The Ambitious Card (An Eli Marks Mystery) by John Gaspard

in his career. And I still enjoyed doing it as an adult, when just as often it was now me giving him an account of some recent stage triumph. Or sometimes we’d work for hours and barely say ten words. It was still fun.
    We packaged a few more of the self-tying ropes and were moving on to his equally popular Screaming Dice when we heard the bell ring on the other side of the wall in the shop. Neither one of us made a move to get up.
    “It’s your turn,” I said finally as I added labels to a sealed box.
    “Like hell it is,” he snapped back. “I got the last three, and two of those times it was that terrible student of yours.”
    “Pete’s not all that bad.”
    “He’s a wretched, graceless magician. If he were a dog, I’d have him put down to take me out of my misery.”
    “I’ll go,” I said, getting up. “We really can only handle one murder suspect in the family at a time.”
    I parted the red velour curtain that separated the back room from the store and stepped into the shop, surprised to see Clive Albans, the British writer I’d met in The Caves. Although Halloween had come and gone, you wouldn’t know it by looking at Clive. Flared bell-bottom pants and a silk shirt were covered by a long, flowing raincoat, a London Fog knock-off in a deep violet hue. It made me think of Willy Wonka.
    “Hello.”
    “Ah, yes, brilliant,” he said, looking up from one of the glass display cases he had been peering into. “Eli, isn’t it?”
    “Yes,” I said. “Clive?”
    “Spot on,” he said. “Impressive memory. You must teach me your method sometime.”
    “No trick, really. You say your name, I remember it. That’s really all there is to it.”
    “Clever bit, that. Well done.”
    “Yes.” There was a pause just this side of pregnant. “So, how can I help you, Clive?”
    “Yes, well, the interview? With yourself. And your uncle, if he’s so inclined.” He took a few steps toward me, removing his rich, red leather gloves and placing them on the display case. “I believe I mentioned the article I’m doing for the London Times , on charlatan psychics.”
    “Yes,” I said. “You did.”
    “Your uncle, being as renowned as he is in the field, would be the ideal candidate. Nothing extensive, mind you. Just a few juicy quotes. His thoughts on the current state of the field, that sort of thing.” He had taken out his notebook and flipped it open to a blank page. He pulled out a pen from his inside breast pocket and gave it a click, then made a quick jot on the paper to ensure its viability.
    “Let me check and see if Harry is interested in taking part,” I said as I turned back toward the red curtain.
    “Not interested,” came Harry’s reply from through the thick fabric before I had walked two feet. I turned back to Clive.
    “I’m afraid that my uncle isn’t currently available for an interview,” I said. “Perhaps another time.”
    “Fat chance,” was Harry’s muffled response.
    Clive was certainly a pro, because Harry’s curt reaction didn’t faze him for a second.
    “Well, perhaps I could get you to talk on the record,” he said, turning his attention toward me. “What has your experience been with charlatan psychics? I saw how you dealt with the late Mr. Grey last evening…terrible business, that, by the way,” he added, clucking his tongue sympathetically. “Grisly stuff. Anyway, is that how you usually deal with them, give them a bit of their own medicine, a bit of the hair of the dog, that sort of thing?”
    He lowered his tall frame onto one of the stools in front of the display case, not-so-subtly signaling that we were going to have a conversation of some duration. I sat on the other stool.
    “Well, in that particular instance,” I said, “I was dealing with a performer who was doing, as I mentioned at the time, a very traditional mentalist routine, which is in many ways part and parcel with what magicians do in their acts. With other types of psychics…palm