Houdini

by Robert Vaughan

We're having beer
at Von Trier when
Vinny calls me
Felix, a far cry from Frank.
What did you say?
I ask. A pit

grows in my stomach
excited but morbidly aghast.
Focus on the
far wall.
Fake paneling.
Cuckoo clock.

Adjust my package.
Chalk it up to
Trappist beer. He is
quiet, hums, so I try a
direct angle:
Who the fuck is Felix?

The lines on his forehead
bulge. He stares like
I am Houdini. None
of your business, he fumes,
what the hell is
this, an investigation.