Metallic sounds in his ears as he was clouted. He noticed Carter’s bare
feet were still cuffed so he swung a fist to make him step back or duck or go off-balance. But Carter stepped inward, under his arm, and then he was behind him, where he quickly peeled Samuelson’s jacket down off the shoulders, pinning his arms, and ripped open his vest so the buttons popped off. He knotted the vest over the now-reversed jacket before the last button had bounced into the water. A makeshift straitjacket. Samuelson couldn’t move his arms. He fell over.
From the horizontal position, Samuelson’s world became more disappointing by the minute. First, Carter took a single step so that his feet were on opposite sides of his neck, bringing the ankle chain flush to his trachea. Samuelson twisted helplessly, seeing out of the corner of his eye a flashing movement—Hollis, now on the dock. He was saved!
Hollis crouched by the edge of the dock, seemingly torn between impulses. Carter watched him impassively, shifting his weight to better choke his victim.
“Yes?” he finally asked.
Hollis looked at Carter. He looked at Samuelson. He ran. He ran to the truck, and as Samuelson began to pass out, his penultimate sight was the bread truck stripping gears to get away.
The final sight was Carter bending over to his wayward watch pocket, then straightening. “What have we here?” he asked, holding the ivory skull between his finger tips. Then Samuelson blacked out.
. . .
“Agent Samuelson.”
The rain was steady and warm; on a more chipper sort of day, it would be wonderful to walk in. But Samuelson wasn’t able to go anywhere. He was reclining on a pile of rubber tires through which heavy ropes were wound. His arms, which he couldn’t quite see, were secured to something behind his head. He could move his legs a little, but when he did so, they made clanking noises. Somewhere, muffled, echoing, he heard someone shouting. Stutz?
To his left, sitting on a weathered bollard that looked like a mushroom cap, was Carter. His face was cut, and rainwater streamed from the black hair plastered to his head, down his torn shirt, past his trousers, which had gaping holes in them. His legs were crossed so that one bare ankle touched the opposite knee. Somehow, he managed to keep a cigarette going in the rain.
“What are you doing?” Samuelson heard himself ask.
“I’m having the time of my life.” He French-inhaled smoke and blew rings in between raindrops. “Look over your head. Ah, my mistake—you
can’t. Listen, then. Your arms are manacled to a bollard just like the one I’m sitting on.” He paused. Then, using his cigarette to get Samuelson’s attention, he directed him to look just beyond his wingtips. There was an incredible tangle of chains and ropes, and at the edge of the dock were three anchors: two Danforths, the other a close-stowing model made for larger vessels. Samuelson recognized them from his childhood, when he’d crewed on his father’s boat.
Cocking his head to listen to vague shouts—O’Brien this time—Carter addressed Samuelson. “Your friends are trapped under the dock, by the way. I had an extra pair of cuffs, and I took some mooring swivels from that ferry boat, and—listen, do you know three-card monte? It’s also called ‘find the lady.’”
Samuelson, bewildered, made no motions at all.
“You have three blind cards, and one of them is the right one. It’s a sucker’s game. Anyway, one of those anchors is secured to the pair of cuffs that’s around your ankles. The other two are not. Are you following me?”
“I’m not telling you anything. The Service has a code—”
“That’s fine,” Carter interrupted. “I understand codes.” It was impossible to read his blue eyes. They seemed as quiet as Sunday streets. “I’m going to drop each of these anchors one by one off the dock. I don’t know what’s going to happen when the one attached to you goes over. If you weren’t also manacled to the dock, you’d simply be pulled under and drown, but since you
are
manacled to the dock—”
“I told you, I’m not telling you anything.”
“Either the anchor will rip your hipbones and shoulders out of their sockets, or you’ll actually be torn in half.” He took another drag on his cigarette. “I actually
have
seen a man torn in half before, in India. They used elephants. So,” he patted Samuelson’s shoulder and asked, conversationally, “which anchor do you pick first?”
In the distance, O’Brien was bellowing for help.
“I’m a Secret Service agent,” Samuelson said. “You can’t get away with this.”
“How about the Danforth that’s on the left?” Carter stood and stretched his legs. He yawned widely and ambled to the edge of the dock. Samuelson watched him, but also watched to his left and his right. There was a ferry boat. Someone would see, eventually. And if there were three anchors, of course Carter would knock the first two off the dock before choosing the one actually connected to his legs. There would be time for someone to see them. Samuelson knew this, and clung to it.
