Baril de Singes [Barrel of Monkeys]

  ***

  Skeet Burnisher, in my mind, had to be more than a glib club lounge prestidigitator or a showoff deckhand doubling as trick shot artist. His callings warranted a larger presentation and I was determined to bring a life to the role that not only obfuscated my true identity, but would leave behind an indelible impression of Skeet the person. In retrospect, a low key approach would perhaps have better served the situation and myself.

  "He's a hoot and a half, isn't he?" The large woman, jolly and convivial in her gray baggy frock, whooped herself into another round of staccato guffaws while nudging her dinner partners with the business ends of her flabby elbows. "I say, he's a hoot and a half!"

  "Thank you, madam," I replied, offering a half bow to her and her companions. In order to create Skeet's swarthy appearance, I doused my face and neck with what I believed was an ochre pigment foundation from the makeup kit. Unfortunately, in the dim lights of the large dining hall, its effect made me look quite orange. The skin dye would not have been so tragic had I chosen to forego wearing the silver colored eye contacts, which when coupled with my incandescent face and neck brought me to the edge of appearing possessed and a tad demonic. The ersatz handlebar mustache -- spun to a fine and curly twist on either end -- completed what I originally intended to be the picture of mysteriousness. Instead, my carroty aura negated any preternatural presentation.

  "And for my next trick, watch me make this oyster disappear in front of your very eyes." Before the guests had time to react, I reached down and collected the sizeable hors d'oeuvre from the plate of the gentleman to my right and dropped it in my mouth, swallowing the delectable saltwater resident in one gulp.

  "Hey, you bastard, I was about to eat that!" the man protested. "Rude son of a bitch."

  "Slight of hand, mind over matter," I said, suffering his protestation while enjoying the laughter of his fellow diners. "Sir, have you ever seen the Invisible Sheboygan Bratwurst trick?"

  "I'd rather have my oysters left alone!"

  "I'll take that as a no, then. Young man, young man," I said, summoning a lad of about eleven from the far side of the table, "come here for a moment. I need your assistance. Come on, now, it's fine."

  Reluctantly, the boy slunk from his seat and rounded the table to stand by my side. "Now, to make this work, follow my instructions carefully." I bent down and whispered into his ear, evoking a wide grin from the now eager volunteer. "Here, ladies and gents, we have a regular kerchief taken from my very own breast pocket. I will unfold this normal item of men's wear like so." I unfurled the cloth gripping both corners so it took the shape of a large square, holding it as a partition between the man and boy. "Now, you all can view this gentleman and my able assistant, but they cannot see what the other is doing, correct?"

  Anticipation built as the table murmured its consent to my premise, nodding and watching intently. The large, jolly woman slurped the remainder of her champagne and propped her many chins in a cupped hand.

  "Three, two, one," I counted down, adding dramatically, "presto!" With that, the lad walloped the man's shin with the point of his shiny dress shoe, then turned tail and circled back to his seat.

  "My Christ! What the hell was that for?" The man rocked back and forth, groaning and rubbing his leg. "The little bastard!"

  "Well," I said, winking at the awestruck onlookers while refolding the kerchief to its original form, "have you ever seen such a brat worse than that? Didn't think so. And now he's disappeared. He must be invisible!"

  "He's a hoot and a half, I tell you!" The small crowd broke into a smattering of applause except, of course, the aggrieved party.

  "Get the hell out of here you piece of crap!"

  "Abracadabra, friends. Enjoy your meal." I noted my roving enchantment had captured the attention of those at the oblong-shaped head table, where Bridgework, April Après, Ethelene, Oz Moeziz, Angel and Chip/Silly -- yes, Chip/Silly -- were strung out in a row of padded seats as would be the court at a royal gathering. They were joined by two officers of the ship and two additional couples whom I did not recognize.

  "Sir, the master would like a word with you." Before I could respond, an austere steward took me by the elbow and forcefully guided to the head table, directly opposite from Bridgework himself.

  "Well, well, if it isn't," Bridgework said, reaching over an array of food and condiments to grasp the identification tag hanging from my neck, "good old Burnisher the magician."

  "Good evening, good evening," I said, smiling delightfully while mindful to keep my accent sharp and consistent. In deference to Sheboygan, I opted to employ a punctuated Wisconsinite inflection. "How do you do?"

