And for My Next Trick...
by Robert Balentine, Jr.
The rooftop terrace where Anton awaited his lunch jutted precipitously out over the Vegas Strip. When viewed from the street below, this gave one the impression that the building was in a deep yaw to starboard. During the night, the dappled pink and purple neon lights overpowered the stars, but in the sun-soaked Nevada day, the neons were likewise swallowed by the churning fusion reactor some ninety-three million miles above.
A million tourists were or would soon be awakening from their post-revelry slumber. Anton leaned back in his chair and sipped at a "Pomegranarita"--a phonetically clumsy portmanteau of a remarkably refreshing drink, once you got past the flotilla of tiny umbrellas in the glass. Anton pinched one of the mini parasols between his thumb and forefinger and spun it with a flick. It tumbled listlessly toward the ground, causing him to frown.
I want you to rise.
The umbrella changed course, gained altitude and flew over the balcony railing, a papier-mache ballerina pirouetting its way to the street. Anton followed it with his gaze until it passed a large billboard figure holding a black top hat and wearing a tuxedo. He smirked at his over-sized likeness for a time before deciding that its teeth needed whitening. Instantly, his multi-story grin brightened and shone with a cartoonish star-shaped sparkle on one tooth. This latter addition vanished when he decided it was too campy.
In the haze beyond the billboard, a single red light blinked merrily atop a replica Eiffel Tower. Anton strained, stretching out his will to grasp at the electrics, but the lights continued to flicker, unperturbed by his efforts.
Too far away.
"Mr. Marvelo, can I have your autograph?"
Anton turned to find a small girl standing sheepishly a few feet away, holding a blue spiral notebook adorned with frolicking unicorns. In her pale, white hand she held a comically large pen with a shower of pastel tassels protruding from one end. Her cheeks flushed pink as their gaze met and she looked down at her shoes. Some distance behind her stood a gaunt, equally pale woman holding a child's backpack. She chewed at her collagen-injected lower lip and clutched at the string of pearls around her neck. Anton motioned the girl over and the woman's shoulders relaxed.
"How old are you, little one?" Anton asked.
"Six," the girl muttered, still apprehensive.
She held out her notebook in front of her, a shield against an uncomfortable interaction. The unicorns on the front cover were decorated with multicolored crayon wings. Across their eyes were hand-drawn black patches that Anton supposed were meant to be sunglasses.
"Would you like me to sign your notebook?"
The girl nodded, shield lowering marginally.
"What is your name?"
"Alice," she answered, softly, chewing on the tip of one finger.
Anton took the pen and thumbed past dozens of crude drawings and sketches of fantastical beasts with misspelled block letter descriptions, ultimately finding a blank page midway through the jotter. His magician's signature was a point of particular pride. Even before he was famous, Anton had spent long hours in his single-room apartment in front of a mirror, practicing a technique that was equal parts function and flourish. He showcased this now, signing, "To Alice, with love--The Magnificent, Magnanimous Mr. Marvolo!" Beside his autograph, he sketched himself and Alice riding a winged unicorn. He motioned the girl closer and revealed the drawing, the page visible only to the two of them. The unicorn drawing reared up on the page, pen figures waving their arms in greeting. Alice giggled. Anton touched the page with a single finger and the drawing froze, unicorn and riders fixed in eternal greeting.
