. It’s colorful and loud. It’s full of dizzying highs and plummeting lows. It’s got its fair share of clowns. And it often…leaves you hanging.

“In this elimination, you’ll be contending with your very own circus, Magic Mansion-style. Today, each of you will be a ‘circus of one’ in a timed challenge. First, it’s up the bleachers where, at the top, you’ll find a calliope. Play a note to announce your circus has come to town, then run back down and proceed to the refreshments.”

Monty turned to the bouncy house. “Next, it’s a trip through the attractions—complete with popcorn.” An assistant opened the front panel to reveal the blowup pen was filled with foam packing peanuts. “Once you’ve had your fill, it’s into the pool to slake your thirst with a refreshing frozen drink.

“Your goal is to complete these tasks in the least amount of time, racking up the fewest seconds on the scoreboard. And then, it’s showtime. And your performance…could change everything.”

Everyone looked to the trapezes.

“Each trapeze is marked with a name. Find yours, jump up, grasp the bar with your hands, and hang on. Every second you’re able to stay on your trapeze is a second you’ll be able to use strategically to adjust your score. Are you ready?”

“Flexed arms on the trapeze,” Kevin asked, “or locked elbows?”

“‘Are you ready’ was a rhetorical question,” Iain called out, striding up with a clipboard. “Here are the actual rules.” He guided an assistant through the course, showing everyone specifically which marks they needed to hit, ending with the trapeze dangle. While they watched, wardrobe assistants replaced their shoes with gymnastic flats so no one popped the bouncy house with a heel or a spur. “And on the trapeze,” Iain told Kevin, after he consulted with each of his phones, “straight arms. This isn’t a chin-up challenge. Questions? No? Okay, Monty, go ahead.”

“One more thing.” Monty indicated the scoreboard, which now showed six positions—with a white line above the bottom two. “Someone who falls below this line…will be going home. So move fast, and hold on tight.”

Ricardo’s focus was all on the bleacher stairs. He could take them, no problem. But Sue, beside him, was readying herself too. She was a strong runner, with long legs. And speaking of long legs, John would probably make short work of—

An airhorn sounded, and Monty shouted, “Go!”

Ricardo ran.

John was off like a rocket, bounding up the bleacher stairs like they were regular stair-steps. Petite Jia fell behind quickly. Ricardo pounded up the metal seats neck and neck with Kevin and Sue. A blat of a calliope, and John was already on his way down, huffing, “Be careful,” at Ricardo on his way past.

Up top, Sue slapped the calliope keyboard first, then Ricardo, and right on his heels, Kevin. But Kevin didn’t stay in fourth place for long—he gained ground on the way back down the bleachers, and pulled ahead of Ricardo. The calliope bleated above them as Jia finally gained the top, while poor Bev was still struggling up, one step at a time.

The bouncy house was rocking by the time Ricardo leaped into the packing peanuts. It looked as if it should have been easy enough to power through them, especially since the guy who’d demonstrated the stunt had done it in a less than a minute. But the demo guy hadn’t had three other flailing magicians in there with him. Ricardo took a step, and someone else fell, bouncing him off his feet. Ricardo didn’t go down, exactly, with packing peanuts surrounding him on all sides. But neither could he lever himself up. Everywhere he tried to push off, with either a hand or a foot, he only sank deeper into the packing foam.

Finally, unable to think of any other way to propel himself toward the bouncy house exit, he attempted to swim. The foam peanuts geysered up in a whispery crunch. Someone else fell—or maybe the same someone—and the displaced force caused a wave that rippled through the fake popcorn. Ricardo found himself propelled forward, and suddenly the exit was in sight. He clawed toward it, foam susurrating all around him, when behind him a distinct crack sounded, followed by a gasp and a curse.

Ricardo realized he’d never heard John say, “Fuck,” before.

He turned to look, flailed, and smacked his hand against the vinyl wall. Unlike the packing peanuts, which only sifted away under his grasp, the wall had some grip to it. Not a lot—it was flexible, after all. But enough. Splay-fingered and glad for the sweat on his palms that allowed him to stick, Ricardo dragged himself along the inflatable wall until he came to the gap. In a spill of packing foam, he tumbled down the exit slide and onto the lawn…the first one out.

He allowed himself only the smallest glance behind him—Kevin and John were bursting out of the popcorn foam, though who was gaining leverage by holding on to whom was unclear.

Then John brushed away the packing peanuts that were clinging to his face, and Ricardo saw it was covered in blood.

Paralysis locked Ricardo in place, until he saw John had no intention of stopping—and neither did Kevin. Ricardo turned and ran toward the pool, but the momentary hesitation had cost him. Kevin drew abreast of him by the time they reached the edge of the pool. John not only passed them, but launched himself into the slushy red water with a powerful jump that carried him nearly a quarter of the way across the pool’s length.

Ricardo did his best to imitate the maneuver, and actually had a moment, mid-air, when he thought he might gain ground on Kevin by virtue of being more aerodynamic.

And then he hit the water…and the cold hit him.

A 55-degree ice rink was one thing. A 55-degree swimming pool was another. He burst out of the water, gasping, but the cold was like a fist that locked his ribs tight to his lungs, squeezing out his breath. Kevin bellowed in pain when he plunged in, and the encouraging sound of his agony propelled Ricardo forward. John had already climbed from the pool by the time Ricardo reached the far ladder, grabbed it…and fell back in. His hands had seized up with the cold, numb and weak. His feet, then. He’d need to do most of the climbing with his feet.

But just as he grabbed at the rungs to take another try, Kevin nailed him with a red, cherry-flavored splash, knocked him back, and scurried up the ladder himself. That fucker probably can’t even feel his hands anyway, Ricardo thought, nerve damage from all that damn weight training.

“And Professor Topaz takes his trapeze in just under three minutes,” Monty called out.

Ricardo was elated—but only for a moment. There was still some kind of “strategy” in play…and no doubt Kevin would use that strategy to try to take out his biggest competition: John.

Kevin dashed across the lawn. He was a plodding runner, but he had a good head start. Ricardo followed, tucking his hands into his armpits as he did, in hopes of warming some feeling into his fingers.

“Kevin Kazan is at the trapeze in three minutes, four seconds! The Professor is still holding on.”

Ricardo skidded to a stop beneath his trapeze, blew once into each of his hands, then jumped up and grabbed.

“Ricardo the Magnificent at three minutes, eight seconds.”

Four seconds—Kevin only had four seconds on him so far. That wasn’t long. Ricardo would just need to catch up with Kevin, somehow, by dangling longer from the damn bar.

Unfortunately, as he hung there by his frigid, aching fingers, Ricardo realized that dangling from the bar was difficult after ten seconds, painful after twenty, and downright excruciating after thirty. He chanced a look to see how Kevin Kazan was doing. Kevin was looking right at him.

Smiling.

Damn it. If there were only a way to knock that bastard off his trapeze—with what, a packing peanut? He’d hardly notice. And there was no dust to throw at him either; the grounds were a soup of red slush. Ricardo’s shoulders burned, really burned, and his fingers were screaming.

“The Professor’s been holding on for nearly a minute…and Sue’s out of the pool!”

Sue dashed across the lawn, leapt up and grabbed her trapeze. She was sucking air in huge sobs.

“Kevin and Ricardo hanging past the minute mark, too. Bev jumps into the pool as Jia climbs out. It’s still anybody’s game.”

“Hurts your hands,” Kevin said cheerfully, turning to John. “Don’t it?”

John didn’t answer.

“Shoulders, too. Back, sides…. Think how easy it’d be to just…let…go.”

“Jia’s almost at the trapeze.”

“Can’t feel too good, what with the taste of blood in your mouth.”

John looked straight ahead.

“Hands burning. Delts. Pecs. You’re shaking, old man. But me, I could stay here all day.”

Still, John resisted the bait.

Kevin kept going. “Don’t even know who smacked you back there in the popcorn…do you? Wasn’t me. I was at the other end of the castle. Who else got it in for you, huh?”

“Shut up,” Ricardo gasped.

Kevin ignored him. “You think anyone care ’bout what happened to your man last year? That’s old news. All they care ‘bout is the quarter-mil, and you standing in their way.”

John closed his eyes, gave a grunt…and let go.

Monty said, “And the Professor is done, as Jia takes her trapeze. Great job, Professor Topaz.”

The seconds ticked by, pain raging through Ricardo’s muscles…and that bastard Kazan was still fucking smiling.

“Ohmigod,” Sue gasped, as she let go, too—with Jia’s fingers slipping off right after.

“Sue is out. Jia is out.”

Ricardo shut his eyes and focused. It would feel so good to let his hands slide from the bar. But he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. Unfortunately, no matter how strong the will, the body can only be pushed so far. Despite how hard Ricardo tried, eventually he felt his fingers…begin…to slip.

His knees felt like rubber when his feet hit the ground. “And Ricardo the Magnificent is done. Well played, Ricardo. And Bev is struggling with the ladder—that’s four times she’s fallen back in.”

“Go, Bev,” Sue called, and Ricardo turned to cheer on poor Bev, who shrieked as she forced her way out of the frigid red water.

Kevin finally let himself drop from the trapeze as Bev hauled herself out of the pool and began trudging her way across the lawn in a waterlogged, pink-stained clown suit. By now everyone was cheering for her, even Kevin. Though Ricardo suspected he only did it so he didn’t come across as a complete jerk by kicking the underdog when she was down.

Bev paused to catch her breath, hands on knees, drinking great gasps of air, although the respite racked up still more time to her score. No doubt she was painfully aware of each and every second. Finally, when she could straighten up, she leapt up and caught the bar while all the other Magicians cheered wildly. She hung there, still gasping for air, for twelve seconds. And then she dropped.

Iain called cut.

One assistant wrapped Ricardo in a robe while another pressed a cup of black coffee into his hands. Ricardo was shaking so hard his teeth actually clattered together. John had been taken off to the sidelines where a pair of medics fussed over his nosebleed with ice packs and gauze. Bev sat on the lawn with her head between her knees like she was about to faint. Jia was ranting about freezing to death. Sue had collapsed into a sobbing heap. Kevin, though, simply stood there in his robe with that fucking smile fixed in place, and looked around in triumph at each of his competitors.

“Okay,” Iain said, “listen up. We’ll get some portable heaters out here to dry you off, but then we’ve got to go right into the scoring.”

The scoring. Great. Why not just declare Kevin the winner of the whole damn thing and save everyone the trauma of another gauntlet of challenges?

Bev raised her head from her knees and asked Ricardo, “Did they say how the trapeze time was being counted?”

“No. Not yet.”

She wrung red Kool-Aid from the hem of her blouse. “Pay close attention when they do. It’s probably going to change everything.”

Chapter 32

PLAYING THE GAME

John’s head ached. He had no idea whose elbow had found his nose in the bounce castle…but it only served to cement his growing unease at the necessity of using his True magic to stay in the game. A bloody nose was negligible in the grand scheme of things…but from here on out, he’d need to stop relying on the Truth before an accident occurred that he couldn’t simply shrug off.

When it was all said and done, he refused to put Ricardo through the needless loss he’d endured himself.

In both his hands, with its face carefully concealed, he held the card he’d filled out according to the rules Iain had explained, and then clarified with a few phone calls and re-explained following Bev’s persistent questioning. John hoped it would be enough, but he couldn’t be sure how the other magicians had played their strategies.

A podium was arranged for the magicians that hid the heaters at their feet from the camera, and also gave them something to hold on to so their shivering wasn’t quite so apparent. The scoreboard stood before it, with the white line separating the two lowest positions from the rest of the group. Iain sent Bev to the podium while the cameras found their places, as Sue and Ricardo whispered about what this next round of the competition might mean.

Cameras rolled, and Monty read from his teleprompter, “The results are in from the Big Top Challenge. Let’s see how long it took each of the magicians to arrive at their trapeze.”

The scoreboard flashed, and random characters scrolled through the empty squares…and finally flickered into the contestants’ names…and their scores.

BIG TOP CHALLENGE

1. Professor Topaz 2:59

2. Kevin Kazan 3:04

3. Ricardo the Magnificent 3:08

4. Sue Wozniak 4:09

_________________

5. Jia Lee 4:25

6. The Math Wizard 5:41

While they’d been given the official times with which to make their strategic decision…the numbers looked a hell of a lot more threatening on the massive screen. Especially with the huge white line two-thirds of the way down.

“Impressive scores,” Monty said. “But this challenge is not only about strength, speed, endurance and luck—it’s about strategy. Each player was given the option of improving their score by the amount of time they dangled from the trapeze…or applying that time to one of their competitor’s scores as a penalty. Let’s see how each contestant chose to play their strategy.”

Cameras rallied around Bev.

“Math Wizard,” Monty said, “this challenge was clearly a struggle for you.”

“I’d claim that age had something to do with it, Monty, but considering the Professor’s score, it would be ridiculous to use my age as an excuse. I’m out of shape. That’s that.”

“Still, you did finish the physical leg of the challenge—proving you have a lot of heart. As to the strategic part, you were given an important decision to make. You hung from the trapeze for twelve seconds—and that means you can either improve your own score by those twelve seconds…or you can apply them to someone else’s score as a penalty. Bev, since you’re our resident numbers guru, I’m sure everyone’s eager to hear the logic behind your decision.”

“Well, Monty…my score was so low to begin with that it was unlikely any of the other Magicians would penalize me by adding their hang-times to my run-time. Unfortunately, the spread between my score and the others, combined with my poor performance on the trapeze, ensured that even if I applied my strategic points to my run-time, I’d still come in dead last.” Bev’s voice was strong, but in her hands, the card she was clutching shook. It could have been the cold…but John wasn’t entirely convinced of that.

“In the end,” Bev went on, “my decision might or might not make a difference, depending on how all the other magicians vote. But I opted to apply a twelve-second penalty to one of the stronger competitors.” The whole set went dead quiet as she flipped her card, and read aloud, “Kevin Kazan.”

On the scoreboard, Kevin’s time changed to 3:16.

John swallowed, and realized his throat had gone coppery dry. He’d hardly dared hope anyone but Ricardo and Jia would vote to push Kevin below the elimination line. But Bev’s twelve-second penalty, though small, was exhilarating to see applied to Kevin’s score.

“Ricardo,” Monty said, “you’re up next.”

John swallowed again. Iain knew what everyone had written on their cards. What did it mean for Ricardo to go second? That his strategy was negated by someone else’s? Maybe John hadn’t actually done enough to draw Kevin’s fire. Maybe Kevin had used his insanely long hang-time to knock out Ricardo.

“Ricardo, your athletic background was clearly evident in the way you handled yourself out there on the field. You were neck and neck with the Professor and Kevin coming through the Big Top Challenge course, and you had the second-longest hang-time on the trapeze. More importantly…you’ve also focused your time in the Mansion on building alliances rather than making enemies. What did you choose to do with your discretionary hundred and nine seconds from the trapeze?”

In his robe and his pink-stained leotard, Ricardo raised his head high, leveled a cool gaze at Monty, flipped his card, and said, “I also chose to add my seconds to Kevin Kazan.”

Kevin’s time went from 3:16 to 5:05.

“That puts Kevin Kazan in fifth place, and more importantly, below the white line. But this game isn’t over yet. Professor Topaz, let’s see how you played your strategic seconds.” John stepped up to the podium. He was more accustomed to cold water than the others, and he felt very calm as he faced both Monty, and the scoreboard. “Professor, you ran the course in the fastest time, and you also hung from your trapeze for an impressive eighty-seven seconds. What would you like to do with that time?”

John did his best not to gloat as he turned his card and said, “I’m adding those eighty-seven seconds to Kevin Kazan.”

Kevin’s score was now 6:32. Last place.

“Next…let’s hear from Jia Lee.” Jia stepped up to the podium—but her normal haughty confidence was marred by a furrow in her brow as she stared at the scoreboard and tried to calculate minutes and seconds in her head. “Jia, when you were a member of the Red Team, you made no secret of the fact that you often disagreed with the decisions made by your team leader.”

“That’s true.”

“You had eighteen seconds on the trapeze. How did you choose to play your strategy today?”

Jia looked hard at the board and shook her head. “I saw I was in second-last place, and…well, it hadn’t occurred to me that putting Kevin below the line would have pushed me above. So I thought my best bet for staying above the white line,” she turned her card, “was to add my penalty to Sue’s score.”

Sue’s time went from 4:09 to 4:27, and she dropped from third place to fourth by a mere two seconds.

It was Sue’s turn at the podium next. Her typical poise was gone, and instead she was a bedraggled, shivering wreck. “Sue,” Monty said, “you made good time through the course, though you seemed to struggle in the pool.”

“It was freezing, Monty. You’d be surprised how it feels. It actually hurts. My legs just went numb.”

“You managed to hang on to your trapeze the longest of all the women, thirty-one seconds. What did you choose to do with that half a minute?”

Sue looked back at the seated contestants, shook her head once, and began to sniffle. When she tried to speak, her voice was small and choked. “I saw how close I was to the bottom of the list, and I knew there was an elimination…and I thought the same thing as Jia. I’m sorry.” She turned her card.

It read Jia Lee.

Jia’s score went from 4:25 to 4:56, and dropped back down below Sue’s.

“There’s one contestant left to hear from,” Monty said, “but before we do, there’s one more thing I’d like to add. A single player won’t be going home as a result of this challenge.” John almost felt encouraged by those words, until the stiltedness of their delivery registered. “Instead…there will be two.”

Cameras swung to the scoreboard, and the white line leapt up to the center of the list. Jia, now firmly below it, gasped and covered her face with her hands. John stared at the scores in dismay. Kevin had hung on that trapeze longer than any of them. If he added that time to John’s or Ricardo’s score, was it possible they’d fall low enough to displace Jia and end up on the chopping block? Minutes, seconds, it was all too difficult to add in the heat of the moment.

“Kevin, you received a penalty from half of your competitors. What’s going through your mind right now?”

“Can’t say as I’m surprised,” Kevin asserted, shooting a grim look over his shoulder toward John. “This is a game, and it makes sense to gang up on the biggest threat so you can take him out. When you got more looks, brains and talent than everyone else, and they all know it, that’s the price you pay.”

“He’s gonna get voted off,” Ricardo whispered gleefully, but Bev answered, “You can’t count on it—not yet.”

“One thing’s for sure,” Monty said, “you had the greatest amount of stamina when it came to holding on to that trapeze. You stayed on for a massive two minutes, twelve seconds.”

John tried to add that time to his own score and compare it to Jia’s, but it was no use. Minutes, seconds. He couldn’t even think.

“And so,” Monty said, “the results of this challenge hinge…on your strategy.”

“Oh, great,” Jia groaned.

“Kevin Kazan, what did you choose to do with your hundred and thirty-two seconds?”

Kevin swung fully around to look at each of his competitors in turn, then faced Monty again, and said, “I knew them other players had alliances, Monty. I knew I had to watch my back. And so I chose…” he flipped his card. And he paused.

And he smiled.

“…to keep my points for myself.”

The scoreboard flickered, and Kevin’s time went from 6:32 to 4:20, launching him up past Bev, past Jia, and even past Sue. All the way to third place.

