Zambendorf dabbed his forehead and returned his handkerchief to his pocket. Then
he took the wallet, held it between the palms of his hands, and stared down at
it. “Yes, the owner is here,” he announced. He looked out to address the
anonymous owner in the audience. “Concentrate hard, please, and try to project
an image of yourself into my mind. When contact is established, you will feel a
mild tingling sensation in your skull, but that’s normal.” A hush fell once
more. People closed their eyes and reached out with their minds to grasp the
tenuous currents of strange forces flowing around them. Then Zambendorf said, “I
see you . . . dark, lean in build, and wearing light blue. You are not alone
here. Two people very close to you are with you . . . family members. And you
are far from home . . . visiting this city, I think. You are from a long way
south of here.” He looked back at Jackson. “That should do.”
Jackson swiveled to speak to the audience. “You can reveal yourself now if
you’re here, Mr. Dark, Lean, and Blue,” he called out. “Is the owner of this
wallet here? If so, would he kindly stand up and identify himself, please?”
Everywhere, heads swung this way and that, and turned to scan the back of the
theater. Then, slowly and self-consciously, a man rose to his feet about halfway
back near one of the aisles. He was lean in build, Hispanic in appearance, with
jet-black hair and a clipped mustache, and was wearing a light-blue suit. He
seemed bewildered and stood rubbing the top of his head with his fingers,
looking unsure of what he was supposed to do. A boy in the seat beside him
tugged at his sleeve, and a dark-skinned woman in the next seat beyond was
saying something and gesticulating in the direction of the stage. “Would you
come forward and identify your property, please, sir,” Jackson said. The man
nodded numbly and began picking his way along the row toward the aisle while
applause erupted all around, lasting until he had made his way to the front of
the auditorium. The noise abated as Jackson came forward to the edge of the
stage and inspected the wallet’s contents. “This is yours?” he said, looking
down. The man nodded. “What’s the name inside here?” Jackson enquired.
“The name is Miguel,” Zambendorf supplied from where he was still sitting.
“He’s right!” Jackson made an appealing gesture as if inviting the audience to
share his awe, looked back at Zambendorf, and then stooped to hand the wallet to
Miguel. “Where are you from, Miguel?” he asked.
Miguel found his voice at last. “From Mexico … on vacation with my wife and
son . . . Yes, this is mine, Mr. Jackson. Thank you.” He cast a final nervous
glance at Zambendorf and began walking hastily back up the aisle.
“Happy birthday, Miguel,” Zambendorf called after him.
Miguel stopped, turned round, and looked puzzled.
“Isn’t it your birthday?” Jackson asked. Miguel shook his head.
“Next week,” Zambendorf explained. Miguel gulped visibly and fled the remaining
distance back to his seat.
“Well, how about that!” Jackson exclaimed, and stood with his arms outstretched
in appeal while the house responded with sustained applause and shouts of
approval. Behind Jackson, Zambendorf sipped from his water glass and allowed the
atmosphere to reinforce itself. He could also have revealed that the unknown
benefactor who had turned the wallet in after picking Miguel’s pocket, and whose
suggestion it had been to make a challenge out of it, had also been of swarthy
complexion —Armenian, in fact—but somehow that would have spoiled things.
Now the mood of the audience was right. Its appetite had been whetted, and it
wanted more. Zambendorf rose and moved forward as if to get closer to them, and
Jackson moved away instinctively to become a spectator; it had become
Zambendorf’s show. Zambendorf raised his arms; the audience became quiet again,
but this time tense and expectant. “I have said many times that what I do is not
some kind of magic,” he told them, his voice rich and resonant in the hall. “It