It's Magic, You Dope!: The Lost Fantasy Classic

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  Renaissance E Books

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  IT'S MAGIC, YOU DOPE!

  By

  JACK SHARKEY

  ISBN 978-1-60089-008-6

  All rights reserved

  Copyright 1962 Ziff-Davis for Fantastic Stories Nov. 1962;

  no record of renewal found.

  Copyright © 2006 PageTurner Editions

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.

  For information contact:

  PageTurnerEditions.com

  PageTurner Editions/Futures-Past Science Fiction

  A Renaissance E Books publication

  CHAPTER 1

  IT was the same two guys. I spotted them standing down at the end of the dark street, just beyond the cone of light cast by the street lamp. They were pretending to be neighborhood people, carrying on a casual conversation on the corner, but I knew they were the same guys I'd seen standing outside the library when I'd left it a half hour before, in downtown Chicago.

  I was quite curious, but lacked the nerve to approach them and ask what they wanted. They might want my wallet and watch, and then where'd I be? So I just slammed the door of my sedan, and started up the walk toward Susan's house, pretending I hadn't noticed them. I wished there were more people out on their porches, but the autumn evenings had been turning colder, and hardly anyone came out.

  I rang the bell of the two-story bungalow where Susan lived with her folks, and was reassured to hear the sound of footsteps coming to answer the chimes. Mrs. Baker, Susan's mother, opened the door.

  "Hello, Al,” she said. “Susan'll be down in a minute. Here, let me take your hat.” She rambled through some more mother-greeting-suitor talk, and I finally wound up in the living room, sitting in the center of the sofa, alone, while Mr. Baker, Susan's father, puffed at his pipe and tried to engage me in light conversation on the subject of burglary. Garvey Baker was the night-watchman at the Marshall Field's store up near Lake Street in Oak Park. He was usually about to go out to work about the time I showed up to see Susan. It helped.

  As long as we were on the subject of crime, I mentioned those two guys who seemed to have followed me from the Loop. Mr. Baker laughed. “You've been reading too many mystery books,” he said with an infuriatingly paternal smile.

  "Yes, sir,” I said, anxiously awaiting the moment when he would lift his gold watch from his vest pocket, say, “Well, better get down to the store before the thieves strip it bare,” and go. Mrs. Baker came in with a tray.

  "Thought you might like some cookies and lemonade,” she explained, setting the tray down on the endtable beside the sofa. I thanked her, and she laughed and went out into the kitchen again.

  "Well,” said Garvey Baker, getting ponderously to his feet, and glancing at that gold watch. “I better get on up to the store before the thieves strip it bare.” I was glad to hear the front door close behind him. Then a light patter of feet on the hall stairs announced the arrival of Miss Susan Baker, and I jumped gratefully to my feet....

  "Al,” she smiled, coming across the room to me, her hands outstretched to lightly grip mine.

  "Hi, Susan,” I said, taking hold of her fingertips for that brief moment before she'd deftly tug them free.

  "Do you like my dress?” she said, pirouetting. “Pop got it at his discount. Isn't it adorable?"

  I said it was, and she sat beside me on the sofa. Perhaps “beside” is too strong. It was a three-seater; she and I filled the one and three cushions.

  "Your mother made lemonade for us,” I said. “Here it is, on the tray."

  "Oh, how nice!” said Susan, her eyes dancing. “Wasn't that nice of Mom, Al?"

  I said it was, and we sat a while longer. Then, getting up a little courage, I turned to her and said, “Would you like some?"

  "Oh, please,” said Susan, brightly.

  I arose and poured out two glasses of lemonade, gave one to her, and sat back with the other, on the two-cushion.

  "Al—” said Susan. “Please."

  I moved back to the one-cushion.

  "Cookie?” I asked.

  "Al!” gasped Susan, her eyes round and startled.

  "I mean, do you want a cookie?"

