Short Story

The Illusionist and the Crime Boss

by Joe Vadalma

The maximum security prison recreation room was crowded. The famous illusionist, Robert Pennyhold, was on TV. He was a favorite of the inmates, who liked to argue about how he did his spectacular illusions and make his famous escapes. When the boss of Chicago's northwest side, Boris Ivanachev, entered, his cell mate, "Banger" Bornga called to him, "Hey Boris, I saved you a seat in the front row."

Ivanachev swaggered over, waving a friendly hand to inmates in his prison gang, and glaring at his enemies, letting them know he hadn't forgotten whatever transgression made him angry. He was a lifer in his fifties. The feds had caught up to him at a time just when he'd been contemplating retirement. However much longer he had to live, he'd spend behind prison walls. He plopped his muscular frame into the seat next to Bornga. "What's the big deal about this guy, Pennyhold? You'd think his tricks were real the way these cons staring at the boob tube."

"Tricks or not, they're spectacular. He does tricks I've never seen any other magician pull off."

As the show began, Ivanachev lit a cigarette, which was against the prison rules, but the guards dared not stop him. They feared him. Everybody knew that Ivanachev would have a person blown away simply for looking cross eyed at him.

On the TV, dramatic music started. Assistants made a box out of paper panels. The music peaked, and Pennyworth crashed through the paper sheet of the front panel. He went into his patter and did small illusions, such as making fire appear and disappear from his fingers, card tricks, illusions with birds, and so forth. He went on to his more spectacular stuff, sticking swords into a box that his beautiful assistant was crunched up into, teleporting her from a box on one side of the stage to the other, sawing her in two with an electric saw and putting her together again, floating her and himself up to the ceiling and then disappearing to appear somewhere else.

Each illusion was more spectacular than the last. Nonetheless, Ivanachev yawned, bored. He thought, Big deal, it's all smoke and mirrors. This Pennyhold is simply a cut above his peers.

For the finale, Pennyhold did one of his famous escapes. He stripped down to a bathing suit so that the audience could see that he had nothing hidden in his clothing. His assistants handcuffed his hands behind his back, shackled his ankles together, put a straight jacket on him, and wound chains around him which they locked with a padlock. Members of the audience were brought up to the stage to examine that Pennyhold was so bound up that he could barely move a muscle and that the locks and chains were real. His assistants laid him in a wooden coffin and chained it shut with more padlocks which the members of the audience were also allowed to examine. The coffin was placed in a metal container with an open top. Gasoline was poured into the metal container and lit. Flames shot up high, obscuring the coffin. The sounds of chains rattling could be heard. Suddenly, Pennyhold leaped out of the flames, unhurt, brushing off a few sparks that lingered on his skin.

Ivanachev rubbed his chin. For the first time during the performance, he was impressed. A brilliant idea came to him. If I could learn how this Pennyhold does his escapes, I could get out of here. I'd make my way to some island with no extradition and live out the rest of my life free. Once outside the prison walls, he knew people who, for a price, would smuggle him out of the country. In addition, he had millions stashed away in Swiss bank accounts that no law enforcement agency knew existed. He imagined relaxing on a sunny beach surrounded by nubile young women waiting on him hand and foot with a tumbler of brandy in one hand and a steak sandwich in the other.

As he returned to his cell, he whispered to a guard who was on his payroll, "Contact my lawyer, and tell him to get up here next visiting day."

***

John Jacobs faced Ivanachev across the reinforced plastic panel that separated them. He didn't particularly like working for this crime boss, but he had little choice. Once Ivanachev chose you as his lawyer, you were his, body and soul, for as long as he wanted you. He spoke into the telephone used to communicate across the barrier, "Hi Boris. How goes it these days?"

Ivanachev grinned evilly. "How do you think, councilor? Prison ain't the Riveria. I heard you lost a big murder case recently."

"My client was nuts. She thought she was a vampire."

