The Art of Disappearing by Ivy Pochoda (top non fiction books of all time TXT) 📗

for a split second behind a screen. But really disappear.” He waited for a moment, then rapped his signet ring on the plastic front of the gambling machine. “What I’m talking about is making someone vanish for months. Or years.”

“I don’t know,” I said finally.

Swenson laughed and winked. “Exactly. Neither do I. And I’ve been a magician half my life. A trustworthy magician.” He drained his drink and winked once more.

“I loved her. Obviously more than he did.”

“Who?”

“Eva, our assistant. And Toby ruined everything.”

“I’m not sure what you want from me.”

“There’s absolutely nothing I want from you, sweetheart.” He smiled and nodded slightly. “I’m just worried about you. That’s all.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“That’s what she thought.” He reached over, spun the wheel on my game, and lost. “Such a disaster.”

“Some people prefer to be absent,” I said, thinking of my brother.

“Most don’t.” Swenson trapped me with his red-rimmed eyes. “And most magicians don’t like renegades like your husband. Not even in dives like the Castaway.”

I looked away.

“We have a code.”

“I’m sure you do.”

Swenson’s face wore an indulgent smile. “Drink?”

I shook my head.

He withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket, draped it over the top of the machine in front of him. When he whisked it away, two fresh cocktails had appeared. “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice.”

“No thanks,” I said.

“You see, that is magic.” Swenson smiled. “Now, if you want to see a real show, you should check out my North American Wonder Show.”

“No thanks,” I repeated.

“I’ve got the biggest tour going in the Canadian provinces.”

“And?”

“It’s a lot better than what your husband will have when people discover that he’s not to be trusted. You think this side of town is bad. I can’t imagine where you two will go next.”

“Why would we have to go anywhere?”

“Ah,” Swenson said with another patronizing smile, “by now you should have learned that a magician never reveals what is up his sleeve.”

“Toby never has anything up his sleeve,” I said.

“That, sweetheart, is precisely the point.”

Five

If Toby had been perturbed by my meeting with Swenson, he didn’t let it show. He simply told me that things were going too well for Swenson to interfere with him now. In fact, attendance at Toby’s show at the Castaway was so good that the management had offered him a yearlong contract, which Toby had yet to sign. He had a feeling a better offer was waiting in the wings. Getting stuck on Fremont Street when the Strip was calling would be a disaster.

Like a fish in a tank, I had grown used to living without natural light since arriving in Vegas and mistook the city’s shrunken castles and palaces for the real thing. I was drugged with the lazy promise of simple days, of conveyor belts that moved me, slots that might make me rich, and around-the-world trips that were just across the street. Most of all, I was drugged by the calm that descended every morning when I opened my eyes and saw the sleeping magician. We always slept tightly wound around each other. When we woke, we would open our remote-controlled curtains, revealing the empty desert flowing away from the Strip. Then we would sit up, conjuring our future from the sun-baked sands.

To my surprise, I was beginning to look forward to settling in the desert. On Toby’s day off, we’d drive out of Vegas, heading deeper into the desert, navigating the dirt roads with Toby’s creaky van. We sometimes drove in the direction of the spot where Toby had made the sand dance for me. It was near there that we discovered a solitary blue ranch house, its unusual cornflower color fastened brightly to the rusty hues of the surrounding desert.

An abandoned model home from the early seventies, it stood, framed by two distant mesas, waiting for a suburban sprawl that never arrived. Shag carpet, brightly colored living room and bedroom sets in shades of blue and green, all pretty much intact. Toby sprung the lock, and we stepped inside. Despite the lack of air-conditioning, the interior was cool and soothing. We linked hands and toured our desert home.

When Toby was working, I often joined him between shows at the Castaway’s bar, stealing the magician from his women, at least for a couple of moments.

“Toby, Mrs. Toby,” the bartender said, setting our drinks in front of us.

“Thank you,” I replied, removing the maraschino cherry from my whiskey sour. Except for an older man, dressed too warmly for the Las Vegas weather, we were alone at the bar.

“Hey,” Toby said, removing his silk coat and tapping me on the shoulder. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

“Should I pick a card?”

The elderly man moved a few seats closer.

“It’s nothing like that.” Toby laughed and showed me his empty hands. I thought I saw our new neighbor smile.

“What, then?”

“Sandra was at the last show. She says it’s her tenth time.”

“That’s surprising.” Sandra’s fascination with Toby was beginning to irritate me. “I’d have thought she’d seen you more than ten times by now. She thinks you’re the best thing since Wayne Newton.”

“Anyway,” Toby said, dispelling my comment with a wave of his hand, “Sandra asked me if I’d do a version of my act at the opening of the Winter Palace. A small show on the tables.”

I was too happy to wonder why she hadn’t mentioned this to me. I leaned over and kissed Toby’s thin lips.

Toby ordered another drink and began to describe several of the ideas he had for the Winter Palace. The usual crowd of women was hovering behind us. Toby looked over his shoulder at the older man next to him, then bowed his head closer to mine and described two potential opening illusions.

Suddenly a hand came between us. I looked down at chipped black fingernails as Greta drew up to the bar. “So, the Winter Palace,” she said.

For a moment, Toby was too startled to speak.

“How could you know that?” I asked.

Greta shrugged.