Seven, Nineteen, Four

When Rosa Delgado bought the little pet shop on Elm Street, the previous owner left her a box of birdseed, a long list of instructions and an elderly gray parrot named Captain. "He belonged to a retired magician who lived above the bakery," the man explained as he handed over the keys. "The old fellow moved to Florida to live with his sister, and she turned out to be allergic to feathers. So here he is."

Within a week, Rosa had decided that Captain was not for sale. He greeted every customer with a loud "Abracadabra!" and, when he was in a good mood, repeated a strange little chant: "Seven, nineteen, four. Seven, nineteen, four." Children adored him, and so, it seemed, did a man in an expensive camel coat who walked in one rainy Tuesday afternoon.

"I'll give you two thousand dollars for that bird," he said, without so much as glancing at the puppies.

Rosa laughed, assuming it was a joke. It wasn't. He came back the next day and offered five thousand, and when she refused again, he insisted that she at least think it over. Strange as it may seem, the more money he offered, the less she wanted to sell.

"Nobody pays five grand for an old parrot," her brother Tomás said that evening over dinner. "Unless the parrot knows something."

"He knows how to say abracadabra."

"He also knows three numbers, and he always says them in the same order. That sounds like a combination to me."

The next morning Rosa got the magician's phone number from the baker next door and called Florida. Albert Finch turned out to be a cheerful man of eighty-five who was thrilled to hear that Captain was doing well. When she described the man in the coat, however, he groaned.

"That would be Victor, my old assistant. He's after my trunk. It's still in the basement of the bakery, and it holds notebooks explaining every trick I ever performed. Victor has wanted them for thirty years." He paused. "The trouble is, I forgot the combination ages ago. Captain, on the other hand, did not."

That afternoon, with Mr. Finch's blessing, Rosa and the baker, a large, curious woman named Martha, carried a flashlight down the basement stairs. Behind the sacks of flour stood a battered black trunk with a brass lock. Rosa turned the dial: seven, nineteen, four. Something clicked.

Inside were eleven notebooks full of drawings and diagrams, a deck of cards and a short note in Mr. Finch's handwriting: "Take good care of the bird. He's the real magician."

At Mr. Finch's request, Rosa mailed the notebooks to his granddaughter in Denver, who was training to become a magician herself. When Victor returned on Friday with his checkbook, Captain looked him in the eye and announced, "Abracadabra!"

"He means the notebooks," Rosa said pleasantly. "They've vanished. And the bird still isn't for sale."