Carter’s palms were both on the Danforth. He looked over his
shoulder at Samuelson. “By the way, I didn’t want to cheat. So I mixed all those chains and ropes quite a bit, and I have no idea which one of these is connected to you.”
“What?”
“Allez-oop!” he cried, and sent the Danforth over the side, thirty feet of wide-gauge chain snaking with it.
Samuelson made an inarticulate cry as something snapped against his legs, but it was just the end of the chain passing him by on its way into the bay.
Carter looked over the edge. “That was very interesting. Would you like to play again?”
“We were only told to detain you! That’s all I know!”
Carter squatted next to Samuelson. “Along with the keys to the cuffs, and your identification and so forth, you had notes in your pocket. Detain me at such and such a time. Keep me off the field forever, which isn’t so very cryptic. You also had twelve dollars in your wallet. Which anchor shall I throw over next?”
“I don’t!” It sounded like a full sentence to Samuelson; he’d meant it as such, but he realized it made little sense. “What do you want?”
“Honestly, what I want is to throw the remaining anchors over the side and see what happens. Why did you put me in the bay, you round-heeled ham-and-egger?”
“You’re a magician.”
“I’m a magician,” he replied blankly.
“I figured it served you right.”
“You figured . . .” he hesitated. “You really thought that?”
“I figured you’d either get out or you wouldn’t, and it would serve you right.”
“For what?” He looked disarmed, and newly hurt.
Samuelson blinked. He didn’t know how to explain what had seemed so obvious just hours ago. Shuffle the deck yourself. See that this spirit cabinet is totally normal and free of wires or platforms. How the magician dared the audience to find a way he couldn’t trick them. Samuelson simply thought every magician he’d ever seen had been antagonistic, daring—
begging
—to be shown up.
Finally, Carter asked, “Which one of you drugged me?”
He had no trouble giving this information up. “Stutz.”
“The one who ran way?”
“No. That was Hollis,” a fact that he also felt fine revealing. When he saw Hollis again, he was going to thrash him.
“Hmm. So Stutz is one of the two hanging down there?”
“Stutz is . . . I shouldn’t say what he is. He stabbed you with a needle. That’s not protocol.” Samuelson bit down on his lips, looking to Carter for some sign of understanding.
“He’s a pervert. Wonderful.” In a perfect world, Carter would have worked suitable revenge on him, but as he realized what sort of men he was up against his passion for this sort of thing was draining away. Still, he wasn’t done.
“Hey!” The voice came from the left, and above. The deck of the ferryboat. In yellow slicker and peaked hat, it was the ship’s captain.
“Help me!” Samuelson cried. “I’m a federal agent—”
Carter shielded his face from the rain. “Is that Captain Willow?”
“Charlie Carter!” Said with delight. “How are you?”
“Tremendous.”
“Good!”
“Actually, I’m ravenous, too. I could eat a horse.”
“This man is assaulting a federal agent,” Samuelson cried. “Call the police immediately.”
Captain Willow folded his arms. “Is that so?”
“Yes!”
He chuckled and slapped the rail with his fingertips. “That’s awful. Rehearsing one of your magic acts, Charlie?”
“No,” Carter replied blandly. “He’s telling the truth.”
The Captain wagged his finger at Carter. “Always pulling my good leg. Send me and the missus tickets when your show goes up. I’ll keep the passengers away.” And then he was gone.
Samuelson looked at the now-empty deck like he’d missed the last train home.
“Excuse me,” Carter said, leaving Samuelson’s side. He approached the edge of the dock a second time, and without fanfare, shoved the other Danforth off the dock.
Samuelson screamed, retracting into a ball as yards of chain slithered around him, followed by a soft splash.
He was intact.
Carter was again leaning into his face. “I’m sorry for deceiving you, Samuelson. It’s in my blood. I knew all along which one was tied to you, so let’s cut to the chase. There was a cigar tube in my pocket. Where is it?”
“I—” Carter’s hand went over his mouth.
“The first thing you want to tell me is ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Let’s you and I pretend you’ve said that already. You’ve said it
several times, with great sincerity. If you stick with that story, I will kick that last anchor off the dock and
boldly
. Do you follow?”
