A Criminal Magic (23 page)

Satra shrugs and puts her hands in her pockets. “It was easy enough from Magic Row. The rest of my crew is still parked out there. Took the cutter in to find you.” She gestures behind her. “My associates took care of evading your country's pigs.”

McEvoy sniffs in the frigid air. “Well, I'm here, Satra, and it's cold.” His eyes flicker to the two sorcerers standing behind Satra. “You said you needed to ask in person. So ask away.”

Wait, so Satra called this meeting? Why?

“Sorry it had to come to this, Erwin. We go back a long time.”

“Way back. From my days in the coast guard.”

“And our history is the only reason I'm granting you this courtesy.” Satra stands feet away from McEvoy, sizing him up. “Because in all that time, you've never tried to trick me, one-up me. Lie.”

McEvoy nods slowly. “And I still never have. Told you, never will.”

Satra drops her gaze to the water's edge. “There's an expression on my island, Erwin. That the simplest answer, the simplest solution, is often the right one.” She glances back up at McEvoy. “So when the Shaws pay for a twenty-gallon obi shipment with magic counterfeit, when the shipment is signed by the Boss of
the Shaws himself? The simplest answer is that the Boss authorized it. That you tried to get away with a free shipment before cutting ties.” She takes a step forward. “And yet, you appear before me, ready to convince me different.”

My thoughts race to follow, to make sense of Satra's accusations—

So the Shaws used magic counterfeit to pay for an obi shipment?

Magically manipulating money by replicating the real thing—the practice is only used by gang loan sharks, who flip conjured loans to gamblers and junkies in such hot water, and so desperate for any form of cash, that they don't think through the consequences of using magic counterfeit. But outside of that bunch of sad sacks, magic money has no real market, for the reasons Satra's implying. Sure, it
looks
like the real deal—but any underworld goon knows that sorcered cash disappears after a day, like all pure magic. So trying to pay a smuggler in magic counterfeit? Business-ending. And pulling a trick like that on Satra James? Suicidal.

“There's apparently a fuckup within my organization,” McEvoy says with a forced smile. “As soon as I get to the bottom of it, the mistake will be taken care of.” He cracks his fingers, like a tic. “Expect payment in full, plus five percent considering our history, for the annoyance.”

“You really expect me to believe that this was all the mistake of some low-level gofer?” Satra takes another step forward. “You want to end our alliance? Be a man, say it to my face.”

“I told you, I knew nothing about it!” McEvoy finally snaps. Then he quickly straightens his coat in an attempt to collect himself. Because that admission—that the Boss of the Shaws doesn't know what's happening within his ranks—isn't quite comforting either.

“Time to find out the truth.” Satra nods, signaling to the two female sorcerers behind her. I take an instinctive step forward,
to protect him, but McEvoy raises his hand, tells me to stand down.

The sorcerer behind Satra's left raises her hand slowly, almost solemnly, and then McEvoy sputters, coughs, and his head snaps back unnaturally.

“Sir—” I start.

“He's fine,” Satra barks.

McEvoy's head starts lolling around, his eyes fly back in his head. And then Satra's other sorcerer takes a careful step toward him, as if her feet barely touch the dock. She approaches McEvoy like a mother approaching a sick child, lays her hand right over McEvoy's head. McEvoy's entire body quivers at her touch.

I've never seen anything like it before. It's like they have him in some kind of possessive spell, like they're ravaging his mind, digging into its corners and pillaging its pockets for the truth. This is obviously why they needed to see McEvoy in person.

Despite my charge to protect the man, like a reflex I take a small step back.

There's no way in hell they can get their magic hooks into me.

“He's telling the truth,” the sorcerer says. She releases her hand from McEvoy's forehead, and her partner drops her hand behind Satra. McEvoy is released, starts hacking, doubling over next to me on the dock. I fall to his side, offer him my hand to stand.

“Sorry to doubt you.” Satra waves her sorcerers back to their boat. “But considering the circumstances, Erwin, you understand why I needed to hear it this way.” McEvoy is a big man, built of steel and broad shoulders, but Satra is intimidating in another, subtler way. Tall, thin, beautiful, she eclipses McEvoy like a shadow. And I'd be damned if McEvoy's not sweating under his fifty-dollar coat.

“Some advice, friend. If the simplest answer
is
often right,”
Satra whispers, “things don't bode well for you.” She lets her warning fall over us as she steps onto the hull of her boat. “I'll expect that payment by the end of the month, plus the promised premium.” She nods once more as she settles into her cutter. “Take care of yourself, Erwin.”

*    *    *

McEvoy and I walk back to the car briskly, without a word. McEvoy opens his passenger-side door and slides inside. He's honest-to-God shaking. I've never seen the man rattled, and it petrifies me.

