Night Magic (17 page)

“Hey, wait a minute!” the guard called after him. Michael put on a smile and called back, “Forgot my umbrella. And my package.” He pointed to the two items on the rack and strode purposefully toward them. The guard had turned briefly to speak to the man in seersucker. Michael lifted the gate, grabbed the umbrella off the hook, snatched up the Bloomingdale’s bag, and headed for the entrance.

“Hey, wait a minute!” the guard shouted again. “You got a check number for those things?”

“Yeah,” Michael called back, “it’s with my credentials.”

“Say, you, hold on there!” The first guard was after him, the other one following. The one in the lead tripped over the hoses being lugged out by some firemen, the other tripped over him, and Michael made a dash for the door. At the last moment he turned to look at the guards extricating themselves from the hoses; then he leaped through the doorway and was lost in the crowd.

Some hours later, Michael was sitting with Dazz in his studio, waiting for Emily. Between nervous glances at the clock—it was nearly six—Michael stared at the objects spread out on the coffee table. The ordinary-looking umbrella, well used though it was, offered no clue as to its ownership. The contents of the Bloomingdale’s shopping bag had proved to be a shoe box, which contained a pair of new shoes: black, patent leather, narrow, with leather soles, rubber heels, elastic side panels, and eyelets for laces. Manufactured by the Bilt-Well Company. Little enough to go on.

Dazz had risen to go to the kitchen when the doorbell rang, and he and Michael were standing at the door as the elevator arrived and Emily stepped out, looking somewhat uncertain. She smiled weakly, but all she could say was “Hello” before Michael took her in his arms and squeezed her breathless. “Christ, I’m glad to see you,” he said, leading her inside. “What happened?”

“I saw him—yes,
him,
” she said, trying not to let Michael’s immediate reaction, transfixed eagerness, annoy her. “He came out of the museum right after you left to go in. He got through the crowd, and all of a sudden we were facing one another. I looked him in the eyes—eye, I should say. It made my blood run cold.” As she was speaking, she shook her head and walked to one of the tall windows, stood for a moment, staring out across the street at the karate parlor, then turned back to them with a strange expression on her face. “But I followed him anyway, I can’t tell you why, I sure didn’t want to. And, naturally, I lost him again.”

“Where?” Michael asked.

“On a bus.” She flopped down on the sofa and began blotting perspiration from her face and throat with a handkerchief. “He went down Madison and got on a bus. I had almost caught up with him and I got on a little after him; maybe four people got on between us. The bus took off, I pushed all the way to the back before it stopped again, and he wasn’t there.”

“He couldn’t have gotten off right after he got on?” Dazz asked.

“Not possible,” she said, rotating her head wearily on her neck. “The bus was packed, he would have had to get all the way to the back in two seconds. Not possible.” She continued moving her head around slowly, then gave it a few definitive shakes. “There was no place to go, and he wasn’t there.”

Dazz whistled softly. Michael hugged Emily and looked at the clock. “Vanished into thin air, his favorite habitat. Let’s go turn on the news.”

They went into the room off the kitchen that Dazz used as a study. Holding the shoes, Michael sat on the warped sofa and scowled moodily at the television screen as the six o’clock news began. The story of the museum fire was in the lead, and the newscaster made liberal use of such words as “incredible,” “hoax,” and “mystifying,” throwing in several “apparently’s” as qualifiers. The video showed the camera being jostled by the crowds on the outside steps, firemen fighting their way through the entrances. Faces appearing, disappearing, the microphones picking up traces of conversation.

“Look! There he is!” Emily pointed at the screen, where the old man had suddenly appeared amid the crowd gathered at the entrance. He glanced at the camera, shied away, made an odd gesture, then turned back as if to go through the doorway again.

“He realizes he’s forgotten his stuff,” Michael muttered.

