5
Unfinished Business
The morning light bled through the bleary windows of The Old Curiosity Shop, Mr. Horum’s magic emporium in the heart of Colta City.
Bronson slipped some joy buzzers onto a hook. Posters, paintings, and fliers lined the walls. They showed great magicians performing their signature feats:
Alexander Herrmann with his goatee and tailcoat. Across from the register Harry Kellar levitated Princess Karnak. A painting of Okito The Mystic, clad in red oriental robes, hung in the back. He suspended a small orange ball between his hands.
Bronson hung up the last joy buzzer then tossed the box into a pile by the door behind the register.
He grabbed another box then sliced it open. A few dozen plastic envelopes sat inside with covers advertising different premade card tricks. One called the “Clean Sweep” came with a reusable five of clubs. The cover read:
EFFECT: WIPE THE FACE OFF THE CARD — LEAVING A CLEAN WHITE FACE — RIGHT IN FRONT OF THEIR EYES — EASY
Before Bronson could put the first pack on the shelf, the bell above the door rang. A man walked in. His eyes bounced around the shop, never stopping at one place as he wandered around with his hands stuck in the pockets of his wrinkled dress slacks.
“Anything I can help you with, sir?” Bronson asked. The man seemed familiar but he couldn’t place him. Maybe he’d saved him as Dogboy. Or robbed him. It had been a weird couple months.
“Hey, buddy. You know where I can find the owner? I’m looking to sell some— Bronson?” The man knelt down and grabbed Bronson’s shoulders. “Bronson. It’s me. Your dad’s old partner.”
“Mr. Morgan. I knew you looked familiar,” Bronson said as he gave his old friend a hug.
Wylie Morgan toured the northeastern magic circuit with Bronson’s dad, Duncan, for close to twenty years. He lived in a different state so Bronson only saw him on occasion growing up. His visits always meant a lot of eating out and fun stuff like mini golf and movie theaters.
Wylie held Bronson at arm’s length to take a look at him.
“I’ll be,” he said. “It hasn’t been, what, a few months since I saw you last. You look like a whole different boy. All grown up.”
“Hey, you mind if I put these away while we talk? My boss will be here soon,” Bronson said.
“Not a problem. So you work here, huh?”
Bronson scooped up a handful of envelopes and started restocking the shelves. “Yea. It’s pretty fun. Mr. Horum teaches me new tricks all the time. I’m getting pretty good.”
“Duncan would be proud,” Wylie said. He picked up a picture frame with an odd holographic picture of a man who changed into a worn, eerie ghoul when you tilted it just right. “So your uncle… Randolph, was it? He doesn’t mind you working with school and everything?”
Bronson bristled at the mention of his uncle. Images flashed through his head— the dreary room in Randolph’s apartment. The times when Randolph towered over him yelling. The terror as he fled through the subway tunnels.
“Uncle Randolph’s place didn’t work out,” he said. “I stay here now. With Mr. Horum. It’s a lot better. Here, I’ll show you!”
Bronson ran across the shop then moved a rack of harlequin masks to reveal a small metal ring embedded in the floorboards. He pulled up on the ring. A big chunk of the floor popped up. Bronson lowered himself onto the ancient wooden ladder that led down to a small finished room. There was a bed in one corner, a television in the other.
Wylie climbed down behind Bronson. “A little out of the way, isn’t it?” he asked
“This used to be a secret passage,” Bronson said. He walked over to the wall and pushed it. A panel slid back to reveal a long tunnel that started with bricks and pipes and ended in pitch black. “Mr. Horum says when this was the state capital they’d use this tunnel to sneak the governor from his mansion to the capital building in the middle of the night to take care of important stuff.”
He pointed at the opposite wall. “It goes up the other way too but I guess they sealed it up back in the 60s.”
Wylie admired a half-done art project along one wall. Cut-out figures of Spider-Man, The Fly, SHAZAM!, and other comic book heroes covered the left side.
“So you like superheroes, huh?” he said. “I remember your dad picking up comics at gas stations. He always said they were for you, but I’d catch him reading them backstage before he went on.”
Bronson laughed then swung the secret panel closed with a CLICK.
“So what brings you to Colta City, Mr. Morgan?” Bronson asked. “Got a show tonight or something?”
“I’m here on some other business,” Wylie said as he stepped back on the ladder. “Nothing a boy your age would be interested in I’m sure.”
“Oh I’m interested in all sorts of things. Unless it’s super boring.”