BIG TOP CHALLENGE

1. Professor Topaz 2:59

2 Ricardo the Magnificent 3:08

3. Kevin Kazan 4:20

_________________

4. Sue Wozniak 4:27

5. Jia Lee 4:56

6. The Math Wizard 5:41

John stared at the numbers, sure that there must be some error. That Kevin couldn’t possibly be in third place after John, Ricardo and even Bev saddled him with a penalty. But Sue started to cry again, and Bev muttered, “Aw, nuts,” and the frigid certainty that the scoreboard was indeed correct settled in John’s gut, colder even than a pool of ice cubes and cherry Kool-Aid.

___

A long, hot shower helped to dispel the chill of the Kool-Aid dip, but it didn’t do much to mitigate the dread John felt in knowing that although he himself had managed to land in Magic Mansion’s Final Four…so had devious, resentful, and perhaps even dangerous Kevin. He would need to be careful. And he would need to do his best to keep his energy calm, to ensure he drew as little destructive spite to himself as possible. He accepted the heartfelt congratulations of the crew for his performance in the Big Top Challenge with as much humility as possible, then he adjusted his route to swing past the bar and help himself to the very good scotch. No one stopped him from commandeering the bottle. In fact, crafts services gave him a turkey club to enjoy along with it.

John paused in front of his door and balanced his tray on his hip while he dug his key out of his robe pocket, but when he finally found it and raised it to the lock, he saw his door was ever so slightly ajar.

Cameras. No doubt someone had tucked one into every nook and cranny. Now they’d undoubtedly make him out to be an alcoholic for the sake of adding to the drama. He toed the door open with the sole of his shower sandal, considering exactly how risky it would be to do another True sweep of the room, when he got a good look at the actual culprit who’d broken into his quarters.

Sprawled on his bed in a pair of skimpy black briefs, hands tucked behind his head, smiling…lay Ricardo.

John set the tray on the nightstand, and said in his best serious voice. “Who let you in?”

“A three-pin lock? C’mon…I could’ve picked that when I was twelve—blindfolded. You’ll need to do better than that to keep me out of your bed.”

“Indeed.” He looked Ricardo up and down. The skating, the juggling—that must have been what was so perfect about his physique. Yes, he was meticulous about hitting the gym, but not just for show…and the results were captivating. “You’re not concerned anyone saw you coming here?”

“Concerned? Heck, I made sure they did. I told everyone I ran across I was paying you a visit. And that I hoped wardrobe let you hold on to those thigh-high boots.”

“Ricardo….”

“I’m proud of who I am. And I’m proud of us. I refuse to sneak around—I have nothing to hide.”

Nor, after the huge Casey revelation at the theatre, did John.

He allowed his robe to slide open, climbed into the creaky bed, and fit himself up against Ricardo, pushing his back to the wall. Ricardo’s eyelids dropped half shut, and he luxuriated in the press of their bodies with a long, contented sigh. He eased into a kiss, slow and gentle—and when, after several easy moments, he was satisfied, he said, “We made it to the Final Four, John. We team up against Kevin…and one of us has got to beat him.”

“Nothing is sure,” John said—and yes, he was fully aware of what a wet blanket he could be. And so he added, “But this, now, is the biggest prize I could hope for.”

___

VIDEO DIARIES

Jia Lee

Let’s face it, I’m an illusionist, a performer. Not a mathematician. I tried to protect myself—and I totally blew my chance at knocking Kevin out of the game.

That’s gonna haunt me.

For sure.

Bev the Math Wizard

I’m out of my league at this point, and I’m well aware of it. Strategy can only take you so far—especially now that we’re competing as individuals, and I don’t have a team to take up the slack for my physical limitations. I’ve got aches in muscles right now that I didn’t even know existed.

On the plus side—seeing Professor Topaz tearing through that course was pretty darn inspirational…when I get home, the first thing I plan to do is look into a gym membership.

Sue

I miss my Gold Team.

This isn’t fun anymore.

-CRYING-

I’m so…disappointed.

Kevin Kazan

Look out, yo, ’cuz Kevin Kazan in the Final Four. That quarter-mill prize? I’m gon’ crush anyone who gets in my way.

“Tough talk. It’s been a big day at the circus for our six remaining magicians, and now two of them…are going home. Who’s it going to be? The modern-day Chinese conjuror who’s proved that even in a man’s world, every woman has a fighting chance? The fifty-nine year old grandmother of three who’s made it this far on brains instead of brawn? Or the inspirational Gold Team leader, who’s bereft without her team?

“I’m your host, Monty Shaw, bidding you farewell until next time, when it’s up to you to decide…who will make it…to Magic Mansion’s Final Four.”

Chapter 33

FINAL FOUR

The cleanup following the Big Top Challenge was both extensive and loud. The metal bleachers boomed like thunder as they were dismantled. The truck that hauled the bounce castle away roared as if the muffler was hanging by a rusted pipe. And the crane made a shrill “backing up” alarm as it maneuvered clumsily off the lot. The ice, at least, had melted quietly…though John found it difficult to muster much annoyance for any of it. He’d woken with Ricardo nestled against his back. And nothing else mattered.

Voices from the yard carried through the weed-choked window, and then hammering. Ricardo murmured something groggy into the nape of John’s neck. John lay still, allowing Ricardo to hover there at the cusp of sleep as long as possible. Just enjoying the press of their skin, thigh to thigh, chest to shoulder blade. And once wakefulness began to steal over Ricardo in earnest, the press of something more.

John arched his back and stroked Ricardo’s morning-hard cock with his ass, and Ricardo’s breath caught as, all at once, he found himself very awake.

Their time in the Mansion was drawing to a close. One more final challenge? No, more likely, two. One to gain some sort of advantage and another for the win. And then…freedom.

John reached for the dwindling bottle of lotion on the nightstand and handed it back over his shoulder. Ricardo mm’ed his approval, and the smell of herbal fragrance enveloped them as Ricardo squirted it into his palm, faux green tea, or aloe, or whatever the trendy scent of the day was. It felt cold, but then Ricardo’s hard cock pressed against his ass, and very soon it was no longer cold at all. John spread his knees and arched his back more assertively, and luxuriated in the satisfying stretch, the pressure, the plunge. Ricardo continued to murmur hot, wordless noises in John’s ear, angling himself, working those sinuous hips, slowly at first, then faster. Harder.

The bed didn’t feel like John’s bed. And the body clasped to his back didn’t feel anything like Casey. And yet, John felt profoundly and utterly secure that somehow, when he’d least expected to find it, he’d stumbled onto something right.

They peaked, not quite as one, but all the better to enjoy each others’ broken gasps of ecstasy. And afterward, they simply lay together. Damp. Sated. Drifting yet again on the heady languor of newfound bliss.

Even the knock on the door wasn’t enough to startle them out of it. “Professor?” one of the assistants called through it.

“Yes?” John’s trademark baritone was rusty from disuse…the morning had needed no words to complete it.

“Announcement in the ballroom in an hour. Semi-formal, no challenge.”

“All right. Thank you.”

“And, uh…maybe you could let Ricardo know?”

Ricardo smiled into the crook of John’s neck; John ran his fingers through Ricardo’s hair. “I believe he heard you.”

They listened as the assistant knocked on Bev’s door and gave her the same instructions, and then turned and walked back down the creaky hall. Once the aide was gone, Ricardo sighed, his breath tickling John’s shoulder. “I guess that means we’d better get ready. Plus I really need to talk to Sue, see how she’s holding up—”

“Ricardo.” John spoke the name softly, but with the gravity he usually reserved for the world behold.

Ricardo went quiet, and utterly still.

Once he was sure he had Ricardo’s attention, John went straight to the point. Perhaps he could wait, until they had more time, or at least more privacy. But John had made up his mind that there was nothing to gain by waiting, and potentially, everything to lose. In a world where no one lived forever, any chance at happiness needed to be seized before it was too late. John cleared his throat, and said, “On one hand, I can’t wait to get out of this place. But on the other…” he stroked the contour of Ricardo’s shoulder… “I regret that it’s almost over.”

“John….”

John placed his finger against Ricardo’s lower lip to quiet him. “Because I’ve found something here that I didn’t realize I was missing.”

Ricardo watched John for a long moment, and then finally whispered, “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I…love you.”

They lay together for just another moment, gazing into one another’s eyes, to bask in their shared delight.

___

Ricardo supposed it would be obnoxious to strut too obviously as he headed back toward his room. But he wanted to. He should probably plan out what he was going to wear—but, really…who cared? In light of the fact that he was madly, crazily, hopelessly in love, and that John loved him too, who gave a damn about wardrobe?

He was smiling so hard his face hurt. The crew obviously noticed it too. On the trek from John’s room back to his own, Ricardo received his fair share of raised eyebrows and knowing looks. And he could barely contain himself from blurting out to everyone, “I know, isn’t it awesome?”

Though when he rounded the corner of the dorm hall, he felt his smile slip. Sue’s door was just a few feet away from his. He’d need to pass it to get to his own room and his own shower. It was only a door, the same as every other door in the hall. And yet, something about its quiet vigilance made Ricardo feel as if maybe he should have been there for Sue as she dealt with facing her first time on the chopping block. He was dying to tell her that John had broken the L-word barrier…though he supposed he would need to wait for a better time, now.

He paused, made sure he looked appropriately somber, and rapped on her door. “Who is it?” she called. Startled? Anxious? Crying? Hard to tell.

“Ricardo.”

“Hold on.” Shuffling, and then the door opened a crack. Sue pressed her face through the small gap and said, “Hey!”

“Hey.” She didn’t look like she’d been crying—at least, not recently. But she looked strange without any makeup on and her hair all in disarray. Young. But still cute. “So…how’re you doing?”

“I’m okay,” she said. “Uh…you?”

“Me? I’m fine. I’m not the one who has to go in front of Monty in an hour.”

Sue dropped her voice to a whisper. “What do you mean?”

“You know.” Ricardo put on a bad Australian accent, “And the magician going to the Final Four is….”

“Oh! Yeah. That.” Sue shrugged. “I’ll be fine, Ricardo. Whatever happens.”

“Okay….”

Before he could determine if she was actually fine, or if she was just really good at putting on a cheerful face, she said, “But I gotta get ready now. I’ll see you downstairs,” and closed the door.

Was she angry with him for disappearing after the last challenge and then waiting until an hour before taping to touch base? He hoped she wasn’t. She didn’t sound angry, though she did sound somehow…odd.

He went into his room and picked out tuxedo slacks, a vest, and a silk shirt with flowing sleeves, hung them by the shower so any wrinkles could steam out of them, and turned on the water…but he couldn’t stop thinking about how strange and distracted Sue had seemed.

She probably hadn’t meant for him to give up on talking to her so easily. Ricardo glanced at the clock. He still had plenty of time. He’d simply go knock again and….

Just as he opened his door, Sue opened hers. Or so he assumed. Until he realized it wasn’t Sue at all stepping through that door.

It was Monty Shaw.

He was wearing jeans (Ricardo had never seen him in jeans) and sandals (ditto) and a slinky burgundy T-shirt that made the shade of blue in his eyes sparkle like a sun-drenched sky—and his hair was wet, as if he’d just washed it. They locked gazes, both startled. Monty recovered first. He smiled shyly, and said, “G’day.”

“Hey.”

“Guess I’ll…see you downstairs, too.” With that, Monty closed Sue’s door carefully behind him, turned, and headed off to wardrobe.

Sue’d been acting weird, all right. What a relief it had nothing to do with him—and that it was good-weird.

Once Ricardo had dressed and the stylists were finished with him, he made his way to the ballroom. The tension there was thick enough to cut with a knife. The women, each of them up for elimination, sat quietly. Kevin Kazan paced by the window like he wanted to escape. Monty, in a snazzy gray Armani and his hair styled, was running lines with Iain. John was still in makeup. Although Ricardo didn’t want to make anybody cry into their foundation, he couldn’t simply say nothing to his girls. Besides, he had a sneaking suspicion that Sue had received her fair share of “consolation” the night before, since she seemed a heck of a lot more collected than he’d seen her in quite some time.

He wedged himself between Sue and Bev on the sofa and put an arm around each of them. He gave them a squeeze and said, “It’ll be okay.” Although it wouldn’t. At least one of them was going home.

He glanced up as John strode in, striking in his lean black suit. John paused, framed by the archway, as if he was considering where to place himself in the room, but before he needed to choose whether to join Kevin or everyone else, Iain sent them to their marks and the process of setting up the scene began. John stood center back, between Kevin and Ricardo. Ricardo would have loved to tell John how tempting he looked in that suit (with cufflinks? Oh yes.) But doing it with Kevin right there just felt wrong. Still, when John allowed their upper arms to brush, Ricardo could hardly keep himself from shouting at the crew to hurry up already and get it all over with. Because couldn’t they see he and John had better things to do?

Finally, after what seemed like half the morning, tape rolled. Monty smiled at the small group of magicians while Ricardo pondered how strange it must feel for Sue to be facing her new beau across the room—at least as strange as standing right beside him, unable to touch anything more than elbows.

On Iain’s go-ahead, Monty began: “Greetings, Magicians. I suspect you’re eager to hear who will be moving on to the Final Four. Not only will this elite top tier of contestants be competing for the title of Grandmaster Magician and a coveted quarter-million dollar prize, but for making it this far, they’ll win so much more. A five-hundred dollar shopping spree at Ruth’s House of Shoes. Five hundred dollars worth of Prestige cosmetics. Five hundred dollars from Petsmart, for all your performing doves’ and rabbits’ needs. And a thousand dollars to spend at Bordeaux Formalwear. That’s twenty-five hundred dollars in prizes…but that’s not all. In addition, each Final Four Magician will perform in his or her own half-hour prime time magic special.”

Any other day, Ricardo would have probably been bowled over by that announcement. Now, though, it was just icing on the cake. John Topaz loved him. All other news paled in comparison.

“That means our audience hasn’t seen the last of Ricardo the Magnificent, Professor Topaz, and Kevin Kazan. But who will star in the remaining show? Bev, Jia, Sue…please step forward.”

The front rank of magicians broke away and stepped up to the gaffing tape X on the parquet floor. It seemed unfair to Ricardo that upper-body strength had figured so prominently in the last challenge. It was a shame Jia and Sue had ended up pitted directly against one another, or that neither of them had trusted the other enough to do the right thing with their hang-time points. If they had, Kevin Kazan would have been stepping up there instead of Sue.

“Bev,” Monty said, “what would it mean to you to win your own half-hour special?”

“It would be incredible, Monty. School visits, library visits, I only get to perform for a few dozen children at a time. But on television, and then later, on DVD…it would be a dream come true.”

“Unfortunately, Bev, that dream won’t become a reality just yet. You’ve been voted out of the Mansion…and it’s time to say goodbye.”

At the sound of those words, Ricardo’s heart sank. Not that he’d expected her to make it even this far. Just that he would miss her so much. Bev’s head sagged, and she stood very still. Everyone watched her. No doubt the pause would be edited to be shorter, or longer, or filled with dramatic music in post production. But there in the ballroom, in real time, in real life, it stretched painfully long. Until finally Bev looked up again, and said in a choked, small voice, “I didn’t really think I’d end up in the Final Four. But I guess there was always a shred of…hope.”

Monty’s voice was soft. He was starting to choke up, too. “We’ll miss you, Math Wizard.”

Bev nodded brusquely, first to herself, then to Monty. Then, turning, to the remaining magicians…after which, she strode, red-faced and stiff, out of the ballroom.

Monty took a deep breath, centered himself, and continued. “Jia, what would it mean for you to continue on to the Final Four?”

“I’ve worked so hard to get to this point, Monty. Incredibly hard. I know I have what it takes to compete with the best of the best. Sue is a strong competitor. There’d be no shame in losing to her. And if I don’t earn that half-hour TV special now, I’m confident that I’ll land a show of my own someday. I’d just prefer it happen sooner rather than later.”

“Spoken like the showman we all know you are. And Sue? How do you rate your chances of moving into the final phase of competition?”

“I think my chances are very good, Monty. I’ve done well in every challenge up until now. I’ve done my best. That’s all anyone can do.”

“Wise words. Two contestants, both beautiful, both talented, both deserving. And only one slot left in the Final Four—so unfortunately, one of you…is going home. And that magician is….”

Another hideous pause—no doubt Iain had told Monty to linger there so a commercial break could be inserted. But then Ricardo saw Monty take an extra few moments to gather himself, and his voice, when he finished, was tender. “The gift shop girl from Magicopolis. Sue, your time in Magic Mansion has come…to a close.”

Sue nodded. Tears sparkled on her eyelashes, but nothing like the raw, uncontrollable deluge of sobs she’d been prone to the last few days. She smiled bravely, and said, “It’s okay.” And maybe, if Ricardo didn’t know what he knew, he would suspect she was reassuring herself that everything would be all right. But now he could see she was actually speaking to Monty. And not just from contestant to host, either. “I’m okay. I’m fine. And it was a privilege to be here, and to perform…and I’ve had so many phenomenal experiences, and made so many special friends, that as far as I’m concerned, I am a winner.”

She turned to Jia first, and pulled her into a hug. Jia had never struck Ricardo as the huggy type, but the two of them embraced, and whispered encouragements to one another, with a totally unscripted enthusiasm. Sue approached the male magicians next—Kevin with a perfunctory hug, John with a tender kiss on the cheek, and finally, Ricardo.

After the incident where they’d all broken down over surrendering their Gold Team medals, Ricardo had promised himself he wasn’t going to cry on camera again…and at the feel of Sue in his arms for possibly the last time, he felt that resolve disappear. “Shh,” she murmured, “it’s really all right. Ricardo, I swear. It’s fine.”

“I know,” he said. “I know you’ll be happy.”

Sue pushed him back to arms’ length, laughed tearfully, then gave him a playful shake. “But if you don’t win this thing for the Gold Team,” she teased, “I will never forgive you.”

As Sue exited the ballroom, tall and striking in her sparkly heels, John surreptitiously pressed a silk handkerchief into Ricardo’s hand. A laugh escaped Ricardo that probably looked like an embarrassed sob. He’d never been in love with another magician before. He shook out the gossamer square of red fabric and carefully blotted the corner of his eye, doing his best to seem appropriately somber.

“Magicians,” Monty said, “we’re now down…to the Final Four. And this week…is History Week. Magic is an art that’s steeped in tradition. For your first History Week challenge, each of you, with the help of a stylist, will design your own close-up act, complete with costumes, banter, and illusions—and this act will be a period piece. Choose any era you wish to represent, but choose wisely. The winner of this competition will win a strategic advantage in the final challenge. You’ll be judged not only on showmanship, skill and charisma, but on accuracy and originality.

“And not by the home viewing audience. The four of you will perform, simultaneously, for a crowd of one hundred spectators…on the historic boardwalk in Atlantic City.”

Chapter 34

DRESSING UP

Marlene flicked through the dailies, marking a shot of Jia putting on mascara, and another of Kevin pumping iron, that showed them looking focused and resolute—eyes on the prize. The other two members of the Final Four were a bit more difficult to capture in a determined frame of mind. Lately it seemed they were never without giddy grins on their faces. Or their hands roving down each others’ bodies the minute the handhelds wandered away, and there was no one there but themselves…and the wall cams.

They were wreaking havoc with the narrative. Just like Sue, who’d wept and slobbered her way through the entire series, and then faced elimination with a casual shrug. She and Monty had announced their I-love-yous mere hours before, and in the light of Monty’s dazzle, there was simply no way she could muster up the grief. She just wasn’t a good enough actor.

Iain plunked into his chair, took a long drink of his vitamin water, and raised an eyebrow at the shot of Professor Topaz pinning Ricardo to the wall. “I thought Ricardo would wear that guy out in a few days,” he said. “But I guess I underestimated the Professor’s stamina.”

