Action Men with Duct Tape, Serial, Part 1

This is a Jack Donegal Mystery, in the same series with Action Men with Silly Putty and Action Men and the Great Zarelda.

Part 1

“So, what do you think, Uncle Andy?” Bronwyn Byrne, my “niece” only by my close brotherly association with her actual Uncle Jack, stepped out of the dressing room, held her arms out and twirled around.

I sighed, expressing relief. “Ah. It's fine.” I'd seen plenty of “Nos” on this shopping trip – the skintight leggings, the too-short skirts, some darkly themed band T-shirts of questionable taste. The outfit she was wearing with the pink shirt bedecked with cupcakes and sprinkles was something to which I could say “Yes.” This was how little girls should look, all pink with cotton candy and unicorns and glitter.

“It's fine? Just fine?” She drooped her arms down to her sides.

Somehow, the girl had translated “fine” as “barely passable.” “Yeah … right. I mean it's … cute.”

“It's cute?” She groaned. “In other words, I look like I'm seven.”

“Nah. Nah. You look your age. You look like a cute ...” I was not good at this. I've never been a dad, and here I was acting in the role of one. I was out of my element, standing here with my arms loaded with pastel-colored shopping bags, not to mention Bronwyn's little purse, covered in emojis, dangling from my elbow … not exactly the manliest of accessories.

“Where's Uncle Jack?”

That was a very good question. Why couldn't Jack be here to handle these delicate girly issues with his own niece? “He got an important phone call on his cell about the event tomorrow, so he went to look for a quiet place to talk.”

I turned myself around, Bronwyn's little purse swinging like a flag in tribute to my manliness. I spotted a boy, around 12, skulking in a corner behind a clothes rack with his Nintendo DS, probably the unfortunate brother of a shopper in this girly store. “Hey kid,” I said. “Come here.”

He looked up and lifted an eyebrow.

“I need a man's opinion.” This seemed to get his attention. I hoped Bronwyn would appreciate the opinion of a boy her age. She was already starting to notice members of the opposite sex.

When the kid approached, I put my hands on his shoulders and pointed him in Bronwyn's direction. “See there? That's my niece. Her outfit shows good taste, right? It's cool, hip, da bomb … Is da bomb still a phrase?”

“Uh … That would be a no,” said the kid. I noticed he refrained from rolling his eyes at me … unlike Bronwyn.

“Well,” I said. “The outfit. She needs some affirmation. She looks good, right?”

The kid was now giving me a nervous side eye. “Uh … yes?” The boy either had a young person's habit of ending every phrase as a question or he was terrified of disagreeing with me. He shrugged a single shoulder. “Sure. Whatevs. It's cool … for her.” He said this as if he wanted me to be sure he wouldn't wear it himself.

A little while later, I met Bronwyn in her regular clothes, the trial outfit draped over her arm. She spoke to me through her teeth. “Can you get any more embarrassing?”

“Uh … do you really want to know the answer to that question?”

“Probably not.” Her comment was accompanied by another eye roll.

“So, you're not taking it?” I asked, pointing to the pile on her arm.

“No, I'm taking it,” she said.

Moments later, we were hitting the halls of the mall, and I was relieved of half of the baggage. Walking along the halls and the crowd, a thought came to me. Maybe the thought came to me out of boredom from shopping at Girly Outfitters and Forever 13 or maybe my blood sugar was dropping and addled my brain. My nose was picking up aromas of Cinnabon and freshly baked cookies, but, up to this moment, I had refrained from indulging. I decided this was a good time to hone her self defense skills.

I steered Bronwyn away from the main mall traffic. “Hey,” I said. “Check out the mannequins.” I directed her towards a side entryway, sandwiched between Old Navy and another tween girl's paradise. The mannequins in the window display were set up like a step by step dance tutorial. I was beginning to think like Jack, imagining photos from the line-up, left to right, put together into an action flipbook.

Bronwyn stood mesmerized, and then came the sneak attack. I slinked up behind her and seized her around the middle, pinning her arms. “Now, suppose I'm a bad guy,” I said, “what do you do now?” We'd gone through this exercise a few times back at our apartment. This was the first time I'd attempted it in public. Looking to my left and spying a mall cop giving me the stare down, I surmised it was probably my last time doing this in public.

Mr. Mall Cop Guy was glaring at me as if I were Ted Bundy. “I'm her uncle,” I said, loosening my grip on Bronwyn's waist. Biologically speaking, this wasn't the strict truth, but, emotionally speaking, it was. “I was impersonating a bad guy and – apparently – doing too good a job of it.”

Mr. Mall Cop Guy looked from me to Bronwyn and back again, perhaps looking for a sign that she was okay or that I was telling the truth. I pointed to him. “You, Sir, are doing an excellent job of protecting young girls from creeps like me … well, no, not literally creeps like me … creeps like the bad guy I was impersonating. I, for one, salute you.”

I put out my arm for a fist bump, and he took a couple of steps back.

“Aw, c'mon. I didn't swing at you. If I wanted to swing at you, I'd do a better job than that.” This was my day to stick my foot in my mouth over and over again. I was going to have to head over to Starbucks for one of those frappuccino things to wash out the taste of foot. “Not that I'm in the habit of taking a swing at fine upstanding security personnel.”

Bronwyn reached over and gave me a squeeze around the middle. “Uncle Andy is completely harmless,” she told Mr. Mall Cop Guy.

“I am not completely harmless ...” Just like Bronwyn had understood “cute” as babyish, I understood “harmless” as milquetoast. Then, I looked at Mr. Mall Cop Guy and thought I'd better change my phraseology. “Except to kids. I'm harmless to kids.” I gave Bronwyn a firm pat between the shoulder blades and rubbed my knuckles into her scalp.

Mr. Mall Cop Guy shrugged and shook his head in a way that made me think he was still assured that I was a weirdo but just of the “harmless” variety.

To Be Continued ... 

© 2018 Susan Joy Clark

Action Men and the Great Zarelda (Part 11)

Continued from Parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9 and 10 ...

Recap from previous episodes ...

 Andy thought he could act as Zarelda's magician's assistant and investigate into her side activities at the same time. Just as he discovers something possibly incriminating, he goes through with their first show. At the finale of the show, just after the vanishing trick, he remembers smells something chemical before losing consciousness. Andy wakes up locked in Zarelda the magician's sword trick box in the theater's storage room.

Part 11 

I don't know if I was under the spell of Stockholm Syndrome or not, but I felt almost relieved when Zarelda came into view. I could hear her shoes clicking against the floor as she approached. She sat down on something – whether on a box or a chair, I'm not sure – and situated herself near my face. She hovered her face over mine so that she could look me in the eye. Her hair draped down and tickled my neck. “Hello darling.” She slid her hand down my cheek and jaw in a way that was surprisingly tender, considering the fact that I was her prisoner.