Ivanachev chuckled. His laugh was unnerving. It was somewhere between a cackle and the hysterical laugh of a madman. "Better stick to regular criminals like me. Well, I didn't call you up here to make small talk. I need you to pass a message."

"Sure Boris. Who? And what's the message?"

"Chucky." Chucky was their code for Sergei "Mr. Death" Krushkov, Ivanachev's enforcer. Jacobs knitted his brows. He hoped that he wasn't being asked to relay a hit on somebody. "Tell him that I want a certain person handled -- with kid gloves."

Jacobs let out a sigh of relief. "Handled" meant only kidnapped. "With kid gloves" meant that the person was not to be harmed.

Ivanachev held a scrap of paper against the plastic with his palms so the guards couldn't see what he was doing. Jacobs read the name and nodded. He was surprised, however. He wondered what the crime boss wanted with a stage magician.

"Once he's handled, I'll give you further instructions."

"I understand. It's been nice talking to you, Boris."

"You too, councilor. See you in hell."

The interview was over.

***

As Pennyhold walked out of the stage door and through the alley in back of the theater towards his limo, two men with ski masks and dark clothing appeared out of the shadows and grabbed him by the arms. Before he could call for help, one of them placed a chloroform soaked sponge over his mouth and nose. Moments later, everything went black.

When Pennyhold awoke, he was tied to a chair with ropes in what appeared to be an automobile repair garage. He could've gotten out of the ropes in seconds. But the three men gazing at him kept him from doing that. Two of them held automatic pistols. The third, a scar faced man with a broken nose and cauliflower ears, smiled apologetically. "You're awake. That's good. I'm sorry, Mr. Pennyhold, that we had to take you unawares like that, but that was my orders."

Although frightened, Pennyhold kept his cool. "What do you want? If its ransom you're after, I'm sure my assistant, Belinda Havworth, will see that your given anything within reason. Do you want her number?"

"That Belinda is a hotty, and I sure wouldn't mind having her number, but that's not why you're here. My employer wants your help."

Pennyhold frowned in puzzlement. "What sort of help?"

"At the present he's a guest in a maximum security prison. He saw you perform an escape on TV that seemed impossible. He figured with your expertise on escapes, you could figure a way to get him out of the big house."

"Was it my TV special where I performed the escape from fire?"

The man shrugged. "Could be. My message from the boss didn't say."

"I see. Busting out of a maximum security prison could be quite a challenge. By the way, your men have guns trained on me. Do I really need to be tied up too?"

"No. Joe, untie him."

Before Joe could make a move, the ropes dropped away from Pennyhold as though they had been just laying there. "Thanks," said Pennyhold as he rubbed his chaffed wrists.

"Wow. You're good. Let me shake your hand. My name is Sergei Krushkov." Krushkov put out a hand which Pennyhold shook. "Y'know, if you do this little favor for the boss, he'll be grateful." He rubbed his fingers together indicating that he meant that his boss would reward him handsomely.

"What if I can't?"

"The boss wouldn't like that. Once he asks a favor, he expects a person to perform." Krushkov's cold hard look said that the boss didn't treat nonperformers lightly.

"The one problem I see is that I cannot instruct this boss of yours in making his escape without direct communication."

Krushkov shrugged."I guess I'll have to tell him that it can't be done. He won't be happy."

"I didn't say that it couldn't be done, simply that I must communicate with him directly and in private."

"I don't see anyway that can be done."

"There's one way. I'll have to break into the prison."

"How you gonna do that?"

"Let me worry about that. Just give a map of the prison with his cell marked on it. Also, you'll have to free me. I need to obtain special equipment from my home. You know where you can find me if I fail your boss. A celebrity cannot hide easily."

Krushkov grinned in his fear provoking way. "Why sure, Pennyworth. We never intended to hold you anyway. All we wanted was to ask you for this favor."

"Good. One other thing. You'll have to see that his cell mate, if he has one, is not present when I break into his cell. I don't want anyone except your boss to see how I do it."

"That can be arranged."

"By the way, who is your boss?"

"Boris Ivanachev."