“I’m sure they’re running on endorphins at this point. Did you divvy up the stylists?”

“Eventually. They all wanted Jia—just like you said. So I went by seniority and gave her to the gal who’s been here the longest. After that, they sorted themselves out. Once Jia was out of the running, everyone had their favorites.”

“And the flight?”

“All set.” Iain flicked through a few more shots, marked a nice one of Jia pounding on a temperamental heating vent, and said, “So…did you want me to mention anything to the Mansion’s Horniest Gay Couple?”

“Mention what?”

“That they’ll be on display in front of a big crowd of people. And it’s probably not going to be in their best interests to be fawning all over each other in public.”

Normally, Marlene would have assumed Iain was just looking for an opportunity to wield his power over the contestants. But it was still early in the day, and “sleep-deprived Iain” hadn’t yet reared his head. Since Iain sounded sincerely concerned, Marlene figured “Marlene the bitch” could hold off the snippy answer she was eager to give. “It’s their lives to live, Iain. Taping in public is always iffy.”

“Our hundred viewers are signing non-disclosure agreements, but….”

“Right,” Marlene said. “Have the private audience sign all the paperwork you want. The crew knows better than to go around telling tales, but the general public? Someone won’t be able to resist blabbing about what they saw on a blog somewhere. If Ricardo and the Professor want to go public now, who am I to say they can’t?”

Besides…the Magicians wouldn’t have access to online fallout until the show wrapped, and even more importantly, the general voting phase of the competition was finished. Whether Ricardo and the Professor made a big public splash with their relationship or not, Magic Mansion was still anybody’s game.

___

It was nearly midnight by the time Ricardo made it back to their room—the room he now shared with John, with its tiny bed and its falling-down appeal, off the beaten path of both the cameras and the other contestants. Not that anyone would have stopped John from moving into Ricardo’s dorm room instead, with its big bed and private bath. But the dim little room in the servants’ quarters belonged in some inexplicable way to the both of them. Everyone knew it; someone had even penned and Ricardo beneath Mr. Topaz on the paper star on the door. And so that was the place Ricardo, for the moment, was calling “home.”

John was still awake, lying in bed in his robe, reading. He slipped his bookmark into his book, set it aside, and pressed himself up against the wall so Ricardo could sit on the edge of the mattress. Ricardo ran a hand down John’s thigh, and said, “I’ve never been so exhausted.”

John said nothing. He simply waited. The silence, somehow, felt encouraging—or maybe it was the compassionate look in his eyes. “Today I had a voice coach,” Ricardo said. “And a choreographer. And I tried on—” Ricardo stopped himself before he said a hundred pairs of jeans. He and John had made a pact to surprise one another with their new routines…and for the opportunity to see a brand-spanking new Professor Topaz act, live, in person (and in turn, to be seen by him) was worth the agony of not being able to talk about his preparations in anything other than the most abstract terms. “I’m not sure about this. It’s all so new.”

Not only was it new…but it felt risky. Ricardo and his stylist had combed history for a period that would showcase Ricardo’s talents, from medieval juggler to futuristic space traveler (who just happened to have linking rings dangling from his belt.) They all felt so much like costumes, though, Ricardo had nixed every idea, one after the other…until his stylist suggested the 1950’s.

And he remembered how the hula hoop segment of his short-running stage show had always wowed the audience.

It wasn’t just any hula hoop act, either. While the audience was busy watching Ricardo stack more hoops around his waist and neck, his hands were free to palm a number of coins that he’d then produce from “thin air.” It was acrobatics. It was magic. It was flashy. It lent itself well to performing on a boardwalk, where Ricardo would stroll and mingle with the crowd. And in terms of period and theme, it was absolutely perfect.

The choreographer was on board immediately. The way her eyes shone, you’d swear she was just given the opportunity to go back in time and choreograph West Side Story. She walked Ricardo through a few steps, putting his body through new and exciting moves that would leave him sore in a bunch of interesting places. He was really beginning to envision this new act taking shape when he saw the vocal coach and stylist off to the side in a surprisingly heated debate. A pair of hoops he’d been spinning around his neck did a few more lazy revolutions and then fell to the ground, and the vocal coach looked up at the clatter.

“What is it?” Ricardo said.

The coach fluttered his hand. He was a wrinkled, frail-looking man in his seventies with a neckerchief, a small mustache and a startling, booming voice. “It’s just that this whole hula hoop idea, darling…do you really want to come off so nelly?”

The choreographer gasped.

“I don’t look nelly,” Ricardo spluttered.

His stylist said, “He looks hot.”

“Of course he’s hot.” The vocal coach gave a small, affected toss of his head. “His hotness is not in question. The boy’s scorching. If I tried to pick him up, I’d get singed. But I’m looking at him through working class America’s eyes, and I’m telling you…he looks nelly.”

Ricardo might have been outraged, if the image of his childhood self in the Dracula costume—tilting his head coyly, thrilled to be wearing his mother’s lipstick—didn’t flash past his mind’s eye…if he didn’t suspect the vocal coach might be right. He tapped one of the hula hoops with his toe. It sprang into the air, and he caught it nimbly. He bounced it a few times, gathering his thoughts, and finally said, “I don’t care who knows I’m gay. But it doesn’t need to be the only thing they see when they look at me, either. I’ve seen plenty of men work with hoops and make it look masculine. So, if the three of you are on board…that’s what I’m going to do.”

Now, watching John watch him, Ricardo wondered how he seemed to John. It felt too soon to ask. And he wasn’t sure he was prepared to hear an honest answer.

“Think of the strangeness as an opportunity,” John said. “Working with people we wouldn’t have access to otherwise, getting exposure we’ve never dreamed we could. It’s all change. And change is difficult, even when it’s a change you’ve been looking forward to.”

Ricardo toyed with the collar of John’s robe. “All change?”

John smiled. “No. Not all….”

The next few days were a blur of fittings and rehearsals. It was tempting to do the same old linking rings act in a randomly-chosen period costume, but the thought of just “phoning it in” was even scarier than the pressure of developing a new twenty-minute act in such a short amount of time. Ricardo wasn’t going up against the dancing chihuahua act at a dry corporate retreat, after all. He was competing against three accomplished professionals.

In the end, he rejected the “greaser” look for a more colorful bowling shirt (settling finally on sparkle-gold and black) with skin-tight jeans. The loafers were fabulous, and the socks matched the shirt’s aqua piping and embroidery. The whole “teen idol” getup seemed painfully appropriate.

The choreographer paid particular attention to the manner in which Ricardo held himself—apparently the way he turned his elbows in and thrust his weight on one hip was too fey. Since he didn’t want to overdo it and come across bandy and bowlegged like Kevin, he focused on small, moderate changes. If anything, his years of skating had taught him accuracy and control.

He lived and breathed his new act—and with any other new boyfriend, it might have been a problem. But John was doing the very same thing. He understood. He knew. John had been able to share these things with Casey Cornish all those years, but for Ricardo, dating a fellow magician was novel…and wonderful. At the end of the long, physically demanding days, they fell into the narrow bed, and held each other, and were simply together. Content.

All John was willing to say was that his act was going “very well.” But he said it with an eager sparkle in his eye that made Ricardo wish they wouldn’t be performing simultaneously, so he could focus on Professor Topaz’s new act without worrying about his own.

And finally, the day came when they were woken at four a.m. for their charter flight to New Jersey. Although he’d barely slept, Ricardo was too excited to nod off on the plane—and so were all the other magicians. Kevin sat alone. Jia sat alone. But although there was certainly room enough for Ricardo to have a pair of seats all to himself, he sat beside John, instead. If any of the crew had an opinion about it, they didn’t remark on it. The ever-present handheld cameras were there. Ricardo hardly noticed them anymore.

Well…maybe he noticed them a bit, when John slid his hand into Ricardo’s. And Ricardo squeezed it, feeling defiant, and proud.

A bus whisked the magicians and crew to the boardwalk, where separate staging areas awaited them all. Through the divider curtains, he overheard Kevin talking to his stylist in low, surprisingly respectful tones. “You think this works? A’ight, but tighter here…” and Jia saying, “Make sure my hair doesn’t move.”

“Are you nervous?” Ricardo’s wardrobe stylist whispered to him.

“I think so.”

“You’ll be great.” She trimmed a stray thread off his bowling shirt and stepped aside for the makeup crew to take over.

Once Ricardo was painted and powdered and pompadoured, he heard Iain’s voice directing the crowd, giving them instructions via bullhorn. “You’ll have one point to award in each category. First, the magic. How cool are the tricks? Second, the act. It’s a brand new routine, and they’ve had less than a week to put it all together. How successful is it? How well does it fit the surprise theme they’ve been given, historical magic? And third, the magician’s performance skills. Are they smooth? Are they convincing? Do they draw you in? You can award your points to different magicians or the same magician, but be sure to focus on the category and analyze what it is about each act you like. Every five minutes, you’ll hear this sound.”

He tooted an airhorn. Great. Because it wasn’t enough to do a brand new act in a brand new location. Now they’d need to hear an airhorn every five minutes.

“When you hear that sound, switch magicians. We want you take a good look at all four. Any questions?”

Ricardo strained to hear what the unamplified voices were saying, but a PA hustled him off to the side before he could make sense of anything. “The performance area is marked off into four quadrants,” the assistant told Ricardo. “Make sure you stay in your quadrant. You’ll have Professor Topaz across from you, Kevin Kazan kittycorner, and Jia Lee….” She positioned Ricardo in front of a curtain just as another assistant in headphones brought Jia up beside him. He felt like a racehorse in a starting gate, casting sidelong glances at Jia. Red. Very red.

“When the curtain opens, you’re on.”

The assistants turned away, murmuring into their headsets, and Ricardo inhaled deeply and steeled himself to take a good look at Jia. He turned. She was sizing him up, too. And she looked fabulous.

“You went with your signature dress,” he said, surprised. Because she’d managed to take her trademark costume and completely transform it with hair and makeup. Same dress…but now she looked like she’d stepped out of a silent film.

“It’s called a cheongsam,” Jia said. She touched her hair, which had been shellacked into finger waves. It didn’t look like it was going anywhere—much like Ricardo’s pompadour. “This was how they were cut in the thirties. Pretty similar to today.”

“You look great. It’s very…you.”

“My mother hates it. She says it makes me look like a cocktail waitress.”

“Oh.” Ricardo wasn’t sure what he’d expected her to say…but definitely not that. It hadn’t occurred to him that anyone else might be anything other than one hundred percent confident.

She gave the fan in her hand an experimental flick. It opened with a loud snap. “Like I told you, people are gonna look at me and see a Chinese girl, no matter how I try to present myself. So I decided that’s what I’m going to give them. A real Chinese girl. Chung Ling Soo, the most famous Victorian Chinese conjurer? He was a white guy from Brooklyn.”

“Actually, I think his biggest claim to fame was getting shot doing the bullet catch.”

“Yeah, well…once people see me, they’re gonna say ‘Chung Ling Who?’”

The assistant brought out Ricardo’s five silver hula hoops and stacked them on his forearm, while out beyond the curtain, Monty’s voice rose and fell, welcoming the crowd to the spectacular live Magic Mansion event. “Maybe he was popular in his day,” Ricardo said. “But now he’s basically known as a fraud.”

Jia snapped her fan shut and considered what Ricardo had said, then shrugged and looked him up and down. “Those jeans look good on you.”

“Thanks.” Even as he said it, Ricardo realized he was standing with his hip thrust out, a posture he’d been working to downplay the past three days. Because his ass looked amazing when he stood that way. And to anyone with a clue, he also looked unequivocally gay. Just as he shifted his weight to center, the curtains parted, and Monty called out, “And here they are, to amaze and astound you: Magic Mansion’s Final Four!”

And as the crowd’s eyes fell on him, and he held his weight carefully balanced so as not to telegraph his sexuality, it occurred to Ricardo…who was he to call anyone a fraud?

Chapter 35

BOARDWALK MAGIC

The sea of faces surrounding Ricardo was less of a blur, and more of a kaleidoscopic jumble of frowns. Hopefully they were just focused frowns, and not “you’re so disappointing in person” frowns. The music was a band organ track from the early 1900’s. It kept all four magicians working at a similar pace, but it didn’t exactly complement Ricardo’s chosen theme. “No one will notice,” the vocal coach had assured him, “if you keep them engaged with your sparkling personality.”

“How’s everybody doing in Atlantic City?” Ricardo asked, smiling broadly. A few answering smiles began, reluctantly, to appear among the crowd. “You’ve all been enjoying Magic Mansion?” He smacked down a hula hoop, and it bounced high in the air. Overdoing the macho? No, stupid Kevin was macho. Ricardo was just exuberant. He caught the hoop and looped it around his neck, and the crowd fell back a few paces to make room for it—but their eyes were fixed on him.

He bounced another hula hoop high, dodged, and caught it on his neck. He’d aimed it wide on purpose. Sometimes, if you made juggling look too easy, the audience got bored. “Anyone here have a hula hoop when they were a kid? You?” he pointed to a woman who looked like she might be game. “Want to try?”

Before she could refuse, he bounced a hoop her way. “Go on,” he said, “go for it. Show everybody how it’s done.”

Timidly, but smiling, she caught the hula hoop, pulled it over her head, and gave it a few experimental twirls. “That’s right, you’ve got it.”

He tossed his third hoop in the air, caught in on his left foot, and twirled it around his ankle. The aqua socks looked spiffy. He picked out a young man. “How about you, you want to try? It’s easy.” He kicked the hoop the guy’s way, and the guy caught it, laughing, but hemmed and hawed about actually trying it out.

“Okay, fine, just hold on to it for me.” Ricardo flicked the two hoops off his neck and spread them on the ground with the third hoop he’d been holding, and began his routine that was part dance, part juggle, snapping up the rings, catching them, and allowing them to fall. He beat out a pattern, and just before it became predictable, instead of dropping the hula hoops, he tossed them in the air and began to juggle. The crowd ahh’ed and clapped.

It wasn’t that difficult, but the hoops were so big that it looked impressive. And as he juggled three hoops, he caught the eye of the man holding the fourth, and said, “Toss it.”

He’d had the choreographer lob all kinds of lame throws his way to prepare himself, and of course he didn’t trust the guy’s toss enough to actually juggle it in—it would take a trained assistant to make that move work. Instead, he slipped the three he already held onto his arm and began a lasso twirl with them while he caught it. He turned to the woman, then, who’d stopped hula-hooping so she could watch, and said, “When you’re ready, toss it!”

She did…missing him by several feet. But it didn’t matter. He was in the zone. He was enjoying himself. And the audience was enjoying him, too. He sidled over to toe the fallen hoop into the air, which provided the perfect diversion. As the audience was focused on his foot, he palmed a handful of bubblegum out of a pocket the stylist had carefully sewn into the bowling shirt, and said, “How ’bout that? Sweet!” as he pinged it into the laughing audience.

He was breathing hard by the time the airhorn sounded, but the connection with the people had made time slip away. He thanked them, playfully reminding them to “vote Ricardo, Daddy-o!” as they moved along to check out Jia’s act, and the audience who’d been watching Professor Topaz began to filter his way.

As Ricardo raised his arm over his head, his five rings slid down over his shoulder, the beads inside shushing to a stop along his thigh…he looked up and spotted John.

And suddenly, it was as if all the air went out of the world.

John was stunning in an Edwardian cutaway coat and deep burgundy ascot. In his top hat (silk, not satin) and his striped trousers, he looked like he was seven feet tall. But it wasn’t just height he possessed. It was presence. His audience approached him in awe, and when he greeted them, gravely, in his deep and profoundly serious voice, Ricardo could practically see them all break out in goosebumps.

In fact, he did, himself.

Ricardo forced himself to look away, to greet his new group and get them to shift gears from serious and dramatic to lighthearted and fun. But he experienced a niggling of doubt, that maybe he couldn’t win the spectators over. Maybe acting sassy and young simply couldn’t hold a candle to being as profoundly riveting as John.

Part of him was startled—because he’d trained so hard these past few days, put so much care and focus into his act, it hadn’t exactly occurred to him that all the other magicians would do the same. He threw a silver hula hoop high in the air, and while his audience looked up, palmed a 45 from its hiding spot at the small of his back. The crowd laughed with delight as he juggled it in with a huge flourish, then tossed it to the spectators like a Frisbee. His heart was pounding now, in overdrive, as keen as any championship match he’d ever skated in…with the knowledge that his performance here was infinitely more important than any meet.

He did a spin and caught sight of Kevin Kazan—only a glimpse—working his crowd in a zoot suit and fedora—and damn it, that creep looked absolutely perfect. He was confident and flashy in his new costume, doing his new act…even handsome. Not only that, but he had his audience wrapped around his little finger, and the way he moved, shifty and graceful as he startled them by presenting them with their own wallets and watches, it was clear he’d put his own choreographer to good use.

It took everything he had, but Ricardo forced himself to focus on his hoops. He juggled them dangerously high, no longer needing to make it look difficult, because it was difficult—and then he palmed the modern silver dollars from his jeans pocket (no mean feat, given how tight they were) and flipped them into the crowd, declaring, “Hey, where’s Eisenhower?”

The over-sixty choreographer and the vocal coach had thought that joke was a scream. The under-thirty stylist didn’t get it. Unfortunately, a majority of Ricardo’s current crowd was in agreement with her.

The airhorn sounded again, and the audience rotated. Or did it? They were supposed to, but when Ricardo scanned, he saw that the crowds were definitely thicker around John and Kevin. Their acts were so good, their personalities so magnetic, they were keeping the spectators from Ricardo and Jia. Ricardo poured everything he could into his performance, tossing the hoops high, focusing on his patter, smiling so hard his face hurt (although he was battling a sinking feeling that he was not nearly as clever in designing his act as he’d thought he was) and doing his damnedest to draw the crowd away from John, away from Kevin, and over to himself.

Ricardo juggled and palmed and bantered for all he was worth, and the airhorn sounded for the third time. He focused in on specific members of his final crowd—definitely fewer in number than the other end of the boardwalk—and poured his heart into forging some kind of connection with each of them.

When the final airhorn sounded to signal the end of the challenge, and Ricardo caught his five hoops and then attempted to catch his breath, he realized…he was standing with his weight all on one hip. And his elbows turned in.

He kept his posture exactly as it was and tilted his chin up defiantly as applause rippled through the audience. If the crowd didn’t love him for his real self…then what good was winning, anyway?

Monty was talking now, praising the audience, but Ricardo took the opportunity to thank his final group of spectators personally, shaking hands, making eye contact, connecting. The public seemed more eager to meet him now that he was a TV star than they had back when he was working the small-club circuit, when he’d emerge into the cocktail lounge in his offstage garb to vague looks and the question, “Hey, aren’t you that guy?”

No, everyone knew exactly who he was now, and men and women alike seemed eager to shake his hand. He thanked anyone who would listen for coming, and thanked them again when they told him he was their favorite and they hoped he’d win. Maybe it would be enough, winning over this final crowd, if the other votes were split between Jia and Kevin and John. Of all the magicians, Ricardo was the most approachable, and since there was nothing that said he couldn’t keep on schmoozing after the final airhorn blast, then he planned to work his every last advantage to the max.

