Frisch - Magic is dead: my journey into the worlds most secretive society of magicians

For Mom. May you always catch on the river.

Deceiving others... That is what the world calls a great romance.

OSCAR WILDE

Contents

T ime was running out. Everything was falling apart.

An army of slot machines dinged and whirled like a lazy, out-of-sync marching band. Corset-clad waitresses, faces layered in makeup, waited at the bar to pick up a fresh round of drinks. Off in the distance, tourists hitched up their belts, tossed fistfuls of chips onto horseshoe-shaped blackjack tables, and puffed on cheap brown cigars. I was almost jealous of them: the thrill of the big bet, the whizz and click of the roulette wheel, the ffffph of the card next dealt. But I wasnt here to gamble.

I slumped low in my chair, nearly defeated, stewing in the stale air of the casino bar, crumpled cigarette butts piled in the ashtray in front of me. Orphaned playing cardsaces and threes and jacks, hearts and clubs and diamonds, dropped and discarded after a long weeklittered the carpet at my feet, taunting me. It was our last day in Las Vegas and my big reveal was crumbling. I needed to improvise, to do somethinganythingto pull off my scheme. I had been setting it up for weeks. I couldnt let myself fail.

I was surrounded by magicians. They stood all around mesome of whom, over the past year, had become my best friends. There was Jeremy Griffith, the card junkie from Los Angeles; Xavior Spade, the no-bullshit sleight-of-hand master from New York City; and Chris Ramsay, the bearded and tatted-up YouTube pioneerthe guy who had gotten me into this mess in the first place. It had been a year since I first fell into the underground world of magic and became friends with its key players. Everything had been building up to this point. I couldnt let it all come tumbling down.

It was now or never.

We were in Las Vegas for Magic Live, the largest magic convention in the United States. Each August, thousands of professional and amateur magicians flock to the Orleans, a depressing casino a mile south of the main strip and a few years past its prime. Bits and pieces of the themed dcor, or at least the lifestyle associated with the slouchy wetness of New Orleans and the Gulf states, peppered its game room floor, and all the magicians invariably gathered at the Mardi Gras Bar for drinks and talk. This little Bourbon Streetthemed lounge had more or less been our home since we showed up a few days earlier. I figured that I had plenty of time to pull off my plan. I thought I was all set.

I had been keeping my secret for months, and it was nearly killing me. But I had devised a scheme and I was determined to stick to it.

Ramsay, I called out. He was chatting with Xavior. Come over here. I want to show you something that Ive been working on.

He walked over, and I pulled a new deck of cards from my backpack. My heart raced and my hands shook as I fumbled with the boxs cellophane wrapper, my fingers effectively turning to useless nubs.

Ramsay chuckled sarcastically. Let me know when you get that figured out, bud, he said, turning to walk away.

You open it, then, I said. He took the deck from me, tore off the wrapper, and sliced through its adhesive seal with his middle fingerthe symbol for the four of spades tattooed on its side, near the deepest knuckle. He handed the deck back to me and I took the cards out of the box.

Ramsay hiked up the sagging waist of his jeans, swiveled his baseball cap backward, stroked his beard, and waited for me to begin. My heart lodged itself in my throat. I wasnt sure words could get past the dense pulse.

Just point to a card, I said, stretching the cards out like a ribbon as I drew my hands apart. Ramsay pointed to one near the middle.

That one? I asked.

He nodded.

Lets have a look. I squared up the stack and turned it over, revealing Ramsays selection.

The two of clubs, I said. Good choice. Now, lets take your cardI pulled it from the deck, held it in my right hand, and placed the rest of the deck on a table next to usand just...

I ripped off the cards top-right corner, a foot away from Ramsays face.

... watch, I said, slowly opening my right hand, which held the torn piece. I went from pinky to index, slowly lifting each finger one by one. But when my hand was completely open, there was nothing there. The piece had disappeared.

Check your back pocket, I said after a pause.

No! Ramsay shouted. He smiled, reached into his pocket, and pulled out the ripped corner. Ah, man, he said, laughing.

Check it, I told him. Make sure it fitsthat its from the same card. He brought the two pieces together. The torn edges lined up perfectly.

That was really good, man, he said. You got me. Im impressed.

But heres the thing, I said, holding out my hand. Let me see the piece. He placed it into my hand, faceup, the two and the club symbol, the cards index, visible to us. This is a special card. I paused and looked up at him. His brow crinkled, unsure of what I was getting at.

Because this is me now, I said. Im the Two of Clubs. Im in.

I love magicians because they are honest men.

ELBERT HUBBARD

The strongest magic does not lie. It invites the audience to lie to themselves.

DANIEL MADISON

I was homeless.

I wasnt living on the street or under a bridge, but I had $188 in my bank account and couldnt pay the rent for my apartment in Brooklyn. I was running out of options. My old friend Nick worked on the second floor of an office building in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, and told me that the room across the hall from him had been vacant for a while. It didnt seem like anyone was going to rent it, he said, so if I kept a low profile, I could crash for the summer. We called it an adventure, but technicallyand legallyI was squatting. It was June 2015, I had just turned twenty-eight years old, and I had started freelancing full-time as a journalist earlier that year. And I was dead broke. I accepted his offer, found a subletter for my room in Brooklyn, packed my bags, and headed north.

The space turned out better than I had expected. It had a big window that faced the towns north bay, a sturdy desk, and a little bathroom (with a shower!) just down the hall. Plus, Nick, whom Ive known since childhood, was there, trying to get his video production company off the ground. I kept my expenses minimal. I bought an air mattress at Walmart, nabbed a three-piece wicker furniture set for twenty-five dollars at a nearby thrift store, ate cheap turkey sandwiches for lunch and dinner, and did my laundry at Nicks apartment. With all the basics squared away, I kept my output high. I scoured for compelling story ideas and voraciously pitched them. The great thing about being a freelance journalist is that personal circumstancessquatting in an office building, for exampleare irrelevant to an editor. All they care about is your idea and how it could blossom into a captivating article. So I unloaded my pitches into editors inboxes with abandon. I had nothing to lose. I was a young writer with only a handful of clips to my name, but I knew I could convince magazines that my ideas were better than anyone elses and that I was talented enough to execute them. They didnt have to know that I was in dire straits.

I landed a few great stories from my illegal apartment, including a profile of Shaquille ONeal for Vice, for which I tagged along while he performed at an electronic music festival in Georgia; another feature for