I wish I could say that I was totally unaffected by her manipulative ways, but my mind, or maybe my body, was doing strange things to me. It's true that I didn't have the same feelings for her that I had when I first spotted her, a beautiful woman on a plane. The fact that she had kidnapped me and might possibly kill me had put a damper on things. Even so, my hormones had a mind of their own.

“So,” I said, trying to keep my voice from squeaking. “I suppose this is just practice for one of your tricks?”

“Tricks? You know all about tricks, don't you, darling? I thought I could trust you, but you're full of tricks, aren't you?”

Her hand still rested on my cheek, and her fingertips caressed me. What a way to confuse a guy.

“I found your phone,” she said. “I know you know my secret. I know you've been telling your friend, Jack, about my little … side business.”

Was Jack in trouble now?, I wondered. “It's okay,” I told her. “You don't need to worry. I won't get you in trouble. I'll be a good boy. I'll do anything you like. I'd do anything for you. I'll travel with you to Brazil and hide a whole pandemonium of parrots in my gaucho pants …” I paused. A gaucho was a Latin cowboy, I knew, but now that I'd blurted out that statement, I wasn't one hundred percent certain that gaucho pants were menswear. “... I mean in my chaps. We could be the Bonnie and Clyde of animal smuggling.”

She smiled at me in a peculiar way, perhaps derisively. “No, darling. You are a good boy. I know you, Andrew.” She slid her fingers through my hair. “You are someone who likes to obey the rules. I like to break them.”

She stood up suddenly and walked away. When she returned, she hovered an object over my face, a sword, the kind I supposed were used with the sword box in which I was trapped. “Beautiful bit of workmanship, isn't it?” she asked.

“Yes,” I answered, trying to keep my voice steady. The grip of the sword was a spiral twist of reddish cherry wood. The pommel at the end was a rose worked in gold. The guard similarly was a rose worked in gold with a gold leaf protruding from either side. I took all this in, while wondering what this unpredictable woman planned to do with this dangerous item.

She touched my face again, her hands on either cheek, and her hands felt cold and wet. It took me a moment to realize that she was applying shaving cream to my face, which she then proceeded to work into a lather.

“What? What are you doing?” I asked. “Do you always give your victims a nice shave before you … before you kill them?”

Zarelda didn't directly answer my question. She continued to massage my face with lather. This had to be, by far, my most bizarre experience “This sword was a gift, as were the others, from my father, when I first began my career as a magician.”

She held my head and face, pulling my skin taut, with her left hand, while she touched the sword edge to my face with the right hand. She was shaving me with the rose-hilted sword. “You see. It gives a nice close shave,” she said. “This is the real McCoy. You, my friend, might be in the toy business, but this is not a toy. It's not merely a prop either. People often wonder if I use real swords in my act.” She slid the sword's edge along my cheek, my jaw and throat. I didn't answer her. I was afraid to even twitch. At any moment, I wasn't sure if she was going to groom me or slit my nicely available throat. I suddenly realized I was bracing my hands against the top of the box.

Just as suddenly, she was done, and to my great relief, she set the sword down somewhere beyond my line of vision. I started to breathe a little harder, feeling my chest rise and fall, as if I'd forgotten to breathe in the past minute or two.

Zarelda leaned over me once again and, inexplicably and confusingly, put her lips to mine and gave me a rather long kiss. A sensation that was part thrill, part chill traveled down my body. It didn't feel so terrible … stupid hormones … traitors! “Listen carefully, Andrew,” she said. “I will do anything, anything to avoid going to jail. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” I said. My voice came out weak and breathy. Under my current circumstances, I felt practically emasculated. I suppose she knew it and liked it that way.

“Good.” She stood up and lifted the sword once more in a way I didn't like, hefting it high in the air, point down. She stepped away from my face and moved further down the length of the box and of me. With sudden force, she plunged the sword down through the top of the box and between my open legs. I wasn't hurt. I wasn't even nicked, but the sword came within what seemed like centimeters to a very sensitive bit of my anatomy.

From my current perspective, I couldn't really tell how close the sword was to touching me, but I sensed it, and it caused me to hold my body in a kind of permanent flinch. After just a few seconds of this, I felt searing pain through my sore back. My eyes teared up from the pain, and I couldn't even wipe away the evidence of my weakness. My agony was beginning to feel psychological in nature.

She walked away then, leaving me alone, the sword still in its place. I heard rattling, and I realized after a while that it was my body trembling inside the box.

“Dangle Schnot and Boogers,” I muttered under my breath, and then, quoting Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, “You wicked old witch.” After that, I might have said something that rhymes with witch. Where was Dorothy with her bucket of water to throw on this evil creature?

I thought of The Princess Bride's Wesley in the pain machine, after his torturer calmly asks, “So, tell me how do you feel, and remember, this is for posterity, so be honest.” All Wesley could do at that moment was whine and cry, to which his torturer replies with a deadpan, “Interesting.” Feeling some sort of kinship with Wesley almost lightened my mood … almost that is.

I told myself to calm down. This emotion wasn't helping my case at all. Zarelda was out of sight. I could remove my shirt altogether – not an easy task in this confined space – yes, pull off the dangle-schnotted zipper pull, remove a button from the shirt cuff, attach the zipper pull there with the remaining thread, poke the sleeve out through a sword hole and pick the lock, with my fingers reaching out through a sword hole below it. Yes, there was a possibility that Zarelda would return to find me semi-naked, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Anything was better than passively waiting in my prison for whatever came next.

To be continued ...  

© 2017 Susan Joy Clark

Action Men and the Great Zarelda (Part 10)

I know it's been a while since I've posted an episode, so here's a little recap. If you're new to this, you may want to start at the beginning. Continued from Parts 1,2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, and 9. 

From the previous episode ... 

There was nothing particularly menacing about Zarelda that night. She seemed charming, delightful, a flirt with the audience, and yet I couldn't push away a certain foreboding sense of premonition as the evening wore on. I looked out sometimes at the audience and wished I could discreetly signal Jack about my sense of unease. I could pull on my ear lobe like Carol Burnett, but what would that possibly accomplish? I could signal like baseball players, only we hadn't established any such system of communication, and my sense of self-dignity was too great to make myself quite that foolish looking, tapping and pulling at random parts of myself. I had read once about a hostage blinking SOS in Morse code on TV. Would Jack pick up that signal or would it simply look like I was having an episode of petit mal epilepsy? Really, the performance and my role in it took up so much of my concentration that I was unable to sufficiently come up with a plan that actually made sense, and I really had no idea what I was expecting anyway.

I successfully maneuvered my way out the escape hatch of the vanishing box for our final act. Zarelda joined me in this private space behind the contraption briefly before she would appear in my place. It wasn't until she reached her hand up to my shoulder and then my face almost tenderly that I caught a whiff of a chemical smell, and everything went black.