Pennyhold whistled. "I've heard of him. He controls the whole northwest side, doesn't he?"

Krushkov shrugged. It wasn't the sort of question that he would answer.

***

Although it was hours past lights out, Ivanachev paced up and down his gloomy cell. The only light came from a flickering fluorescent far down the corridor near the guard station. It had been a strange day. First he'd received word that the magician, Pennyhold, was willing to show him how to escape, but that he needed to see him alone. Ivanachev had no idea of how he could arrange that. Next, during the noon meal, the guards came into the dining room and hauled his cell mate, "Banger" Bornga, away. When Ivanachev asked where they were taking him, one of the guards winked at him and said, "To solitary. For tonight." Apparently, the guard thought that Ivanachev had ordered Bornga to be sent to solitary confinement for some reason. It didn't make sense.

All of a sudden, Ivanachev stopped his pacing. He had the strange feeling that he wasn't alone. He heard a sound behind him and wondered whether a rat had gotten into his cell. He spun around and stared into the darkest corner. Although it was difficult to see, he swore that someone was standing there. "What the hell," he cried.

A hooded figure in black stepped forward where there was a little light. It raised a forefinger to its lips in a gesture that meant Ivanachev shouldn't speak. The apparition threw back its hood. It was Pennyhold.

"Jesus Christ," Ivanachev whispered. "You scared the hell out of me. I thought Death himself was coming for me. How did you get in here?"

"Magic."

"What d'ya mean, magic?"

Pennyhold smiled. "I mean magic, real magic. You see, Mr. Ivanachev ..."

Ivanachev waved his hand. "Just call me Boris. Go on. Are you saying that you got into my cell by using real magic, like Merlin or that kid, Harry Potter?"

"Yes. In fact, my spectacular illusions are all accomplished through real magic. The only person other than you who knows my secret is my assistant and mistress, Belinda."

Ivanachev eyed Pennyhold suspiciously. "If you're pulling my leg, it's not funny."

"I swear it's the truth. Think, Boris. How could I enter your cell in this maximum security prison the way I did except through real magic."

Ivanachev was bewildered. He was a number one skeptic. He didn't believe in anything that couldn't be proved to his satisfaction, not in ghosts, not the paranormal, not in religion, not in honest men, nothing. Nonetheless, he couldn't figure any way that Pennyhold could do what he did without sorcery or some kind of teleportation device.

"Okay, for the moment I'll take your word for it. Are you going to teach me how to walk through walls or teleport myself or whatever you do?"

"I'm going to do better than that. I'm going to make you a sorcerer. You can do anything you wish, no matter how outrageous, turn your enemies into frogs, have a bag of money appear before you, create a golem woman so beautiful that she'll knock your socks off."

Ivanachev raised his shaggy eyebrows a notch. "You can do all that?"

"Yes. But we're wasting time. I don't want to be here when the guard does a bed check."

Ivanachev glanced at his watch. "We've got a half hour yet. Can you teach me this sorcery in that time."

"Yes. It involves the raising of a demon. Once you've got the demon under your control, all you need to do is ask it for whatever you want. It'll do the rest."

"Raising a demon, huh. This is sounding crazier and crazier."

"Nonetheless, it's fact. Look, I'll get everything ready. All you'll have to do is read some words."

Pennyhold took a bag out of a pocket of his cloak. He opened it and withdrew several bottles, something wrapped in expensive silk, a black robe, a pointed lead cap engraved with astrological signs, a piece of chalk, string, measuring instruments, nails, wax candles, a brass brazier and some gruesome objects.

He told Ivanachev to don the robe, which covered him to his feet, and the cap. Ivanachev felt like a fool and swore that he'd have Pennyhold tortured to death if this turned out to be a practical joke. Pennyhold poured the bottle's contents, a noxious mixture into the brazier and lit it. Immediately, the cell was filled with evil fumes. When the liquid had burned away, he used chalk to draw a large circle. Inside this he drew a smaller circle. After he wrote magical symbols in the rim between the arcs, he measured two triangles, one inside the smaller circumference, its points intersecting it in three places. The second triangle was two paces distant from the rest of the drawing.