“You have to beat Kevin,” a middle-aged woman said, how funny. And, “I can’t believe I get to meet you in person,” a younger woman gushed. “You look even better than on TV.” Ricardo gave her hand an extra squeeze, even though Iain was descending upon him, probably to tell him to knock it off. As he took a step back from the crowd and gave them a parting wave, he caught the eye of one of the men, who frowned and said, “Where’s Sue?”

Iain grabbed him by the elbow hard, and hauled him off the boardwalk himself. “Come on, Mr. Magnificent, there’s no time for you to diddle each and every one of them personally.”

“Shut up,” Ricardo said, but only half-heartedly—because Iain wouldn’t be Iain if he wasn’t acting like the world’s most insulting dweeb. Instead what troubled Ricardo was the thought that no matter what he did or said, no matter how hard he worked or how well he performed, Magic Mansion’s viewers saw him as one thing, and one thing only: half a couple, without Sue.

An assistant handed Ricardo a towel, and he blotted his sweat carefully so as not to smear off his makeup in a huge swath down the center of his face. There were still handhelds wandering past, after all. Jia, Kevin and John were already there, sheltered from the milling boardwalk crowd by a wall of divider screens, cooling down. Chairs stood ready for the talent, but nobody sat. They were too keyed up. They all gulped water like they were dying of thirst, though, and Jia was making actual use of her big gold prop fan.

Ricardo’s knees shook. These last few days had been a roller coaster ride—his first real on-air magic performance, his first chance to show the viewers what he actually was, beyond being the guy who’d bled into the wand pond or crawled through the bounce castle the fastest. His first chance to demonstrate what his actual passion was all about. And now, for good or ill, he’d done it. He’d actually performed. On wobbly legs, he made his way past a pair of assistants and a handheld, and there, finally, stood John. Except “John” was the tender-eyed man who held him in that narrow bed each night as he drifted off to sleep. This striking magician in the burgundy ascot was none other than Professor Topaz.

Although Professor Topaz wasn’t exactly known for the smile he was currently shining on Ricardo.

“I can’t believe that tux,” Ricardo said, and his roller-coaster sensation slowed as he decided that if he did lose to John, it wouldn’t be such a terrible thing after all. Because as Jia had said when she stood to be eliminated, there was no shame in losing to the best. “You were amazing out there.”

“Was I?” John replied. “I don’t know how I managed. As usual, ‘someone’ was doing his very best to distract me.”

“No way.”

“Oh, yes. How could I help but stare?” John swept off his top hat so he could lean in close and whisper directly in Ricardo’s ear. “You look uncannily like the first boy who ever slid his hand down my pants. Only more glittery.”

Though the hairs on Ricardo’s forearms were damp with sweat, they managed to stand on end anyway as a delirious thrill raced down his spine. All around them, the crew milled, the handhelds zoomed in and out, the audience surged beyond a few flimsy screens, and Iain stormed around being a dick. But for Ricardo, the world had narrowed down until it consisted of only the two of them, him and John, together.

___

The throng of viewers queued up at the table to receive their Magic Mansion T-shirts and, more importantly, to get their parking validated. “Make sure these ballots are correct,” Marlene told the assistant who was helping her collect them. “One magician chosen in each category, no more, no less. We have exactly one hundred people here. If any of them screws up their voting, the scores won’t add up right in the end.”

Immediately, the assistant spotted a card with five checks on it, and made the audience member re-do the ballot, much to the annoyance of everyone in line behind them. Marlene called out, “If you marked more than one magician in any category, raise your hand and we’ll get you a new ballot.” A few hands popped up, and she sent another PA out with some blank ballots, muttering, “Go help them, okay?” It was almost over. That’s what she kept telling herself. And she had two weeks in Cabo coming to her, with no cell phone, no executive producers and no bleeding magicians, in the very near future.

With the re-do ballots dispatched, she turned back to the front of the line, noticing one guy watching the proceedings more shiftily than the people around him. “You…in the blue windbreaker. C’mere.” Marlene crooked her finger, and the guy stepped up and handed over his ballot.

The ballot was technically correct. There was only one magician chosen in each category. In fact, there was only one magician chosen at all: Kevin Kazan for magic tricks, Kevin Kazan for style, and Kevin Kazan for the theme of his act. No big surprise. The home viewers had their favorites, and a few “straight ticket” votes were to be expected.

But the word FAG scrawled across Ricardo’s name was a bit much. “Really?” Marlene said. The guy in the windbreaker wouldn’t quite meet her eye. She threw a too-small T-shirt at him and said, “Get out of here.”

Chapter 36

RUMOR MILL

It was late, and the magicians were all snug in their beds. The day had been brutally long, flying to the east coast and back with a big performance in between. And for once, Iain felt like he had another few hours’ reserve energy to draw on.

He’d slept like a baby on the plane.

Marlene, on the other hand, was looking haggard, though she always looked that way toward the end of a project. Iain scanned the email his PA had sent him, and realized he was probably about to accelerate Marlene’s need for another botox injection by a few weeks. He hit the print button and cleared his throat.

“What is it?” she snapped. “Can it wait? Because getting everyone together for the next big reveal is a bitch—”

“I think you’ll want to see this.” Iain slid her the printout. Marlene set it in her lap without glancing at it so she could finish up the email she was currently working on. Once she hit send, she glanced down. And groaned.

The photo was the most striking thing. Backstage, Atlantic City Boardwalk. Professor Topaz whispering in Ricardo’s ear, bending close, holding his top hat off to the side, dapper, almost courtly. Ricardo with his face all lit up, leaning toward him. Camera phones were getting better and better these days. This candid wasn’t as clear as a posed studio shot. But for onscreen viewing, it conveyed its message loud and clear.

And then there was the title of the message board thread: Ricardo the Fag-ificent.

Iain turned back to his monitor and read along with her.

realmagic34 - everything u see on this show is a fraud - maybe prof topaz is gay but riccardo is like the biggest fag u eva seen - look at him here hes just wishin he could go down on the prof right now

JodeeGal - shut up yr a jerk
sp@rkle - It doesn’t matter if someone is gay, if you care about magic like you say you do, what matters is how they do magic.

JodeeGal - and u didn’t even spell his name right

Anonymous - dude hes a total fag

PrettyBitty - ur wrong I tottally ship SueCardo

Anonymous - I hope they give each other AIDS and die

Marlene handed the printout back to Iain, pressed her fingers into her temple, and said, “Make this go away.”

“On the network’s message board, no problem.” Iain hit a few keys. “Done. But I’m sure by now it’s everywhere.”

“And the weird part is, once we got off the plane, I thought Ricardo and the Professor were pretty low-key about their…thing.” Marlene drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. “The contestants don’t have access to phones or Internet. I don’t suppose public reaction at this point matters.”

“They’ll see it eventually.”

“True. But not when it can throw them off their game before the final challenge.”

Iain looked down at the photo again. It wasn’t that the magicians were even doing anything particularly incriminating. It was more subtle than that. The lines of their bodies, the expressions on their faces—absolutely everything about them suggested a smoldering attraction. He wadded up the printout and lobbed it into the trash can. “Funny thing is, Ricardo’s the one they’re tearing up. Not the Professor.”

“What are you saying?”

Iain wasn’t exactly sure. “I dunno…the Professor’s, like, twice Ricardo’s age. Someone who didn’t know better could make the Professor out to be the bad guy, a creepy old performer out to take advantage of the young, starry-eyed hopeful.”

“I’m sure that’s exactly what someone out there is doing. Painting this whole thing as the magicians’ equivalent of a casting couch.”

A glance at the monitor, at the enraptured look on Ricardo’s face as Professor Topaz spoke to him, told Iain differently. “I don’t think so. Ricardo’s obviously head over heels. Plus the Professor’s not the type. He’s…elegant.”

Marlene shrugged. Even hearing that her favorite contestant wasn’t so bad after all didn’t seem to cheer her up.

“Don’t you think it’s weird,” Iain said, “that the Professor was the one we outed, but Ricardo’s getting the brunt of the flak?”

“In retrospect? No. It pisses off the audience when they feel they’ve been lied to. And the ones who fell in love with the whole Ricardo-and-Sue romance will feel betrayed.”

Iain took one final onscreen look at the covert snapshot of the Professor and Ricardo, then closed the browser. “I’m ready to call it a night. How about you?”

“I want to count the votes one more time.”

Iain stood and stretched, and wondered if he might actually have time for a little Call of Duty before he turned in. “I’ll have my PA count it up. You don’t need to do it yourself.”

“It’s just that it doesn’t make sense.”

Iain sensed a time-suck keeping him from his apartment and his game…but he couldn’t resist. “What doesn’t?”

“Jia’s score.”

“Good…or bad?”

“Nowhere near as high as it should have been. You saw her move—she was so smooth it looked like CGI.”

Iain thought back to the crowd. “They were scared of her, Marlene, plain and simple. Jia looks great on camera, but in person, she’s an intimidating little ball-buster.”

“But she looked gorgeous. And that thing she did with the fans and the ropes was so freaky.” Marlene sighed. “You’re right. Jia’s act was made to be seen from a stage. Not up close.”

“Not that it matters.” Iain flicked the trailer lights on and off a few times in an attempt to get Marlene to take a hint and go home. “You know the advantage they’ll win from today’s challenge is basically bogus.”

___

Stay in bed…or hit the gym? It was a tough call. John never worked out, and he looked great. Still, Ricardo had been diligent about his regime for the past twenty years…it would be a shame to start letting it slip now. The sorry little room that they called a “gym” was thankfully unoccupied. Ricardo warmed up with some shadow boxing, did his crunches on a yoga ball, then moved on to the treadmill. A brisk 4.5 walk there, a 6.0 jog for five minutes, and once his heart was thrumming good and fast, jab-jab-jab at the “up” button to take it to a nice, sustainable 7.5 run….

He was so focused on his run that the feel of someone mounting his treadmill behind him nearly sent him flying right back off…until his assailant spoke in that low, mellifluous voice that pervaded his daydreams. “I’ll need to get better at enticing you to stay in bed.”

Ricardo hopped onto the rails, breathing hard, while the belt sped by between his (and John’s) feet. “You’re always telling me to be careful,” he chided.

“This is nothing.” John pressed into his back, buried his nose in Ricardo’s hair, and breathed him. The belt whirred past, motor working. “You’re totally engaged in what’s going on around you right now. Every bit of your attention is focused. You’re living your Truth. Now is the time…you’re safe.”

Ricardo let his head drop back and press into John’s shoulder. John grabbed his damp hair, pulled his head more sharply to the side, and swiped a long, wet lick down the tendons on his neck—tasting his salt, his sweat. Ricardo stifled a moan. It wasn’t so much that he’d expected John to be timid in bed…just that the full force of his attention would be enough to sweep anybody away. And every time they came together, John managed to take things to yet another level, as if there was no end to the depths in him waiting to be explored. “My attention’s focused, all right,” Ricardo said. “On that bulge you’re pressing into my butt.”

John clenched Ricardo’s hair harder, and allowed his breath to play along the side of Ricardo’s throat. A moan did escape Ricardo, then. And he wondered if John would actually try to go through with it, and do him right there on that big, vibrating machine, where anyone might walk in on them. But no. Not only was John sensual, he was patient, too. He placed a single kiss in the curve where Ricardo’s neck met his shoulder, and then raised his head and spoke against Ricardo’s ear. “This morning, when I opened my eyes and you weren’t there, I realized something.”

“What’s that?”

“When we’re done here…when it’s time to go…I can’t see myself waking up without you by my side.”

Ricardo’s heart rate, which had been cooling down to baseline, picked up again. “What do you…?”

“I want you to move in with me.”

“Oh my God.”

“We’d need a bigger place than my—”

Ricardo spun on the rails with the belt whizzing down the center, flung an arm around John and kissed him, landing his mouth somewhere in John’s beard in all his eagerness. “I can’t believe—I mean—yes, of course yes.” He took John’s face in his hands, tenderly now, and kissed him more deliberately, enjoying the tickle of his mustache, savoring his lips. “This is amazing. I can’t wait. I just can’t wait.”

John turned his head and pressed his cheek to Ricardo’s. “Then we have something to look forward to—both of us.”

The thwap of fabric hitting pleather startled Ricardo out of the followup kiss he’d been planning, and he turned to see Kevin Kazan standing by the chest press, where he’d just flung down his towel. “Y’all can do that shit anywhere,” he said. “Why you gotta go at it here? Some of us got work to do.”

Ricardo was so flush with the giddiness of what John had just suggested, he couldn’t dredge up a single retort. He simply stared back at Kevin, wondering which parts of his recent experience were his real life, and which were just strange snatches of performance art.

When neither Ricardo nor John took up the gauntlet and snarked back at him, Kevin puffed himself up bigger, gave them his nastiest glare, and said, “Y’all don’t intimidate me.”

And with that, he turned away, thrust the pin into the heaviest setting of the chest press, sat himself down, pushed…and grunted.

Ricardo twisted around and pressed the treadmill’s power-button as John climbed off. Today’s workout was officially over.

Even so, Ricardo found he couldn’t quite wipe the smile off his face.

“Why don’t we go back to my room this time,” Ricardo suggested, once there was enough distance between them and Kevin that the workout grunts faded into the Mansion’s background noise. “There’s a private shower.”

“I like the way you think.” John trailed his fingertips over the back of Ricardo’s hand as he veered off toward the kitchen. “I’ll get my things and meet you there.”

The handhelds weren’t paying Ricardo any particular attention as he skipped up the stairs two at a time. Too bad. If anyone deserved to have happy-music playing in the background as they trooped back to the dorms, it was him. He flung open the door to his old room with his mind on what he’d wear tonight, and whether they’d hear how they did in the latest challenge anytime soon. He was so absorbed, he didn’t hear the rustle of paper until it dragged in an arc.

A single sheet had been slid under his door. It was your typical plain white printer-paper. Wrinkly, like someone had crunched it into a ball and then flattened it out again. Ricardo picked it up and turned it over, and found a snapshot of him and John.

It was an awesome picture, even printed on plain paper with an inkjet printer. It had been taken outdoors in diffuse sunlight, and for a quickie shot, it had great color and contrast. Seeing the moment when John had told Ricardo how good he looked, but viewing it from outside himself, felt surreal. Ricardo had never given much thought to how the two of them looked together. John was deliciously tall next to him—and that Edwardian tux was enough to make Ricardo lightheaded.

Too bad the photo’s headline was Ricardo the Fag-ificent.

Ricardo read the online message thread with dull interest, then had another look at the photo—my God, John is so handsome—then read the comments again. And when he heard John’s footfalls heading down the hall toward his room, he fought the impulse to jam the printout in the back of a drawer, to spare John from seeing what the public thought of them together.

But he didn’t. He decided he’d rather embark on their new life together with disapproval rather than lies. Ricardo had learned to give what other people thought only the smallest amount of credence—so, what other people thought about him and John? That was their business. What John thought of him was the thing that mattered.

“What’s that?” John asked in a soft voice.

Ricardo handed it over, then turned to get ready. He didn’t want to watch John read it, and yet he held on to it for so long, Ricardo eventually stopped going through his shower caddy and looked up to see what was going on.

John’s eyes were closed. He held the printout in one hand, parallel to the ground. The fingers of his other hand stroked the surface of the paper, their motion hypnotic, as if he was demonstrating some new sleight of hand that would end with him pulling out a mylar flower, or maybe making the whole thing disappear in a pop of flash paper. When he opened his eyes, finally, he said, “Quite a few people have handled this. But we don’t really know them.”

“Not Kevin?”

“I don’t think so.”

Ricardo took the paper from John and looked at the photo again, squinting so the phrase “I hope they give each other AIDS and die” was a bit less distinct. “No…” Ricardo mused. “Kevin’s more direct. And he doesn’t have access to the Internet any more than we do. Plus that thing he said about not being intimidated by us?”

John stroked his beard. “It must mean that he is.”

“Exactly.”

Ricardo dug a pair of manicure scissors out of his caddy, and set to snipping the photograph away from the hateful words. “I’m sure we’ll be able to find that photo again online,” John said, smiling his sad smile.

“I’m not going to give some asshole the satisfaction of ruining my day. As far as I’m concerned, all they’ve accomplished was treating me to a picture of you and me—you in that crazy-hot tux—and as the first shot of the two of us together I’ve had the pleasure of seeing, it’s currently my favorite photo in the world.”

John took the wrinkled snapshot from Ricardo and slipped an edge of it behind the frame of the dresser mirror to display it, and said in his grave and sonorous tones, “The first…of many.”

Chapter 37

SCORING THE PERFORMANCE

They were lying in Ricardo’s large bed, still damp from the shower, when a PA knocked and told them taping would begin after lunch, and fancy activewear would be required for the challenge. John kissed Ricardo goodbye deliberately, though they’d spent the morning lost in kisses. He didn’t know what they were heading into—and he felt it would be wise to ensure he was fortified against anything.

John’s activewear was nowhere near as clingy and revealing as Ricardo’s glittery gymnastic outfits. The slacks were fine dining waiters’ tuxedo pants with hidden elastic, the white shirt was a lycra blend made for dancers, and the vest had stretchy panels along the seams. Even his shoes were utilitarian. They looked like dress shoes from afar, but the soles were made to stand up to oily floors and broken glass. Once his secretly-flexible wardrobe was in place, John headed for makeup. Every crew member he passed—and there were many—caused him to wonder. Were you the one who slid that picture under Ricardo’s door? Or you? Or you?

And, more importantly, why?

He didn’t probe each of them with the Truth. There wasn’t time. Besides, John had been doling out his use of True magic sparingly, and it didn’t seem prudent to blaze a trail of it through the Mansion so close to taping. Now was not the time for Ricardo or him to draw any more envy than they already were by the simple fact of their happiness.

When he settled himself in his stylist’s chair, though, he couldn’t restrain himself from saying, “So…it’s on the Internet.”

She combed through his hair, dipped into some product, and worked it between her palms. “What is?”

“Photos. From the last challenge.”

“Really? How’d you look?”

John closed his eyes and gave over to the feel of her skilled fingertips against his scalp. Maybe several crew members had passed around the malicious gossip—but not the crew John trusted. The ones he knew. He needed to believe that. “Perfect. Thanks to you, Wendy.”

“You’re so sweet. If you weren’t gay, I’d snap you right up.”

“I’m sure your husband would have something to say about that.”

“I suppose he might.” She fussed with the front of John’s hair so it lay just so. “Are you wearing a hat today?”

“No hat. I imagine they’ll have us running around.”

“Oh. You mean…the final challenge.” She turned and met his eyes in the mirror, and made an exaggerated pout. “That means this’ll be the last time I get to work with you.”

“Send me an email through my website.” She hadn’t been passing that transcript around. John was sure of it. “We’ll keep in touch.”

Unfortunately, chances were, some of the crew he would be dealing with that day must have been. Would it be someone who should have tightened a bolt, but hadn’t? Someone who should have grounded a wire, but failed to? Someone whose active hatred, or even their passive negligence, would focus the free-floating malice around John, or Ricardo, and bring it to a distinct and dangerous head?

John did his best to clear his mind, to push away the thought. Vigilance was certainly called for, but paranoia would only work against him.

The contestants gathered in the formal dining room, seated down one side of the long table. Jia, Ricardo, John, then Kevin. Ricardo was adorable in a body-hugging lycra costume, Kevin had on stiff jeans, a white sleeveless rib-knit tank and sideways cap, and Jia wore a glitzy red and black tunic and leggings, with her hair in a severe bun. The lights were hot and the room felt stuffy before long, and it was difficult to stop eyeing the floor-to-ceiling curtain that now covered the far end of the room. Ricardo’s hand found John’s beneath the table, and clasped it. John wondered if his face changed when Ricardo touched him. Given the relief that flooded him from that simple contact, he decided it must.