Dazz started to ask a question but was sternly shushed by the other two as the individual reports began. The main lines of the story, pieced together out of various ill-assorted facts and eyewitnesses’ statements, were the following. One: the painting had not burned at all. (Eyewitness accounts, however, were at variance on this point, for many people, including several museum guards, had seen flames consuming the canvas.) Two: at the same time the painting was believed to be burning, or shortly thereafter, a priceless object was discovered missing from its case in the jewelry room of the Egyptian wing. The object was described as an ancient Eye of Horus, painted in azure on a fragment of ivory-colored faience. Three: the exhibition case was unharmed and showed no signs of tampering; the lock on the sliding panel had not been touched, nor had the glass been cut or broken. The guard on duty attested to the fact that he had seen the Eye in its proper place only five minutes before the “fire” broke out upstairs. The report continued with the pertinent information that an unidentified male individual had been seen near the display case, and police were investigating this lead. No one was certain whether any connection existed between the theft—or loss—of the Eye of Horus and the alleged fire. Finally, the head curator of the museum appeared briefly to emphasize that “Saskia in Tears” had not been damaged in any way. He hastened to assure the Dutch government that the painting on loan would be returned in the same condition in which it had arrived.

Some forced chat from the news anchors, a man and a woman who looked very much alike, heralded the arrival of commercials. Heaving a sigh, Emily rose to her feet and moved in the direction of the bathroom. Michael sank deeper into the sofa, closed his eyes, and groaned. “This sure is some strange stuff, babe,” Dazz observed, “but look at it this way. You’ve got yourself a fine new pair of shoes.”

“Great,” Michael said, barely moving his lips. “And what am I supposed to do with his shoes?”

Emily stopped, leaned in the doorway, pulling her hair off her neck with both hands. “You’re supposed to return them to him.”

“How am I going to do that?”

“You’ll find a way,” she said sorrowfully. “He knows you will. And so do I.”

M
ICHAEL SAT DOWN WITH
the Yellow Pages of the Manhattan telephone directory and turned to Shoes, Retail, but careful perusal of this section, followed by Shoes, Whol. & Mfrs., offered no information concerning the provenance of the Bilt-Well patent-leather gaiters. Neither Bloomingdale’s nor any store in its immediate neighborhood carried Bilt-Wells. According to the National Association of Shoe Manufacturers, reached after a long telephonic pursuit, the Bilt-Well Shoe Company of Cleveland, a victim of bad economic times, had folded some time ago and sold its entire stock to a chain of liquidation stores.

From this point, things became more difficult. Abandoning the telephone, Michael took to the streets with resolution in his heart and the shoes in their white cardboard box. He began systematically visiting shoe stores, making inquiries.

Many places sold Bilt-Wells, but not that model, many more didn’t sell them, period, and all had free advice: try down on Delancey Street, try some of the remainder outlets south of Canal, try Macy’s at Herald Square. How about tuxedo rental houses? Or one of those cheap places on Fourteenth Street where the Puerto Ricans shop? Try uptown/downtown/crosstown. Try somewhere else.

It was worse than the Bloomingdale’s stakeout, far worse than the long hours spent in the plaza or in front of the Metropolitan Museum. He was close, he knew he was nearly there, but stymied, stuck in place.

He examined the shoes minutely, letting his imagination play over them. Something about them made him think of show business. People didn’t wear shoes like these without a reason; they did something while wearing them, they had a purpose when they put them on. Maybe he should try a theatrical costumer. The thought led him to the theater district, where he wandered about for a while looking for an appropriate shop. He found one between a deeply soiled delicatessen featuring
PASTRAMI SANWITCHES
and a sparkling porno theater showing
Psychic Bimbos.
Yes, the shopkeeper said, they carried Bilt-Wells in this style and others, had recently purchased them from a liquidation company, but an inventory check revealed that none of the ones like Michael’s had been sold. The man suggested a costumer who turned out to be located on the same floor as Lou Tannen’s Magic Shop in the Loew’s State Building. Michael was elated; this was the best lead yet.

He brought the shoes in, laid them on the counter. Yes, the clerk said, eyeing him suspiciously, they specialized in “character” shoes for dancers and carried a number of cancelled Bilt-Wells. So why did he want to know? Was there something wrong with the shoes? Were they stolen?

No, Michael explained glibly, he’d found them on a park bench, thought they were perhaps expensive and the owner might be someone working in the neighborhood. The clerk was still distrustful. People didn’t go around trying to return a pair of shoes to an unidentified owner. Was he a cop or something? Look, Michael said, go next door, ask Lou, he knows me. I’m a magician, see, just trying to do a favor for a guy.