  "Oh. No thank you. But thank YOU for asking me.” She began to sip her lemonade. I began to sip mine. I searched my mind for a topic of conversation. (The Bakers had no TV.) I found one and made the most of it.

  "Two men followed me from the library today."

  "Goodness,” said Susan. “Why?"

  "I don't know,” I said. “To rob me, maybe."

  "A librarian,” Susan laughed lightly. “You barely make enough to support yourself, let alone support a wife..."

  "Mr. Garson says I will get that ten percent increase at the end of November,” I pointed out.

  "I will have been with the library five years."

  "And then we can have our June wedding,’ as we planned,” said Susan. “Won't it be nice?"

  "Nice, oh, yes, I guess so."

  "But what about your hours?” she said with a tiny pout. “You always come over so late, Al."

  "You have to have seniority to get the early shift."

  "That may take years,” she sighed.

  "I know,” I said. “But at least I can sleep late in the mornings, after we're married."

  "Al!” said Susan.

  "Sorry,” I said, not sure for what.

  Susan flashed me a look of deep longing. “I think I will have that cookie, now, Al” she murmured.

  All at once, I wanted to scream.

  "I said, I think I will have that cookie, now, Al,” Susan repeated demurely.

  I couldn't stand it any longer. Eschewing caution, I set my lemonade back on the tray, reached over and took Susan's and put it beside mine, then I slid onto the two-cushion and grabbed her by the upper arms. “Susan—"

  "Al!” Her voice was a panicky squeak. “Have you gone mad? Mother might come in!"

  "I don't care,” I grated. “I've got to talk to you about something more important than cookies or lemonade or my life at the library."

  "Al, you're hurting me!” she said, tiny crystal tears twinkling upon her lower lashes. “How can you behave so horridly to me?"

  "Susan,” I groaned, “you're not even listening to me! Once—just this once—stop blathering all your usual inanities and give me your attention, please!"

  "A gentleman,” blathered Susan, “never uses fierce language like that in the presence of a girl he thinks of as a lady, so I can only assume that—"

  "Stop!" My growl was so ferocious that some of the painted-doll cuteness faded from her face, and a look of genuine adult apprehension overrode her features. She stared at me, blinking rapidly, then said she would listen if I'd only let go of her arms. I let go. She listened.

  "Susan,” I said, talking fast, and trying to put all the misery and frustration of my soul into words, “there must be something more than this. I mean, I should be the happiest man in the world, but I'm not. I don't know why. Here I am, with a steady job, chances for advancement and retirement, engaged to a lovely, young, intelligent girl, whose folks like and approve of me, with a raise in pay d
ue in a few months, and my wedding date set for next June, and it's driving me out of my mind!"

  "What is?” asked Susan, blinking stupidly.

  "This! All of it. Cookies. Lemonade. You. I-I don't know. It's just that ... Well, I keep having the feeling that life has, much more to offer, that's all."

  "What could it possibly?” she asked. “You love me, and I love you, and we will be married and live happily ever—"

  "Stop!"

  She stopped.

  "Look, Susan—Honey—Darling ... Oh, what's the use!"

  Susan lowered her eyes and spoke in a hushed tone. “Are you trying to tell me you don't love me?"

  I looked at her, her long black lashes lying against her pale rose cheek, her lovely hair a golden aurora about her head, her trim little figure a pulse-maddening package in a royal blue dress with a lemon-colored belt...

  Of course I loved her!

  "I love you more every time I see you. But I still want to scream at you,” I sighed. “I don't know why. Maybe because I constantly feel I'm not reaching you..."

  "You know what Mom and Pop feel about—"

  "Not like that! I mean conversationally. No, I don't mean that, either. It's like we don't relate, or mesh, or come in at the same terminal. Does that make sense?"

  Susan looked into my eyes. “There's another woman, isn't there!” she declared. She hadn't understood a word I said. I stood up tall, glaring down at her.

  "I wish there were!” I declared back at her. “Maybe life would have some excitement, then!"

