Amy, Liz, Buzz, and Richie joined two dozen spectators who were crowded
around a small, raised stage at one end of the tent.
A moment later Marco appeared in a cloud of blue smoke, taking a bow as
a tape-recorded fanfare filled the room. It was painfully obvious that
he had merely stepped through a slit in the rear wall of the tent,
using the smoke for cover. In fact he hadn’t even stepped onto the
stage, he had stumbled.
Liz glanced at Amy. They both giggled.
“Thank God he’s a magician and not a tightrope walker,” Richie
whispered.
Amy felt as if she were standing on balloons, balancing precariously,
about to perform some splendid magic act of her own.
What had Liz added to that joint?
Marco’s appearance was as pathetic as his entrance. He was a
middle-aged man with bloodshot eyes, and he was heavily made up to
resemble the Devil. His lips were red, his face was frost-pale, his
eyes were outlined with thick black mascara, and his widow’s peak was
also accentuated with mascara. He wore a shabby tuxedo and a pair of
white gloves that were marred by several large yellow stains.
“He shouldn’t wear those gloves when he jerks off,” Liz whispered.
They all laughed.
“Gross,” Richie said.
“He looks gross enough to do it,” Buzz whispered.
Marco glanced nervously at them, unable to hear what they were
saying.
He smiled at them and doffed his top hat in a feeble attempt to win
their silent attention.
“Whatever you do,” Liz told the others, “for God’s sake don’t let him
shake hands with you .” They all laughed again.
A few of the other spectators were glancing at Amy, some just curious,
some disapproving, but she didn’t care what they thought. She was
having so much fun.
Marco decided to ignore them, and he picked up a deck of cards that was
on the small table in the center of the stage. He shuffled the cards
and wrapped them in a silk handkerchief, with only one edge of the deck
exposed.
He placed that bundle in a clear glass goblet, every movement performed
with a flourish. When he stepped back and pointed at the goblet, cards
began to rise individually from the silk-swathed deck: first the ace of
diamonds . . . then the ace of clubs . . . the ace of hearts . . .
and finally, mistakenly, the jack of diamonds. Marco looked
embarrassed, quickly swept the cards away, and went on to his next
trick.
“Boy, does he stink,” Buzz said softly.
“It’s those gloves you smell,” Liz said.
aRichie, is this guy really your Uncle Arnold?” Amy asked.
Marco blew up a balloon and knotted it. When he touched a burning
cigarette to the balloon, the sphere popped noisily, and a live dove
appeared in the heart of the explosion. It was a better illuion than
the card trick, but Amy still saw the bird dart out from beneath the
magician’s tuxedo jacket.
Marco performed two more tricks that drew only half-hearted applause
from the audience, and then Liz said, “Are you guys about ready to
8put?” “Not yet,” Richie said.
This is a fuckin’ bore,” Liz said.
“I want to see the finale,” Richie said. “The guillotine.” “What
guillotine?” Buzz asked.
“The one on the poster outside,” Richie said. “He chops off some
broad’s head.” “That’s the only way he’s ever going to get head from a
woman,” Liz said, giggling.
Marco spoke for the first time. His voice was surprisingly rich and
commanding. “And now, for those of you who are connoisseurs of the
bizarre, the macabre, the gruesome, the grotesque . . . I will close
my show with what I fondly refer to as The Impaler.”
” “What about the guillotine?” Richie said Buzz.
“Asshole,” Liz said. “That’s just a come-on.”
Marco rolled a large upright box to the center of the stage. It was a
foot or so shorter than a coffin, but otherwise it looked exactly like
the centerpiece of a funeral.
“I hear you mumbling out there,” Marco said. “I hear you saying .
. . the guillotine . . . the guillotine. Unfortunately, that device