“Goddamn it,” he whispers.

I get in behind the wheel. And even though my pulse is still pounding and the cold has stolen my breath, all I can think is that Agent Frain and I are onto something. There's a shift inside the Shaws, and someone has McEvoy's number. Someone's tampering with his operation, slowly but methodically, one aspect at a time.

“Sir,” I try, “why did you keep it to just me and you tonight?”

“I need a hit, Alex.”

“Sir—”

“NOW.”

I turn to grab one of the long, thin bottles of water that rests in the crate on the backseat floor. I place it between my hands, let my magic pour through me, ignite the water, turn it into sorcerer's shine.

When I'm done, McEvoy takes a gulp, slides his head onto his headrest, and closes his eyes.

I pull out onto the road.

I wait as he falls under the spell of my shine. But I can't pass up this opportunity. McEvoy is scared. And McEvoy should be scared.

“There've been a couple . . . mix-ups these days, haven't there
been, sir?” I venture. “Mistakes, as you called the mix-up with Ms. James tonight.”

He doesn't answer. I focus on the highway, the shoulders of dark grass blurring past us. “Issues on the loan-sharking end . . . your gambling business, too,” I persist carefully. “Are you . . . do you think this was somehow . . .” I feel my heart raging like a drum within. “Could they all somehow be related?”

McEvoy barely mumbles a response.

I take a deep breath.
I'm
going to have to put this all together.
I'm
going to have to suggest that he's losing his iron grip on the Shaws.
I need to play this very carefully
—

“People don't question you, sir,” I push. “You've ruled the Shaws for nearly a decade. You're the Jackal of the District. Like you said, mistakes aren't made, because you've made very clear what the consequences are of making them.”

McEvoy keeps his eyes closed. But this is my chance, my window. I need to keep pushing this conversation forward inch by painstaking inch. “But what if folks started thinking for some reason that there would be no consequences?” I continue slowly. “What if . . . what if people sense some kind of change?”

At that, McEvoy's bloodshot eyes fly open, fall on me, but he doesn't say a word. And despite the fear thundering through me, underneath it I still feel a small, thrilling hum.
I've tapped into something. Some deep, dark fear McEvoy harbors but would never willingly let see the light of day.

I return my gaze to the road. “Maybe these aren't mistakes, sir. Maybe someone's behind all this, someone whispering, creating fractures, tarnishing your name on the street. And as on the pulse of your operation as you are, sir, you can't be everywhere at the same time,” I say softly. “I've seen some of the higher-ups, in and out of the Den. Meeting in back rooms, conferring. Everyone knows that you're not a fan of performance magic, think the Den is a joke—”

“What the fuck are you trying to say right now, Alex?” McEvoy finally snaps.

“Just . . .”
Say it, Alex. Just do it, SAY IT, bring it home
. “Could it be possible, that as you're ruling, working the streets, someone's working you?”

No answer, and silence screams through the car.

“I mean, it could be anyone, sir. But if they're managing to stage these ‘mistakes,' I'd have to think it's someone high up. Influential.” I pause, swallow down the fear. “Maybe you need another pair of eyes and ears, someone who can keep tabs on what's happening with your underbosses, somewhere you aren't known to frequent. Someone who can keep track of every back-room meeting at that Den as you're taking care of your empire.” Now my heart is beating so fast I almost can't contain it. “Who's passing through there, what's being whispered in the halls. Someone who can figure out how far this extends.”

And then I force myself to do it, to take the hand of what I'm dancing around and drag it right into the spotlight. “If you go there yourself, any whispers of insurrection are going to quiet, shut down, find another way. But if you plant someone inconspicuous, who can pose as a fly on the wall, maybe they can get information for you that you'd never be able to get yourself.”

“Someone
inconspicuous
,” McEvoy repeats slowly.

“Someone who has the talent to work his way into the Den without any questions asked,” I push. “Someone you know is loyal, who can tell you who needs to be taken care of, before it's too late.”

“Someone like you.” McEvoy says this matter-of-factly, turns to me, quick as a cat on the hunt. “Watching my back not good enough for you, boy? You think I'm on the way out, you want to hop on a winning ticket?”

I force myself to look him in his eyes. They're completely shined up.

Before I can think through how to answer, McEvoy leaps across the seat and grabs my collar, drags me within inches of his red eyes. I lose control of the wheel slightly, and the car squeals into the center of the highway. “You playing me, Danfrey?”

“No, sir, you've got it all wrong,” I choke out. “I'd lay down my life for you.” I scramble to get control of the car, and he loosens his grip just a hair. “I just want to be where you need me most. I want to make sure I'm doing everything I can to help you.”

He finally releases me, then thrusts his head against his passenger seat.