  "I suppose, Albert Hicks,” said Susan, jumping up to face me, “You'd be happier if I did a fan-dance when you came over! Would that be exciting?"

  "Darn tooting!” I snapped.

  "Oh, Al,” she whimpered, hiding her face in her hands. “That's an awful thing to suggest!"

  "I didn't suggest it, I simply endorsed it!” I strode angrily into the front hall, grabbed my hat from the hall tree, and was just reaching for the doorknob when Susan came running after me.

  "Don't go!” she said, catching me by the arm. “If-If you want a fan-dance, I'll-I'll do it. Even that. Anything, Al. Only don't go. Please don't go!"

  I looked down into her earnest little face and melted. I took her gently into my arms and held her, slowly shaking my head. “Honey, honey, I didn't mean that about the dance. I just don't know. Maybe I need to get off someplace and think. I'm a little upset tonight. If I just drive around for awhile, maybe I can settle my mind a little. I'll see you later."

  I kissed her lightly, then went out and shut the door behind me.

  I felt like a heel as I drove away from the curb, trying to get my mind back into a calm, orderly state. My own house was just around the block from Susan's, so I decided to drive the car there and leave it. I'd get more thinking done walking than driving. I pulled into my driveway and doused the headlights.

  Just ahead of the nose of the car, and slightly to its left, I could see the bright yellow rectangles that were the kitchen windows of Susan's house. Now and then a shadow moved past them. Probably Mrs. Baker, making more cookies and lemonade. A smaller shadow trailed after the first one. That would be Timothy Baker, Susan's younger brother. I'd met him relatively few times, since Mrs. Baker—bless her—felt that a boy of approximately ten years could get in the way of any even moderately romantic discussions between a girl and her fiancé.

  I got out of the car and locked it, but just as I was about to walk back out toward the street to begin my meditative peregrinations, I remembered the six-pack of beer in my refrigerator and the remnants of a loaf of rye bread and some ham from Sunday's dinner. It took but a moment's thought to realize that they were just what I needed to take away the taste of cookies and lemonade. I abandoned my walking plans, and went into the house.

  Relying on the light from Susan's kitchen, I made my way across my own kitchen in the dark and started hunting around for the bread. Just as I espied it on the cupboard shelf, a shadow flitted across the light, and I turned my head to see the silhouette of a man out on Susan's yard, messing around with something on the lawn.

  With a small start, I recalled the two strangers who had followed me from the library. I couldn't tell in the dimness if this were one of them but whoever he was, he had no business in Susan's yard.

  I spun about and raced for my front door. I hurried to the corner, raced for Susan's street, and turned onto it, figuring to trap the guy between me and Susan's back fence. Halfway there, I saw the second man on the front lawn of her house, also fooling around with some kind of gadget. The thing glinted with metal and glass, and stood on a short tripod. Suddenly, the other man joined him, carrying his own counterpart of the gadget, and they jumped into a car and drove off.

  Baffled by their conduct, I kept on toward Susan's, and turned to start up her front walk. My feet brushed autumn grass. I looked down. The path was gone. I looked up. So was Susan's house. Susan's had been the last in a row of houses before a small park. Now the park was twenty-five feet wider. Not even a hole where the foundation had been. And where the sofa I'd last seen Susan upon should have been, there stood a lofty elm, looking as though it had been rooted there for twenty years.

  CHAPTER 2

  BACK in my own house, a few dazed moments later, I held off calling the police. I'd seen too many movies about people trying to convince policemen of the truth when the truth was slightly out of the ordinary; and this was anything but a slight extraordinariness. What I needed was someone to back up my story, and the likely person would be Garvey Baker.

  Looking up the Marshall Field's number, I dialed quickly, and stood tapping my foot as the buzzing at the other end of the wire repeated without interruption. On the fifteenth buzz, someone picked up the phone.

  "Watchman,” said a voice.

  "Mr. Baker?” I said. “This is Al."

