Houdini's Last Trick (The Burdens Trilogy) by David Khalaf Page A

what Calamity Jane had called the great talents.
    “They’re hardly a burden,” Chaplin said, “We practically run this town. My gift has made me the richest performer in Hollywood. And Fairbanks, well, he’s the third richest.”
    “Who’s second?” Houdini asked.
    “She is,” Chaplin said, looking up.
    The magician turned and took in the woman standing beside him. Although she was about thirty, she looked much younger. She had golden rings of hair and playful eyes that Houdini found impossible to look away from.
    “Hello,” she said. Houdini stumbled up from the booth to let her sit.
    “You’re beautiful,” he said.
    “No, I’m Mary,” she said, holding out her hand for him to shake.
    Mary Pickford. Douglas Fairbanks’s wife.
    Houdini had seen one or two of the actress’s films, but the celluloid stripped away the true essence of her beauty.
    “Are you going to shake my hand?” she asked. “Because it could be holding a drink.”
    Houdini dumbly shook hands without taking his eyes off her.
    “Harry,” he said. “Houdini.”
    Pickford slid in next to Fairbanks while Chaplin went to find Houdini a chair.
    The waitress returned with three clear drinks. It was probably gin and soda, but to anyone looking it might just as well be seltzer. Houdini pushed his glass over to Pickford.
    “Have mine.”
    “How very kind,” she said. “Thank you.”
    Houdini gaped openly at the woman. He might not have guessed there was something unusual about Fairbanks, but Pickford was impossible to overlook.
    Three great talents, working together. It’s unheard of.
    “Mary, turn it down a notch, would you?” Chaplin said as he returned with a chair.
    “If only I could,” she said.
    Houdini turned inward to check his breathing and his heart rate, but he found his ability incapacitated. All of his consciousness was drawn outward, toward Pickford.
    “You were saying, Mr. Houdini?” Fairbanks said.
    He cleared his throat loudly.
    “Houdini!”
    The magician snapped his attention away from Pickford. He looked at Fairbanks, whose genial demeanor had grown suddenly sour.
    “Won’t you please sit?” Fairbanks said smoothly, in the same tone he had used with the waitress.
    The way he spoke, it was practically musical. It had substance, as if Houdini could feel its unique timbre tickling the insides of his ears. Houdini was aware internally of how much he suddenly wanted to do as Fairbanks asked. He sat.
    “Now what’s all this about?” Chaplin asked.
    “I’m in danger,” Houdini said. “And you are the only ones who can help.”
    As briefly as he could, Houdini told them the story about Pope Benedict and the man he had come to call Atlas. He pulled on the chain around his neck and gave them a quick peek at Newton’s Eye.
    “If even half of that story is true,” Chaplin said. “You’d have half of a great story.”
    “Stop that,” Pickford said. “This isn’t a time for joking. You said the man’s strength was exceptional, Mr. Houdini?”
    “I said it was unnatural,” Houdini said. “Like your beauty.”
    Pickford said nothing but the flush of her face gave her away.
    “Or Chaplin’s humor,” Houdini said. “Or Mr. Fairbanks’s—what is it, exactly—charisma? I believe this strong man has a great talent. As I suspect we all have.”
    “And what is yours, Mr. Houdini?” Fairbanks asked. “Escaping from handcuffs?”
    “No,” Houdini said. “I introspect.”
    Fairbanks raised an eyebrow.
    “What does that mean? You sit at home all day thinking about yourself?”
    “Douglas!” Pickford said.
    Houdini had never felt as if his gift were inferior to the others, but it was certainly the least flashy.
    “Self-awareness is the gift no one wants unless they have it,” Houdini said.
    “You’ll have to forgive Doug,” Chaplin said. “His mouth has a way of outrunning his manners.”
    “I apologize,” Fairbanks said. “I do speak more than I listen. What exactly is it you want from us,