 To be continued ...

I woke up and, before even opening my eyes, reached my right hand out as if to touch my nightstand and alarm clock. It didn't touch a nightstand but, instead, a sort of wooden wall. I jerked, and my left hand also sprung out, hitting a wall. As I jerked and moved, I was surprised at how sore my back was and for no reason I could recall. What had I done to myself? Had I finally allowed the guys to convince me to go bungee jumping?

I opened my eyes. Overhead, instead of my bedroom light fixture, giant papier-mâché tragedy and comedy masks glared at me. I knew now where I was, in the prop storage room at Zarelda's theater, and in one of her coffin-like boxes. Happily, my head was not enclosed. Looking up – and I really had not much of an alternative but to look up – I tried to decide whether my current dilemma was more comic or tragic and if either of those masks were mocking me.

I felt along the inside of my prison with my fingers and felt intermittent holes in the sides. I knew now that I was in the sword box for the sword trick, a trick we had never performed together or practiced. How did it work? There had to be a false bottom to the box. I felt along the bottom, but I couldn't discern any secret compartment. My hands were free, so that was to my advantage, but when I jerked my feet, they were fastened fast.

Looking to the ceiling again, I saw an opened stage trapdoor. This, perhaps, explained part of my present dilemma, how I had an abrupt exit from the stage to my current creepy situation. I recalled the last moments I could remember before blacking out, Zarelda's hand near my face and a chemical smell. Had I been positioned directly over the trapdoor while I was on the stage for our final trick? Did my subconscious know in order to give me premonitions?

Just below the stage trapdoor, I could make out the beginnings of something blue and red and plastic-looking. I imagined it was part of one of those inflatable rentals, some sort of bouncy playground inflatable. It might have been the start of a slide I was seeing. Had this contraption cushioned my fall? My back was sore, but nothing seemed to be broken. How thoughtful of Zarelda. She had drugged me and locked me in her magical prop box, but she hadn't crippled or maimed me. I wasn't sure this was entirely reassuring. I was still in a coffin-like box, and I hadn't yet explored how secure my trap was or wasn't.

How had she managed to get me from where I had landed into this box? I'd have to be carried. John? Kumar? The two of them put together? Those two thin as fettuccine guys? I supposed so, although they hardly seemed capable of hefting my dead weight. They must be like worker ants. I remembered seeing a troop of ants carrying a dead frog like a procession of islanders with a roast pig.

Remembering the chemical smell just before I lost all memory and, apparently consciousness, I wondered how much chloroform or drugs were in my system. I felt completely normal, not like that time after getting my wisdom teeth removed, when I was singing “I'm Bringing Home a Baby Bumble Bee” on the drive home and talking about living on the planet Rupert and, apparently, quoting the entire parrot routine from Monty Python.

I moved my hands, flexing my fingers in and out. I couldn't move my feet, at least not much. They seemed to be in handcuffs or whatever handcuffs are called when they are around your ankles. What's more, they seemed to be chained to the foot end of the box. As I flexed my insteps up and down, my heart started beating a little faster, and I could feel my shoulder blades rattle against the bottom of my prison.

My hands were free thankfully, although I was not sure what good they would do me in freeing myself. I was an extremely amateur magician's assistant, not an escape artist. I felt along the sides of the box. There had to be a lock here. I hoped it was a combination lock, even though I'm no Houdini or James Bond, either one. There still seemed to be more potential in breaking open a combination lock than some other sort of lock.

I found the lock on the side of the box to my right. It felt solid, with no dials or moving parts with which to play. How would I break myself free? With my bare hands? My fist? I imagined myself breaking my knuckles. Where was my Swiss army knife?

My heart sped up with a surge of hope, but when I felt for my pocket, I remembered what I was wearing or what I had been wearing before passing out. I was still in the stupid glitzy tuxedo, sans the jacket. I'm not sure if the jacket was removed for my comfort or because Zarelda wanted to protect the costume in which she'd invested. I didn't have any useful tool in my pocket – no Swiss army knife, no cell phone, no car keys, no anything. Where was McGyver when you needed him?

“Dangle Schnot!” Dangle Schnot? What in the world? Jack was having such an influence on me that, even alone, I was coming up with bizarre and kooky euphemisms for curse words. I hardly knew what I was saying. I might as well be speaking in tongues.

I wished Jack were here. If he found himself in my position, he'd find a way out. I was sure of it. He'd remove a button from his shirt, attach it to a string or a strip of fabric, poke it out through one of the sword holes and pick the lock open. Would that work? A shirt button couldn't do much with the lock's keyhole. I needed something longer and stronger … like maybe a zipper pull. I thought about that. I didn't think I really wanted Zarelda to discover me sans zipper. I felt humbled and vulnerable enough as it was. I started to feel overheated and headachey, my heart pounding. I had to calm down.

A new thought of a less than comforting nature intruded. What if I felt the call of nature and had to, er, use the facilities, what then? Would Zarelda be reasonable enough to let me out long enough to do my business? I had been semi-kidnapped before and had gotten away from my captor temporarily by this means. Somehow, I doubted Zarelda would extend this mercy in my current predicament. She had the upper hand now, and she knew it. She wouldn't put herself in a position for the situation to potentially reverse. I just wouldn't think about it. That's all.

I wouldn't think about vacationing at Niagara Falls or at Yellowstone National Park watching Old Faithful. I wouldn't think about the dishes at home at the condo that needed washing or giving George the beagle his much-needed bath. I wouldn't think about water at all.

In spite of telling myself to remain calm, I was beginning to feel agitated and stressed. My forehead was beading up with sweat, and I couldn't even wipe it. I would go to my happy place. I imagined myself at the beach somewhere beautiful, on the pink sands of the Bahamas perhaps, underneath a giant old beach umbrella with a 30 SPF sunscreen at my side … and the waves crashing to the shore. Maybe I needed a new happy place.

I thought of our recent business trip to Texas and imagined myself the hero of a Zane Grey or Louis L'Amour western, riding a galloping horse, completely free, the wind whipping through my hair … What was it with my subconscious and York Peppermint Patties?

It was at this point that I engaged in a strange activity for an agnostic. I started to pray. I didn't speak my prayer aloud. Jack would say that was unnecessary. I mentally composed my prayer. “Okay. I don't normally do this. I don't know if You're real, and even assuming that You are, whether or not you care. But if You can get me out of this … I promise … I promise to go back to church with Jack … at least one more time. Maybe I haven't thought about this enough.”

Go back to church one more time? Was this seriously the best I could do? If someone saves your life, shouldn't you be prepared to offer them a lifetime of service? I added a postscript. “I'm sorry if that's a pathetic offer. I'm afraid to promise something I can't … or won't keep. I'd like to stick a toe in the water before I take the plunge.” I didn't even add an “Amen” at the end. I just hung up the line, assuming there was a line.