“The Final Four,” Monty said off-camera as he took his place at the head of the table, dapper in a pale gray suit. He shone his dazzling smile on each of them. “I guess we’re in for one hell of a day.”

Somewhere outside, a horn sounded, and Iain strode into the dining room with a phone in the crook of his neck. “Okay, they’re done making noise in the yard. Let’s get rolling.”

Monty cleared his throat, hummed, cleared it again, took a few breaths…then turned on a blindingly bright on-camera smile, and focused on a spot on the wall somewhere behind Ricardo’s head. “Greetings, Magicians. Your historical magic acts caused quite a splash on the Atlantic City Boardwalk. One hundred audience members rated each of your routines in three categories: magic skill, historical theme, and charisma. Are you ready to find out how you did?”

The four magicians all murmured their assent.

“The first rating had to do with your magicianship, the tricks you chose and the dexterity with which you performed them. Jia Lee.” The jib zoomed in on her. “You adapted part of your stage act, the Golden Fan, for use in close-up magic.”

“The Golden Fan is a trick I created myself, where I make coins and ropes appear even though my hands are occupied holding the fans. I thought it was a good choice to perform up-close, because there aren’t any other magicians out there doing it. Only me.”

“Ricardo, you went with a hula hoop routine. Tell us about that.”

“I wanted to interact with the audience, and the hula hoops allowed me to do that. They’re showy and a lot of fun…and I chose them along with my theme because I wanted to be sure my historical period stood out from everybody else’s.”

“Professor Topaz….” The jib swung its mechanical eye toward John. “You opted for a traditional illusion, the cut and restored rope.”

He had. And, at the moment, being faced with three young, vibrant magicians who’d worked their themes stunningly and even invented their own tricks, John wondered what he’d been thinking. Between the new wardrobe with its multiple fittings, and the drilling with the enthusiastic vocal coach, and the choreographer’s expert work on his posture and flourishes, John had opted to go with a routine he’d performed hundreds, if not thousands, of times. Now he wondered if he’d played it too safe. He probably had. But even though the deed was done and the votes had been cast, he still felt the need to paint his caution in the best possible light. “Magic,” he said somberly, “is steeped in tradition. I’ve been performing for over fifty years, and yet for me, many illusions never lose their luster. I chose to share that particular trick with the audience on the boardwalk because it was my favorite.”

Beneath the table, Ricardo squeezed his hand. And the jib moved on to Kevin.

“Kevin Kazan,” Monty said, “you started out with what seemed to be some fairly standard card tricks, all the while relieving your audience of various personal belongings. Would you say you chose to put your best foot forward by sticking with a street routine you were familiar with?”

Kevin considered the question for such a long moment, John wondered if he was going to answer at all. But finally, he gathered his thoughts and said, “When I hit dat boardwalk, I wasn’t thinking ’bout tricks, or acts, or costumes, or none of that. I went out there living inside the skin of dis character I been creating all week, my original badass gangsta, and I done him proud. I can’t say I even remember which tricks I showed.”

John suspected Kevin’s explanation was more than just hollow words. The way Kevin handled the boardwalk crowd had been eerily riveting.

“With one hundred points to distribute for magicianship,” Monty said, “the scores in this category were incredibly close. But don’t take my word for it. Who better to reveal how you scored in this challenge…than Bev Austin, the Math Wizard!”

The curtain at the far end of the room rippled, and out from behind it stepped Bev. In a purple wizard costume. Covered in silver mathematical symbols. And a conical wizard’s hat. John did his best not to cringe. Ricardo shot up out of his seat clapping his hands, so John stood as well, so as not to leave Ricardo looking like the odd man out, and then Kevin and Jia grudgingly stood, too.

“Hi guys,” Bev said. She stepped up beside Monty and unrolled a rather silly-looking scroll she’d been carrying. “Are you ready to hear some numbers?”

The Final Four said they were, and sat back down to hear their scores.

“As Monty said, this category was the closest. With one hundred votes at stake, an average score would be twenty-five.” John tried to read Bev’s expression. Whereas Monty never gave any hint as to who had won or lost, Bev might not be quite so inscrutable. If Ricardo had won, would she be able to resist sharing a secret smile with him? Or what about Kevin? Would she be able to hide her disappointment? John couldn’t tell. She was focused on her scroll.

“One of you did receive exactly a quarter of the votes. Twenty-five points for magicianship go to…Profesor Topaz.”

John inclined his head. His heart was pounding. He supposed he should feel pleased about being found completely average among all the performers present, given their skill. But he’d be lying if he told himself he hadn’t been hoping to rank a cut above.

“Close on Professor Topaz’ heels, with a magicianship score of twenty-three: Ricardo the Magnificent.” Which meant someone scored higher. Bev gave Ricardo a quick, encouraging smile, though not a triumphant one. John’s heart sank. “And within a point of Ricardo, Jia Lee with a magicianship of twenty-four.” Which meant… “Kevin Kazan edges out the others in the magicianship category with twenty-eight points.”

“Well done, magicians,” Monty said. “So close.” Close? Hardly. Kevin was ahead of John by three. “What did the viewers have to say about the historical aspects of the boardwalk acts?”

Bev consulted her scroll. “The historical category contained the highest single score in any one category.”

“Fascinating. Would the recipient of that high score happen to be…Jia?”

“No, Monty. It isn’t. For the historical aspect of her act, Jia scored seventeen points.”

Seventeen? John’s heart started pounding. If Jia had only received seventeen points, that meant the spread was much wider for this aspect of the performance. Ricardo’s fingers squeezed his, and hard, but he scarcely felt it. His own hand was numb.

“Too bad,” Monty said. “How did our 1950’s magician do?”

“Ricardo…” Bev’s voice lagged. She was nowhere near as smooth as Monty, “had the lowest score in the history category. Sixteen.”

John’s heart sank for Ricardo. Whoever the crowd chose would be ahead now by several—

“That leaves quite a few points in play,” Monty said, drumming up the drama that Bev didn’t seem to have the heart to. “Tell me, Math Wizard, what did people think of the Original Gangsta?”

“Kevin did very well, Monty. He received thirty-two points for his take on magic history.”

Thirty-two? Thirty-two? That was it, then. Why bother reading any farther? Kevin would no doubt take the whole—

“But the big scorer,” Bev said, smiling now, “was Professor Topaz, with a huge thirty-five points. Congratulations, John.”

“Thank you,” he heard himself say. “I have a great respect for the traditions of the craft.”

If thirty-five was the single highest score in the whole competition, did that mean the scores in the last category were closer to one another? If so, Jia and Ricardo would never catch up, even if they pulled a high score. However, if those final numbers were close…it would also mean John could potentially beat Kevin.

“Right now there’s only one point separating our top two competitors,” Monty said, as if he’d been privy to John’s very thoughts. “But there’s one more category to consider, and it’s anyone’s game. What do the remainder of the scores say to you, Math Wizard?”

“What’s interesting is that a majority of the viewers awarded points to multiple magicians. I see here, though, that there’s one magician who had the most unanimous votes. One magician who completely won over the audience members they connected with in all three categories.”

“Fascinating, Bev. Which Magician are you referring to?”

“That Magician is…Ricardo the Magnificent.” Bev looked up and met Ricardo’s eye with a look of such compassion, John wanted to gather Ricardo in his arms and hold him, because clearly, Bev’s expression conveyed that Ricardo hadn’t won. “Fourteen of your audience members voted for you in all three categories, Ricardo. The closest anyone else came to that was ten.”

Ricardo smiled as if he knew that being referred to first must mean he had not won the competition, and likely even come in last, but that still, he took heart in the fact that he had truly connected with those fourteen people. “That’s great. They were a great audience.”

“Ricardo,” Bev said, “Twenty-one people picked you as having the best performance, which means you have a total of sixty points.”

Ricardo nodded, not pleased with himself, of course, but not crushed. “Thank you.”

“Jia,” Bev said, “twenty-one people also selected you as the best performer.” Jia’s mouth worked. John had never seen her so gobsmacked. “That makes your total score sixty-two.”

Monty cut in and said, “Kevin, many audience members told the producers that watching you perform was like seeing David Blaine step out of a 1940 time machine.”

Kevin gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Gold Team would know better than me, Monty. They met him.”

Bev said, “They must have meant it as a compliment. Kevin, in the category of performance, you scored thirty points.”

Twenty-one, twenty-one, thirty, subtract it from one hundred, add it to the other score, whatever it was…where was a scoreboard when you needed one? Could someone just tell John whether he’d won or lost?

“It’s a close game, indeed,” Monty said. “Did Professor Topaz earn enough points to take this final challenge?”

Bev consulted her scroll. What did the expression of focused concentration on her face mean? John had no idea. “The professor scored very high in performance also, Monty. Twenty-eight points, for a total score of eighty-eight.”

All four final contestants sat scowling as they tried to recall the scores and add them up. But finally Bev took pity on them and said, “But our big winner for the Boardwalk Challenge, with ninety points, is Kevin Kazan.”

Kevin hissed, “Yesss,” as Jia clucked her tongue, and Ricardo gave John’s hand another squeeze, then released it and folded both his hands on the table in front of him. John turned to Kevin, offered a handshake, and said, “Congratulations.” Since he’d caught glimpses of Kevin’s act in the brief snatches of time in which he’d looked up from his own—when he’d managed to tear his eyes away from Ricardo in those skin-tight jeans, at least—Kazan had obviously made an impression on his audience. John could hardly begrudge him the win.

Kevin reached for John’s hand cautiously. He’d only won by two points, after all. And, of course, there was the whole treadmill incident from that morning between them—though if Kevin found two men fooling around intimidating, maybe he should reconsider living in Hollywo—

The handshake felt like a joybuzzer as John’s Truth pried between the plates of Kevin Kazan’s armor, and finally, really saw him.

True magic smoldered in him like a red-hot coal—a coal shielded under a layer of ash so thick as to render the ember inside invisible, at least until it was caught by the wind, and flared to life.

Kevin’s eyes widened slightly. Had Truth recognized Truth, or was he even cognizant of this thing inside him that came out when his magician “character” was living and breathing him? Hard to say, particularly in front of all the cameras, but before John could get a good look at it, Kevin’s expression shifted, and went sly. “Jus’ like I told you when I broke up the Red Team. I’m gonna win. Me. So let’s finish dis thing…Professor.”

Chapter 38

FINAL PREP

“Kevin Kazan wins,” Monty said, “by a slim two point margin…and this competition’s not over yet. There’s one ultimate event standing between our Final Four and the grand prize: the Sands of Time Challenge.

“The legendary escape artist Harry Houdini made history by getting out of a number of tight situations—including a straitjacket. Our Final Four contestants will begin this challenge just like good old Harry. And who better to strap you in…than the eliminated players?”

The curtain at the far end of the room fell (after some swearing by Iain and some ineffectual tugging that would be edited out later). Standing, poised and confident as if they’d been holding those poses the entire time the scores were being tallied, were four eliminated contestants.

“Kevin,” Monty said, “as the winner of the Boardwalk Challenge, you’ve got first choice. Who’s going to be the one to tighten those buckles on the straitjacket? Will it be Chip Challenge in his blue suede shoes?” Chip winked over the top of his sunglasses and pointed at the jib.

“Or Sue, the gift shop girl from Magicopolis?” Sue gave her honey-blonde hair a subtle toss and smiled for the camera.

“I’m sure nobody’s keen on being locked down by our escape artist extraordinaire, Ken Baron.” Ken, in a superhero-looking black lycra bodystocking, crossed his arms forbiddingly.

“But why bother, when you can trust yourself to the tender mercies of your old flame, Amazing Faye?” Faye blew Kevin a kiss.

They were people, just regular contestants, like John himself. And yet seeing them there, costumed and spotlighted, made his heart palpitate with anxiety. This was really happening. The moment Kevin announced his choice, the final challenge would be underway.

It made sense for Kevin to pick Faye. First, there was the trumped-up “romance” between them, which meant they at least knew how to negotiate with and tolerate one another. Aside from that, on a purely physical level, Faye was so thin it was unlikely she had the strength in her to pull the straitjacket straps particularly tight.

So why didn’t Kevin immediately pick her?

John turned and looked at Kevin, and found him assessing the eliminated contestants through narrowed eyes. Ah, yes. Of course. It would be totally unlike Kevin abandon his precious “strategy” so late in the game. John looked back at the eliminated players. They all smiled or glowered or winked as they’d been directed to—no doubt they’d all been paid a fee to make an appearance, and really, none of them likely cared which magician’s straps and buckles they ended up in charge of.

None of them but—

“It’s a tough choice,” Kevin blurted out sudden and loud, “and Miz Faye knows she’s my bootylicious baby gal, but imma have to go wit’ Sue.”

Of course.

Ricardo groaned and thunked his forehead into the table.

Monty said, “It’s safe to say you’ve got some strategy in play. Let’s hope your girlfriend can forgive you.”

Faye pretended to study her nails.

“Professor Topaz, you had the next highest score in the Boardwalk Challenge. Who will you pick to do the honors?”

John’s heart thrummed even harder. Three eliminated players to choose from: Chip, Faye and Ken. From what little John knew of Chip—and he hadn’t known his fellow Red Team member long—he didn’t seem like the type to go overboard on tightening one of his fellow magicians into a straitjacket. The Final Four’s acts held the least direct competition for his Elvis impersonator comedy show, and he hadn’t been around the Mansion long enough to build up any alliances or make any enemies among the rest of the talent.

Faye and Jia had some animosity between them, so it was possible that if John picked Chip, Jia would go with Ken to avoid getting Faye—and as far as John knew, Ricardo and Faye had always gotten along well. He glanced up at Ken Barron, and thought back to the incident in the garden, right before Ken’s trimmers caught him in the cheek. Ken had been lamenting the way the show was making him out to be a fool. In all likelihood, anyone he strapped into a straitjacket had zero chance of getting out again. Not on his watch.

But John didn’t think Jia knew that. He looked past Ricardo at Jia and tried to decide if she would be willing to be risk taking on the show’s only escape artist to avoid dealing with Faye—but her face was a stony mask.

And ultimately, John wasn’t willing to bet that Jia was too stubborn to put aside her differences with Faye to risk being trussed up so tightly she’d never get out again.

If John chose Faye, Jia would choose Chip, and Ricardo would be stuck with Ken. If John chose Chip, he had no idea what Jia would do…but the chance of Ricardo ending up with Ken was a risk John just wasn’t willing to take.

“Well, Professor,” Monty said, “what’s it going to be?”

“Since I enjoy a challenge,” John said, lying through his teeth, “I’d like to go with Ken Barron.”

Ricardo made a scoffy sound of disbelief. Ken gave the camera a grim smile. Jia looked around Ricardo at John and mouthed the word what? Kevin murmured, “Ooh, now you just showin’ off.” Monty looked baffled, but he recovered quickly. “Interesting choice—and given the competitive level at which you’ve been playing, I have no doubt you’re up to the challenge. And how about you, Jia? As the third place winner, will you go with Chip Challenge or Amazing Faye?”

Jia said, now a bit uncertainly, “I’m picking Chip Challenge.”

“And last, but most certainly not least, that leaves Ricardo the Magnificent being set up for his final competition by his old teammate, Amazing Faye.” Ricardo did a little “yay” clap and Amazing Faye gave him a sultry flutter of her false eyelashes in return.

“Aaand, we’re done,” Iain called out. “Bev, Chip, Ken, Faye and Sue, no chatting with your buddies—you’ll have time to catch up after we wrap. All of you step outside and join Marlene in the yard. Final Four, head out by the fountain, I want to grab a quick video journal from each of you while second unit gets some establishing shots of the last stunt. Kevin, let’s start with you.”

John, Jia and Ricardo left Kevin and Iain in the dining room and headed for the fountain. Out in the hall, once they could no longer hear Kevin spouting off about how great he was, Ricardo grabbed John by the sleeve and said, “What the hell did you just do?”

“He took the words right out of my mouth,” Jia said.

John turned to Ricardo and looked into his eyes—the same storm-blue eyes he’d been gazing into every night, and every morning, and every moment he could steal from the show in between. “It will all work out. Trust me.”

“You just fell on a land mine for me. Didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” Jia said, “that’s about the size of it.”

“We can’t say that for sure,” John insisted. “If there’s anything we can count on, it’s a twist. For all we know, the straitjacket will be irrelevant.”

“Oh, come on.” Ricardo took John’s vest by the lapels and tugged them in annoyance. “When straitjackets are involved, it’s a pretty good bet that the objective will be to get out of them. Did you assume I can’t handle Ken? Is that it?”

Handhelds might have been hovering around somewhere, but John was past the point of caring. He took Ricardo’s face between his hands, tilted it up toward his, and kissed him. Ricardo’s lips were pressed together at first, but after a moment of resistance they parted gently, with a sigh. He let go of John’s lapels and pressed his palms against John’s chest instead. John managed a bit of restraint and kept his tongue to himself, but even so, as he lingered over Ricardo’s sweet mouth, the kiss felt anything but chaste. It might have been a cowardly move to avoid an argument by plying Ricardo with attentions he couldn’t resist—and, yes, John had grown quite aware of the inexplicable effect he had on his new man. But it wasn’t just distraction he was trying to achieve. It was connection.

Because it wasn’t so much that John thought Ricardo couldn’t handle being bound by Ken Barron, while he himself could. Undoubtedly, neither of them would come through it well. And it was easier to face his own imminent failure than to watch Ricardo, with his whole career ahead of him, lose Magic Mansion’s most important challenge.

Jia cleared her throat and whispered, “Douchebag at ten o’clock,” and John stepped away from Ricardo just before Iain bore down upon them.

“C’mon, Professor, you and your boy toy can compare tonsils later,” he said, “and believe me, we’ll all be eager to watch the confetti fly and call it a night.” He steered John over to the grand staircase with a handheld trailing behind them, and positioned him in front of a drab landscape in an overwrought gold frame. “Can you make it look like you just happen to be leaning on that banister?”

How natural. John placed a hand on the woodwork and did his best not to look stilted.

“How’s the light?” Iain said, and the cameraman told him it was fine. “Okay. Let’s get this over with. How do you feel going into this challenge?”

“I’ve been a magician for over fifty years—that’s longer than any of the remaining contestants have been alive. I’m well-versed in all the traditional magic skills, and that includes escapology.”

“Is that a real word?”

“Yes. It is.”

“Okay, go on.”

“Kevin Kazan’s persona is popular with a young crowd, but I plan to show there’s more involved to magic than being flashy and glib. And I will do it by pitting myself not only against the challenge, but against the most experienced escapologist in the Mansion.”

“But how do you feel?”

“I’m eager to prove myself.”

There was a pause while Iain waited for something more, but when he saw there was nothing else John had to say, he checked his watch and told the cameraman, “Let’s get Ricardo over by that window…backlit? Okay, how about by the tacky couch…?”

___

-DRAMATIC MUSIC-

“We’re now down to the Final Four,”

(Jia) I’m the last woman standing in this game. The boys had better watch out.

“and competition is fierce.”

(Kevin) I say bring it, yo. Bring it.

“Soon the magicians will be pushed to their limits in a challenge that will test them both physically and mentally.”

