Bluff Page 15

  “If it’s so easy, then why isn’t everyone doing it?”

  “I meant easy to deduce. Hard to execute. That’s a big clue, by the way.”

  Yes, it was. I was pretty sure I knew now, but I was still foggy on how it all fit together. “Some kind of pass,” I said, and she smiled a little. All card magicians learned the classic pass—a very elegant, though difficult, secret cut used to move a card to the top or bottom of the deck—but many opted for other, easier methods. (In my experience, the classic pass was mainly useful for magicians to judge the technical abilities of other magicians.)

  “How do you know where to get the break in the deck?”

  Her half smile became a whole one. “Most of the time, you don’t need one. The guy cutting the cards doesn’t complete the cut. He leaves the two halves side by side on the table, and I can do a spin pass. It makes the age-old problem of the cut simply vanish.”

  None of this was intuitive for me because I performed standing up. I played to the audience, not to other people seated around a table. So the moves I used—they were different moves. But from somewhere in the back of my brain a move came to me: “The Charlie Miller table pass.”

  “What the hell’s that?” Ellen asked.

  I cut the deck and did a fairly poor version of the Charlie Miller, where under the guise of completing the cut and gathering the cards I reset the two halves in their original order, undoing the cut.

  “That is a spin pass,” she said. It was true. In doing the move, half the deck gets quickly spun 180 degrees.

  “I learned it as the Charlie Miller table pass.”

  “Tomato, tomahto,” she said. “And you didn’t learn it very well.”

  “It’s not something I ever use,” I said.

  “Well, done right … here. Cut.” She showed me the top card and handed me her deck. I lifted half the pack and set it beside the other half. She completed the cut and gathered the cards. Showed me the top card: it was the same card.

  I’d had no idea the move was worth the effort. But it was. Now in addition to the Greek deal, here was another significant lapse in my training. I clapped softly for Ellen. She held up a hand: no applause necessary.

  “What if he completes the cut?” I asked.

  “What if who does?”

  “You said the players usually don’t complete the cut. But what if they do?”

  “Just to be safe, the shuffler—you—will crimp the bottom card before handing over the deck to be cut.”

  Of course. After the cut, Ellen would feel the crimped card and do a more traditional pass so the deck would revert to how it was before the cut. Like she had said: simple. But difficult to do imperceptibly.

  “The key,” she said, “is to cover the small action with a bigger one. While doing the pass, I swing my body and arms toward the left to begin dealing to the first player. And like I said, these guys usually don’t complete the cut. But just in case, this works, too.”

  I could see it in my mind—Ellen pivoting to her left, doing the move that appeared to be nothing more than a simple squaring up of the deck. Yet something wasn’t sitting right.

  “It could work, you mean,” I said.

  “I mean, it does. I tried it at a game where the dealer was also the shuffler, so I could crimp the card myself. But in Victor’s game, the person to the right of the cutter shuffles. That means you’ll crimp the card, Victor will cut, and I’ll deal. And you’ll create some kind of distraction at the moment when I swing my body. A cough. A stretch. Whatever. It’s all we’ll need.”

  “All right,” I said, but maybe not enthusiastically enough.

  “Relax,” she said. “I’ve been practicing it for months. I’ll be ready.”

  She’ll be ready? That. That’s what wasn’t sitting right. “You said you already tried it in a game.”

  She waved my words away. “At a low-stakes game against a table of idiots.”

  I watched her closely. “You did the move before it was ready?”

  “It was ready.”

  “Sounds to me like it wasn’t.”

  She set her deck of cards on the table. “Don’t lecture me, Natalie.”

  No one was smiling now. “Maybe you need a lecture.” I took a breath to calm myself. “Listen, Ellen, you don’t do a trick until it’s ready.”

  “And I’m telling you it was ready. For them.” She spoke slowly, enunciating each word. “For that particular game, for those particular idiots.”