Along the perimeter of the larger circle at primary points of the compass, due north, east, south and west, he placed the head of a cat, a bat, a long horn and a man's skull. He lit the candles, placed them on two sides of the triangle and filled the brazier with crushed leaves. He poured camphor and brandy over the herbs, which he fired. Lastly, he sprinkled perfumed water over a hazel wand tipped with a magnetized steel point which he handed to Ivanachev along with a scroll.

"All you have to do is to summon the demon is go inside the circle and read aloud what is written on this scroll. Once the demon appears, read the rest. That will make it your slave, and it will obey your orders. I must warn you though; there's a certain amount of danger. Be very careful not to move outside the circle or touch the demon in any way until it calls you master. If you do, you'll die instantly. Well, that's all there is to it. I must leave now."

Ivanachev grabbed Pennyhold's arm. "Wait a minute. If you have a demon under your command, why are you telling me how to summon one myself? You could have the demon simply kill me and protect you from my employees. Something about this stinks."

"Well, I get concessions for each person that I recruit, a certain amount of easing of my pain in hell after I die. That's the other thing I didn't tell you. Once you raise a demon, your place in hell is assured. There'll be no reprieve. It's like a life sentence, only this time it'll be for eternity."

Ivanachev laughed. "If there's a hell, my fate's already sealed. My soul or spirit would wind up there anyway. Who gives a crap."

Pennyhold put out his hand. "Au revoir, my friend. See you in hell."

As Ivanachev shook his hand, he said, "Sure you won't stick around while I raise this demon?"

"No. Just make sure you follow my instructions to the letter. Mephistopheles, take me home."

Pennyworth vanished.

Ivanachev walked around the cell. There was no possible place the magician could hide. He scratched his head. "Maybe it wasn't bullshit after all. If it was, that Pennyhold is a dead man. Well, here goes nothing." He stepped into the circle, held the wand with his left hand and began to read the scroll aloud.

"Oh wand of magic, I command thee to obey my will, to attract all substances I wish to attract, and to sunder and reduce to chaos all things I wish to destroy." Although he felt like an idiot, he raised his arms. "I conjure thee, o denizen of the void, strengthened by the power within me. I command thee by the most powerful prince of the ninth region. Appear forthwith and show thyself to me, without delay."

The cell grew darker, and a chill permeated it. The flickering candles and the light from the flaming brazier cast shadows on the walls that loomed over Ivanachev like monstrous beasts ready to strike. A sudden terror of the unknown made Ivanachev shudder. Nonetheless, he continued. "Come at once from whatever part of the nether regions thou dwell. Come at once, visibly and awfully, and do whatsoever I doth desire, for thou art conjured by the name of power, Abdulazalickrutzelmochanemoch." This he repeated three times, although he had trouble pronouncing the name of power. .

On the third repetition the building trembled. There came a rumbling as though an earth tremor had rocked the prison. A small flame appeared within the outer triangle that Pennyhold had drawn. The fire grew higher and higher until it was the size of a large man. Suddenly it flickered and turned to thick black smoke. With a sound like the roar of a whirlwind, a strange little man wearing spectacles on the tip of his nose appeared.

Ivanachev was expecting a horrible monster. The person before him looked like a college professor. He was, in fact, wearing what looked like a graduation gown. "Who are you?"

"Mephistopheles. The demon you summoned." It held out a hand for Ivanachev to shake. The crime boss started to put his own hand out, but withdrew suddenly as he recalled Pennyhold's warning not to touch it until it called him master. He glanced down at the scroll. "Oh Mephistopheles. I conjure you to be my slave and do my bidding."

"First you must sign this little waiver," Mephistopheles said. He dangled a piece of paper just out of Ivanachev's reached, so that to retrieve it he would have to step outside the circle. Ivanachev made no move. Mephistopheles held the paper and a goose quill pen close enough for Ivanachev to snatch them up without moving. "In blood, if you don't mind."

