night of the performance. Threats, counterthreats, phone calls, e-mails. The inevitable escalation to an extremely public forum—national television. But neither party backing down or giving in.
That’s what “Dave Stewartson” was doing standing up in the theater. We’re here. We’ll do whatever it takes to get your money, to make you pay. We know you’re a fake. We’re not afraid. We assume your act is fake. But we know you are.
That’s what Wallace was doing, calling on him. I know you’re here. I’m not afraid. You’ll never get me. You’ll never bring me down.
And of course, I had completely misread it. It was a standoff. Both parties aware of it. The “Stewartsons” had pulled off the same kind of identity theft—stolen the real Dave Stewartson’s identity (and Sandi’s too, from somewhere) as fluently, as deftly, as Wallace the Amazing had apparently, long ago, stolen this Wallace’s—as if merely to prove to Wallace the Amazing that they knew exactly what he had done and how he had done it and could even duplicate it. As if to show Wallace the Amazing how much they were onto him, how well they understood his tricks.
Kidnapping. Extortion. The “Stewartsons” risking it because the prize was so big. The mythic Vegas-size success of Wallace the Amazing. His past, current, and future earnings. I knew too well the staggering sum it came to.
And all the corollary questions—starting to swirl around me like a cold wind gathering into a storm—when, where, how had Wallace the Amazing, my Wallace (or whoever he truly was), taken on this identity, stolen this man’s past?
My employer for my lifetime. My twenty-year partner. Not who he said he was. I am reeling, sorting it through, sick to my stomach, dizzy.
The Wallace at my breakfast table continues explaining. Explains that the Stewartsons (or whoever they actually are) had assured him that they would split the extorted proceeds, the Vegas “winnings” with him. His trust in them was irremediably eroded, of course, when he ended up chained to the bathroom fixtures for safekeeping. (But I am already alert to other possibilities in that fixed-to-the-fixture treatment beyond a simple brute double-cross of their partner. That, for instance, such treatment might have arisen when the Stewartsons saw Archer Wallace getting ideas of his own. Or realizing, for instance, that he didn’t need their partnership to get even with Wallace the Amazing. I presume the professional-seeming Stewartsons had not chained him up for no reason.)
Which is all why the real Wallace has gladly stayed here, quietly recovering.
And why this real Wallace didn’t react, stayed silent, when I referred to him as “Dave.” He wasn’t about to risk giving up such a safe place in which to recover.
So the “real” Dave Stewartson is no longer at my breakfast table. He has disappeared, becoming instead the absent symbol for the cruel potential, the threat, of “Dave” and “Sandi.”
“I see how upset you are,” Archer says, “how confused and alarmed, to discover I’m Archer Wallace. But I had to tell you, to really know if I was right about you—that you work for Wallace the Amazing, that you’re involved with him.”
I cannot answer him.
“I know you can’t answer me—and that’s just confirmation. I have to assume you’re part of how he does what he does. But he was performing other tricks, ugly tricks, before he met you, believe me . . .”
Before he met you. History, the past, all being remade . . .
Yes, it was showmanship, that tense televised moment between “Wallace” and “Dave” that I had witnessed, confused and anxious. But not the TV showmanship I had thought. It was the showmanship of each of them for each of them, mano a mano, each showing the other how far he’ll go, demonstrating his fearlessness, his power—the con artist Dave Stewartson (whoever he really is) versus the con artist Wallace the Amazing (whoever he really is).
That’s what “Dave Stewartson” was doing standing up in the theater. We’re here. We’ll do whatever it takes to get your money, to make you pay. We know you’re a fake. We’re not afraid. We assume your act is fake. But we know you are.
That’s what Wallace was doing, calling on him. I know you’re here. I’m not afraid. You’ll never get me. You’ll never bring me down.
And of course, I had completely misread it. It was a standoff. Both parties aware of it. The “Stewartsons” had pulled off the same kind of identity theft—stolen the real Dave Stewartson’s identity (and Sandi’s too, from somewhere) as fluently, as deftly, as Wallace the Amazing had apparently, long ago, stolen this Wallace’s—as if merely to prove to Wallace the Amazing that they knew exactly what he had done and how he had done it and could even duplicate it. As if to show Wallace the Amazing how much they were onto him, how well they understood his tricks.
Kidnapping. Extortion. The “Stewartsons” risking it because the prize was so big. The mythic Vegas-size success of Wallace the Amazing. His past, current, and future earnings. I knew too well the staggering sum it came to.
And all the corollary questions—starting to swirl around me like a cold wind gathering into a storm—when, where, how had Wallace the Amazing, my Wallace (or whoever he truly was), taken on this identity, stolen this man’s past?
My employer for my lifetime. My twenty-year partner. Not who he said he was. I am reeling, sorting it through, sick to my stomach, dizzy.
The Wallace at my breakfast table continues explaining. Explains that the Stewartsons (or whoever they actually are) had assured him that they would split the extorted proceeds, the Vegas “winnings” with him. His trust in them was irremediably eroded, of course, when he ended up chained to the bathroom fixtures for safekeeping. (But I am already alert to other possibilities in that fixed-to-the-fixture treatment beyond a simple brute double-cross of their partner. That, for instance, such treatment might have arisen when the Stewartsons saw Archer Wallace getting ideas of his own. Or realizing, for instance, that he didn’t need their partnership to get even with Wallace the Amazing. I presume the professional-seeming Stewartsons had not chained him up for no reason.)
Which is all why the real Wallace has gladly stayed here, quietly recovering.
And why this real Wallace didn’t react, stayed silent, when I referred to him as “Dave.” He wasn’t about to risk giving up such a safe place in which to recover.
So the “real” Dave Stewartson is no longer at my breakfast table. He has disappeared, becoming instead the absent symbol for the cruel potential, the threat, of “Dave” and “Sandi.”
“I see how upset you are,” Archer says, “how confused and alarmed, to discover I’m Archer Wallace. But I had to tell you, to really know if I was right about you—that you work for Wallace the Amazing, that you’re involved with him.”
I cannot answer him.
“I know you can’t answer me—and that’s just confirmation. I have to assume you’re part of how he does what he does. But he was performing other tricks, ugly tricks, before he met you, believe me . . .”
Before he met you. History, the past, all being remade . . .
Yes, it was showmanship, that tense televised moment between “Wallace” and “Dave” that I had witnessed, confused and anxious. But not the TV showmanship I had thought. It was the showmanship of each of them for each of them, mano a mano, each showing the other how far he’ll go, demonstrating his fearlessness, his power—the con artist Dave Stewartson (whoever he really is) versus the con artist Wallace the Amazing (whoever he really is).
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