  The Chinese food was feeling heavy in my stomach. “No. Either the move is performance ready or it isn’t. Come on, this is like Magic 101.”

  “I’m not a magician.”

  No, and maybe that mattered. Maybe I was being unreasonable. Or maybe she was being cavalier. It seemed to me that in her profession, where a heckler wasn’t the biggest threat, it was even more important for a new move to be flawless.

  “I want to see it,” I said. “Show me your classic pass.” I held out the deck of cards.

  “I’m not gonna audition for you, Natalie.”

  “You were pretty excited to show me your spin pass a minute ago,” I said. “So why not this one?”

  She glared at me.

  “You already know what I think about your false deal,” I told her. “It’s amazing. World-class. But if I’m going to be part of this, I have to know that all the moves you might use are that good. It’s only fair.” I took the deck, crimped the bottom card, cut the deck so the crimped card was buried in the middle, and set the deck on the table. “So let’s see it.”

  She watched me a moment longer. Then with a dramatic, teenage sigh she accepted the deck of cards and pivoted her body to the left. During this larger motion with her body and arms, she executed the pass.

  It was fine.

  Honestly, she did the move better than most magicians I knew. Done as a fast, hidden move during a card trick along with patter and misdirection, the move would have been more than serviceable.

  But relative to her spin pass? Not in the same ballpark. And relative to her Greek deal? No. There was no comparing it to her Greek deal.

  “You plan to steal a million dollars with that?” I said.

  “Give me a break,” she said. “My pass is damn good.”

  I took the deck from her, broke it in the middle, turned over the center card—five of hearts—turned it back over, and put the deck back together, burying the card in the center. Then under the guise of squaring up the deck, I did the move: the bottom half of the deck became the top half. If she blinked, she missed it. If she didn’t blink, she missed it anyway. No large action masking a smaller one. No misdirection. Just the classic pass done the way it’s supposed to be done. A move I’d practiced for several thousand hours in my Plainfield bedroom as a teenager while the world spun on around me.

  I turned over the top card.

  “Huh,” she said, staring at the five of hearts.

  After Ellen left, I sat on the loveseat and worked late into the night on controlling the cards. I thought about all the things I used to tell myself about being a magician, things Jack had told me, things I’d read in books. How the magician creates a mystery, an unbridgeable gap between cause and effect. How with enough practice magic could be a balm applied to the tyranny of the everyday.

  I actually wrote stuff like that myself in Jack Clarion’s newsletter. I remember believing it. But at some point, or gradually over many points, I had lost the mystery, and a new tyranny had set in. Gig after gig. Rent check to rent check. Good technique, high heels, and a bowler hat, year after year.

  I looked down at my hands. I took such care of them, filing the nails, constantly applying lotion I couldn’t afford. People sometimes mistook me for younger than I was because of my face. They should’ve looked at my hands. The hands never lie. The veins were more visible now than they once were, the skin was looser. My hands were no longer the hands of a young woman.

  These hands, and what I did with them. They were all I had. When I
considered Cardini, Slydini, Dai Vernon, T. Nelson Downs, Harry Houdini—all those legends who made their indelible impact on the art of conjuring—I had to wonder, who the hell was I?

  Our time on this earth was so fucking limited. At some point we painted our last brushstroke on the Great Mural, and I had yet to make a single lasting mark.

  I wanted to do something beautiful with these hands of mine.

  10

  Ellen came over again later that week, and then early the following week. It was December 22. Her classic pass was noticeably improving, and I was glad to learn that despite her long experience and remarkable talent as a poker cheat, she was willing to do her homework.

  I was doing mine. Although I couldn’t resist working on the Greek deal and the Charlie Miller table pass, my card controlling took center stage. It had always been good, but I knew that good wasn’t good enough.

  We gave each other pointers—shifting a finger to reduce friction, tilting the deck to improve angles—the type of nuanced criticism that can be given and received only by those who already have a high level of mastery.