“Trust me,” Wylie said. “This is the most boring stuff you could possibly imagine.” He smiled at Bronson then started up the ladder.
As his upper half peeked out above the floorboards the bell above the door rang.
He froze on the ladder for a moment. Quick, heavy footsteps shook the floor above Bronson’s head. Dust shook off, drifting to the ground.
“I show you thieves what we do to thieves here!” shouted Mr. Horum’s voice from above.
A second later Wylie screamed, falling off the ladder, landing hard on his back. He groaned as Mr. Horum leaned over the trap door.
“No worries. I kick thief good. He no gonna get’cha now, boy-oh.”
A little while later Bronson, Mr. Horum, and Wylie were back in the shop. Mr. Horum worked on the books up by the register. Every once in a while he’d sneak his eyes up and glance at Bronson and Wylie across the room.
Wylie sat in an ornate red throne near the door, holding a shopping bag filled with ice up to the back of his head.
“Your friend doesn’t have to hide,” he told Bronson. “It’s an honest mistake. If I saw some guy climbing out of my floor I’d probably do the same.”
“Sorry, he’s still a little shaky. We had a break in last week,” Bronson said.
“Oh, no. I hope they didn’t take anything.”
“No, they roughed him up a little though.” Bronson stood. “Hold on. I’ll get him over here.”
As Bronson approached the counter Mr. Horum picked up the ledger and brought it close to his face. He glanced over the top then cursed himself as he caught Bronson’s eye.
“C’mon. This is silly and you know it,” Bronson said.
The old man put the book on the counter then looked up at his young apprentice. “I no know, Bronson. First magician’s son has weird cult thief people, then girl, then I come here and see creepy guy— no offense. ‘What if he hurt Bronson?’ I think. If you gonna have so much people maybe we need reservation or something. So I no beat up your friends no more.”
“Enough with the dopey-mopey. That’s not my friend I see. Now come on,” Bronson said, grabbing Mr. Horum’s hand and pulling him over to their injured guest.
“Mr. Horum, this is Mr. Morgan. Mr. Morgan… Mr. Horum.”
“Wylie,” Wylie said as he extended his left hand.
“Predsha, but everybody call me Horum anyway. Ah-ah…” Mr. Horum grabbed Wylie’s left hand, lowering it, then took his right one and gave it a solid shake.
“Sorry to scare you, Predsha. I know if I was taking care of Bronson here I’d want to keep him safe.”
“When I not kicking boy’s friends in gut, hmmb?” Mr. Horum said. “Bronson, you check this guy out?”
“Sure did, Mr. Horum. Let’s take a look at the bump on your head, though.” Bronson ran back behind the chair, gesturing for Wylie to sit.
When he did, Bronson felt a small bump near the top of his head then noticed a larger one along his hairline.
“Looks like you got an extra egg in that dozen, Mr. Morgan,” he said.
He pulled Wylie’s collar aside to get a better look and noticed a deep burn running along the side of his neck.
“Where’d you get this burn?” Bronson asked. Something was nagging at the back of his head. If he could only remember…
“Oh, that? Nothing,” Wylie said, and pulled his collar back up over the dark purple scar. “Be careful around hot pipes. That’s the lesson there. Thanks for taking a look, buddy.”
He picked up his briefcase and put his arm around Mr. Horum. “Now, Predsha, you’re a man of business. I have some inventions here that are perfect for your little shop here.”
“Uh — Sure. We always looking for good stuff. Come. We talk.”
“Can I come too?” Bronson asked.
“No,” Mr. Horum said, unlocking his office door. “You got work to do. Boring business talk anyway. You keep busy, boy-oh.”
“You got it, Mr. Horum,” he said. The two men entered the office, shutting the door behind them.
Bronson let out a deep sigh as he pulled the box of plastic envelopes from under the counter. He shoved a few on the shelf, considering the weird burn under Wylie’s collar. He sure seemed spooked when I asked him about it, he thought. I wonder what happened.
He crouched down, creeping toward the office door. He heard the men talking, the words getting clearer as he got closer. They came into focus.
“Don’t be scared. It’s only a gun,” said Wylie’s muffled voice. “I travel a lot for business. A man’s gotta protect himself. You’re a man of the world, Predsha. You know how it is.”
“I don’t care who you friend of,” Mr. Horum said. “You pull gun in my shop we see who gotta protect himself, hmmb?”
My dad never traveled with a gun, Bronson thought. Then he remembered the man in the purple hood the previous night. The gunman who’d got away after Dogboy hit him with an energy bolt.
Right in the side of the neck.
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