I tried to let my mind gradually slip back to a happy place. Strangely, sexy women sitting next to me on airplanes had nothing to do with my happy place. I thought of George, that crazy beagle that could be such a bother but knew to give you a cuddle when you were sick or sad or out of sorts. I thought of Jack, my quirky, sometimes annoying friend, who would lay down his life for me, who would come to me rescue now if he knew I needed him. I thought about Jack's niece and nephew, Bronwyn and Declan, who had adopted me as their Uncle Andy, sitting with them in a homemade blanket fort, eating circus peanuts and popcorn and watching animated movies, testing out all our pre-production toys on them. I thought of Janie Duveau at the Salvador Deli. When I got out of here, if I got out of here, I would hug her and call her a ferret-nosed flibbertigibbet. She'd like that one, and I would eagerly anticipate her comeback.

To be continued ...

© 2017 Susan Joy Clark

Action Men and the Great Zarelda, Part 9

Continued from Parts 1,2,3,4,5,6,7, and 8...

My opportunity to slyly rescue the iPhone or any of the other items from the box prior to the performance never came. Zarelda and Kumar kept at their station near it until the last possible moment, and then there was hurried instruction to prepare to go onstage.

The show went smoothly, and I think I executed my part well. There were a few surprise elements. Zarelda made several costume changes. They were so quick that I wondered if she had a costumer's equivalent of a race car pit crew backstage. One of these costumes, had she worn it on the plane in place of the red dress, I would have been adequately satisfied that there was nothing amiss with her legs. It was cut high on both sides with plenty of leg exposed. Instead of looking like a suspiciously potential smuggler of parrots, she looked like an exotic bird of paradise herself. Iridescent crystals hung in tassels down her front and, while the white gown was cut high on the sides, long feathery extensions, like exotic plumage, dangled down the center of her gown as a skirt in both the front and rear.

Midway through the show, she performed a trick I had never seen in rehearsal. I knew about this only in part, that at this point in the program, she would do a trick that didn't require my involvement. She emerged in a flamenco dress like the one in which I had first seen her, only this one was in cobalt blue. Her near-hypnotic power I had felt on first seeing her now seemed to take hold of the entire audience. She took graceful flamenco steps as she twirled and stomped down center stage, her arms arcing and twisting above her head. “You must help me with this one,” she told the audience. “Dream of Brazil. Dream of the Amazon. Dream of Brazil. Say it with me.”

It was a chant as she twirled and stomped, and the audience joined in. It took on an almost creepy tone, like a cult leader directing her flock. As she twirled, and the audience chanted, she transmogrified. I saw, perhaps, some of the special lighting effects that required Kumar's help. The cobalt skirt rippled with her movement, and as she moved, a projection of a tall waterfall was made onto her skirt, and it seemed to take on life. I was mesmerized by her. She flicked her wrist in a dainty dance-like movement, and a macaw, the very variety Jack had displayed on his cell phone so many days ago, manifested itself suddenly, resting on her hand. I noticed no secret pockets, no hidden compartments. It happened in an instant. It was magic.

From my half-hidden position at the side of the stage, I looked out to the audience. Somewhere in the midst of that crowd was Jack. What was he thinking now, a great big “I told you so?” Zarelda flicked her opposite wrist, and a second macaw roosted on her hand, and then, just as quickly again, they vanished, but where? Her voluminous skirt? It was hard to tell. It was magic, and, at that moment, I was a believer in magic like any child.

There was nothing particularly menacing about Zarelda that night. She seemed charming, delightful, a flirt with the audience, and yet I couldn't push away a certain foreboding sense of premonition as the evening wore on. I looked out sometimes at the audience and wished I could discreetly signal Jack about my sense of unease. I could pull on my ear lobe like Carol Burnett, but what would that possibly accomplish? I could signal like baseball players, only we hadn't established any such system of communication, and my sense of self-dignity was too great to make myself quite that foolish looking, tapping and pulling at random parts of myself. I had read once about a hostage blinking SOS in Morse code on TV. Would Jack pick up that signal or would it simply look like I was having an episode of petit mal epilepsy? Really, the performance and my role in it took up so much of my concentration that I was unable to sufficiently come up with a plan that actually made sense, and I really had no idea what I was expecting anyway.

I successfully maneuvered my way out the escape hatch of the vanishing box for our final act. Zarelda joined me in this private space behind the contraption briefly before she would appear in my place. It wasn't until she reached her hand up to my shoulder and then my face almost tenderly that I caught a whiff of a chemical smell, and everything went black.

 To be continued ...

&© 2016 Susan Joy Clark

Action Men and the Great Zarelda, Part 8

Continued from Parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 and 7

“Maybe the darkness will cue them to sleep?”

“I was hoping it would, but it doesn't seem to be working so far. They must have been sedated but woke up sooner than expected. I could slip them some Tylenol PM in a White Castle burger, but I don't like the idea of drugging them.” I had no idea how much sedative it would take for them to sleep or how much would be unsafe for them, and I didn't want to be responsible.

“Neither do I,” said Jack. “Maybe you should sing to them.”

“I've been singing to them. I don't think they're impressed.”

“Or maybe they'll be like human babies. The motion of the car will put them to sleep. Maybe you should sing them to sleep while you're driving.”

“I'm not sure I can sing and drive at the same time,” I said. Maybe that was just an excuse. I'd already serenaded the tigers … twice. Now I was racking my brain, trying to think up soothing-tiger-cubs-to-sleep songs, and was coming up with zilch. Maybe I was also getting nervous about my wild predicament. What was I going to do if I showed up at the theater with two wakened, active, noisy little tigers … act like Zarelda's willing accomplice?

“I have an idea,” said Jack. “I'll serenade the tigers while you drive.”

“You'll serenade them while I drive? How are you going to do that?”

“We'll use the FaceTime app. You can stick your phone in the box with the tigers. It will serve a dual purpose. It will act as a night light. Maybe, they'll be more content.”

It was a weird plan, one in a string of weird plans that Jack came up with and I went along with, but there was a little bit of sense to it. “Put the phone in the box with the tigers, huh? On one condition ...”

“On one condition? What's that?”

“That you'll replace my phone if the tigers decide to use it as a chew toy.”

There was a pause. “I guess that's a risk I'm willing to take. For the sake of the business, you need a phone upgrade anyway. Andy, somewhere in the back of a vehicle, is a box of our Buddy Bears. Take one out and toss one in with the tigers. I also have a polar fleece jacket in the back. Toss that in with the tigers to get them ready for nap time.”