  "I know you," Bridgework said, squinting his eyes while leaning back. "Don't I know you, Mr. Burnisher? I'd swear we've met before."

  "Perhaps, sir. I've worked some of your functions in the past. The Woolamaloo Gang jamboree at Lake Tahotukmikash three or four years ago," I said, hoping the bluff would put him off. "As I recall, the waterskiing pyramid stayed intact for several laps around the entire lake that day." A fresh round of perspiration showered my armpits as Bridgework appeared seconds away from unmasking me.

  "I don't recall that particular detail, Mr. Skitch Burnisher."

  "Skeet. Burnisher. Magician. Marksman." I fumbled for the deck of cards in my jacket pocket, avoiding a waitress as she placed a dish of hot honey-glazed carrots on the table. Time to put the spotlight on someone else. Sidestepping the server so that I stood across from Oz Moeziz, I picked up a slice of the sticky vegetable. "What have we here? Now, what in the world could be behind that scraggily old ear of yours?"

  "Hey, what are ya doing?" Moeziz pulled away from me as I feigned drawing the glutinous carrot from the back of his ear.

  "Well, well, sir. You've been hiding a little bite of supper from everyone, haven't you?"

  "What? You just picked that out of the dish!"

  "Did I?" I looked at him, then to the dripping divot of carrot and back again. "Or do you think that I did?"

  "I know you did!"

  "Know? Or do you perceive?"

  "I friggin' watched you do it!"

  "Then I proudly award you the Monaco Monocle prize," I said, placing my thumb against the flat side of the carrot and plunging it into his left eye. "Congratulations!"

  "Why you mother --"

  Bridgework's laughter buried the forthcoming slur precisely as heaps of coleslaw arrived. "Fantastic!" His overt appreciation allowed me an abbreviated glance at Angel who, in meeting my eyes, stroked the necklace resting within her delicately attractive bosom.

  Sure enough, turning back to Bridgework, directly below his crimson bowtie dangled the sought-after flash drives. "Ah, unfortunately we're reaching the conclusion of my preprandial excursion into the world of artifice and perception."

  "You won't be missed, asshole." Moeziz steamed while working to clear his eye of sticky orange-colored remnants.

  "I, too, feel we have met in another world, Mr. Burnisher," Ethlene suggested in a loud voice, "you seem so naggingly familiar."

  "I've seen him tricking Letterman," April offered, twirling slaw onto her fork. "Google will tell me when he's been on the Tonight Show."

  "Your spiky grayish hair and ginger complexion are distinctive, Mr. Burnisher." Ethelene, too, appeared to be teetering on the brink of unmasking my charade. "Just where does a man of your talent come from?"

  "France, ma'am," I said, clearing my throat while trying to strike an unconcerned down home note, "descendent from the dauphin, actually. My ancestors established the first public quadrille dance studio after all that guillotine nastiness during the Revolution. I'm sure you understand."

  "Mr. Burnisher --", Ethelene started again.

  "Please. Skeet."

  "A real magician could explain to us the difference between the Chinese Water Torture and government water boarding," Chip/Silly suddenly blurted out, spraying me with a spoonful of freshly buttered peas launched catapult-style. "A legitimate magician.
Not a fraud."

  "And so would a diplomat, historian and politician possess said knowledge. A genuine magician, however, never reveals any aspect of his trade. That's UMAC rule number one."

  "UMAC?"

  "Union of Magicians and Conjurers." I successfully dodged the next volley of peas. "'Be it involving surfboards, water boards, blackboards or mortarboards, to utter such secrets is deemed untowards'. That's straight from the UMAC handbook."

  "Hey," April called through a tongue brimming with shredded cabbage, "weren't you in those Harry Wizard movies, too?"

  "Maybe it's time for Mr. Burnisher to perform a vanishing act," Angel said in a loud voice laden with disgust, "and see about organizing his target range on the starboard bow."

  "Poof!" I commanded, waving a trick wand toward the distinguished ship owner and his guests. Much to everyone's amazement, mine included, instead of transforming into a bouquet of paper mâché flowers [as indicated in the magic kit manual] the wand took the form of a rather long and droopy pink phallus. The audience erupted in laughter and applause and, without missing a beat, I tossed the serpentine object at a wide-eyed Chip/Silly who made a remarkable catch just above his tropical blue turtle soup bowl.

  I departed, humbly so, amid a hail of applause as those in the room rose to join in a standing ovation.