A Criminal Magic (17 page)

So I nod. Once.

“In my office, after rehearsal.” Gunn extends his fingers onto the bed but doesn't touch mine. “Just you and me.”

And then he walks to the door and closes it behind him.

As soon as Gunn's gone, I try to banish him from my mind,
think only about Ben's letter, let the world begin with Ben's scrawl of my name and end with his signature. But what I just promised, what I'm going to share with Gunn—it teases, itches, claws at me inside.
There wasn't a choice
, comes from somewhere deep within.
You're in this world to fight for Ruby and Ben with everything you've got. Just keep going. Like Gunn said, run until you win, or until you fall.

*    *    *

By the time Gunn leaves, it's time for practice, so I tuck Ben's letter into my bureau drawer. The Shaws take care of the troupe's room and board in addition to our weekly pay: our entire troupe resides on the second floor of the Red Den, so there's never a good reason to be late for a rehearsal or show. I walk past Grace's room, Ral and Billy's across the hall, Stock's, and Tommy and Rose's beyond that, to the back stairs and down three flights to the cellar. I follow the cavernous, lantern-lit hall past Gunn's office and into the center show space of the Den, a two-story performance area floored with cement and walled in cinder blocks, which spans our entire corner lot.

Each day we begin practice with our solo and duo tricks—the ones we open our show with at eight p.m.—the five- or ten-minute performances that we'll run on repeat until about nine. These “warm-up” tricks are performed on the small circular stages in the front of the show space, Gunn's thought being that the audience can come in, get a drink at the bar and ease into the show, mosey around our stages and take in the tricks of their choosing. So during morning practice, we'll try new flourishes on these tricks, or sometimes we'll perform them for the rest of the troupe for a gut check or critique.

We wrap up around lunch, after which Gunn comes in to give us his latest idea on the “immersive magic finale” for that night. Sometimes the finale is an entirely new idea Gunn thought up,
other times it's a fresh take or twist on a theme we've used before. We'll brainstorm how to execute the finale, practice, then run it as a dress rehearsal for Gunn, and around five or six p.m. we break for about an hour before getting ready for the actual show. Every day except Sunday we spend like this, sorcering from pretty much morning until midnight, all for a hundred fifty patrons willing to pay top dollar. Besides, Gunn says the long day serves another purpose: strengthening the bonds of our magic until they're made of steel. Sure, it makes for exhausting days. But it's good work—work I can lose myself in. Work we're all proud of.

“Nice of you to show, Kendrick,” Billy calls across the show space. He stands in the center of his and Ral's stage, the one in the front right corner of the space. I hustle over to join the rest of my troupe. Billy's got a pile of about ten cards floating six inches over his outstretched palm. Ral's beside him, in the midst of stacking a square of face cards up like a thin wall above his head.

I reach the benches that encircle their stage and slide in beside Grace to sit. “Sorry—lost track of time.”

Grace snaps her pack of cigarettes against her leg and offers me one. She drops her voice. “You really didn't miss anything.”

I give a little smile as Ral adds, “We wanted everyone's take on our royal palace of cards trick.” He points up to his wall of face cards. “Billy thinks it's getting stale.”

“It was stale three days ago,” Billy mutters. “Now it's moldy.”

I peer across the circle to the far bench, where Stock, Tommy, and Rose sit in a row. “What do you all think?”

“Building a house of cards based on the type of card?” Stock answers with a shrug. “It's tedious, boring. If I was a patron, I'd pass.”

“Sort of like being awake and counting sheep,” Rose adds, and Tommy laughs.

“You know the deal,” Ral says evenly. “Constructive criticism only, please.”

“Constructive criticism,” Stock repeats. He leans onto Tommy's shoulder. “Okay, I'd rather watch paint dry than watch you two fuckups sort cards above your heads. Constructive enough?”

Billy mumbles an obscenity and takes a step forward, but Ral holds him back, keeping him inside the perimeter of their stage.