I went hunting in the back of the vehicle and found the box of bears. Using a Swiss Army knife in my pocket to cut through the packing tape, I opened it up and pulled out a bear. These weren't just ordinary stuffed bears. They said friendly phrases like “Let's be friends,” “Do you need a hug?” and thirteen other sayings when squeezed in the middle. I was really hoping the tigers wouldn't be rough with it and pounce on its tummy. That really wouldn't help our case. I tossed the bear into the box, feeling just a little bit like I was tossing a gladiator to the lions.

I found a navy blue polar fleece jacket folded up in the back. “I found a polar fleece,” I said to Jack on the phone. “It's hard to believe it's yours. It looks so ordinary. Where are the cartoon ...” I unfolded it. “Oh, there they are.” The whole troop of seven dwarfs sprawled out over the back. “Are you sure you want to toss this in with the cubs? What if they go number two on it? Or number one, for that matter. Either way, they'll do a number on it.”

“It's old,” said Jack. “I guess that's also a risk I'm willing to take.”

I tossed in the polar fleece. Suddenly, I remembered a roll of duct tape we kept in the rear of the vehicle. Jack wasn't the only one with a little bit of brain. I pulled off a piece of tape, rolled it, and stuck it to the back of the phone. I then taped the phone high up on the wall of the box interior. It didn't precisely tiger-proof the phone, but maybe it, at least, made it slightly less vulnerable.

As I drove off en route to Zarelda's theater, I could hear Jack's glee club voice singing “Danny Boy.” “Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling, from glen to glen and down the mountainside...” I suppose as a freckled reddish-head with Irish heritage, I should have as much Irish pride as anyone, but leave it to Jack to know old Irish folk songs from memory. I had to admit it was slow and soothing and, after a while, I felt like I needed an espresso to keep myself awake. Somewhere between White Castle and Zarelda's theater, I heard silence in the back, hearing neither tigers or Jack's voice. Singing lullabies to tiger cubs via the FaceTime app might be one of the zanier things Jack had done in his life, but it seemed to be successful.

When I delivered the box to Zarelda, she acted very grateful. “Thank you very much, darling.” She tucked a couple of folded bills into my hand. I didn't even unfold them in her presence to see which president was on them. Now that I knew the secret of the box, I didn't really want to accept them either, except that I was playing Colonel Klink – “I know nothing!” – so I tucked them away, acting like it was a generous tip for going the extra mile. As I expected, Zarelda didn't fuss with the box or open its compartments while I was in the room with her.

I headed then to my dressing room to transform myself into Andy the magician's assistant or Andy the glitterized '70s variety show wannabe, however you wanted to look at it. As I was fastening on my cummerbund, a sickening realization came to me. My iPhone was still in the box. If Zarelda found it, she'd realize I was in the know, and she might be able to access some other information as well. The bear and the coat were in the box still too, and any of those things could be traced to me, but I was especially worried by the phone.

We had a half hour still to show time, so I headed down to the prop room. Maybe I could retrieve it before the show without disturbing the tigers and without Zarelda knowing anything of it. When I came across the box, Zarelda was right there by it and so, interestingly enough, was Kumar from the Houdini's Magic Shop.

“Kumar?”

“Hi, yeah, I sometimes come and help out with the lighting and special effects during the shows. She didn't tell you?”

We had special lighting and effects? We hadn't rehearsed any while I was involved. I shook my head and then just stood there stupidly, not knowing what my next step should be.

“What are you doing down here, darling?”

“Oh,” I said, “Just some pre-show nerves. I just thought I'd walk around and, you know, get into character.”

Kumar's eyebrows raised up. “You have to get into character?”

I looked down at my pearlized and glitterized costume. I certainly didn't feel like myself. “I have a character. Yeah, I have a character.” Unsure what more to say, I just walked away and began pacing, wandering around the room, not sure how it helped me “get into character.” Zarelda and Kumar remained at their station and yet didn't seem to be doing anything more productive than I was doing. I had a feeling we were all three watching one another on the sly.

To be continued ... 

© Susan Joy Clark 2016

Action Men and the Great Zarelda, Part 7

Continued from Parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, and 6 ...

A short while later, I saw a White Castle to my left, and I swung into the parking lot. White Castle. At least, we're in the right territory for carnivores, but how many White Castle burgers can a tiger cub eat?

I walked into the restaurant and pulled out my phone while I got into line. “Jack?”

“Yes?”

“I've got a situation.”

“What sort of situation?”

I looked at the heads and backs of the people in front of me in line. Nobody seemed interested in me or what I was saying, but I was still concerned about someone overhearing about my unique predicament. "Well, the … the order I picked up had a surprise in it.”

“Interesting.”

“Well, the box I picked up is huge. It's the size of a person. I thought it was empty at first, but it isn't.”

“And so?”

“You remember watching 'Rocky III' and seeing Rocky run the stairs of the Philadelphia Museum of Art?” I started singing. “Bum BumBum Bum … Bum Bum Buuuuum,” making a lame attempt at singing the opening notes of “Eye of the Tiger.” For someone who didn't like to sing or dance publicly, I was doing a lot of it lately.

“Sylvester Stallone was in the box?”

“Nooooo. Think, man.”

“You did say the box was the size of a person.”

I thought about the old Password game show and the Taboo board game and tried to put my gaming skills to use. What does tiger rhyme with? It rhymes with nothing, except for liger, which wasn't entirely helpful. “Tony, Daniel … Eye … What do these things have in common?” I had somehow switched the game from Taboo to Tribond, dreaming up fictional tigers.

“What do you have in common with Tony and Daniel?”

“Not you … eye,” I said. I looked ahead and saw there were still a couple of customers ahead of me.

“That's what I said, isn't it? I'm talking about you, not myself.”

This clearly wasn't working. In frustration, I said,“Who's on first? What's on second? I don't know's on third.” I paused. “Okay. Let's try this.” I tried to think of another fictional tiger that had nothing to do with either breakfast cereal or Mister Roger's Neighborhood. “Tony, Daniel, Richard Parker ...” I added the last one, remembering the odd name of the tiger in The Life of Pi. “What do these things have in common?”

“Are they college friends of yours?”

“Noooo.”

“I'm at a loss.”

“I know. I'm in line at the White Castle, because I have a couple of kids with me that I need to feed -- cubs, minus the scouts, if you get my drift.”

“Eureka!” said Jack. “Cubs. Tony the Tiger, Daniel Tiger … Who's Richard Parker?”

Eureka? What modern guy says “Eureka?” I wanted to say “You-geek-a” back to him, but I do have some restraint. “Never mind. Now the light dawns. Excuse me a moment ...” I had moved to the front of the line now. To the cashier, I said, “I'd like the Crave Case of 30. Thanks.” Would that be enough? I might want to eat too. “Make that two Crave Cases.”

The teen male cashier smiled at me. “Having a party, huh?”