The paper read: "In consideration of the services of a servant of the Prince of Darkness by the name of Mephistopheles, I, Boris Ivanachev, son of Ivan Ivanachev, do agree to give up my soul at the time of my death to the Prince for all eternity to dispose of as He wishes." Below was a place for a signature.

Ivanachev had dealt with tricky lawyers before. "Okay, what exactly are these services you provide?"

"Have you ever read the story of Aladdin and the Magic Lamp? Well, I can and will do for you anything that genie did for Aladdin."

"How do I know you're telling the truth?"

Mephistopheles shrugged. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained."

Ivanachev figured that he really had nothing to lose. If there really was a hell, he'd be going there anyway. He poked his finger with the pen and signed the document. Immediately, it burst into flames and disappeared.

Mephistophiles bowed. "What can I do for you, Master?"

Ivanachev grinned from ear to ear. He heard the guard's footsteps as he made his bed check. "Get me out of here. Take me to a tropical island that has no extradition."

The next moment, his prison cell had disappeared, and he was standing a sandy beach staring at a moonlit sea. He jumped up and clicked his heels together. "It's really true. I'm out of the beast." He started laughing and dancing and running around until he was exhausted. Finally, he gazed around. The beach was small and deserted. Inland all he could see was a jungle. There was a chill breeze coming from the body of water in front of him. He called out, "Mephistophiles."

The weird little demon appeared. It was dressed in shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. "How do you like your new home, Master?"

"I'm not sure. Where am I?"

"On a tropical island that does not have extradition, of course."

Ivanachev gritted his teeth to keep from smacking the patronizing little devil. "Does it have a name?"

"You may name it whatever you like since you're the only one living on it."

"In other words, it's a deserted island."

"Not anymore. You're here."

"Not exactly what I had in mind. But what the hell, it's better than prison. Make a fire. I'm chilly." Mephistophiles waved his hand and a bonfire appeared. "Okay. Now I'll need something to sleep on." The demon made a cabana; inside was a cot. "Booze." Lying on the bed was a bottle of Jack Daniels. "Cigars and a lighter." The smokes were genuine Cubans. "Good, that's all I'll need for now."

Ivanachev took a few slugs of the whisky, lit up a cigar and relaxed. "Tomorrow, I'll have that demon take me somewhere where they have a fine hotel." He stubbed the cigar out in the sand and fell asleep.

***

Ivanachev yawned and stretched. His first thought was that he was back in his cell and the whole business had been simply a pleasant dream. But, when he opened his eyes and saw canvas walls and smelled salt air, he grinned from ear to ear. He thought, It's really true. I'm out of prison, and I've got my own personal genie. It's a miracle.

He reached down and took a couple of more slugs from the bottle. He realized that he was still in his prison clothes. "Hey Mephistophiles, I need new duds." The demon didn't appear, but his orange coveralls had turned to shorts and a Hawaiian shirt exactly like the demon's. He thought, Not what I would've chosen, but what the hell, there ain't anybody here to see me anyway.

He walked out on the beach and looked around. The jungle was thick and full of animal sounds that he didn't like. He swore he saw something peeking out of the trees that looked like a dinosaur. He recalled the movie, Jurassic Park, and shuddered.

"Mephistophiles, come here. I need you."

The demon reappeared. "At your service, Master."

"Look, when I said tropical island, I meant somewhere civilized."

Mephistophiles stroked his chin. "And no extradition?"

"Yes."

The demon nodded up and down quickly like Jeanie in the TV series "I Dream of Jeanie". Instantly, Ivanachev found himself in the middle of a busy thoroughfare with futuristic automobile careening past him inches away at extremely high speeds. "Mephistophiles, you idiot. Get me over to that hotel before I get killed."

