The Illusion of the Disappearing Act
by
BJ Thompson
Chapter 3
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Joe crossed the Heim Bridge onto Terminal Island. He wove his way through the streets until he came to where Tuna Street dead ended into Wharf Street.
Joe stopped to survey the area surrounding the lone building. A block to the south was a slip dock, to the north vacant lots. He drove past the building on Wharf Street, turned around parked on the street where he could observe the area.. The building was oddly deserted for a weekday; the whole area was. He noticed an extermination truck parked outside the building when he passed by. Signs were pasted on doors and windows warning of dangerous gases. No other cars, no people. The back of his neck tingled. What in the world could the blonde guy do in that building? And how was it connected to Blake? Is this another dead end?
His car phone buzzed. "Mannix."
"Joe, I've got a name for the man in the sketch. Dennis Pomeroy, Max's son, did some digging and called in with what he found."
"Who is he?"
"His name is James Phelps."
"What else?"
"Not much. Mostly found out he's some type of independent contractor for the government."
"Independent contractor? Doing what?"
"Dennis couldn't find out. He said he tried all his tricks and got nothing but the man's name."
"No address, no phone?"
"Not even a car registered to him, no driver's license, no military record or birth certificate."
"Who is Blake mixed up with?"
"I don't know, but Dennis said that at that secrecy level, whatever he's doing only a couple of people in the government know about it and they're not letting anybody like us in on it."
"Thanks, Peggy."
Joe exited his car. Time to discover what was going on in that building. He crept toward the building while twisting his head to make sure he was not being observed. He hugged the battleship gray walls as he searched for a way in. He glimpsed a person inside as he squinted through the dirty pane of glass. Big, tall, and muscular – the weightlifter! Joe watched him as he walked into a small, enclosed office near the front of the building and emerged with the blonde man, James Phelps, following him. So far no Blake, was he here? If they were the exterminators what or who were they exterminating?
He searched for a way in without making a lot of noise. He went as far away from the small office as he could get and found what he was searching for – a locked door. He slipped the lockpick kit from his inside coat pocket. Again he thanked Lew Wickersham for making his Intertect operatives learn how to pick a lock.
He selected the torsion wrench that fit the keyway and then slid the pick in to feel for each pin. In turn he depressed each pin until he sensed it give. Finally he felt the lock release. Slowly he turned the knob, entered the building while closing the door softly behind him.
The warehouse held the murmur of voices. He concealed himself behind one of the rows of wooden packing crates. Hearing footsteps, he ducked and flattened his body against the nearest crate. He held his breath as the footsteps returned and passed by him again. He waited a moment before he continued to prowl his way through the rows of crates, creeping closer to the voices. He peeped around the edge of a crate.
Anthony Blake sat at a small table with a lighted mirror putting on makeup and applying pieces of rubber to his face. Standing next to him Joe saw James Phelps. He was talking to Blake and watching him apply a disguise. The woman, with chestnut-colored hair that Jerry described, strolled into the office. Where was that weightlifter? Joe scanned the area around him, and then returned his attention to Phelps and Blake.
The phone rang. Phelps picked it up and listened. "We'll take care of it from here." He hung up, and nodded his head to someone out of Joe's sight.
"He's good," Phelps said to Blake.
"Max would only hire the best." Blake dabbed his makeup on blending the facial appliance to his face.
"You're going to have to talk to him, you know."
"I think he'll go along."
Joe heard a footfall behind him. Before he could turn, an arm grabbed him under his chin and lifted him off the concrete floor like he weighed fifty pounds instead of one hundred eighty. He struggled in the choke hold. He tried to elbow whoever held him, but he hit the brick-hard wall of a man's stomach. He twisted and rocked trying to free himself; he couldn't breathe . . . he couldn't breathe . . . he couldn't . . .
Car horns and engines revving jerked Joe awake. He opened his eyes to the morning rush hour on Santa Rosa Avenue. His head lay on his car door. He sat up, rubbed his chin and felt a day's growth of beard. His neck was stiff and sore, and his wrists and ankles were bruised. He stretched his arms and felt a nick of pain. He pushed up the sleeve on his left arm and found a needle puncture mark. Son of a bitch! He raced through the traffic to his office at the Paseo Verde and stormed into his office.
"Joe! I was getting worried. Tony Blake's back," Peggy said.
