hotel.”
Phil lived in the Valley, North Hollywood, across the hills.
“I got a call at the hotel at five this morning,” Blackstone said. “A man. He said that at the testimonial dinner for me tonight the audience would be watching the death of a magician. He said, his exact words, ‘And that will be the finish of Harry Blackstone.’ And then he hung up.”
“Was it Ott?”
“Perhaps.”
“Why would he warn you?” I asked.
“It wasn’t a warning,” said Blackstone. “It was a challenge, a challenge I intend to accept.”
Chapter 8
Place two identical glass bottles on a table. Borrow a dollar. Put the dollar over the middle of the mouth of one of the bottles. Turn the other bottle upside down and balance it on the mouth of the other bottle with the dollar between them. Announce that you can remove the dollar without disturbing or even touching the bottles. Challenge your audience to do it. Let them try if they wish. Solution; When you place the dollar between the two bottles, do not put the bottles on the center of the bill. Take the long end of the bill, draw it taut. Holding the end of the bill, raise the other hand above the dollar. Hit it in the middle and out comes the dollar .
From the Blackstone, The Magic Detective radio show
“A RE WE READY ?” Phil asked, running his thick palm over his short-cropped steel gray hair.
I knew Phil was controlling his lack of approval of the group of misfits who sat around the round conference table in the new office of the new firm of Pevsner and Peters.
The office was large, one of the largest in the building. It wasn’t, however, a suite, just one big room whose last renter was now in prison.
Jeremy Butler, our landlord, was seated at the table, and had set up a blackboard against the wall. Phil rolled a fresh piece of chalk in his hand and looked at us before he began.
I sat on Phil’s left. Next to me was Jeremy, large, bald, and serene. I was afraid he had written a poem for the occasion. I was reasonably sure he had or would. Jeremy, the ex-wrestler, was a poet for all seasons and reasons. I hoped he didn’t decide to read his latest work for this more-or-less captive audience.
Next to Jeremy sat Gunther, nattily dressed, tiny, erect, dignified, and ready with pencil in hand and pad of paper in front of him.
On Gunther’s left sat Shelly Minck, fidgeting with his thick glasses, wearing a fresh white dental smock, gnawing on an unlit cigar.
The last person at the table was the one neither Phil nor I wanted there. His name was Pancho Vanderhoff. Pancho was thin, old, wearing a long-sleeved purple shirt and what looked like a thin red scarf draped around his neck. Pancho’s face was unlined, his badly dyed black hair thick.
Shelly had introduced Pancho as a screenwriter “with lots of great credits.”
Shelly—now in the chips with money from a company that had bought one of his dental hygiene inventions, money from his recently dead wife Mildred, and money from the sale of his house at a hefty profit—had hired Pancho to write a movie about Shelly’s life, a movie which Shelly would produce.
“Pancho’s just going to observe,” Shelly had told me in the hall when I told him about the meeting. “This will be a great chance for him to see me in action as a detective. That’s what he’s going to concentrate on. You know, respected dentist by day, fearless private investigator by night, and on weekends.”
“You’re not a private detective,” I had reminded Shelly on the landing outside his office.
“I know. I know,” he had said impatiently. “But we’ve worked together on so many cases. I’ve helped a lot. You know that, Toby. I’ve helped a lot.”
That was true, but he had also nearly gotten me killed more than once, and I had been called upon at least five times to keep him from getting killed or sent to prison.
“Pancho’s in your old office,” Shelly had said earnestly.
I had rented a
Phil lived in the Valley, North Hollywood, across the hills.
“I got a call at the hotel at five this morning,” Blackstone said. “A man. He said that at the testimonial dinner for me tonight the audience would be watching the death of a magician. He said, his exact words, ‘And that will be the finish of Harry Blackstone.’ And then he hung up.”
“Was it Ott?”
“Perhaps.”
“Why would he warn you?” I asked.
“It wasn’t a warning,” said Blackstone. “It was a challenge, a challenge I intend to accept.”
Chapter 8
Place two identical glass bottles on a table. Borrow a dollar. Put the dollar over the middle of the mouth of one of the bottles. Turn the other bottle upside down and balance it on the mouth of the other bottle with the dollar between them. Announce that you can remove the dollar without disturbing or even touching the bottles. Challenge your audience to do it. Let them try if they wish. Solution; When you place the dollar between the two bottles, do not put the bottles on the center of the bill. Take the long end of the bill, draw it taut. Holding the end of the bill, raise the other hand above the dollar. Hit it in the middle and out comes the dollar .
From the Blackstone, The Magic Detective radio show
“A RE WE READY ?” Phil asked, running his thick palm over his short-cropped steel gray hair.
I knew Phil was controlling his lack of approval of the group of misfits who sat around the round conference table in the new office of the new firm of Pevsner and Peters.
The office was large, one of the largest in the building. It wasn’t, however, a suite, just one big room whose last renter was now in prison.
Jeremy Butler, our landlord, was seated at the table, and had set up a blackboard against the wall. Phil rolled a fresh piece of chalk in his hand and looked at us before he began.
I sat on Phil’s left. Next to me was Jeremy, large, bald, and serene. I was afraid he had written a poem for the occasion. I was reasonably sure he had or would. Jeremy, the ex-wrestler, was a poet for all seasons and reasons. I hoped he didn’t decide to read his latest work for this more-or-less captive audience.
Next to Jeremy sat Gunther, nattily dressed, tiny, erect, dignified, and ready with pencil in hand and pad of paper in front of him.
On Gunther’s left sat Shelly Minck, fidgeting with his thick glasses, wearing a fresh white dental smock, gnawing on an unlit cigar.
The last person at the table was the one neither Phil nor I wanted there. His name was Pancho Vanderhoff. Pancho was thin, old, wearing a long-sleeved purple shirt and what looked like a thin red scarf draped around his neck. Pancho’s face was unlined, his badly dyed black hair thick.
Shelly had introduced Pancho as a screenwriter “with lots of great credits.”
Shelly—now in the chips with money from a company that had bought one of his dental hygiene inventions, money from his recently dead wife Mildred, and money from the sale of his house at a hefty profit—had hired Pancho to write a movie about Shelly’s life, a movie which Shelly would produce.
“Pancho’s just going to observe,” Shelly had told me in the hall when I told him about the meeting. “This will be a great chance for him to see me in action as a detective. That’s what he’s going to concentrate on. You know, respected dentist by day, fearless private investigator by night, and on weekends.”
“You’re not a private detective,” I had reminded Shelly on the landing outside his office.
“I know. I know,” he had said impatiently. “But we’ve worked together on so many cases. I’ve helped a lot. You know that, Toby. I’ve helped a lot.”
That was true, but he had also nearly gotten me killed more than once, and I had been called upon at least five times to keep him from getting killed or sent to prison.
“Pancho’s in your old office,” Shelly had said earnestly.
I had rented a
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