“You have no idea. They're animals, these guys.”

The teen nodded at me, still smiling. “I got ya. I got ya. I have friends like that too.”

I nodded back at him, but I seriously doubted it.

After I headed back to the SUV with two bags o' burgers, I continued my conversation with Jack. “What do you think I should do? Should we involve the police? Animal Control?” Whose department was this anyway? “We look a little guilty at this point, right? And we haven't firmly pegged any sort of crime on Zarelda, although I should have a bunch of surveillance footage from the store. I scanned a bunch of spread sheets on a desk at the back, but I don't really know what I've got there.”

“We could contact our old friends Lt. Kelly and Officer Quinn? Then again, they might be a little annoyed with us. By now, it looks like we're making a habit of solving crimes, or trying to, without police involvement.” After a pause, Jack said, “I think you should just play it cool with Zarelda, act like you know nothing, bring her the package with the tigers, go through your act tonight and wait for her to incriminate herself further.”

“I'll be Colonel Klink. Got it.”

I got off the phone with Jack and turned my attention to the hungry babes. I lifted the doors over the tigers' compartment, hoping the smell of meat wouldn't drive them too wild.

Before doing anything further, I snapped a photo of the tigers and sent this photo evidence to Jack, with whom I'd just gotten off the phone, via text. I texted him. “Zarelda's illegal cargo. Cute, aren't they? You'll appreciate the placement of the mirror that tricked me into thinking the box was empty.”

I put the phone aside and held up one of the burgers in its little white box. “Okay, Eb, Ive … let me tell you something. This here is food.” I drew a line in the air around the burger. I then wiggled the fingers of my empty right hand. “This is not. Okay. I'm glad I had this little talk with you.”

I didn't really expect them to eat the buns or the pickles or the onions. I lifted off the top bun and used it to scrape off everything that wasn't meat into the white carton then took both bun halves and tucked them away into the carton like the neatnik that I am. The little burger I pinched in my fingers and flung like it was a miniature Frisbee into the compartment. It was gone in an instant. This really was a magic box where things magically disappeared. I repeated the process and flung more meat Frisbees to the tigers. I sang, this time with only Eb and Ive as my audience, “Hold the pickles, hold the lettuce. Special orders don't upset us,” remembering the retro Burger King jingle. I kept the burger saucers flying. “I know. Wrong fast food chain … not that you guys would know the difference.” Technically, there was no lettuce, but I couldn't make onion rhyme with “upset us.” I went through one bag's supply of burgers but decided to keep the second bag in reserve. Then, though I hated to do it, I shut them up in darkness again, and, again, they cried. “Give me a break, guys,” I told them. “What options do I have?”

Situating myself so I could drive again, a new question came to mind. How would I get Eb and Ive over to the theater and play innocent like Colonel Klink when the tigers were awake and active and crying? I called Jack again. “We've got to get these tigers to sleep again. I can't act like I'm innocent and don't know what's going on when the tigers are obviously awake and crying!”

To be continued ...

© 2016 Susan Joy Clark

Action Men and the Great Zarelda, Part 6

Continued from Parts 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5 ...

The two guys wheeled the box out on a dolly through the back door while I, unable to squeeze through the “pasta press,” went out the front door and met them in the parking lot in the rear. Together we put the box into the SUV, an Out of the Box Toys company vehicle.

“Do I need to sign anything?” I asked. “Do I get a receipt?”

“We've emailed the receipt to Zarelda,” said John.

With the box secured in the back, I got in the driver's seat and started to drive towards Zarelda's theater. I began flipping through the Sirius radio stations: '50s, '60s, '70s, '80s … What decade did I want to listen to? Or did I want to listen to all Neil Diamond all the time or all Elvis all the time? Well, Elvis couldn't be so bad. He was the King after all.

It was one of his gospel songs that came on, a strange pick for me as an agnostic. “I don't know just where I'd be if the Lord wasn't walking by my side ...” It had a fun rhythm, and I didn't change the channel. Was the Lord walking by my side? Jack would say, not so much that He was, in my case, but that He would be if I let Him. “When I was drifting (I was drifting on a sea of despair,) and I was wondering (I was wondering if Jehovah's up there ...)” Well, that was true enough. Maybe it wasn't such a strange song pick for an agnostic.

I drove down Newark's Broadway, past a lot of small storefronts, some with security steel curtains rolled down, their business names spelled out on awnings.

“When Jesus found me …” Scratch. “(When Jesus found me in my sinful life...)” Scratch Scratch.

What was with the scratches? What sort of old recording was used for this song? An old vinyl record full of crackles and pops? Weren't there ways of reducing these kinds of noises on old recordings?

I turned the radio off. Scratch. Scratch.

“Oh great,” I said aloud. The noise was coming from the car. What was it? My brakes? One of the tires?

I pulled the car over to the curb and parked and turned the car off.

Scratch Scratch. I was still hearing these noises with the car parked and no longer running. And then there were more noises, bigger noises, like thumping. It was all very unnerving.

I got out of the car and walked over to the sidewalk side, a little nervous to be walking about in this neighborhood which was much more crime prone than my hometown.

Parrots! It's got to be parrots! But that box was empty! I resisted the urge to talk to myself aloud and give passers-by the vibe that I belonged in Bellevue.

I opened the back of the SUV and looked at the magic prop box. There were two swinging doors on the top side of the box over the chamber that John and Kumar had shown me was empty. I swung these open.

“Woah!” I said as I bent over and looked inside. “You guys are not parrots.”

I was looking down at two tiger cubs, neither of which was your typical black and orange tiger. One was albino, and the other was nearly all black. They were cubs, cute little guys really, but already bigger than any house cat. They were attached to oxygen – how thoughtful! – but the white cub seemed to find this plastic attachment to his nose annoying and was swiping his paw at the tubing and crying, sounding very much like a human baby.

“Somehow,” I told the tigers, “when I imagined becoming a father, it played out differently in my mind.”

I wanted to help the little guy, but I was afraid he'd mistake my hand for a steak. I could see now how this compartment had appeared empty to me just a little bit earlier. The tigers were behind an angled mirror. The mirror was positioned in such a way to make the compartment from my earlier perspective look empty.

“I think I'll name you Ebony and Ivory.” I had gotten carried away with myself. I had no right to these tigers, never mind naming them. I thought of the '80s song by Stevie Wonder and Sir Paul McCartney and started to sing, “Ebonyand ivory, live together in perfect harmony, side by side on my piano keyboard. Oh Lord, why can't we?” But since every song I sing comes out like a monotone
“one note samba,” I wasn't sure this was the best strategy for persuading them not to eat me.

I was admiring this symbolic microcosm of racial harmony when a man of the ebony sort, with bundled dreadlocks hanging down his back, walked past me on the sidewalk. I looked up, and he looked back over his shoulder at me, and we made eye contact. “Hey brother, you can't sing,” he said.