  "This ain't Mr. Baker. This is the watchman. Call back tomorra, maybe he'll be in then."

  It wasn't even Garvey's voice. As I tried to explain my distress, the man hung up and left me with a dead line to talk to. I dropped the phone back into the cradle, more shaken than before I'd made the call. One more unlikelihood to tell the police. One that might buy me a jacket with buckles in the back, and not Ivy League, either.

  There was one other way left. Or was there?

  Feeling an uneasy tremor in my stomach, I reached out a slow hand for the phone book, and carefully checked through the Bs. There were seven Bakers listed. But not a Garvey, Susan, Timothy, or Maggie (Mrs. Baker's given name). And not one at the right address.

  Susan's picture! Upstairs on my bureau! I raced up the stairs to look for it. The frame was there, and there was a picture in it, too. A picture of Annabel Simmons, the girl I'd dated before meeting Susan. I'd certainly not kept her picture. After a brain-racking moment, I remembered definitely that I had thrown it away. But here it was, as if it had never been gone; as though I were still going around with Annabel.

  On a sudden unearthly hunch, I raced downstairs and dialed Annabel's number. In a few seconds, there was a soft, slightly husky voice awakening pangs of nostalgia in my ear. One would never believe we'd separated like outraged tigers a few months back, with Annabel vowing she'd rather go to the electric chair than ever see my face again.

  "You ... You're not mad, Annabel?” I said shakily.

  "Mad? Mad, Albert? About what?"

  "The fight. The fight we had."

  "Fight?” Her bewilderment sounded genuine. “What fight are you talking about?"

  "Look—” I persisted, evading the query. “When was—precisely, now—the very last time you saw me?"

  "Oh. As precisely as I can recall, it was something in the neighborhood of fifteen minutes ago. You just now brought me home, Albert. Remember?"

  "That's impossible,” I groaned, and hung up.

  In approximately thirty seconds, the phone jangled sharply, and when I lifted it to my ear, it was Annabel again.

  "Albert, are you all right?” she
said. “Because if you're feeling under the weather or anything, I don't mind dropping over..."

  "No,” I said swiftly. “Don't come over."

  "Why not?” she said, with a definite shading of suspicion in her tone. I vividly recalled Annabel's excitably jealous nature, then, and thought fast.

  "Because it's—too late, uh ... honey. It wouldn't be right for you to come to a man's house all alone. It's past midnight."

  "Silly,” she said. “I'll bring Elizabeth then.” Elizabeth was Annabel's niece, who sometimes stayed with her when her parents were on vacation. “I'll pry the child loose from the Late Late Show and drag her along."

  I was out of excuses. “Sure,” I sighed. “Why not?"

  My head was whirling as I hung up. Then I had my first flash of realistic inspiration. Suppose, instead of trying to figure what had happened, I thought about why. Never mind how the house was made to vanish; figure by whom. And I could guess that already.

  The man for whom the now-expanded park beside Susan's house was named. Geoffrey Porkle. Porkle Park was only a few houseless lots, really. Barely a stretch of grass and trees. He had been trying, with little avail, to persuade the homeowners in the neighborhood to sell out to him, that he might further extend the confines of his pent-up park. The comfortably settled suburbanites had all refused. Garvey Baker, and I myself, had each been approached. I doubt if there was a casual passerby in Oak Park who had not been collared at one time by one of Porkle's representatives, with rabid urgings to sell out. So, in something which involved such a sudden extension of Porkle Park, Geoffrey Porkle was the natural suspect.

  While I was still wondering what to do with my suspicions, the doorbell rang, and I went to let Annabel in. She entered, with her short blonde monster in tow, and began to remove her glove. Elizabeth tilted back her curly golden head and, gave a loud shriek. I was about to formulate some innocuous question that would clarify my curiosity about my unremembered recent association with Annabel without making her think I'd popped my cork when the doorbell, rang again.

  "Who can that be?” asked Annabel with green suspicion.