Samuelson nodded. Carter took his hand away. Several times, Samuelson made as if to speak, and his eyes darted away, half-focused, like he was recalling all the steps in assembling a machine gun.
“All right. Okay. Everything in your pocket,” he said carefully, “was in the truck.”
“So Agent Hollis has it?”
“That makes sense.” He broke into a relieved smile, as if now that he and Carter had put this puzzle together, they could be friends. And when Carter joined in, making a grin himself, Samuelson relaxed.
“I suppose I should let you go then. There’s just one problem,” he said, producing the ivory skull with “322” on its crown. “And this would be it.” He made it vanish. Then reappear. Then vanish. “I’m just trying to determine what exactly this signifies.”
“It’s a good luck charm.”
“And how has it been working for you, then?”
Samuelson stared at it. There were levels, and levels, to which he was a loyal man. The skull, and all it represented, was something so vital to him, he actually
would
die before he gave anything up to Carter. He braced himself.
Carter looked upward, and intoned, “
Wer war der Thor, wer Weiser, Bettler oder Kaiser?
”
Samuelson’s heart nearly burst from his chest. He finished: “
Ob Arm, ob Reich, im Tode gleich
.” He laughed. He couldn’t stop, the relief actually made him dizzy. “You’re a bonesman!”
“Lodge Room 322,” Carter whispered, and as if painting the image before him, he gestured, “here’s the slab, with the coxcomb and bells, and the beggar’s scrip, and the crown, and the four old human skulls. Wonderful room,” he said.
“The best days of my life,” Samuelson replied, desperate to be released.
“All that time at college, learning about business and wealth and such,” he added.
“Yes. Yes!”
“Too bad the room doesn’t exist.” Carter arched his eyebrows and tossed the skull up, caught it.
“It—what?”
Carter’s eyes were flat—endlessly blue, like the horizon.
“That’s just . . . nonsense.” But Samuelson could barely commit to this last word.
“You know my brother went to Yale.” Sounding kind, Carter explained, “This is called a numbskull. Bonesmen are instructed to occasionally lose them in poker games or to use them to pay off debts to men who always wanted to join, but whose character didn’t quite make the cut.”
“But—”
“So your quadmate, or someone, lost this to you, made a big deal over it, and taught you that German poem, which is also hogwash if you think about it, as the password. You could pretend you belonged.”
“But,” Samuelson looked quite miserable now. In a child’s voice, he asked, “But are you a bonesman?”
“Actually I didn’t go to college. But I
was
in vaudeville.” And then, languidly, he kicked the shaft of the last anchor.
“No!” Samuelson shrieked. The remaining chains shot over the side, scuttling, striking his legs as they went. “No!” he cried again, braced for a crippling jolt that never came.
He opened his eyes. He was still on the dock. Nothing had happened to him. None of the anchors had actually been attached. It was all a trick. Though he tried to laugh derisively, it came out instead as tears.
Carter stepped away, limping, and then impulsively turned. He crouched down and held Samuelson’s head between his hands. Samuelson looked up miserably into a face that was frighteningly merry to its core.
“Thank you,” Carter whispered. He kissed Samuelson on the forehead, making a theatrical smacking noise. “Really, this has been the time of my life. Thank you.”
Carter took one last glance at the caved-in dock, from which came weak and diminishing calls for help. And at the soggy man he’d lashed to a bollard. He accounted for himself, bruised, cut, torn, robbed of his tools, his shoes, and the cigar tube.
He limped down the thoroughfare beside the docks. In a few minutes, the pain from his cuts and bruises would catch up with him, as would his conscience. Until then, he wanted pie, and to kiss Phoebe Kyle, and he wanted television and a thousand other new illusions, and great piles of cash, and new enemies to face. In short, some new pipeline of desire had opened in him, and he wanted
more
.
There was a taxistand where the port met the city streets. Though a line of people was waiting, they parted to make way for this bleeding, crazed-looking man. He was smiling and then scowling as his mind skipped from moment to moment. He had never thought of life as a scorecard of assets and debits, but today—having kissed a girl, ridden a motorcycle, shown up a snotty Yale boy and his crew, and purchased a fine
guillotine, but also having been knocked unconscious, been put on a budget, and having lost the plans to television—he began to see the point.