Card-Carrying Columnist Plays The Mark

‘I’m beginning to sense an image of your card,” said the gray-haired magician, who peered deeply into my eyes.

A knowing smile stole over his face. He leaned back in his chair and hooked his thumbs into a vest imprinted with colorful top hats and that most mystical incantation: abracadabra.

“The two of spades,” he announced in a theatrical tone.

My turn to grin. I’m no wizard, unless you count the romantic arts, but I distinctly remembered which card I had pulled earlier from a deck.

The seven of clubs.

“Sorry,” I told him. “Not even close.”

Dick Frost, 61, looked sucker-punched.”Not your card?” he muttered, his face reddening. “Not your card?”

I don’t want to sound too critical. I didn’t accept an invitation to the Spokane Magic Club the other night expecting David Copperfield to make the Riverfront Park Clock Tower disappear.

But blowing a simple guess-your-card stunt? How abracadismal. Or so I thought.

I’ve been an easy mark for magic most of my life. Ever since a childhood friend named Freddie Kerley baffled me with card tricks I could never figure out.

No matter how I whined, Freddie kept the Magicians’ Golden Rule. He never divulged how he did what he did. Freddie grew up and became a lawyer, so I guess trickery and deceit were in his nature.

I was happily surprised to discover that sleepy Spokane harbors a band of die-hards devoted to disappearing doves and sawing people in half. The little-known club, which meets once a month at the Stockyards Inn, can be traced 100 years to the Magic Lodge of Spokane.

But these latter-day Houdinis are worried. Their craft faces an unprecedented assault from unscrupulous tell-alls who delight in taking the mystery out of magic.

Case in point is a recent Fox television show that graphically exposed the behind-the-scenes mechanics of some of the great tricks. Another segment is planned soon.

“When you become a magician you take a secrecy oath,” said Frost, who is entering his 50th year of magic. “And an oath is an oath. We should break their legs if they reveal secrets. That’s the way I feel.”

Frost, well known as a Spokane talent agent, is often on the road with his magic, playing state fairs and conventions all across America.

“I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t absolutely love it,” he said. “Magic is one of the last variety arts dating back to vaudeville. If we don’t keep going, we’re gonna die out with the ventriloquists and the tap dancers.”

Frost is the club’s only full-time magician. Other members pursue magic in varying degrees of time and ability. They usually conclude their dinner meetings with mini-performances.

On this night there were 11 men and four women. The inimitable 73-year-old Bill Hilker (aka Mr. Trick) loudly announced he would balance nine nails on the tip of a single nail. He promptly spilled them all over the table. “I haven’t done this in awhile,” moaned Mr. Trick.

Dave Womach, the youngest member at 14, is fast becoming an accomplished professional. He can cut decks of cards with either hand and performs a growing repertoire of tricks.

As far as I’m concerned, it would spoil all the fun knowing how these people work their magic. Don’t tell me how Ron Hodges could predict which color of M&Ms a woman would guess. Don’t tell me how Frost slipped out of a padlocked chain.

And please, don’t ever, ever tell me how he managed to stick a sealed envelope in my notebook.

I didn’t discover it until the next morning, 12 hours after the magic club meeting. “What’s this?” I wondered as I slit the seal, shook the envelope and watched gap-jawed as a blue rectangle fell out.

My house suddenly rang with the strangled howls of a man laughing and choking on a mouthful of coffee. Who could blame me? There on the dining room table, face up, was a familiar sight.

That damned seven of clubs.

, DataTimes