A moment later he was in the enormous lobby of the hotel. It was so large that the distance between the front door and the elevators had to be at least one hundred feet. The wall were transparent, and a huge tropical sun made everything shimmer. It was crowded too. People and other things, strange creatures like aliens from a science fiction movie and metallic androids, bustled around. Nonetheless, Ivanachev thought, This is more like it. If that stupid demon has brought me into the future, so much the better. No one will even know who I am.

He walked up to the front desk where he was waited upon by a robot. "How may I help you, sir or madam?"

"I need a room."

"Reservation?"

"No."

"Sorry sir or madam, but we're booked solid."

Ivanachev whispered out of the corner of his mouth, "Quick Mephistophiles, give me whatever passes for money here." A card appeared in his hand. "Look fellow, I'm sure you can find something for me. Anyplace in the hotel is okay. I'm not looking for a room with a view or anything. I'd be so grateful." He waved the card around.

"Sorry sir or madam, but we're booked solid."

Someone behind him said, "Give it up. Robots never take bribes."

Ivanachev turned around. It was Mephistophiles dressed in the shiny skintight garments that seemed to be the fashion in this era. "Well take me to a hotel that isn't so crowded."

Mephistophiles twitched his nose like Samantha of the TV series "I Married a Witch." Instantly Ivanachev found himself in the midst of a dense fog on a muddy road. He was dressed in a coarse itchy gown that covered him from neck to ankles. He also had on a cloak with a hood. A heavy purse was tied to the rope around his waist. Ahead was a three-story stone building with a thatched roof. He entered it through a heavy wooden door.

The interior was gloomy with a low ceiling with dark beams. There were several heavy picnic tables scattered about. A log was burning in a large fireplace. At one end was a small bar. The only other person in the room was the bartender, who was busy polishing pewter tankards. Where has that idiot demon sent me this time? Ivanachev wondered.

He walked up to the bartender, a worn-looking man with shoulder-length gray hair and a pockmarked face. The man backed away slightly. "Doest thou have the plague?"

"No. Can you tell me where I am?"

"The Isle of Wight. Thee beed traveling long?"

"Long enough." Ivanachev figured he'd rent a room and confront Mephistophiles there. This seemed to be Medieval England, not exactly what he asked for. "Do you have a vacancy?"

"All my rooms be vacant. The plague be about. If I were thee, stranger, I wouldst leave this place."

"I will soon. But I'll take a room for the night. Oh, and what do you have to drink."

"Rum and ale."

"I'll have a glass of rum."

The bartender filled a tankard from a dusty bottle. "That'll be ten pence for the rum, one shilling five for the room." He handed Ivanachev an old-fashioned iron key. "It be the first room on thy right at the 'ead o' the stairs."

Ivanachev dug into his sack and pulled out a handful of coins. Some were copper, some silver and a couple were gold. The bartender's eyes bugged out. "Ah Sir, if there beed anything else thee desire. Perhaps my daughter could come to thy room later and warm thy feet." He winked.

"I'll think about it." After years in prison, Ivanachev hungered for the touch of a woman, but he was leery about this man's daughter. In the age he found himself, he worried that she might have an awful disease, maybe even leprosy. He downed his drink and staggered up the stairs, the tankard must've held a pint.

His room was small with a tiny window, a bed with a straw mattress and a large armoire. His plan was to summon the demon and give it hell. But the rum made him so sleepy, he simply took off the boots Mephistophiles had given him and laid down on the bed. A little nap first, he told himself.

Something on the bed woke him. The moon shining through the window revealed that it was a large ugly rat. Goddamnit, he thought, wasn't it rats that spread the plague? He leaped out of the bed, grabbed the candlestick on the night table and swung wildly at the creature. It scampered away. "Mephistopheles," he screamed. "Get me out of here."

The demon appeared. "Where do you wish to go now, Master?"

Ivanachev grabbed it by the front of its monk's garb and raised the candlestick to strike it. "To hell, you miserable little jerk."

"Yes Master. My pleasure."

The End

If you liked this story, you may want to go to Fictionwise and search on Author/Vadalma for information on my anthologies or go to my anthology web page.

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