It's like this, some mornings. We're one troupe, a ring of seven sorcerers working together, bettering one another, but the scars from stitching our factions together—Stock, Tommy, and Rose, with Ral, Billy, Grace, and me—they've never faded completely. Most times we manage to pretend they've healed. We ignore them. But some days one of us—almost always Stock—starts picking at the edges, whether 'cause he's in the throes of a shine withdrawal or 'cause he's just generally more of a prick that day than the last.

“You've got people around your stage every night, you two,” I tell Ral and Billy, trying to make my voice sound warm and encouraging. “You're just tired of your own trick—hell, I'm tired of mine. I'm starting to see feathers in my dreams.”

“Sure that's all you're dreaming about, Kendrick?” Stock cuts in.

“Excuse me?”

“He's been an ass since he got down here, think he's got shine withdrawal,” Grace whispers beside me. “Do us all a favor and just ignore him.”

But Stock persists. “Swore I saw someone
dreamy
leaving your room this morning.” He gives me his ratlike smile and starts wiggling his eyebrows at me like a goon. I feel like throwing a shock of magic right into his gut, but I manage to stay focused on my cigarette
. You need to forget about Gunn in your room this morning, forget about what you promised him—and just lose yourself in the magic.

Thankfully, Billy and Ral bring us back to their trick. After
Grace and I humbly suggest a few ways they could work in some audience participation, they're satisfied enough, and we all disperse to work on our own tricks on our respective stages.

Around noon, we break for lunch. I head out with Ral, Billy, and Grace for a quick bite at Moby's Diner, where Billy orders two slices of pie and then only eats one bite of each just “'cause he can.” We've all reacted to our new lifestyles differently, but then again, we're all here for different reasons. Grace wants a new start—and she's naturally cautious, a saver—while Ral and I are taking care of people back home. But Billy's a lone wolf, and now has more money than he knows what to do with. So he splurges on dumb stuff all the time, like flashy cuff links, or this big, gaudy ring he's never even gotten to wear, since Gunn says it's too distracting to sport during our show.

We quickly wrap up lunch, hustle back to the Den, and Gunn comes in a little after one.

“I'm billing tonight's performance as the Night Sky. Dawson's already printing the tickets,” Gunn says, as the seven of us trail him to the middle of the show space, where lounge chairs are clustered into little sitting areas. We call this area the “shine section,” since it's where most patrons go once they take their nightcap of sorcerer's shine, after the finale. Here, or in the VIP lounge that bigwig patrons can rent along the left-side hall, when Gunn's not using it to entertain some Shaw higher-ups.

“Got the new idea last night—tonight's finale will be a worthy addition to our rotation.” Gunn settles into a plush green armchair. “I'm picturing a huge moon, planets. Shooting comets through mist. I want it eerie but beautiful at the same time.”

For as cold and calculating as Gunn can be when he wants something, I have to hand it to him: he's got an artist's touch, a true grasp of magic. His ideas for our finales are always elaborate, big-picture, like this new one, but he knows what our troupe is capable of, and every night, we don't fail him. “Ral, I thought
you could handle the large-scale illusion, so focus on the backdrop—maybe add a slow spin to the floor to keep it unsettling. Billy, as always, you need to fill his vision in—night mist, a faint wind,” he says. “Grace, I know you appreciate the details. You're on the stars.”

“Understood, sir,” Grace answers.

“Tommy and Rose.” Gunn glances at the dark-haired pair. “I want you manipulating a moon. Get creative. Use those visual magic gifts of yours and take it through its phases slowly, a full moon until it all but pinches out at the end.”

Tommy nods and turns to Rose, and the two immediately start whispering ideas.

Gunn looks up at the lofted ceiling. “And Stock, our motions expert, I need a slow orbit of planets. Have them rotating about a story high, so everyone can appreciate the full view.”

Stock shoots me a snarky look as he asks, “What about Joan, sir?”

Gunn doesn't tear his gaze away from the ceiling. “Joan's the comet.”

I feel a wave of embarrassment as Stock rolls his eyes and mouths to me, “
Dreamy
.” But he doesn't say another word as Gunn settles back in his chair.

