Now the Fortress was an exclusive club open only to members-and to anyone who held an invitation for a fundraiser, a book club meeting, or a bachelor party. Still, the magicians who attended continued to act as if they were in their own private preserve, testing out their new illusions on each other while making sure their business cards ended up in the pockets of anyone who looked like they might be hiring.

From the descriptions Gus had read online, he’d expected the Fortress to be a grand, Gothic spectacle, a step inside a private world few would ever have the opportunity to experience. Instead, he saw a run-down mansion with wobbly furniture, threadbare carpets, and a smog of desperation hanging over the small crowd that populated it. He was momentarily surprised that none of the Web sites he’d checked out had described the place as anything but a palace of wonders. But he quickly realized that the illusion of exclusivity was stronger and more appealing than anything reality had to offer-what was the point of gaining admittance to this fabulously private place, only to describe it as a dump? If the writer’s privilege was to mean anything, the Fortress had to be portrayed as something, well, magical.

What it felt like more than anything else was the headquarters of an Elks lodge that hadn’t recruited a new member since Nixon resigned.

“This is some rocking party,” Shawn said. “My father doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

“So when are you going to tell me what he did that was so bad, they banned him for life?” Gus said.

“It was a little misunderstanding, that’s all,” Shawn said. “They thought they should be able to practice their craft in their own building. He disagreed.”

“Let’s just find this Bud Flanek guy and get out of here,” Gus said. “This place is depressing.”

“If there’s one thing that professional magicians and aging bachelor partyers have in common, it’s their choice of location,” Shawn said. “We’ll find him in the bar.”