“I know.”

He smiled. “But I like your spirit. That really touched me … right here.” He tapped the center of his chest. He started to walk towards me, and I began to get nervous. Oh boy. Here it comes. He is going to hug me. He was a hugger, not a mugger. It was I who was the criminal, at least by appearances, with a car full of hot tigers, for Pete's sake. I backed away from him slightly, trying to position myself so that I shielded my illegal cargo from his view. As smooth as I tried to be, I stumbled a bit over the uneven sidewalk.

“Hey, relax man. I'm going to hug you, not mug you.”

Almost my own exact words! I quickly shot an arm behind me and closed the top swinging doors of the box. When Mr. Random Hugger approached, I was ready with open arms. It was a beautiful moment, and I could enjoy it much better now that I knew the box was closed.

“All right, brother. Peace out.” He thumped himself in the chest twice more, gave the peace sign with his fingers, and then Mr. Random Hugger walked off into the sunset.

I got back in the driver's seat. I had hated to shut the tigers once more in darkness, but it seemed it couldn't be helped. I couldn't very well let them wander freely around the vehicle. Maybe they would take the cue and take a nap … or maybe not. Soon, I could hear them both crying from the back. Perhaps, they were hungry.

To be continued ...

© 2016 Susan Joy Clark

Action Men and the Great Zarelda, Part 5

Continued from Parts 1, 2, 3 and 4


As I entered the shop, I wore the spy glasses, carried the spy camera pen in my front shirt pocket and carried the spy coffee cup, which was, of course, empty of any actual coffee.

The young Asian man behind the counter eyed me curiously when I told him I had come to pick up an order for Zarelda. The first words he said to me were, “You're not Rodrigo.”

I wanted to ask him, “What gave it away?” “I don't look like much of a Rodrigo,” I told him. “A Quinn maybe, possibly an Erik or a Vincent.” I was thinking of the redheaded Van Gogh with the last name listed.

“So, which are you, Quinn, Erik or Vincent?”

“None of the above. I'm just Andy … Andy Westin.”

His companion behind the counter with a name tag announcing himself as Kumar, said to him, “Don't you know? He's the new Rodrigo.”

I had heard about pink or orange being the new black, but, apparently, I wasn't entitled to my own identity. I was simply “the new Rodrigo.” I didn't know if Jack's or my suspicions were founded or not, but I wanted the camera, one of them, to capture their names and faces, and although I think Jack's a genius, wasn't really sure of the quality of the images any of these cameras could capture or from what distance. I thought I could stretch out one arm with the coffee cup and the other arm with the pen, but wasn't sure how I could do that without looking like I was signaling in semaphore … with stranger objects. I pulled the pen from my pocket with my left hand, although it seemed I had no immediate use for a pen.

“Rodrigo. Yes ...” With the “yes,” I pointed the pen towards Kumar. “I've heard so much about him.” I hadn't, of course, but I was hoping these guys had and would open up.

“He was good,” said Kumar. “He'd swing his whip and hit, say, that box over there … “ He pointed to a box left of the counter. “And things would appear.”

I nodded. “And yet, as the new Rodrigo, I have no talents whatsoever.”

Kumar's partner, whose tag, I saw, identified him as John, was eying me strangely again, and I thought I should tone down the smart alec a bit … if I could help it. “Except picking up packages. I'm excellent at picking up packages.” Again, I used the pen in a pointing gesture for what might be an overly dramatic way of emphasizing the word “excellent,” this time pointing it towards John. At this rate, I would never work my way free of the strange looks he gave me.

“Come with me to the back,” he said. He led me past bookshelves full of instructional DVDs and displays with hanging trick card decks, magic wands and hats. Kumar accompanied us.

The “back” was separated from the front area with a red velvet-like curtain hung over a doorway. The song that came over the sound system just then was America's “You Can Do Magic” which seemed appropriate. The “back” seemed to be a sort of jumbled stock room filled with large boxes, cardboard shipment boxes as well as the multi-colored magic prop sort and a desk with a computer which was piled high with crooked stacks of spread sheets, paper corners pointing in all directions. It also looked like it belonged on the TV show Hoarders and was a neat freak's or a claustrophobic's nightmare. I was getting palpitations.

John and Kumar seemed to me to be at least ten to fifteen years younger than I am and were as thin as fettuccine and, apparently, just as pliable. I watched as John and then Kumar slithered their way sideways through a narrow space between the corner of the desk and a giant box the height of Jack and the width of a wardrobe. Maybe this was how they managed to be thin. They passed themselves through this pasta press every day. They really were magicians or contortionists or both.

“I can't do what you just did,” I said. “I am not liquid. I have these things called bones.” I shifted myself to the side so that I could better see over the stacks of papers into the space where they now were. I thought this might put me in a good position after all since I was so close to the desk overflowing with their business transaction records. If I could scan it with one of the three secret cameras, I could have evidence of their business, the legitimate one or, perhaps, anything a little less legitimate.

“Uh … I guess you can stay where you are for now,” said John.

I switched the coffee cup to my left hand and the pen to my right hand. “It's quite some place you've got here.” I said, moving both hands in wide circles to either side, with the pen camera sweeping over the top of the desk. I decided not to move the coffee cup in this manner over the desk, lest I should make them nervous I would spill coffee over their important papers.

The two rolled out a dolly from a space just slightly aside from my line of vision. Propped on the dolly was a large box the length of a man but a little too high and much too colorful to be quite coffin-like. I found a little stool poking out from below the desk and stood on it. It seemed a better option than standing on one of the boxes of questionable strength and vanishing into the surrounding debris. The box was painted with a galaxy design with a black background splashed with swirling clouds of purple, blue and pink and dotted with tiny points of light.

I wondered if my hand gestures were too fast for the pen camera to catch a clear image. “Walk Like an Egyptian” came on over the sound system, and an idea struck me. I turned profile, put out my hands Egyptian-style, my hands flat and pointing forward and back. “The '80s, you know … I can't resist the beat,” I said. I pulled my pen hand, the right one, forward and back in the Egyptian dance move, and afraid to go too fast, I did my own artistic slo-mo version of the '80s trend dance, which probably seemed to demonstrate I had no concept of the beat I supposedly could not resist.

I could see from the look in John's eyes I had graduated in his opinion from merely odd to borderline lunatic. “You're very right when you say you don't have that sort of talent,” he said.

“Thanks, Simon Cowell.”

Kumar turned his attention from the galaxy box to me. He folded his arms and tilted his head to one side as if thoughtfully assessing my dance skills. “I don't know. I could see him as a clown … a kind of clown dance.”

“Well, that's what I was going for, a clown dance,” I said, turning profile the other direction.

