Magic Mansion by Jordan Price (best fiction books to read .txt) 📕

“But who’s counting? Look, I know you’re not an effervescent kind of guy, I get it, I do. But at least try to show a little life in there. And make sure you come across as agreeable.”

John narrowed his eyes.

His manager sized him up for a moment, and then plunged ahead. They hadn’t managed to stay together as long as they had by mincing words. “They’ll want someone they can work with—and if you do sign on that dotted line, they’re gonna paint you however they want whether you’re in on it or not. You might be like that old fatty who lasted ’til the finals on Weighty Matters—an aging hero. Or they might cast you as the villain. Or the washed-up has-been. And if you can deal with that…they’ll be a lot more likely to play ball.”

John imagined everyone had played several of these roles over the course of their lifetime. Which facet of someone’s personality shone most brightly simply depended on which way the spotlight was striking it. “Don’t worry, Dick. I need to do this, and I will do what it takes.”

Dick clapped John on the knee. “Attaboy. A total pro.”

They joined a couple of interns and producer Marlene Perez in one of the smaller conference rooms. It had a big, round table in the center, a half-empty water cooler on one end, and a whiteboard that still bore traces of old ideas on the other. Marlene was a dark, dour girl, several pounds too thin, with quick eyes that nothing escaped. Her Cartier watch glittered with diamonds, and her frown lines belonged on the brow of a woman at least ten years older. There was no question about whether she was prepared to make an offer to Professor Topaz; she wouldn’t have wasted everyone’s time by meeting with them in person if she wasn’t. She spread the contract before them and went through all the particulars with Dick—and ostensibly with John as well. John’s mind was elsewhere. He trusted Dick well enough to handle the money without any input from him. The only thing he wanted to know was, “Have you chosen the other contestants yet?”

Marlene shuffled papers. “We have a list right…here. As far as we can tell, it’s no one you’ve performed with before. Though if you know anyone on it, you’ll need to disclose that ahead of time so we can work it into the storyline. Old friendships, old rivalries, that sort of thing.”

She slid the list to John. He scanned it. Fabian Swan, Jia Lee, Chip Challenge, Ken Barron. Familiar names. He read to the end of the list. No Ricardo the Magnificent. And though it appeared that the list was comprised of stage names, he looked through it again searching for a Richard or a Rick.

There wasn’t one.

“I worked the Orange County Festival on the same bill as Swan.”

“He said the same thing. But that you didn’t really know each other.”

“No. Only in passing.” He didn’t care about Fabian Swan. Only Ricardo the Magnificent. He felt as devastated as if he’d participated in the ridiculous show and been voted out of the damn mansion already by a bunch of fickle viewers. Because the opportunity, and the money, and the chance at becoming a household name—what did it matter?

If Ricardo wasn’t going to be there, what did it matter at all?

“We’re going to need to develop friction between some characters. How about Swan—would the two of you be able to work with me on that? Although maybe you’d be better as allies. He’s got the black demographic and you’ve got the over-60 crowd, so we’d try to keep both of you as long as possible. Of course, the younger contestants are actually the ones competing for the prize….”

A haze settled over the room, like a film that’s been left in the developer too long, and all that was mundane became more two-dimensional and desaturated to John’s eyes. The interns? Dead inside. Marlene? The same. Dick? There was a spark in Dick, but only a small spark. Across the room, the traces of some writing on the whiteboard glowed, and formed the words, “Sitcom - aliens create talking cat.” Really? That idea would have captured the hearts and minds of millions, had anyone dared turn the pitch into an actual show?

There was just no accounting for taste.

Or perhaps the viewing public was so sick of reality TV that any new sitcom would be a welcome respite.

John looked from Marlene’s dead eyes to Dick’s eager gaze, and while part of him felt preemptively sorry for what he was about to say, he didn’t think he had the strength to go any farther with the ridiculous reality charade. “Ms. Perez, I’m sorry to have wasted your time, but I’ve changed my mind. I think I’m just not cut out for reality television.”

“You’re a stage magician. You have an issue with trumping up a rivalry for the cameras?”

“It’s not that.” The reasoning behind it—the market research and “demographics” were all a bit much. But mostly it was disappointment. Because he’d been positive he would meet Ricardo at this mansion where the show would be shot. And he’d wanted it so badly that he’d convinced himself he was actually foreseeing a Truth.

Pathetic.

“We can go to twenty-eight thousand. Not a penny higher.”

Dick prodded John’s ankle with the side of his foot.

“This isn’t about money,” John said.

“Mr. Topaz, if you’re going to lecture me about ethics and dignity, please, save it for a camera. You weren’t born yesterday, and you’re fully aware that the assistant never actually gets sawed in half.”

John looked at Marlene again, harder now. If he looked deep—very, very deep—he saw it. So small it was almost invisible, but there nonetheless. The Truth had not been snuffed out of her, not entirely.

Whether the tide of John’s magic was speaking to that tiny drop of vitality inside her, or she just thought the look in his eyes was peculiar, she added, “And although we can’t go