(Ricardo) Whatever this game throws at me, I’m one hundred percent capable of handling it.

“Our contestants are about to face off in the biggest, most intense competition yet…”

(Professor Topaz) I’m eager to prove myself.

“…for a chance at being named the Magic Mansion’s grand prize winner. Who will it be? The magician who’s put a dramatic spin on the traditional ‘Chinese conjurer’ act, Jia Lee? The streetwise street magician who could sell a wallet to a pickpocket, Kevin Kazan? The ex-skater who traded his silver blades for silver rings, Ricardo the Magnificent? Or the imposing illusionist who’s proven that great magicians don’t just get older, they get better—Professor Topaz?

“I’m your host, Monty Shaw. Stay tuned to see who will be crowned the Grandmaster Magician…in the Sands of Time challenge, on Magic Mansion.”

___

John wasn’t sure exactly what the final challenge of Magic Mansion had in store for him, but he was fairly certain it would be big. He stood, sequestered in a curtained-off stall, nodding as the stunt coordinator made him practice a special head-nod that meant, “I give up,” from within the confines of a straitjacket. And then he was made to reassure everyone that he was perfectly capable of performing this move while hanging upside-down.

Given the amount of construction noise that had been leaking through the basement window all week, the scale of the final challenge shouldn’t have been much of a surprise to John. And yet, somehow, now the sounds coming from beyond the curtain—machines and crew—were daunting. He was tempted to reach out with True magic and try to get a sense of what lay ahead, but it was too risky to put his feelers out. And he supposed he would find out soon enough. He couldn’t resist peeking, though. Not to get a look at the game, but to try to see one of his fellow players.

John found a seam in the curtain. In the cloth cubicle to one side of him, Ricardo chatted with a sound tech as he was being miked. John tried to catch his eye, but Ricardo was occupied. He had his eyes on the prize.

Or maybe he was still angry over the way John had handled things.

Now that John thought about it, he realized that depriving Ricardo of the opportunity of being restrained by Ken Barron could easily turn out to be a mistake. In the short term, it might actually help Ricardo win the competition. But in the long term, what if Ricardo did indeed win—and he attributed that win not to the fact that John wished him to have every possible advantage, but the notion that John thought he wouldn’t be able to handle Ken Barron. And yet, what kind of jerk would John have felt like if he’d just allowed the chips to fall where they may?

Maybe there hadn’t been any right way to handle it.

Somewhere in the yard, a diesel engine revved. Marlene’s voice rose above the hubbub, snapping at the tech to tape down a cable. Wind played through the tops of the dry palms.

The best course of action in the dining hall, John decided, would have been to think long-term and simply play to win, as he and Ricardo had promised each other early on. It was obvious now. But the whole reality show experience was so unlike anything he’d ever encountered, his decision-making skills were not exactly stellar at the moment.

Look at me. John strained to catch Ricardo’s eye. But Ricardo had a medic talking in his ear, fitting him with a blood pressure cuff. He didn’t have time to reassure John. Nor should he need to.

But while John had been looking at Ricardo, the contestant on his other side was scoping him out: Kevin Kazan. A chill raced down John’s spine when he turned away from Ricardo and saw a gap in the opposite curtains, and Kevin’s steely eyes fixed firmly on him. “Pro-fess-or Topaz,” he said. “Wanna go out wit’ a splash.”

“We’re magicians. What other way is there?”

“Gotta give you props for playin’ smart. Yes I do.”

John had no desire to engage in the conversation. He stared at the curtain straight ahead.

Kevin went on despite the fact that John wasn’t looking at him. “This way, when you crash and burn, it won’t be ’cuz you were too weak to outdo the younger, stronger players. It’ll be ’cuz you picked the biggest challenge. So you come out looking pretty good anyway. For a loser.”

The audio assistant approached with his tape and wires, and John lifted his vest to allow the equipment to be attached to the back of his shirt.

“I had an older brother who bought it over in Iraq a couple-a years ago,” Kevin said through the gap in the curtain. “When we was kids, I worshipped the ground he walked on. And you know what his nickname for me was? ‘Little Fag.’ I ain’t, y’know. But ’cuz of him, I never held it against no one, neither. I wonder what he woulda made of you. And Ricardo over there. Not that I’m worried you two got a chance of taking the prize. But I’ll say this much, you did put up a hell of a fight.”

“You’re miked,” the assistant told John—which excused him from replying. What a relief. Because he had no idea how to respond to Kevin’s little story. If it was meant to be confusing, it was certainly fulfilling its purpose.

Once the audio assistant was done, the medic slipped a cuff over John’s arm to check his blood pressure, which would be normal, despite the anxiety and the stress. Because it had never been either high or low. “So,” the medic said. “Is it true?”

John sighed, but only to himself. “Is what true?”

“That Ricardo’s off the market?”

John took a better look at the medic—young, attractive, and oh yes, clearly gay. “That depends how angry he is over my gameplay strategy.”

The medic released the cuff’s pressure. Air hissed out. “I think he’ll get over it. He just turned down the coffee we were supposed to have.”

“Sorry.”

“What can I say?” The cute medic winked. “You got a lot more face-time with him.”

Before the medic could semi-flirt with John any more, yet another person crowded into the cloth enclosure with them.

Marlene.

“Ken Barron?” she demanded. “Honestly, Professor. What were you thinking?”

“Why does everyone assume that being tied up by Ken Barron amounts to professional suicide? Did it never occur to you that I might have some experience?” Not as part of his own act, of course. Too rough. Too undignified. Though there was a point at which Casey had considered adding restraints to the Gentleman Magician’s routine, a sort of lighthearted nod to escapology that wouldn’t muss his hair too badly. He and John had practiced with the straitjacket until their shoulders were sore. (Many other parts of their anatomy, too, though that was after the escapology experiments had grown tedious and they’d finished a bottle of chablis, and started putting the gear to more creative uses.)

In any case, John did indeed know how to slip a straitjacket, and his long limbs were a distinct advantage.

Marlene didn’t look particularly reassured. “How’s his blood pressure?”

“Ideal,” the medic said.

“Do we have a heart monitor?” she said. “Because whether this was optimism or hubris or I-don’t-know-what, I’m not letting anything fatal happen to you on my watch.”

“Marlene,” John said gravely, “it’s fine. I know the secret head-signal. And having a mass of wires taped to my chest would only put me off my game.”

She squinted at him as if she was about to force him to wear a heart monitor anyway. The line between her eyebrows looked like it had been pressed in with a chisel.

“If you’re not making anyone else wear one,” John said, “it would hardly be fair to require it of me.”

“There’s an overinflated expectation of fairness if I ever heard one. Or else….” She cocked her head and considered him. “You wouldn’t happen to have any aversion to the grand prize, would you?”

“Money?” John laughed bitterly, and the cute medic ducked out to resume his rounds. “Hardly. Casey Cornish was notorious for his indulgent spending…and when he died, he didn’t take his debts with him. Neither of us had any use for marriage, too anti-establishment, and that stubbornness would have let me off the hook…if the credit cards hadn’t been in both our names.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Is it even possible for me to win? I thought I was your token over-sixty gay minority.”

“That was then and this is now. Now that you’re in the Final Four, the executive producers can’t just knock you out like they did with Fabian. Whoever wins, wins.” Marlene patted John on the sleeve. “Just don’t be a hero—use the emergency signal if you need to. You and Ricardo won some pretty good swag by making it to this round, and the two of you have plenty to celebrate tonight. No matter who wins the final challenge.”

Once Marlene left John alone with his thoughts, he decided she really was right. Both Ricardo and John could revamp their wardrobes, and they each had a television special to look forward to—and John had his Vegas appearance as well. No matter what happened, everything would be fine. John’s fingers found the split in the curtains on Ricardo’s side again, and when he parted them to say good luck, there he was, as if he’d had the very same idea.

John leaned through the opening, and Ricardo did too. Their lips met. The fleeting kiss felt like adrenaline. “Is that true, what you told Marlene?” Ricardo asked. “You know what you’re doing?”

John allowed a nearly imperceptible smile to show. “Only in terms of the straight jacket.”

Ricardo leaned forward and kissed him once more, and whispered, “I love you, John,” and then an airhorn sounded. He treated John to a parting saucy smirk, and ducked back into his own stall.

John felt briefly thankful he wasn’t hooked up to a heart monitor as the curtains fell, and four monstrous hourglass shapes filled his field of vision. No doubt his pulse would have set the alarm bells ringing.

Jibs zoomed and handhelds swarmed, gathering the reactions of the contestants as eagerly as children claw candy from one another beneath a broken piñata. John struggled to make sense of what he was seeing—hourglasses, large enough to hold a magician in the empty upper compartment. In the second compartment, sand. And beyond them, huge machines, diesel engines rumbling low.

They meant to enclose the magicians in the hourglasses—and flip them over. With sand pouring down?

In straitjackets.

Maybe Marlene’s concern was, for once, justified.

“Greetings, Final Four,” Monty said from a decked-out platform across the yard. John only heard him through a speaker mounted in his stall. “Each of you have spent the week traveling back in time, working on your fantastic new routines. But as you all know, time only runs one way…and that’s forward. As you also know, time has a tendency…to run out when it’s least convenient.

“Harry Houdini’s time ran out on Halloween morning, 1926, from a ruptured appendix he sustained following a blow to the stomach. But we trust none of you have taken a punch to the gut recently?”

John shook his head. Who wrote the patter for this show, anyway? He was certainly glad he didn’t need to deliver it.

“We’ll have medics standing by anyway, just in case. Because you’re going to duplicate Houdini’s infamous stunt, the Suspended Straitjacket Escape. Only you won’t be hanging from a crane, like the great Houdini. Instead, you’ll be dangling inside these hourglasses, facing off against not only each other, but…the Sands of Time.”

John was familiar enough with sand. Usually it was wet, saline sand, riddled with mud and bottle caps and weeds and jetsam. But one thing he knew for sure: sand was heavy.

“Escaping the hourglass will take skill, determination…and luck. Once your competitors strap you into your straitjackets and lock you inside the glass chamber, the countdown begins. You’ll be turned upside down, and the sand will flow. Your first task will be to free yourself from the straitjacket and get upright, since you’ll be needing your hands…to unlock the exit in the hourglass wall. The key? There are several of them…distributed throughout the sand. The first magician to open that glass door and step out on the platform will win…not only a quarter million dollars, but a fabulous four-month world tour, complete with shows in all the great cities Houdini played, including London, Paris, Amsterdam, and Moscow.”

John was fairly certain the heart monitor, had he been wearing it, would have made a very undignified noise…because as far as he could tell, his heart had just stopped. Four months? That was a full season. A third of a year. How could he deal with being away from Ricardo for four months when he could hardly imagine being torn from him for a single night?

If Ricardo won, of course he would want John to come along. But John would need to get back to work right away, to take full advantage of whatever gigs his time on the show might generate. If John won the quarter million, there was no question he’d be willing to pay for Ricardo to accompany him. Ricardo was young, his career was just beginning, and his romance with John would generate as much buzz as a string of performances for him. It would be like all the trips John had taken with Casey—only he’d be working this time, not lolling around in the sun. And he’d have Ricardo by his side.

That was it, then. John had to win.

The four eliminated contestants appeared from behind a curtain to a flourish of dry ice, which didn’t look particularly imposing in the bright afternoon sunlight. Despite the lack of working theatrics, they looked plenty threatening to the Final Four.

There was no elegant way to get them up on the platform. The cameras would need to cut from the reveal—maybe for a commercial break—to their appearance, standing behind the Final Four, with the straitjackets in their hands. Ken Barron was the first to climb the platform. He was in good shape, unlike Chip, and he’d been allowed to wear more sensible shoes than the ladies. “Good to see you,” he told John, and shook his hand while the other magicians struggled up the scaffolding. His grasp was firm and dry. The costume was flattering. Hawkish nose, high widow’s peaks—Ken’s face lent itself to the melodrama. His calm demeanor was reassuring as well. Better to have all the melodrama going on in Ken’s costume, rather than in his head.

He saw John assessing him, and said, “You’re miked, aren’t you?”

John nodded.

“That’s fine. Just listen. When I heard you’d done so well on the Boardwalk Challenge, I was disappointed. Not for you, but for me. Because you were the magician I really wanted to be paired up with. Ricardo and Kevin…their styles and mine just don’t mesh. Their acts are too modern. And if I ended up with Jia Lee—let’s just say there’s no way I wouldn’t come out looking like a creep for tying her up too tight. This challenge is too physical for her. You ever hung upside down?” John shrugged. “Then you know what it takes to curl up with only the strength of your quads and abs to get yourself turned around. What’s the choice? Kick free of the gravity boots and fall on your head?”

Images of Ricardo being wheeled out in a neck brace with a broken spine flashed through John’s mind, and a chill seized him. No, he told himself firmly. Ricardo was in fabulous shape. He wouldn’t just flop out of the boots and hurt himself. He’d curl up and right his body properly.

But the capacity for an accident now seemed ridiculously huge.

“You know how to work your way out of a jacket?” Ken asked. “Dominant arm on top, pinch out some slack?”

John nodded again.

“Okay. Good. I figured you would. Just promise you’ll do one thing for me.”

Down on the ground, Iain yelled through his bullhorn, “Okay, people. Places.”

“Struggle,” Ken whispered. “I mean, really struggle. Make us both look good.”

John nodded, wondering at the hope that maybe his European sojourn with Ricardo might indeed kick off their relationship…and then a stunt tech approached with an armload of gear, and there was no more time for what-ifs.

In addition to the straitjacket they would shortly don, each magician was fitted with a helmet, goggles, and respirator. No wonder they’d let the contestants provide their own wardrobe for this final stunt. The viewers would hardly be able to see past all the gear. Iain’s voice came through a radio monitor in the stunt helmet. “Testing. Test test. Can everybody hear me?”

“I hear you,” John replied. He couldn’t hear whether the other magicians did or not. Iain’s was the only voice that fed through his monitor.

“Okay,” Iain said. “This is a one-shot stunt—no do-overs. Meaning, if you cry uncle, you’re disqualified, you lose, and that’s that. Understand?”

John gave a thumbs-up.

“There’s an hour’s worth of sand in there. If it all pours out, it’ll be waist-high, so there’ll be no problem keeping on top of it. In all likelihood, one of you will unlock your door before then. It took our stunt coordinator fifteen minutes—and we even added more keys after that, just to make sure no one would get buried too deep. But if does take all of you longer than an hour to locate a key, don’t worry. There’s plenty of ventilation. It’ll just turn into a dig-off at that point. Any questions?” There was a pause, and then Iain said, “There’s thirty keys total in every hourglass, but you only need one. They’re all the same. Anything else?” Another pause while another magician presumably asked something. “The gravity boots are fastened with heavy duty hook-and-loop tape. You need to tear out of them.”

“Who can hear us?” John asked.

“I can hear you. Monty can. And so can everyone at the soundboard. Chances are, unless you’re talking to Monty, we won’t use much of your audio in the final cut—in our test run it sounded like a bunch of breathing—but we will want some, so keep the pottymouth to a minimum. That means you, Kazan.”

Beneath all his gear, Kevin postured.

“Everybody ready? Okay, we’re rolling. Action.”

Chapter 39

SANDS OF TIME

“It’s time for Magic Mansion’s final challenge,” Monty said with requisite flair and drama, “where our top four magicians compete for the chance of a lifetime—a European tour, and a quarter million dollars. Not only are they facing one another. They’re also going up against…the Sands of Time. Each magician chose one of the eliminated contestants to strap them in—so let’s get to it. Magicians, hold out your arms. It’s time for your straitjackets.”

John held out his arms, and Ken wrapped the canvas garment around his front and pulled the sleeves over his hands. The expression on Ken’s face was startlingly intense, and he dressed John with plenty of brisk yanks and tugs…though all the pulling in the world at this point wouldn’t affect the final fit of the straitjacket, not until the buckles were fastened. However, it would look extreme.

“These are regulation straitjackets,” Monty said, “just like Houdini would have used.”

Unlikely. These weren’t nineteenth-century period straitjackets—they were new. But they were the same as the one John had practiced with, and that’s what mattered. He grabbed some slack in the right armpit with his left hand, crossed his dominant arm over the top, and inhaled deeply to make himself bigger.

He needn’t have been so cautious. Casey had been twice as fastidious about strapping him in firmly, although Ken Barron made a much bigger show with all his yanking, pulling and grunting. The only one louder than Ken…was Sue.

She forced the straps on Kevin Kazan’s straitjacket so tight, she was flushed and gasping with the effort.

“Yo, take it easy, girl,” Kevin said, voice muffled by the respirator, as she tightened the strap that came up between his legs. “I’m gonna lose a nut.”

“Too bad. You picked me so I couldn’t work with Ricardo—and now you’ve got me.”

Plenty of John’s friends threw around the word “karma,” but he’d never seen it materialize quite so instantly as it did for Kevin. As far as John was concerned, it couldn’t happen to a better person.

“All snug, Magicians?” Monty said. “Then step into your hourglasses.”

The hourglasses might look convincing from afar, but up close, they were a bizarre combination of steel and plexi. The sand compartments were octagonal, with the flat sheets of safety glass held to a frame by brackets and bolts. The more utilitarian parts were hidden from the camera by a decorative trim painted garishly in red and gold. From John’s vantage point, however, the interior of the hourglass looked like a giant cluster of hardware.

The structure that joined the two hourglass halves was an elaborately-rigged piece of equipment. L-brackets held a central disc in place that divided one half of the hourglass from the other. Openings in the disc would control the flow of the sand. Gravity boots were affixed in the center, so sand would pour down all around the upended magician. No doubt the visual effect would be stunning. Still, John’s anxiety was screaming for him to opt out of the challenge, to stay on this side of the plexi and let the other magicians put their fate in the stunt coordinator’s hands. But Ricardo was one of those magicians, and if Ricardo was going through with it, so would he. If there was any spite to be drawn, it made the most sense to give it more targets upon which to expend itself.

John stepped carefully into the glass enclosure and lined up his feet with the gravity boot cuffs. A stunt tech strapped him in firmly. He looked at Ricardo. A stunt tech was strapping him in, too. Everything would be fine. The techs knew what they were doing. Ricardo gave John a small nod. Wrapped and strapped in yards of canvas and padding, it was the only thing he could really do—other than relaying a message to him through the soundboard. But no, he’d told John how he felt before the stunt. It was enough. John nodded back.

The glass door clicked shut behind John, and his eardrums flexed. While the hourglass might have been ventilated, John still felt like a firefly in a mason jar. Sweat broke out on his forehead and back suddenly, as if it had been waiting for the signal of that click to spring forth. John reminded himself he wasn’t claustrophobic. And within the hour, hopefully less, someone would win or lose the competition. At that point he would be free—and not just of the giant bug jar. Really and truly free.

“Ready, kids?” Iain said through the monitor. “Everyone secure?”

John tested his feet. They weren’t going anywhere, though his straitjacket had plenty of slack. “Ready.”

“Four magicians,” Monty said, “one prize. Who will free themselves from the diabolical Sands of Time and claim it? We’ll find out, in three…two…one!”

An airhorn blasted, and the hourglass rumbled as the diesel rigs behind them roared to life. Not only was the height disorienting—the top half of the hourglass stood over eight feet off the ground—but the closeness of the air with the sun beating through the safety glass and the way the sound reverberated through it were stifling. And then, John felt himself tip sideways.