"I bet he is! I found him. I traced him to this warehouse on Terminal Island. He was putting on a disguise, you know, makeup like actors use to change their appearance and become another character."
"Makeup – why?"
"Before I could even ask what was going on – Pow! Somebody put a sleeper hold on me from behind. Probably that weightlifter. I started to come to, and then this woman shot me a sedative or something. When I came to the second time, I was in my car across town, like nothing happened. As soon as I get showered, shaved and out of these clothes, I'm paying Blake a visit."
Joe took the steps to his apartment two at a time. After he rid himself of his clothes, he let the hot water in the shower wash away his frustrations but not his anger. He rankled at how easy it had been to subdue him. He prided himself on his ability at getting out of any type of chokehold that had been put on him, but that Willie guy had the muscle to put him out in a matter of seconds.
He toweled off and rushed into his clothes. He would confront Blake about what had happened. He wanted to know what he was mixed up in and why the hell did they have to knock him out and drug him.
When Joe came out of his bedroom, he smelled the coffee before he saw Anthony Blake standing behind the breakfast nook in his kitchenette. Blake was poised in the motion of pouring a cup of coffee. The spout of the coffee pot hung over a mug.
"How do you take yours?" Blake asked.
"Black." Blake finished pouring coffee into a mug for Joe.
Joe stomped down the stairs from his bedroom and settled himself onto a stool at the breakfast nook while throwing his sport jacket on the table. "Well?"
"Joe, you need to forget everything you saw or heard."
"Why? I was choked out, drugged and then put in my car like nothing happened."
"As far as you're concerned, nothing did."
"What are you mixed up in?"
"I can't tell you that."
"Again, why?"
"I'm only going to say that it's a matter of national security."
"Who do you work for?"
"I've given Max and Jerry orders never to hire a detective to find me or to report me missing to the police when I 'disappear'. What I do when I'm gone is vitally important to this country. Nothing interferes with that. Nothing. Do you understand?"
Joe understood but that didn't mean he liked it.
"Do you understand?" Blake repeated.
"And what if I don't?"
"You don't want to even think about the repercussions of that."
"Look, Blake, I'll keep your secrets. I don't really care. I was just doing my job."
"As was I. Continue to do your job and keep your mouth shut. Do you have the sketchbook?"
Joe scanned the living room and retrieved the sketchbook Peggy left on the coffee table. He handed it Blake who found the page with the James Phelps sketch. He tore it out, crumpled it and made it disappear. He did the little nothing-up-my-sleeve trick and pulled out a couple of show passes.
"These are good for any show, any time." He held them out to Joe who refused to take the offering. Blake dropped the tickets on the counter. "Don't forget to send me your bill." He proceeded to the apartment door.
"That's it? You waltz in here and tell me to keep my mouth shut?"
"Better me than some of the people I know."
"Are you threatening me?"
Blake smiled. "I don't threaten, I perform."
"Tell me this: who had your car towed?"
"I did."
"You?"
"A little misdirection. Stay safe."
"Blake! Costa Verde? It's true about you being a spy for the government?"
"You really expect an answer?" With a slam of the door, Anthony Blake vanished again.
Joe felt like someone who got off with warning when he could have gotten an expensive speeding ticket. Only this ticket could have cost him his life. Anthony Blake must be was spying for the US, because otherwise Joe knew he wouldn't have been alive to have this talk with him.
Joe scooped up the passes and slid them into his shirt pocket. He picked up the mug and took it to the sink. Before he dumped the coffee, he sniffed it. The aroma made him take a quick sip. He took another sip. Speedily, he unplugged the coffee pot, and took the mug, his coat and the pot downstairs to the office. Peggy was working at her desk when he arrived.
"Well?" she asked.
Joe poured the coffee into a mug and handed her it to her.
"Go ahead, taste it."
Peggy's eyes widened as she tried the brew. "Ooo, when did you learn to make good coffee?"
"Courtesy of Anthony Blake, the magician."
"We need to get his secret."
"I doubt he'll tell you. That magician keeps his secrets very well."
Joe sipped the coffee. "Prepare the bill for this little adventure and send it to Blake. Okay, what's on the agenda for today?"
Peggy followed Joe into his office carrying her mug of coffee, her steno pad and the morning paper. Another day at 17 Paseo Verde had begun and, finally, with good cup of joe.
The End