  I was about to suggest Chinese takeout again when Ellen said, “No way. I have a better idea, Nora.”

  “Huh?”

  “Exactly,” she said, frowning. “You need to practice being Nora. Get your coat.”

  The festive atmosphere of the holidays was on full display in the Gladewood Mall. We weaved through crowds and came upon a junior high school band performing in front of a huge Christmas tree. They were trudging through a horn-cracking, reed-squeaking version of “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.” The band’s conductor, brave woman, waved her arms in increasingly frantic circles.

  Parents sat, rapt, on lawn chairs they must have brought with them. Others stood, tapping their toes, sucking on sodas, and snacking on Auntie Anne’s pretzels while the band played on. When the song came to a stuttering, tentative conclusion, the audience, after waiting a moment to make sure it was truly over, erupted in cheers, conclusive proof that no creature on Earth has duller perception than a parent.

  “They’re so good!” Ellen said to the woman standing beside her.

  “I know!” The woman beamed. “Is one of them yours?”

  “Actually, no. I just couldn’t help stopping to listen.”

  And suddenly the two of them were best friends, chatting about kids and music and last-minute shopping and the happy burden of the season.

  “Tiffany, this is my friend Nora,” Ellen said, drawing me in. “She’s an event planner at some fancy hotels.” She touched my shoulder. “Nora, maybe the kids could play at one of your hotels!”

  “Wow,” I said. “Yeah, that’s such a great idea.” The mother’s eyes widened. “The thing is, our holidays are super busy. Our December calendar gets booked up by July.”

  “Oh.” The mother’s face fell. “But maybe next year?” She dug in her pocketbook for paper and a pen and wrote down Tiffany Wall, a phone number, and the name of the school. “Do you have a business card?” she asked.

  “That’s so funny—I just ran out,” I said, taking the paper from her. “I’m heading over to Copy Lizard now to restock. But I’ll call you.” And then the band started playing “Jingle Bell Rock” and Ellen and I slipped away.

  We really were headed to Copy Lizard in case Victor or any of the other men asked for my card. After all, what better potential clients would there be for an event planner than the rich men at the poker game?

  As we walked, we practiced being Nora Thompson and Emily Ross some more, amid the lights and decorations, amid the shoppers in their bulky coats dragging along complaining kids, amid the teenagers shouting and showing off and hanging on to each other. I felt all of my years of entering this very mall during the holidays knocking against one another.

  At Copy Lizard we mocked up a simple business card on parchment stock with Nora Thompson and Professional Party/Event Planning and a Gmail address we’d secured before leaving the house. For a contact phone number, Ellen told me to use the number she owned specifically so she could give it out when a weirdo at a card game asked for it. The outgoing message was a generic, “Please leave a message after the tone.” We printed out a single sheet of twelve business cards.

  I handed Ellen a card. “Should you ever find yourself throwing a big party, I hope you’ll consider my services.”

  “Why, thank you, Nora.” She narrowed her eyes. “You have experience, I hope?”

  “I do,” I said. “My family actually owns a couple of hotels, so you could say I grew up in the industry.”

  “Is that right? Which hotels?”

  I rattled off the name of one actual, boutique Philadelphia hotel and two other names I had invented. “And you said you’re a descendant of Smith? The gun maker?”

  “That’s right,” Ellen said.

  “You know, I hosted an event once for a group of mystery novelists, where a police officer demonstrated all sorts of weapons—guns and rifles and tasers. I can’t remember if there were any Smith and Wessons. I’m not a gun person. But it was fascinating.”

  “It sounds it.” We were approaching the center of the mall again, where the junior high musicians played on. “In fact, I sort of wish I had a taser right now.” She grinned. “Want to get a drink?”

  Champions, a sports bar, was overflowing with champions deeply in need of a break from shopping. The TVs over the bar and on the walls were tuned to various games, and the customers’ loud conversations competed with the piped-in music—mercifully ’90s hip-hop and not Christmas songs. We waited until two seats opened at the bar and wedged ourselves in. We ordered beer and a plate of nachos from a woman who had mastered the art of graceful multitasking. The beers were soon in front of us in frosted mugs.

