His name was Garibaldi. Not Master Garibaldi or any other embellishments, modifiers or even Christian names. Just Garibaldi.
He was billed on the marquee as Garibaldi, The Master of Illusion, but that was only to draw in a paying crowd. And come in they did, by the droves, as many as the little back-alley theater would hold, maybe three or four hundred, maybe more if the fire marshal wasn't around.
The price was right, too. Fifty cents.
A paltry sum. A mere pittance. On many occasions, Garibaldi heard, "Can't make much money at these prices," and other such remarks. He only laughed to himself.
He had no promoters, taking an undeserved cut of the pie, few props and no assistants; none except one, always a pretty girl, selected from the audience with only one other criteria: that she be alone. No girlfriends. No boyfriends. No parents.
Alone.
This time, her name was Annabelle. Before that it had been Carla and Ramona and Leslie and Marilyn, and before that he could no longer remember; a blur in the timeless past.
Garibaldi assisted Annabelle to the stage to the applause of the audience. She was a big girl. Not big in the sense of large, fat, obese. But big-boned. Tall. Long dark hair. Round face. Comely without being really pretty, certainly not beautiful. Large breasts. Thick-waisted. Arms that could hold twin butterball babies with ease. Breeding hips. Ample buttocks. Dancers legs, long and muscular.
The perfect assistant.
Annabelle smiled and bowed. A natural.
Garibaldi applauded along with the crowd.
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