He took a deep breath and told himself everything was fine, perfectly fine, even as he was turned upside down and all his blood rushed down to his head. No big deal. People hung from gravity boots all the time to stretch their backs…though they didn’t have hundreds of pounds of sand now pressing down on them from overhead. The stunt had been tested. There was no way for the sand to rush down through the narrow valves fast enough to bury him before he had a chance to slip his straitjacket and get out of the gravity boots.

Was there?

“And they’re off!” Monty called out…and John reminded himself to struggle.

His upper arm would loop over his head without a problem. Then it would be a matter of slipping his arms out of the sleeves and threading them through the jacket’s lower opening. He rocked forward and back, struggling, making a show of the restraint. Sand sifted down from above in a steady stream. The dry, rasping noise it made as it hit the padded hourglass floor was shockingly loud.

“Ricardo the Magnificent slips his arm over his head,” Monty said. “Jia Lee right behind him.”

John continued to struggle. Sand pinged off his elbows and sprayed the glass walls. “Kevin Kazan almost has an arm free.” John was willing to put forth a few extra seconds of theatrical struggling, but he didn’t want to fall into last place this early in the challenge. Hopefully the struggling he’d done was enough for Ken. He forced his arm over his head, and then disentangled it from his other arm, freed himself from the sleeves and reached for the buckle between his legs. “And Professor Topaz breaks loose from master escape artist Ken Barron’s straitjacket.”

Not quite yet, but almost. He worked open the buckle that held the strap threaded between his legs, and the whole straitjacket fell to the floor. John hung for a moment to gather himself, but only a moment—and then he heaved his body up toward the gravity boots. He grasped himself behind the knee, which would leave his other hand free to tear the hook-and-loop straps open—and a stream of sand hit him in the face, startling him. Was that a key that had pinged off his goggles? He couldn’t tell.

“Ricardo is right-side up. Jia Lee is struggling with her boots—as is Professor Topaz. Kevin Kazan is still working on getting his arms out of those sleeves but he’s wrapped up tight.”

John wasn’t struggling, actually. He was planning where to grab on to the gravity boots when he swung down. While it was a strain to jackknife himself long enough to undo the second gravity boot cuff, he hardly felt it. Everything else paled in comparison to the sheer adrenaline coursing through him. A final tug, a rip, and— “Professor Topaz rights himself. Jia Lee still upside down, Kevin Kazan still in his straitjacket!”

John’s feet hit the hourglass floor with a padded whumpf. The dense stunt foam wasn’t easy to stand on, but it was no worse than a surfboard. Plus, he was sure anyone who fell on it would be grateful for the padding. Sand hit the top of his helmet, disorienting him, and the monitor near his ear went crackly.

“bzzt—Kazan, really struggling—jshht”

How long had John been upside down? Not long, less than a few minutes. He got his bearings, found the door, then located the locks. Four. One on each side, keeping the plexi panel in place. All he needed was a key. He dropped to his knees and began searching. And as naturally as someone might flick on a light to allow themselves a better look, he very nearly reached out with his True magic…but then he stopped himself.

He was already ahead of everyone but Ricardo, and in every other challenge when he’d given in to the heat of the moment, he’d soon regretted his impulsiveness. It would be greedy to tempt fate. Greedy, and foolish.

And so, instead, he simply dug.

Sand had accumulated on the floor, several inches deep now. It pounded the back of John’s helmet like an unrelenting downpour. It sifted down the back of his shirt, and jammed itself beneath his fingernails as he dug. He ignored it all, and put all his focus into his fingertips as he swept through it, fanning his arms out in wide arcs, covering the area in which he thought a key might have landed…if it had, indeed bounced off his head as he hung upside-down. Which he couldn’t even say for sure was the case.

“crackle—Lee is down…and what’s she doing?—bzz”

Was that a key? Or that? Or that? A pebble. A twig. John combed his fingers through the rough sand, searching. It felt unnatural to restrain himself from reaching out with the Truth, like writing with his left hand. Which made John wonder, if only briefly, how often did he actually call upon it? Nearly as much as all his other senses, it seemed, now that he was forcing himself not to.

What about Ricardo? Would he even bother holding back?

John looked up and found Ricardo standing, stretched the length of his hourglass enclosure, with his fingers hooked into one of the holes where the sand sifted through. He dug at it, encouraging it to pour through faster. And if the piles at his feet were anything to go by, his method was working. Though whether he was using any talent beyond ingenuity and determination was anyone’s guess.

“bzz—no key, and Kevin Kazan looks like he’s in trouble—zzt”

Trouble.

The single word, fuzzy and distorted as it was, rang through John’s consciousness as resonant and foreboding as a gong.

LAPD—hello? Sir, is this the residence of Casey Cornish? And your relationship to him? I see. Trouble? Well, there’s been an accident at the post office. You might want to sit down.

John turned on his knee, away from Ricardo (who was obviously fine), to face Kevin instead.

Kevin was still strapped into his gravity boots, rocking wildly. The long arms of the straitjacket flailed, buckles rapping against the plexi sides of the hourglass as they struck it. Kevin had the abdominal strength to pull himself up and release himself from the boots, no doubt. He’d constantly bragged about how many crunches and pull-ups and whatnot he’d done that morning. But now it seemed as if he wasn’t even able to get his hands free. He just hung there, flailing, like a butterfly trapped in its own cocoon, batting at his face with his canvas-covered hands.

A seizure? A panic attack? John hesitated from reaching out, from seeing…but only briefly. Because in his gut, and in his heart, and deep within his marrow, he knew—something was wrong. Ducking out from the steady stream of sand, pressing himself up against the side of the plexi enclosure, he focused entirely on Kevin Kazan, and he sent forth the faintest tendril of his True magic, and touched it to the struggling magician.

As if Kevin’s Truth could amplify John’s, the two seized upon one another, doubling, tripling, building upon one another like feedback. John’s chest constricted. His stomach clenched. His heart raced. But mostly…his eyes burned. Not both of them. Just one.

It was more than just a burn. A burn would have been a relief compared to the sensation he was experiencing. It felt more like someone had shoved a red-hot poker into his eye socket.

John brushed Kevin’s True magic away from his own, regretfully, as he might shed a clingy fan, and he attempted to pull back enough to gain some perspective on what was happening.

“gzzt—stops digging to see what’s going on with Kevin—crackle”

Every time John attempted to touch on Kevin—his face, his eye, any part of his body—Kevin’s True magic threatened to suck his awareness back in, to attempt to ameliorate its agony by forcing John to shoulder some of the pain and panic. There was no reasoning with it—the Truth was not exactly sentient. And then it occurred to John to check in with something that was just as close to the problem as Kevin’s physical body, without being part of that body itself.

His contact lens.

John narrowed his True awareness down to a pinpoint focus, and he searched.

And he found it.

What’s happening? He conveyed. What’s wrong?

Sharp. Burns. Help.

Although in the lens’ impression the source of the problem was huge, John immediately knew it for what it was: a single grain of sand. How it had forced its way past the helmet and the goggles was anyone’s guess. Perhaps in the same way the silver sedan had found itself up on the sidewalk by the post office when its front axle snapped.

“bzz—the Magnificent finds a key—oh, he drops it!—clatter-pop”

Kevin jerked hard now, swinging his whole body until his helmet rapped against the side of the hourglass, but it wasn’t the special “get me out of here” nod. It was something more desperate and primal. Maybe it was even enough to free him from the gravity boots, to get him right-side up, so he could at least focus on freeing his hands. John looked up at Kevin’s gravity boots to gauge how close they were to coming undone, and saw, instead, a bracket in the hourglass that was working itself loose. The screws and bolts that held the plexi panels should have been sturdy enough to hold a magician and a few hundred pounds of sand, but evidently they were not enough to resist the torque of a two-hundred-pound man flinging his body with all possible force and momentum from a point of contact only a few inches square.

An L-bracket held the center divider disc from which Kevin dangled in place. Not only was the divider disc holding up Kevin—it was containing all that sand. John looked at the weakened bracket, and then looked harder, with his Truth, and he knew exactly how it would unfold.

“gzzt—finds the key again, but Jia’s in the lea—brrt”

The divider plate would snap loose and Kevin would fall, the sand surging down all at once on top of him. He wouldn’t fall well—in fact, he might even black out, despite the padded floor. The respirator would stay in place. But covered in sand, it would cease to function. And without the use of his hands, even if he did regain consciousness, Kevin would have no way of getting that respirator off.

“—making short work of those locks—bzz”

“Would you shut up for a second so I can think?” John barked out, and Monty’s crackly commentary paused.

And then John remembered…he was miked.

“Kevin’s in trouble,” he said. “Get the stunt techs—get the medics. His rig is coming apart.”

Iain’s voice came through the monitor, much louder than Monty’s. “Kevin, hang tight, we’re getting you out. Ricardo, Professor…keep going. One of you needs to grab second place.”

John swung around and saw Ricardo crouched in the sand, watching him through the respirator, helmet and goggles. Ricardo stared for a moment, then started digging, hard.

John checked Kevin again. The stunt coordinator was already at Kevin’s hourglass, removing an emergency panel. Kevin had stopped struggling. John looked up at the bracket. It was bent. But it would hold.

Just as he noticed that, something hard and loud pinged off the top of his helmet, bounced, and clacked off the plexi wall.

A key.

“And Ricardo recovers his key!” The rap on the helmet must have realigned whatever wiring had shorted out, because now Monty’s voice was crystal clear. John dove for his own key. “And the Professor’s found something too. He picks it up just as Ricardo fits his key into the first lock, while Kevin Kazan is out with an injury. He forfeits his chance at the prize.”

John pulled his key from the sand, and the knowledge that Kevin was now safe steadied his hand. He thrust the key into the first lock on the first try, and it slid home smoothly, and turned. The second lock was the same. John didn’t spare a glance for Ricardo. If he was to have any chance of being the next magician to finish, he needed all of his focus for the task. One more lock to go, and….

“Ricardo the Magnificent is free, Professor Topaz right on his heels. Well done, magicians! We’ll find out what our judges make of Jia Lee’s unconventional strategy, and hear the final scores…after this commercial break.”

“Everyone take five,” Iain called through his bullhorn, then headed over to check on Kevin. The stunt tech peeled off John’s sweaty helmet and relieved him of his goggles and respirator. Another tech did the same for Ricardo.

“Why are they talking to judges?” Ricardo asked his tech.

John looked over to Jia, who stood at the far end of the lawn with her hair now hanging loose in sweaty hanks, hands on hips, scowling. “We were not specifically told how to open the locks,” she insisted to no one in particular. “The exact words were that the key fit all four locks, and that the first magician to open the door and step onto the platform would win. That’s all. Nothing about being required to use the key.”

“She picked the locks,” Ricardo said with a dazed smile, shaking his head. “Hairpins.”

He stepped over to John and stood close at his side, not touching, but almost. There was sand in his hair. John brushed a few loose grains off his sweaty cheek from a spot that neither the goggles nor the respirator had covered. “If the judges disqualify her,” John said, “you know what that means.”

Ricardo searched John’s eyes. “You don’t sound very happy about it—or are you just worried that I’ll be crushed if I get my hopes up and then Jia wins?”

Maybe it was best to agree. The last thing John wanted to do was sour Ricardo’s potential victory. “As far as I’m concerned, you are the winner.”

Marlene crossed the lawn and told them, “We’re checking with the legal department and running through the tapes. It’ll take a few more minutes. Come sit down, we’ll have the stylists touch you up. There’s plenty of shots of you under the scaffolding anyway…and the way things have been going, I wouldn’t be surprised if it collapsed on the bunch of you.”

Might John have performed better if it weren’t for Kevin’s predicament? Possibly. He swore there was another key that had sifted through the opening while he was still upside down, and maybe he would have found it if he’d tried harder, even without his True magic. Nothing to be done for it now, he supposed. He’d allowed himself to be distracted, and now it was time to see what his distraction would cost him.

The lighting director selected a spot to film the final segment against the side of the mansion where the landscaping looked a bit haggard, and the greensman’s assistant hurried to snip off brown fronds from the palms and pick shreds of plastic shopping bags from the bushes. When one of the crew bent back the undergrowth, sun glinted off a pane of glass, and John realized…that glass was the window to his room. The room he shared with Ricardo. And suddenly the afternoon seemed incredibly surreal.

Kevin joined the other players with a patch taped over his eye and a diagnosis of a scratched cornea. Iain stood him on one side of John, Ricardo on the other, and Jia on the end, then answered a call on one of his cell phones that left him whispering furiously with his hand cupped over his mouth so none of the contestants could see. John sighed.

“Medic told me you was the one who got me pulled out of the stunt,” Kevin said.

And now, on top of everything else, John would have the privilege of being blamed for Kevin’s forfeit of the contest, too. “That’s right.”

“That was some fucked-up shit,” Kevin said quietly. Not as if he was upset with John, either. “I’ll bet it cost you some time, having to worry ’bout me.” He jammed his hands in his pockets. “Thanks.”

As John absorbed the unexpected gratitude, he spied Marlene striding across the lawn with Monty in tow, and he steeled himself.

The time had finally come.

Chapter 40

THE WINNER IS

Two stationary cameras, a jib, and a swarm of handhelds surrounded them. Marlene, for once, joined them from her trailer for the taping as she directed a couple of techs to set up…were those confetti canons? John stared dumbly. The end was in sight. It was really happening.

Once everyone was in place and Iain gave the go-ahead, Monty turned his inscrutable smile onto the contestants, and said, “Welcome back to Magic Mansion. We’ve gone through the tapes and consulted with our judges, and we’re ready to announce the quarter million dollar winner. But first…let’s check in with Kevin Kazan. Kevin, you were injured during the final challenge, and you ended up forfeiting. What was going through your mind?”

Kevin cocked his head and considered his reply, and when he answered, his voice was more thoughtful than John had ever heard it. “Funny, you always ask dat, Monty. And sometimes, I just don’t know. I was in the zone, dig? I was pumped up. Ready to show everyone Kevin Kazan gonna smoke the competition and take the prize. But then…everything went red. Alls I knew was the pain. Yeah, I’m disappointed I didn’t even finish the challenge. But they say my eye’s gonna be okay, and after what I thought I was gonna hear them say….” He seemed a bit choked up, but he shrugged it off. “I’m gonna be okay.”

“And we’re glad to hear it. How about you, Professor Topaz? You finished less than one second after Ricardo the Magnificent—and that was after you’d been restrained by none other than escape artist extraordinaire Ken Barron. So close, and yet so far. What do you think of your decision to go with Ken rather than one of the other magicians?”

Actually, it had been his concern for Kevin that had cost him, and not Ken Barron’s restraints, though John supposed the compassion angle wouldn’t sound quite as thrilling to the audience. “There is never any shame in losing to the best,” he said gravely. “I’m proud of my performance today.”

“As well you should be. You really gave Ricardo a run for his money. Ricardo, if Jia Lee was found to have violated the contest rules, you’ll be taking home a quarter million dollars and embarking on a four-month European tour. What would winning that prize mean to you?”

“It’d be awesome. I’d buy a house.” He glanced at John. “I’ve always wanted my own house, so for me, that prize money would be a start of a whole new life.”

“And Europe?”

“That’d be great too,” Ricardo said as an afterthought. Not particularly convincingly, either. John suppressed a smile.

“Jia Lee, you took the final challenge into your own hands. Rather than waiting for a key to fall, you set to work picking the locks. What was your strategy?”

Jia leaned forward and looked down the line at her three opponents. “It took me a lot longer to get out of those gravity boots than it took Ricardo. Curling myself up like that…it hurt. It took me several tries. A lot of these challenges were made with men in mind. I’m not saying that to sound bitter. It’s just a fact. Stronger muscles, longer legs. That’s the playing field we’ve been competing on. But the thing is, who can jump the highest or run the fastest…that’s not what magic’s about. Not by a long shot. Magic is about knowing how to think on your feet. To use your hands. To make something complicated look easy. Whatever the judges say, I know—and all the viewers know—that if we judge the final challenge by those standards, then without a doubt, I am the winner.”

“The judges have the final word on that. Jia Lee, Ricardo the Magnificent, please come forward.”

Ricardo gave John’s hand a squeeze as he stepped out of line. John did smile at that, though it was probably camouflaged by his mustache.

“After reviewing the rules, the judges have reached their final decision. The winner of Magic Mansion, the grand prize of a quarter-million dollars and a European tour is…” Monty opened a gold foil envelope and removed a card. “The last female contestant standing, Jia Lee!”

A loud pop sounded, and big mylar confetti filled the air. Sunlight glinted off the metallic surface, dancing in John’s field of vision, sparkling like waves at the beach. He swayed, knees suddenly weak, as Jia and Ricardo embraced. It sounded strange, mostly like rustling and murmuring, but the show’s theme music added in post-production would cover that. From a crowd of engineers and assistants and stylists, four more costumed figures emerged to congratulate the winner, Sue and Ken, Chip, and even Faye. Someone prodded John in the arm. Kevin Kazan, offering his hand. A real handshake, even. Respectful, without fancy fist bumps or posturing. Had his near-accident changed him dramatically for the better? Unlikely. But maybe that grain of sand would nudge him in the trajectory of becoming, someday, a decent person. As he released the handshake, John felt the tingle of Kevin’s True magic again, less startling now—and then turned back toward the costumed mob of magicians beneath the rain of confetti, where he caught Ricardo’s eye.

Ricardo had confetti on his shoulders. He was smiling broadly. He didn’t look disappointed at all.

John smiled at him in return, thinking that would be that. But then Ricardo shouldered his way out of the congratulatory throng of magicians, and came toward John instead. John spread his arms for a hug. Ricardo not only fell into the embrace…he stood on tiptoe, and claimed a kiss.

John held Ricardo tightly, as all around them, sparkling confetti drifted on the breeze. True magic prodded at John, alluring and sly, suggesting that the time was perfect to echo their first meeting. With a mere flick of the wrist, he could transform a swirl of confetti into a rabble of glittering butterflies, if only for a moment. But John resisted the urge. Cameras were rolling, after all. And with the shot being impossible to redo without picking confetti out of the grass until the daylight was spent, the editors would be in enough of a tizzy figuring out how to work around that kiss.

CLOSING CREDITS

CHIP CHALLENGE is pulling belly laughs from his fringed sleeve at the Comedy Store with his long-running hit show The King of Magic.

FABIAN SWAN can be spied on the set of the upcoming feature film, Cold Illusion, as a special consultant.

KEN BARRON is planning a daring underwater escape at the Del Ray Lagoon, pending zoning issues.

AMAZING FAYE waxes eloquent in her new column in Entertainment Weekly.

MURIEL BROOM is touring each of the continental 48 states in a camper with her partner and their dog, Ralph. She reports that Wyoming is very large.

BEV AUSTIN was awarded a lifetime achievement award in education by Fresno County.

SUE WOZNIAK is dazzling audiences down under as “Star-Spangled Sue” at the Athenaeum Theatre in Melbourne.

KEVIN KAZAN will storm the stage in this summer’s Vans Warped Tour. He has fully recovered from his injury.

PROFESSOR TOPAZ is taking a sabbatical from performing to pen his memoirs. He plans a highly-anticipated return to the stage next spring.

RICARDO THE MAGNIFICENT wows the crowds at Magicopolis every other Friday. His juggling workshops sell out months in advance.

JIA LEE has embarked on her European tour, bringing the magic of Asia to delighted audiences worldwide with her award-winning act, Scarlet Dragon.