“Funny dude … in a sort of deadpan way,” said Kumar.

When “Wake Me Up Before You Go Go” came on next, I switched to a different '80s dance fad, the sprinkler, putting my right fist, clutching the pen, forward, swinging it to the right and pausing in jerky motions until I reached the side, then pulling it swiftly back to the center. John and Kumar watched my madness for a second or two more before turning their attention back to the box.

When I saw the two turn their attention once more to the box, I turned forward. I watched as they opened up two swinging doors on the top of the box over the half closest to me and opened another hatch on the side facing me. There were two compartments in the box, and, through the open hatch, I could now see the dividing panel at the halfway point. John flipped this panel like a revolving door, and when it rotated so that it was parallel to the two sides, I could clearly see there was nothing but an empty chamber behind it. So, maybe this was it. There were no magically manifesting macaws. There was just a magical illusion box with escape hatches similar to the one used in the final vanishing act, just the sort of equipment you'd expect this shop to sell to someone like Zarelda.

To be Continued ...

© 2016 Susan Joy Clark

Action Men and the Great Zarelda: Part 4

Continued from Parts 1, 2 and 3 ...

“You look like a guy in show biz,” said Jack. “You look like someone who belongs in a magic show, which is what people expect.”

“I look like I belong in a '70s variety show … and I don't even know how to get down and get funky.”

“I'm sure it will be very simple, Andy,” said Jack, suddenly tightening my tie. “All you have to do is be a prop for the illusions to be done around.”

“Do I have to burn everyone's eyes out as I do so?”

Jack lined up several items on the console table in front of me. “I've been working in the lab,” said Jack. “You have your choice of hidden camera devices, depending on the situation.”

I suddenly felt like Bond with his Q … a more flamboyant parody on Bond, either that or Batman, not the Dark Knight, but the Knight in White Satin, with his Alfred.

The first item was a paper coffee cup with a lid and cardboard cuff, the kind that we would pick up at the Salvador Deli. Jack showed me where the miniscule hole was for the camera and how to further conceal it by the placement of my hand on the cup, as well as turning the camera on and off. “You can spy on Zarelda or anyone else while seeming to take part in an all-American past-time.”

Jack then demonstrated a secret camera in a classy pen. “You can use this while writing, pointing and gesturing, or it can just film the goings-on from your shirt pocket.”

I didn't exactly have a shirt pocket available in my current couture, but the upcoming rehearsal would not be a dress one.

The final item was a pair of glasses with dark plastic earpieces and a thin dark plastic frame on the top side of the lenses.

“I wear contacts,” I said. “She's never seen me wear glasses.”

“You can claim to have lost one,” said Jack. “This here is a screw.” Jack pointed to a small screw on the thick plastic end of the right earpiece that was facing front. “But this … “ He pointed out the parallel position on the opposite side, “is a hidden camera, which can be switched on and off here.” He indicated a small button on the inside of the earpiece.

“Okay then.” I said, sighing. “Here goes.”

That night I went, costume-less, to the rehearsal with Zarelda, with a lightweight drawstring backpack that held my spygear. Jack was partly right. My role as a magician's assistant wasn't utterly brainless. I didn't feel like the male counterpart of Vanna White. I did have to think about where to stand and position myself and find hidden compartments, but I was more comfortable with the idea of concealing or partially concealing myself than breaking out into a song and dance routine on center stage.

The vanishing trick for the show's finale involved me escaping through a secret hatch in the back of the box and merely hiding behind the contraption. Zarelda assured me the audience would be awed when I disappeared and she magically appeared in my place.

After rehearsal, Zarelda accompanied me as we both moved some things to a basement prop storage room. The mysterious area seemed part fun house and part medieval torture chamber, with mirrors and brightly-colored sorts of boxes crafted and painted like gypsy wagons on the one hand and swords, knives and assorted weaponry – whether genuine or faux I couldn't be sure – on the other.

Standing by the steps we had just descended, I noticed a couple of braided leather bullwhips which were coiled and hanging on the wall and thought briefly of my mission. “Why do you have whips? Do you ever use those on … on animals?” I had conjured up an image of an old-fashioned circus lion tamer. I put on my spyglasses. It seemed like a natural moment to do so, as if I needed them for distance vision.

“On animals, darling?” Zarelda stood along the wall below the items of my interest.

I wasn't sure if I alone had earned the title of “darling” or if that was how she addressed all men. Even thinking it was more likely the latter, I rather liked it. She pulled one of the whips from the wall, and I felt a cold tingle down my spine. She suddenly seemed unpredictable.

“These belong to Rodrigo, darling.”

“Rodrigo?” The creepy feeling hadn't quite left me, and I almost wanted to brace myself against a ninja-like attack from the mysterious Rodrigo who might manifest himself from one of the surrounding props.

“Rodrigo, my former assistant.”

“The one you fired.”

“Yes, darling.” Suddenly, she put the whip through a lot of energetic gyrations, making rhythmic sounds as the whip hit the floor. “Rodrigo incorporated a bit of malambo into the act, an Argentinian gaucho dance, and he used the whip like so. I don't know how to do it like he did. It's not a dance for ladies. It's a gaucho dance.”

Rodrigo, apparently, had some performance art skills, and yet I was hired to replace him almost on an impulse, and I had no talents at all … at least none that translated to the stage. More questions raised themselves in my mind, but I did not know how to ask them without raising her suspicions, so I didn't pursue anything further.

Several days later, on the day of my showtime debut as her assistant, I got a call from Zarelda while I was out with Jack for lunch.

“Darling, I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Okay?”

“I need you to pick up an order for me at Houdini's Magic Shop. Please, I need this order. Please pick it up and bring it to the theater before the show tonight..” She gave me the Newark address for the shop.

I was beginning to feel more like a gopher than a magician's assistant. Was this part of the normal job description? Would I be compensated for this task? “Excuse me for asking, but is this merely a favor or will this be included in my time working for you?”

“Oh, you will be paid very well, darling.” She said it in such a way as to make me think I'd be paid overtime or enormous tips or something similar.

Alone, driving the SUV to Houdini's Magic Shop, I contemplated Zarelda and the elusive Rodrigo. Why was the talented Rodrigo fired and why was I hired? Why had Zarelda hired me after such a brief conversation, hardly what could be called a proper job interview? Were my looks irresistible? As much as I might like to think so, it seemed unlikely. Was it – I hated to consider it – my submissiveness that was appealing? What had she asked Rodrigo to do that he had refused? Was he an egotist showman or did she ask something that was unreasonable or morally wrong? Was she convinced I was so smitten with her that I would blindly do whatever she asked? And finally, just exactly what was I sent to pick up? At the end, I was so nervous I had all three spy devices on my person when I arrived at the Houdini's Magic Shop.

To be continued ... 

© 2016 Susan Joy Clark