Magician's Wife Read Online Free Page A

lot of them know who I am. And even if they don’t—”
    â€œO.K., visit me here.”
    â€œSaid the spider to the fly.”
    â€œWhere do you live? I’ll come get you.”
    â€œNo! No! No!”
    She whimpered it like a child, and when he insisted, she hung up to “think things over,” saying she’d “call him back.” He thought things over too, again in the chair by the window, and thought them over hard. He wasn’t a stranger to women, and in the games he had played with them had scored a bit, and most pleasantly. There had been the girl in high school at Trenton, New Jersey, where he was born, and the guilty year with her before they both went off to college. There had been the woman at Easton, Pennsylvania, who had rented him a room his first few weeks as a student, and her liberal ideas about payment. There had been a bank teller at Coatsville, where he had herded cows one summer after getting interested in meat. But the games a student plays aren’t really for keeps, and so he had gone his way blithely, with no wounds to mar his memories. Now, however, he would have to play as a pro, and as he looked down at the lights, prickles ran up his back, as though to warn him of danger. When the phone rang, he hesitated. It rang twice before he answered.
    If possible, she was even more frightened than he was, or at least seemed to be, and took five minutes on his instructions, “so we don’t have any slip-up.” She lived on Elm, near Kennedy, just a few blocks away, but the problem was “nosy neighbors,” as she put it, so she must leave the house on foot, “dressed as I always am when I go to the picture show—so don’t expect any Zsa Zsa Gabor iced up for a personal appearance.” She would have to buy a ticket “at the Harlow Theater on Elm Street, from that dumb blonde cashier who lives three doors from me, and be checked by the doorman, who’s her husband and doubles as ticket taker.” But then “I can slip out the fire door, which is out of sight from the lobby, and if you’re parked up the street and wink your lights when I come, I can be in your car in a flash and—you can take it from there. But I must be back, must be seen leaving the theater, when the late show lets out! Promise you’ll get me there! On time!”
    He promised, put on the living-room lights, and slipped down to the basement garage, getting his car out again and driving to the theater. He took a turn past it, to be clear on all locations, then drove to a point behind it, parked, and cut his lights. He was surprised at the thump of his heart and not too pleased by it. “Take it easy,” he told himself, then repeated it, adding, “goddamit.” But he cut off suddenly as he saw her come up Elm Street and turn toward the theater. He stared and stared at the fire door, then thought he saw it move. He winked his lights several times. Then he caught the sound of footsteps, and a shadow moved in front of him. Then she was tapping on his window, and he jerked the door open for her. She jumped in and he started his motor, putting on his lights and pulling ahead before finding her hand and pressing it. It was cold, and indeed the whole thing had a clammy, underhand feel to it, quite different from what he had expected.
    When they reached the Marlborough Arms, he left the car on the street, and they started for the front door. But when he reached out to open it for her she caught his hand and held it. “Clay,” she whispered, peering at Doris at her switchboard, “I can’t go in there! That girl could know me—I see so many people!” And then, pulling him back toward the car: “Come on! It’s a nice evening—we’ll take a ride.” But he held her and said: “O.K., so you can’t go through the lobby. But there’s another way—nothing to it.” He led her up the alley