CHARITY YOUNG AND OSCAR could not be reached for comment at the time of this show’s airing.

All stunts were performed in the presence of trained coordinators and emergency personnel. Do not attempt to re-create these stunts at home. Portions of this program not affecting the outcome, such as the event chronology and contestant comments/reactions may have been edited. Winning and elimination decisions were made by the judges in consultation with producers. Some elimination decisions were discussed with the network.

Chapter 41

WALK OF FAME

When most people think of ceremonies and red carpets and awards, men in their sharp suits and women in satiny gowns, they usually imagine these events taking place at night. Not so, the unveiling of a star on Hollywood’s Walk of Fame. Ricardo was impressed by the rigorous and precise preparation. The speeches would begin promptly at 11:30 a.m. Stars were expected to arrive between 10:45 and 11:00. And the ceremony ran with clockwork precision, friends and family in one area, press in another, fans in another still, orchestrated by a sharp female producer who could have been separated at birth from Marlene Perez.

John sipped his champagne and gazed out the limo’s window, stroking his beard. Ricardo had begged him to wear the Edwardian suit with the cutaway coat, the striped trousers and the black silk top hat. His custom made version was even hotter than the one they’d thrown together in three days for the Boardwalk Challenge. John had given the idea serious consideration, but in the end, he went with his impeccable black three-button Versace. He looked fabulous in that, too. But it didn’t reduce Ricardo to a salivating wreck in quite the same way the period costume did. John told him the ceremony was more about Rose and Glenn than it was about Professor Topaz. He didn’t want to upstage them.

Fat chance of that. Ricardo spied the cluster of Magic Mansion T-shirts from the end of the block as the limo turned the corner onto Vine. Modern audiences knew Glenn Forrest and Rose Topaz all right—but only as the aunt and uncle of Magic Mansion’s infamously gay Professor Topaz.

John and Ricardo exited the limo to the pyrotechnic dazzle of dozens of camera strobes. Ricardo took his cues from John, following his gaze, so that the two of them were more likely to be facing the same way in the same shots. It would be less likely they’d be cropped apart if neither of them was presenting the back of his head to the lens. Down the red carpet—how different it was from Magic Mansion—and into the staging area, where they waited for the ceremony to begin.

John fingered the cards in his pocket. He’d practiced his speech so that he knew it by heart—but Ricardo had talked him into bringing his notes just in case, knowing that if he had them at hand, he’d be less likely to need them.

David Copperfield, the first living magician to receive his star on the Boulevard, did the opening speech. His manner was stunningly down-to-earth for someone who owned a chain of islands in the Bahamas. He’d seen Glenn and Rose perform as a boy, and still had the utmost respect for them. When he referred to John, whom he’d only met once, he was as warm and gracious as if the two of them had been magician-pals for ages. He was handsome, too—only a few years younger than John, and he looked like he was in his forties. True magic had its perks.

Jia Lee spoke next. She’d flown in from Brussels only the night before, but you wouldn’t have known it. Her makeup, hair and cheongsam were impeccable. Women like Rose Topaz, she said, could not expect to rise above the role of magician’s assistant a mere forty years before. If only she were alive today to see how far the art had come. John surreptitiously chafed away goosebumps. In a few of his family photos, Rose did bear a striking resemblance to Jia.

Fabian Swan, rocking his purple tux in the friends and family section, nodded his agreement. Beside him, Amazing Faye shot Ricardo a pointed look that clearly stated, “See, it’s not easy being a woman in this business.” She should try being openly gay. That was a three-ring circus. And not the kind with trapezes and cotton candy.

Finally, it was John’s turn to speak. He stepped up to the podium and looked at its surface as if he was considering pulling out his note cards, but instead he tilted the microphone toward himself, stepped back half a pace so as to resist clinging to the furniture and thus keep full use of his expressive hands, and he began.

“If anyone is responsible for the long and unlikely journey that’s ended in Glenn and Rose receiving their star, it’s my agent, an old family friend, Dick Golding. Along with the producers of Magic Mansion, Dick spearheaded the campaign in exchange for my participation on the show. However, I wouldn’t have been in a position to appear on Magic Mansion at all if it weren’t for…Casey Cornish.”

John paused and took a breath. He’d never been a notorious weeper, not like the rest of the Magic Mansion crowd. But he did, on occasion, find himself choked up.

“Casey’s personality lit up the room. My years with him kept me young. He taught me how to love, and how to laugh. I don’t think he ever meant to teach me how strong I could be. But that turned out to be the main lesson I took away from the end of our time together.”

Ricardo blinked back a sting in his eyes. Faye was dabbing around the edge of her mascara.

“And now, of course, Ricardo the Magnificent can also take plenty of credit for us all being here today. Ricardo and I met during Magic Mansion’s auditions—and the hope that we might meet again was my true motivation for signing on to the show.”

John looked up and met Ricardo’s eyes, and smiled his sad smile. Ricardo did his best to smile back and blink away encroaching tears.

“I wonder sometimes,” John went on, “what Rose would have said about Casey. And about Ricardo.” John collected his thoughts for another dramatically long pause. Not because he’d forgotten the words he’d prepared—but because he was weighing whether or not to deliver the next part of his speech. He considered, and he looked at Ricardo once more…and he forged ahead. “The choices I’ve made in my life mattered to her, not as my aunt…but as my mother.”

The silence that greeted John’s revelation was so profound, it seemed for a moment as if an invisible volume control had been muted. And then, somewhere in the back of the crowd, an indistinct voice rose and fell, and the spell was broken. Cameras flashed, now galvanized anew into action.

“It was a different time,” John said, picking up his narrative as if he hadn’t just dropped a bombshell. “Divorced women were regularly denied credit and housing. Minorities were required to pass literacy tests in order to vote. Unwed mothers were coerced into adoption, whether they wanted to keep the child or not. And even in Hollywood, lifelong gay partners were referred to as ‘bachelors,’ or worse, set up with a fake wife by their studios or their managers. Glenn Forrest gave Casey and me his blessing before he passed away, but my mother died in 1973 without ever acknowledging my sexuality. In my mind, she never would have. But lately, it’s occurred to me that if she were still alive today, she would have had forty years to acclimate to the world’s changes. She would have seen the Internet, and an African American president, and the fight for gay rights…and I suspect that even though she was known for being a tough, stubborn woman, she wouldn’t have been able to deny that my life is infinitely better with Ricardo Hart in it.”

Somehow, Ricardo managed to refrain from out-and-out crying. Good thing. He didn’t want to be caught puffy-eyed, given the way it suddenly seemed like the cameras had reproduced—and over the tops of all the official paparazzi, the fans waved iPhones and tiny point-and-shoots, hoping to snag a photo of him and John that would go viral as fast as the candid shot from Atlantic City. Aside from the blurry picture an undisclosed crew member had snuck of them smooching as the Magic Mansion confetti fell, it was unlikely any new photo of them would cause much of a stir. If anyone didn’t know Professor Topaz and Ricardo the Magnificent were romantically involved, they’d been living under a rock.

There were interviews then, and photo shoots, with the producer orchestrating which camera they should look into, and which reporter they could speak to next. Jia and Faye were glittery and fabulous as always—and evidently they were both willing to consider whatever nastiness had passed between them during their stint at the Mansion as water under the bridge. Jia could afford to be gracious. She might not command as many millions of dollars as David Copperfield, but she was certainly the hottest young magician the industry had seen since Criss Angel. And Faye, who was doing well enough for herself (but not quite that well) was smart enough to know when to forgive and forget.

And finally, when it was time to head back home and get ready for dinner and an after-party, a very young, very gay-looking sound technician, all big Latino eyes and shimmery lip gloss, approached Ricardo with a copy of TV Guide out in front of him like a shield, and whispered, “Can I have your autograph?”

The issue featured a shadowy, dramatically-lit shot of Ricardo plucking an ace of hearts out of his jacket, with John towering behind him looking grim and deliciously tall. The headline America’s Sweethearts? was splashed across them. Below that, Magic Mansion’s Secrets Revealed, and Sue says, “We’re just friends!” in the subhead. Ricardo loved that issue, even if the articles themselves weren’t exactly Hemingway, as John put it. One thing the reporter got right. Ricardo was gay, had been gay his entire adult life, and was totally smitten with Professor Topaz from day one. He pulled a marker out of his pocket to sign it, but the producer stopped him with a grab to the elbow. She looked like she was about to snap off the sound tech’s head with a reprimand for accosting the talent. “No, wait,” Ricardo said, “I want to.”

“Really?” she said. “How about getting back to your limo sometime today—do you want that, too?”

The crowd did seem just about ready to swarm over the velvet ropes. When Ricardo hesitated, John slipped an arm around his waist—and never in Ricardo’s wildest dreams had this stern, taciturn fantasy figure been capable of such effusive physical affection. But Professor Topaz was the fantasy. John the human being not only lived up to the fantasy, he blew it away. He put his mouth to Ricardo’s ear and said, “Listen to your heart. If you want to sign it, then that’s what you need to do. Otherwise, it’ll nag at you all night.” He plucked the pen from Ricardo’s hand and scrawled a nearly illegible Professor Topaz over the cover, then re-planted the marker in Ricardo’s grasp.

“You’re right,” Ricardo said, and signed his own name beneath his likeness—and then on impulse, added the words, Always be proud of who you are. Not necessarily an easy thing to accomplish, for sure, especially when the rest of the world might not be comfortable with the real you. But every day, even every moment, held a fresh chance to begin living from somewhere true.

-end-

FOCUS GROUP VOTE

Which applicant is your choice for the Magic Mansion cast?

- Kevin Kazan 64%

- Francis “Foxy” West 36%

back to the story…

TWO-TEAM ELIMINATION

Who will you eliminate from the Red Team?

- Escape artist Ken Barron 35%

- Elvis impersonator Chip Challenge 65%

Who will you eliminate from the Gold Team?

- Charity Young and Oscar 61%

- Amazing Faye 39%

back to the story…

METAMORPHOSIS ELIMINATION

Who will you vote off the Red Team following the Metamorphosis Challenge?

- Ken Barron 63%

- Fabian Swan 37%

back to the story…

GOLD TO RED

Which member of the Gold Team will you send over to the Red Team?

- Muriel Broom 34%
- Amazing Faye 47%
- Bev the Math Wizard 19%

back to the story…

FOUR PROPS ELIMINATION

Who will you eliminate from the Red Team?

- Jia Lee 30%

- Amazing Faye 70%

Who will you eliminate from the Gold Team?

- Math Wizard Bev Austin 39%

- Muriel Broom 61%

back to the story…

CIRCUS ELIMINATION

Who will you vote to eliminate from Magic Mansion?

- Eliminate Bev and Sue, Jia goes on to the Final Four 60%

- Eliminate Bev and Jia, Sue goes on to the Final Four 30%

- Eliminate Sue and Jia, Bev goes on to the Final Four10%

back to the story…

About the Author

Jordan Castillo Price enjoys reality shows, though she’s always curious about how the characters’ words and actions have been edited to create a new narrative in post-production. She’s particularly intrigued by the background music that plays behind various situations to manipulate the viewers’ perceptions.

Like Ricardo and John, Jordan has taken a one-day charter flight to New Jersey and back to participate in a game show. It was a very long day, but she did win a new TV.

Jordan writes paranormal thrillers from her home in rural Wisconsin. You can find her on the web in the following places:

Jordan’s Author Site

Official PsyCop Site

Official Channeling Morpheus Site

Jordan’s Web Store

Twitter

LiveJournal

Facebook

About this Story

Originally, Magic Mansion was a 3500-word short story I wrote for a contest, in which Ricardo met his hero Professor Topaz in the flesh during an audition, and they both turned out to have True magic. Then I changed my mind about entering the contest, and my friend Emilie suggested my two magicians should both land a spot on the show…and I couldn’t let go of that idea. It seemed intimidatingly big, though. With my writing schedule being what it was, I decided that if I didn’t make Magic Mansion my newsletter story, if I waited until I had a few months to just focus on it, the darn thing would never happen at all. I’d wait and wait and wait until one day the idea faded and eventually disappeared. And so I took the plunge, wrote four more chapters to start with, and launched it.

My first concern was the size of the cast. I needed to start with twelve contestants. And then some of the contestants had characters who went along with them, such as John’s manager, his late partner…Ricardo’s high school sweetheart…Sue’s icky boyfriend. Plus, I needed some people to represent the TV show itself. I chose to be very stylized and minimal when it came to depicting the crew. Marlene, Iain and Monty are the “name” representatives of the show, and everyone else is known by their job, at least until John calls his stylist by her name to indicate that of course the crew is not a big, anonymous blob in the eyes of the players. Marlene and Iain are a mashup of various job functions: producer, director, editor, props master. I knew it would be hard enough to keep twelve players and their adjuncts straight without assigning additional characters to these crew roles, so Iain and Marlene do a little of everything.

If I was to have twelve contestants, I realized that I would need to make them all very different so that readers would be able to tell one from another. Faye was originally going to be blonde, for instance (I named her for Fay Wray) but I realized if readers thought of her as “the blonde” she’d then get mixed up with Sue. So Faye got her tacky red dye-job. And from that dye job, her personality as a female performer approaching middle age with a bit of panic and a lot of intensity was born.

Three tiers of ages are represented in the contestants: the twenty-somethings are Sue, Jia, Chip and Kevin. The thirty- to forty-somethings are Faye, Charity, Ken, and Ricardo. And the fifty-and-up group is Bev, Muriel, Fabian and John. I really enjoyed having this diverse range of character ages to play with. Initial readers have remarked on the age difference between Ricardo and John being a potential turnoff…and if the age difference were a main plot point solely for the sake of being a December/May romance, I guess I could see the potential for “yuck.” But it was never my intention for the age difference itself to titillate for no particular reason. It was more about Ricardo being star-struck over meeting his idol, and having that idol in a position to reciprocate.

Giving the players different ethnic backgrounds was another easy way that I figured could quickly differentiate one from the other, but it seemed like a slippery slope. A story populated with a group of stereotypes was definitely not what I wanted to end up with. It is typical of reality shows to have a token few minority characters, though, so I went with it, figuring that I would just need to be very aware of not writing cringeworthy stereotypes.

The decision to make John Chamorro was based on his surname rather than the desire to make him “ethnic.” I liked the ring of Topasna for his family’s original surname, researched it, and found it came from a very specific place: Guam. From that particular, John’s whole history unfolded in an unexpected and very rich way.

Ultimately, the theme that emerged was being true to oneself in the face of prejudice. John yearned to claim his ethnicity while his mother, who was spooked by 1940’s Japanese Internment Camps, struggled to homogenize him. Jia took up the mantle of Chinese conjuror because she figured if it was all she could aspire to, she could at least ensure it was done with dignity. Ricardo walked the line of being out and proud without coming off as a parody of a nelly queer. And they did this against the backdrop of a situation where they were being recorded, repackaged and disseminated for public viewing, with no control over how they would be presented. At the story’s inception, I hadn’t consciously put together the theme of identity versus the selective nature of media and viewer-manipulation, but I was delighted by the way the theme and the setting fed off one another so brilliantly. And then I could parallel those differences with True magic, and the way its presence or absence creates its own sort of us-versus-them dynamic.

Recommended Reads

Body Art

Does everyone have a certain “type” they end up with…whether they want to or not? If Ray Carlucci’s ex is anything to go by, Ray likes his men gorgeous, rebellious, and chock-full of issues. But now that Ray is single again, he has a shot at a fresh start—a very fresh start, since his tattoo shop was gutted by repo men and his belongings can fit in the trunk of a taxi.

Ray’s shiny new chauffeur’s license lands him a job as a driver for an elderly couple on Red Wing Island. It’s a cold fall, and since the Michigan island is the summer home to snowbirds who fly south for the winter, it’s practically deserted—save for Ray’s new household and a sculptor named Anton Kopec, who works day and night twisting brambles and twine into the distorted shapes of macabre creatures. Compelling, bizarre, and somewhat disturbing…not just the sculptures, but the artist, too. Ray has a feeling Anton is just his “type.”

Despite their scorching chemistry, when a dead body is unearthed by some workers and a freak ice storm traps them all on the island, Ray can’t say for certain that his new flame isn’t capable of murder. (Novella)

The Persistence of Memory (Mnevermind 1)

Every day, Daniel Schroeder breaks his father’s heart.

While forgetting your problems won’t solve them, it does seem like it would make life a heck of a lot easier. Daniel thought so once. Now he knows better. He and Big Dan have always been close, which makes it all the more difficult to break the daily news: the last five years were nothing like his father remembers.

They’re both professionals in the memory field—they even own their own memory palace. So shouldn’t they be able to figure out a way to overwrite the persistent false memory that’s wreaking havoc on both of their lives? Daniel thought he was holding it together, but the situation seems to be sliding out of control. Now even his own equipment has turned against him, reminding him he hasn’t had a date in ages by taunting him with flashes of an elusive man in black that only he can see.

Is it some quirk of the circuitry, or is Daniel headed down the same path to fantasy-land as his old man? (Novel, coming soon)

Other Stories by Jordan Castillo Price:

PSYCOP

1 Among the Living

2 Criss Cross

3 Body & Soul

4 Secrets

5 Camp Hell

6 GhosTV

Striking Sparks

Many Happy Returns

CHANNELING MORPHEUS

1 Payback

2 Vertigo

3 Manikin

4 Tainted

5 Rebirth

6 Brazen

7 Snare

PETIT MORTS (with Josh Lanyon, Sean Kennedy and Clare London)

1 Hue, Tint and Shade

2 Slings and Arrows

3 Moolah and Moonshine

4 Other People's Weddings

5 Spanish Fly Guy

6 Pretty Ugly

7 Sort of Stranger than Fiction

8 One Less Stiff at the Funeral

9 Critic's Choice

10 Wishink Well

11 Happily Neverafter

12 London Eye

13 Spirits and Second Chances

14 Just Desserts

15 Loose Change

16 Media Naranja (Other Half)

17 Immortal Coil

STANDALONE NOVELS & NOVELLAS

Body Art

Magic Mansion

Sleepwalker

Zero Hour: A Dystopian Adventure

STANDALONE NOVELETTES & SHORTS

Betweentimes

Fire Thief

Kindred Spirits

Starlight

Sympathy

The Serpent in the Garden

The Voice

Verdant

Find these titles at http://jcpbooks.com

Dear reader,

We are witnessing the start of a huge shift in the publishing industry.

Before 2003, if I wrote a story that wasn’t corporate America’s idea of What Deserves to be Published, the best I could have put together was a photocopied ’zine that I distributed at whatever comic shops could be coerced into keeping a few copies on consignment.

The advent of epublishing and print-on-demand has changed that. Big time.

We’re on the cusp of a meritocracy of ideas, where books sink or swim based on what readers want, rather than what corporate marketing folks think will sell.

Every time you choose to buy from a small, independent publisher or self-published author, you’re shaping the availability of future books. By saying “yes” to the indies, you become a patron of the arts, and you ensure the author has a paid mortgage, food on the table, a decent internet connection…in short, you’re contributing directly to that author’s paycheck and making sure he or she can keep writing!

If you enjoy this book, you can make even more of a difference. Blog about it, tweet about it, post reviews, and tell your friends. The more you spread the word about the indie works you enjoy, the more support you’ll funnel our way.

Thank you very much for buying an independent book. It does make a difference.

Jordan Castillo Price

Owner, JCP Books LLC