Now You See It by Richard Matheson Read Free Book Online Page A

reality,” Max went on, pointing at Harry. “I have no intention of degenerating with the marketplace. I will not ‘do’ downtown Vegas, playing a buffoon in a breakaway tuxedo while surrounding chorus girls display their silicone-enhanced protuberances.
    “Neither will I ‘do’ moronic kiddie shows on television. I will not create and market magic kits for second-graders. I will not perform at fairs or conventions or the openings of supermarkets. I will not ‘do’ witless commercials.
    “In brief, I will not despoil an act which I have nurtured carefully for fourteen years—which my
father
nurtured for
fifty
years. Failing eyesight, hearing on the wane, dexterity declining, I am still The Great Delacorte
and I will not dishonor that most honorable of names!”
    I felt a double-edged reaction in my vitals.
    On the one hand, I felt utter agony that Max had been confronted by such humiliating offers.
    On the other hand, I felt utter pride in his response to them, more pride than I had ever felt for him before.
    Harry, needless to say, felt neither emotion—if he felt emotion at all, which I doubt. He gazed at Max with a balefulexpression.
“Sorry,”
he said. “I thought you needed money. My mistake.”
    He started by Max, who grabbed his arm again, restraining him.
    “If I wanted money,” Max informed him, “I’d sell my blood. My
soul
is not for sale.”
    Bravo, Sonny! If only I could have shouted it aloud.
    Harry regarded Max with cold amusement. “Big words, my friend,” he said.
    Pulling loose, he walked around Max and headed for the desk again.
    “True
words,” Max told him. “And you are certainly not my friend. Not anymore.”
    “You’re breaking my heart,” said Harry.
    Reaching the desk, he picked up the telephone and punched out a number, placing the receiver to his ear.
    Max followed him. Among the items on his desk was a long Arabian dagger in an ivory sheath. Max picked it up.
    “Do you have any notion whatsoever how demanding it can be to function as a stage illusionist?” he asked.
    Harry ignored him but I paid close attention, feeling a warmth of nostalgic pleasure. These were words I’d spoken to Max many times in the past.
    Harry spoke into the mouthpiece. “This is Kendal,” he said. “Put Linda on.”
    “A skilled illusionist must also be a skilled actor,” Max continued.
    “Linda? Harry,” he told his secretary. “Call Resnick and tell him that I’m on my way back to Boston; I’ll probably be late.”
    “The actor makes us look at something, the magician makes us
not
look,” Max told him at the same time.
    “Yeah, right; okay,” Harry said into the telephone. “Call him now.”
    He put down the receiver and gazed apathetically at Max, who was saying, “Two sides of the same coin. The illusion of reality versus the reality of illusion. The magic of drama versus the drama of magic.” (He remembered every word, bless him.)
    Harry’s cheeks puffed out as he exhaled, a look of boredom on his face. He started back toward the chair on which his attaché case was lying.
    “Do you know how I became The Great Delacorte?” Max asked, following again. Harry didn’t even look at him. “I wasn’t
born
The Great Delacorte, you know,” Max continued. “I had to work to perfect the character. Just as my father had to—”
    “Well, it’s the
wrong character
, old boy!” Harry cut him off, pointing an accusing finger at him. “That highfalutin’ bullshit may have been hot stuff when Roosevelt was in the White House, but it doesn’t sell a nickel’s worth today! You need something
different
now! Something—”
    He broke off in disgust and moved to the chair. “You don’t want to listen to advice. You know it all,” he said.
    Picking up his attaché case, he opened it and searched inside.
    “Sit down, Harry,” Max told him.
    “I don’t have
time
to sit down,
pal,”
said Harry, his face distorted by animosity, then by fury. “Where in the fucking hell is the