  “I actually watched a guy get tased once,” I said.

  “Are you still being Nora?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Okay. Tell me.”

  I hadn’t told this story in a long time. “A guy shoved his hand down my pants at a bachelor party. I told him he was an asshole and he hit me in the face. So I called the cops, and the guy got belligerent with the officer and ended up on the ground.”

  “Serves him right,” Ellen said with more than a hint of bitterness, and I wondered if maybe I shouldn’t have told that story. Why would I launch right into a depressing story like that? We had been having fun.

  Making and keeping friends: not my forte.

  “A guy hit me, too,” Ellen said.

  “At a poker game?”

  “In my bedroom.”

  “Was it a break-in?” I asked.

  She held my gaze a moment. “He was my boyfriend. Eight years.” She drank from her beer. “But he only hit me for the last six. We were sort of engaged.”

  I sipped my drink and tried to figure out what the hell to say. “What happened to him?”

  Ellen eyed me as if I were born this morning. “What happened to him? Jesus. Nothing happened to him. Nothing ever happens to anyone.” She shook her head. “Fuck.”

  Only minutes earlier we were having a good time. Amazing, I thought, how quickly an evening can turn dark. Ah, the holidays.

  At a table across the restaurant, some men and women were laughing up a storm. They probably weren’t even trying to be funny. When their laughter died down, one of the women kept cackling. It was the kind of cackle you could hear a mile away.

  “What are you doing for Christmas?” I asked Ellen.

  “Going to my brother’s.”

  “You have a brother?” I didn’t know why this should surprise me, her offhand mention of family.

  “He lives in Yardley. Wife, kids, the whole deal. He’s a teacher, too. High school math. They always invite me over for Christmas brunch. It’s nice.”

  “And these kids, they’re real? Or are they the kind you show photos of at card games?”

  Her expression was becoming more familiar to me. It meant I should have pieced something together but hadn’t. “Those
kids are the card-game kids,” she said. “It’s why the pictures are in my phone. That’s the only time I ever do magic tricks, by the way. For the nephews.”

  I thought about my own plans for Christmas day: practicing the Greek deal. Calling my mother. Joy to the world.

  “How late do you stay there?” I asked.

  “Most of the day. Why?”

  I told her about my Christmas evening tradition, going on five years: pizza delivery and The Sting on DVD.

  “One of my favorites,” she said.

  “I know the poker scene isn’t very realistic,” I said, “but I don’t care. It’s just fun to watch. If you aren’t doing anything later in the day, you should come over.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “I’d like that.” She brushed the hair out of her eyes. “But are you sure you wouldn’t rather watch Thelma and Louise? I know what a feel-good movie you think it is.”

  I told her I was rescinding the invitation.

  “Or maybe Sophie’s Choice? That’s a fun one.”

  After the nachos arrived, and once the bartender had placed second rounds of beer in front of us and walked away, Ellen said, “I’m sorry a guy did that to you at a gig.”

  “I’m sorry about your boyfriend,” I said. “That must have really sucked.”

  “Sucks doesn’t begin to describe it, Natalie.” She took a long drink from her beer. “But thanks for saying it.”

  We ate and watched the crowd, all these people who’d taken a time-out from the bustle of the holidays to be with their friends. I felt almost like one of them.

  J

  On Christmas morning, I decided to wait until noon to call my mother since Reno was three hours behind. But at 11:30 she beat me to it.

  When my phone started vibrating, I was doing something highly unusual. I was sliding a tray of cookies into the oven. Not the prefab kind, either, but the kind where you add eggs and flour and sugar and eye-popping amounts of butter. I figured cookies would make the apartment smell festive.

  “Merry Christmas,” I said into the phone. “I just put cookies in the oven.”