Vanishing Act ✔️

5

Sean sipped again at his tumbler of whiskey. The waitress had returned with his drink. He hadn't noticed when she arrived. He was too lost in his thoughts and in his growing conviction that this bar held all the answers. He was certain of it; just as certain as he had been twenty-two years earlier, when he had dashed away from that tattooed vendor. He knew where to find Carrie.

He pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. He needed to know that it was there, to know that he had brought it with him. Glancing at it in his palm he was sure that it was the right slip of paper. He brought it with him to so many of these venues, always hoping this would be the night that he could confront Carrie's abductor. She had vanished in front of his eyes, yet she had still been abducted.

He would show the man that took her this printout. He would call him out for what he had done. Yet, if Sean was going to face this man, he had to be absolutely certain.

He unfolded the paper and glanced over its contents, then let out a sigh of relief. It was the right one.

In his hand he held a faded printout from the National Center for Missing & Exploited Children.

Carrie Anne Garrett

Case Type: Endangered Missing Sex: Female

DOB: May 07, 1982 Race: White

Missing Date: October 13, 1990 Height: 3'06"

Age at Report: Eight years old. Weight: 50 lbs.

Missing City: Raleigh Hair Color: Red

Missing State: NC Eye Color: Green

Missing Country: USA

Case Number: NCMC7018231

Carrie Garrett reported missing to the State Fairgrounds Police Department in Raleigh on October 13, 1990. Last seen at the Wake County fairgrounds, wearing a pink/purple polka-dotted sundress and pink tennis shoes. She has long wavy hair and freckled cheeks.

The waitress peered down at the paper as she walked to the next table over. Sean slid the paper away. This wasn't for her eyes.

He cast a glance towards an empty stage at the far side of the bar. It was elevated just over a foot up from the dusty carpet. Unlike the aged mahogany that lined the bar in an elegant wainscoting, this stage was lighter and knotted, crafted of a cheap lumber. A large red curtain (as patched as the carpet) acted as a backdrop. This stage was an afterthought, a cheap ploy at most, to revitalize the bar. Perhaps the owner thought the stage could bring in customers with entertainment as cheap as it's lumber.

If so, the owner had been right. Sean was here because of that stage.

"If you're waiting for the show mister, you're too late." The waitress was clearing the nearby table.

"That's okay," Sean replied. "I'm just waiting on an old acquaintance." Sean grinned as he said this.

There must have been something off in that grin, because the waitress promptly gathered up the last of the dirty glasses and made her exit back towards the kitchen. As she went she cast one odd look back, but as she caught Sean watching she immediately looked away.

'Oh well,' Sean thought. 'She doesn't matter.'

Only one thing mattered: the performer from this evening. He would be out soon to collect his percentage from the cover. It was the same every show. He would perform, spend about thirty minutes backstage closing up shop for the evening, then he'd wrap up, collect his fee and grab a drink.

Sean had spotted him for only the second time in his life three months back. The fiscal year was coming to a close, and that meant an excessive amount of paperwork, from last minute POs to end of year performance reviews. Sean had needed a night out, as had half of the office. Thomas Sloan, Sean's supervisor, had suggested gathering the team together for a night out. He had team-building in mind, and the team was compliant, as long as there was alcohol in the deal. So, Thomas had gathered up the team, hired them a limo and took them into Hollywood. He didn't tell them where they were headed exactly, though, as Thomas was always about the presentation. This was going to be a surprise, a big to do. Bill Rothkowitz was certain they were headed to Yamashiro's.

"Where else are you going to go in Hollywood," he asked. The man had a point. The city was doing some work to revitalize, much like this bar, but it was far from its prime. In recent years, if you wanted a fancy night out you spent it either downtown or perhaps on the west side at some shore-front restaurant. You did not spend it in Hollywood.

Yet one forgot that Hollywood had a history. Turned out that night's big to do had been an office gathering at The Magic Castle. It was an exclusive club and you had to be a member to get in, or the guest of a member. Apparently Thomas Sloan belonged. Sean didn't take the man for a magic enthusiast, but Thomas, as has been said, was all about presentation. Likely he had his membership for just such an occasion as tonight, a moment to impress his guests with his exclusivity. Sean didn't like Thomas very much. He had decided right then and there to order the most expensive thing on the menu.

As they were seated stage side for the evening show, Sean had picked up the menu with just that in mind. He scanned the prices: $38, $27, $37. He stopped, settling on a choice. 'Filet of Beef. $36 Add Milton Style $7' He didn't know what Milton style was, but at 7 dollars that made it a $43 dollar main course and the most expensive meal on the menu.

He thought perhaps he should add a salad. He flipped back to the first page, but as he did, he caught a glimpse over the top of the menu of the evening's entertainment. He was dressed in a simple black blazer over a white dress shirt and a form-fitted pair of jeans. His hair was dark and thin, but shaved close, likely to hide a receding hairline. Outside of the slightest hint of black makeup under his eyes, there was nothing showy about the magician. He was a gaunt man of maybe 40, maybe 50, his skin stretched tight over his angular cheekbones. The one distinguishing characteristic was his low voice, a voice that should have come from a much larger man; a voice that Sean would never forget.