The man took up the shoes and inspected them for the third time. Well, if he was a friend of Lou Tannen’s…

“You know Wurlitzer?”

“Wurlitzer? The Great Wurlitzer?”

The man shook his head doubtfully. “Well, let’s say the once-great Wurlitzer. Nutty old geezer. Got that rundown museum, whatchamacallit, Egyptian hall around the corner. You never heard of it?”

He hadn’t; had heard of the Great Wurlitzer, though. He mentioned the pictures in his collection, the man of many disguises, Merlino the Magnificent.

“Yeah, that’s him, same guy. He uses a couple different names, but his real one is Wurlitzer, Max Wurlitzer. He bought these shoes offa us. He’s been buyin’ here for years. Used to be two pairs a year, now it’s one every three or four. I always wait on him myself. It’s funny, this has been going on since I was a kid, yet he never seems to get any older, know what I mean?” The man gave a sort of snorting laugh and began flipping through the cards in a small file box on the counter. “Nah, old Max’s been lookin’ about a hundred years old since I first seen him. Acts kinda crazy, too. Some people’re afraida him, but he don’t seem so scary to me. One thing’s for sure, he don’t make no money at that place. Aw
right,
I finely found his address. I’ll write it down for ya. You take him his shoes, he’ll be glad.”

Not half as glad as I’ll be, Michael thought.

He came upon the place from the opposite side of the street. He passed a newsstand on the corner, then continued down the block until he saw the red doors. He stopped in front of a coffee shop and looked across. It was a sorry tenement district west of Times Square, beyond the “bad luck” theaters like the Martin Beck, where no one wanted to run Broadway shows anymore. A miserable-looking building. A portal in fake Egyptian style and a sign:
THE LITTLE CAIRO MUSEUM OF WONDERS
. Old, dilapidated, seedy. Above, three floors of what looked to be apartment rooms. He caught a sign of movement behind a second-story window; a woman peered out; then she dropped the curtain but remained standing behind it. He sensed something furtive in her movement, something worrisome, something familiar, something…nothing. He crossed the street and approached, eyes sweeping the vista. Next to the two red doors, in an exterior alcove, a box-office window, boarded up. Below:
THE GREAT WURLITZER APPEARING SAT.
&
SUN
3:00 & 7:00 P.M. Above the doors a faded mural in circus-poster style: paintings of a flea circus with fleas the size of cockroaches, pulling chariots and climbing ladders. A strongman bending a bar. A snake charmer. A fortune-teller with a silver globe. Recessed from the street next to the theater doors was another door, also red, but dingier, with a brass knob that looked as if it had been polished. The name on the insert plate, also brass, also shiny, read
LENA WURLITZER
He rang. Waited. Rang again. Still no one. He stepped back to the curb, looked up. He could see the woman behind the curtain. She moved away. He rang again, waited. Still no one came. He recrossed the street to the coffee shop and stood with the box under his arm and looked. There was no sign of anyone. He went inside, sat at the counter, and ordered coffee.

“And where is he now, Lena?”

“Still in the coffee shop.” She looked worried, uneasy. “He’s carrying a shoe box. Do you think he’s got your shoes?”

“Yes, I do believe he does. He’ll be returning them soon.” Max relaxed in his chair, smoking a pipe and leafing through a magazine. “It shouldn’t be long.”

When his pipe went out, Max laid it aside, along with the magazine, rose from his chair, and left the room. He returned carrying a small package wrapped in brown paper and butcher’s string, handed it to Lena. “The bell will ring again,” he said. “You may answer it this time.”

“What should I say?”

“Nothing is necessary beyond the usual amenities. He will offer you the shoes. Take them.”

She looked fearful, and he made a placating gesture. “Why are you afraid, Lena? He is only returning them.”

“You left them at the museum. If the police know it—”

“The police know nothing, as befits them,” he said dismissively, adding, wearily, “What can you think of me, Lena?” He drew himself up, taking on height and breadth, and said in a strong, terse voice that set off little echoes in her ears, “There is no reason to be afraid. Do what I say. I have waited long, and now the time has come. Take the shoes, give him this”—he handed her the package—“and send him away. Do not let him in, do not speak more than is necessary. Do you understand?”