“After the finale, lead the audience toward your stage.” Gunn gestures to the raised stage in the back of the space. It's where we brew the audience their collective nightcap of sorcerer's shine, before the stagehands pass it around to the crowd to drink.

“All right.” Gunn stands to leave. “I'll be back to see what you come up with.”

So we work, each of us taking our favorite place along the show space's perimeter, improvising with magic until we get to a finale we're all happy with. I wait for Ral to get the floor slowly spinning, wait for the others to set the stars and the planets and the textured, smoky night. And then, in this man-made sky of
possibility, I shoot the brightest, electric-orange comet from the double doors straight across to the back stage.

But I'm too distracted to enjoy it, unable to put everything else away and just relish the trick. Gunn's earlier visit, his haunting words—
you run until you win, or until you fall—
that somehow manage to flatter as much as disturb me. Ben's letter, my promise of sharing Mama's blood-magic, Stock's taunts: it's all buzzing, closing in.

Joan's the comet
.

After a dry run of our new forty-five-minute finale for Gunn, we gather around him at the base of the stage to hear his final thoughts. The double doors to the show space clang open at the same time, and a team of young Shaw thugs bursts into the space.

The street urchins of the Shaws' operation rarely attend our show, but they take full advantage of the extra shine we brew during the previous night's performance. And in the slim window between our rehearsal and eight p.m., the Red Den gets handed over to the young runners and smugglers stopping in for a magic ride before their night's work. Their ringleader, Win Matthews—the underboss who runs the Shaws' smuggling operation, I've gathered—spots Gunn across the show space and waves him down.

“Be down here by seven thirty,” Gunn says, dismissing us. “Wear the usual, the dresses and tuxes,” he adds, referring to the wardrobe we all received as soon as the doors to our new Red Den opened. He nods to me. “And give me fifteen minutes, Joan. I'll be in my office.”

I feel all eyes of the troupe fall on me, and that tug-of-war of emotions pulls underneath my skin again. I gulp and nod. “Of course, sir.”

Stock gives me an arched eyebrow as Gunn takes Win into his office along the right-side hall. The tension inside our troupe
circle is now palpable, so thick and bitter I can almost taste it. “You've got something to say, just say it,” I finally snap at Stock.

But Ral's the one who answers. “We're all adults,” he says slowly. “We're all here to do a job. I suggest we go upstairs and get ready, before we do or say anything we might regret.”

“Yeah, all right,” Stock says, but keeps his eyes on me. “See you all down here soon.” Then he adds as he walks away, “
Comet
.”

I will my anger to fade, avoid meeting Grace's probing stare as we all filter toward the hall that leads back to our rooms. I'm sure she's going to start grilling me over why Gunn wants to meet with me as soon as we get upstairs, and I'm not looking forward to it.

But as I'm about to turn down the hall, I spot Win Matthews's new boy—the one I met a few nights back—hovering over the liquor bar in the corner. Alex Danfrey, his name was—the one who was chatting me up as his friend was lost to a shine-high. He's sitting with Howie now, and about three other Shaw young guns. And like he can sense my stare, Alex looks up and we lock eyes.

I've seen a lot of faces here at the Den, but it's hard for me to figure out if someone's a looker on first glance—there's just too much to take in at once to make any kind of decision. It's really the second chance I get that makes or breaks it.

And on this second chance, I realize Alex's face is pretty much perfect. Wide eyes that are blue from here, blond hair that's soft, unlike so many of the gangsters with their polished helmets of pomade. Straight nose, right-angle jaw. I notice he's got a nice build, too, not too big, not too slim, his long legs stretched out under the bar as his torso's rounded over its edge.

Go, Joan. Move.

Put your head down. This is no time to get distracted.

I give him a smile and force myself to keep walking down the corridor.

But when I'm halfway down the hall, I hear a hesitant, “Joan, right?”

I turn around. And there he is, Alex, no more than ten feet away, like I conjured him there myself. I don't say anything, but I get a flippy, almost sick feeling in my stomach, now that he's closer.

“Just need to use the washroom.” Alex gives a big exhale when I don't answer. “Actually, I don't need to use the washroom. I just . . . wanted to say hello.”