The Ambitious Card (An Eli Marks Mystery) Read Free Page A

sentence as he began to drop the cards in a slow shower from his right hand, which hovered about eight inches above his left. “Say stop wherever you like.”
    “Stop,” I said, trying my best to put a modicum of interest into my voice.
    He stopped dropping cards from one hand to the other and indicated that I should put the card on top of the messy stack in his left hand. I did and he then continued to drop the cards in a painfully slow and awkward manner until all of the cards were in his left hand. He struggled to square the cards again as he said, in an overly practiced manner, “Now to keep things fair, I’ll cut the cards.”
    Pete executed a sloppy cut, followed by a second, even sloppier one. I looked up at Lauren, who was watching with a look of sick fascination on her face. I looked back at Pete, who was attempting to roll the top card off the deck with an awkward thumb and finger flip combination. It was obscene.
    “And here’s your card, right?” he asked hopefully, offering the top card for our inspection.
    Both Lauren and I shook our heads silently. “Really?” We nodded sadly as Lauren unsnapped the clasp on the make-up bib and pulled it off of me.
    Pete began to sort through the cards, trying to trace his fatal misstep. “I think I screwed up the cut,” he said.
    “I think you did,” I said as I stood up. I turned to Lauren. “Are you done with me?”
    She smiled. “Have a good show.”
    “Thanks.”
    “And keep an open mind.” She gave me a quick smile and turned back to her makeup kit, repacking materials and getting ready for her next victim.
    I clapped Pete on the shoulder and turned him toward the archway that led to the foyer. “Come on, Houdini. You can watch the show with me.”
    “I must have screwed up the cut,” he repeated as we headed out of one cavern and into another.

      
    “Excuse me. They said up front that Mr. Marks could be found back there? Did you happen to see him?” The question was tossed at us by a costumed character who looked a whole lot like the Mad Hatter without the hat. The eccentric character tossed his question over his shoulder as he marched purposefully past us.
    Pete and I were headed back through the foyer toward the main room, where the last of the crowd was taking their seats.
    The fellow with the question wore a rich purple tailcoat and colorful plaid pants cut in a style popular back in the late 1970s. This ensemble was accessorized with a paisley silk scarf tied snugly around his neck. He was tall, thin, and long-legged, with an angular face and wild hair that must have been tinted at some point in the past, as I could detect a trace of blue in it as he moved past us.
    “If you’re looking for Mr. Marks, that’s me,” I said.
    He stopped in his tracks about ten feet from us and turned, tilting his head to one side curiously. “Interesting,” he said in what was either a British accent or a deep-seated affectation. “I don’t know why, but for some reason, I expected you to be much older.”
    “I was,” I said. “I mean, my uncle Harry was going to do this show when they booked it last summer. But I’m filling in for him.” I stepped forward and put out my hand. “I’m Eli Marks.”
    He returned the handshake like a man new to the concept but certainly enthusiastic about it.
    “Clive Albans,” he said, almost bowing. “I was hoping I would have a chance to speak with you, either this evening or at some later point, for an article I’m doing for the London Times .”
    “Sure,” I said. “What’s the article about?”
    “I’m doing an exposé on charlatan psychics and mentalists. Frauds, fakers, freaks, that sort of thing. My understanding was that you, actually, your uncle, is a bit legendary in the field of debunking. I’d love to include the perspective of the professional debunker, if I could.”
    I bit my tongue, deciding I would correct him on the use of that term during the actual interview. “Sure,” I said.