We drive the rest of the way in silence, whether because McEvoy's too messed up to talk or because he doesn't want to. Hell, I'm not sure what's next, if he doesn't say yes.
Does he get rid of me? Beat me to a pulp for suggesting that someone is out to take the Jackal down
?
Make
me
an example?

“Go to your place. I'm fine to drive home.” He finally breaks our silence as we make our way over the Highway Bridge.

He doesn't speak again until we pull up in front of my house.

I cut the engine to complete and deadly silence.

After a full minute of sitting in his dark car, finally McEvoy whispers, “I'll tell Win you're good. But you're too soft. That you'd be better suited somewhere else in our operation, away from the street's front lines.”

Relief and surprise collide inside me, burst like a goddamned fireworks show. In a strange, dissociated moment, I think,
Howie will be thrilled
.

“You hold to that story, understand? Win won't be too surprised. He warned me you might not be able to stomach the job when he first brought up your name to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I'll let him suggest the Den. I'm sure he will. Gunn mentioned some big accident, one of his little performer monkeys getting killed by magic a few nights back.” He glares at me. “You
tell me
everything
you see
,
everything you hear, understand? Anything that looks or sounds suspicious. You don't spare any details. You don't censor yourself.
I
make the calls on what is and isn't important.”

“Of course, sir.”

He looks at the shine bottle hungrily. “Too bad you can't preserve this stuff.” He clutches the remainder of my shine to his chest. “I'll need to figure something out, or still come calling from time to time—”

“I might be able to help with that.” I nod across him, back to my home, the shabby porch, the cracked windows. I've never realized how much it looks like a magic junkie house. And I force myself to finish this. “You ever try fae dust, sir?”

McEvoy follows my gaze to my home. “That Irish psychedelic shit? Once, didn't take to it.” He gives a grunt. “Have to say, never would have taken you for a dust-bunny, Alex.”

“Well, some of the stuff Win's been smuggling in for your operation is hard to resist.” I look at my hands, praying that he'll buy the lie. “I can vouch for the high, though it takes a few trips to really hit your stride. It's not the same as shine, obviously, but it . . . might carry you through in the meantime.”

Without another word, McEvoy kicks open his car door. I let go of the air I've been holding on to and slink after him, up my own stairs and to my front porch.

Christ to hell.

This is a dangerous, dangerous game I'm playing.

PART THREE

THE PERFORMANCE

NEW BOY

JOAN

The Red Den has been closed for days, the first hiatus we've had since Gunn moved our troupe in here. Stock's death sent a shock through the crowd—I close my eyes and can still see the faces of the nearby audience twisted in horror, hear the screams bubble up from the flying handbags and furs—but even more, it's gutted the troupe. It wasn't all love and roses with Stock, but we were a team. Maybe a fractured team. Hell, maybe a failing team—but a team just the same.

I spent two nights sleeping in Grace's room after it happened, 'cause I couldn't stand the idea of being alone. But that didn't stop the nightmares from finding me, my usual ones about Mama giving way to fresher ones—of hot white light, Stock's sizzling, crimson body in the aisle—images that sent me shooting up and gasping in the night. Even more unsettling, I've got a sickening feeling that there's a weird connection between the two dreams, a link I can't quite wrap my mind around, but one that's managed to chain itself around me just the same.

Gunn's given the rest of the troupe a few days off, since the Den is closed. My guess is they're all spending their days wandering around the city, or numbing their minds with motion picture films at the M Street theater, or catching up on a full sleep
that none of us usually get to enjoy. I wouldn't know, because I'm still working, day in, day out in Gunn's office, the pause in our performances just clearing the way for more time to discuss Mama's caging spell, more time to figure out a way around its limits. Gunn and I can lock shine in a bottle forever, but we still can't find a way for a potential buyer to get it out. And I've tried every angle, all my morals and hesitations falling by the wayside as pure panic over not delivering has slowly but surely taken center stage. I've already run Mama's spell at least ten different ways, looking for a loophole. I've sat with Gunn and some of his contacts from the Bahamas, listening to how obi dealers trap ghosts inside their bottles, hoping there's some death-magic technique we could borrow to unlock the spell. Even got Gunn to grant me a rare field trip to the local library, where I feverishly scoured old magic texts as a buttoned-up librarian hawk-eyed me from the checkout desk. But none of it's helped. And Gunn isn't going to let me rest until I get him an answer.

It's Saturday, four days after Stock's death, and Gunn and I are in his office now, running through the caging blood-spell yet again. I should be focusing, brainstorming until I fashion a key to unlock the solution for Gunn, but I still can't stop thinking about the accident. I whisper, “
With purpose and a stalwart heart, a sacrifice
.
Less of me
,
an offering to cage for eternity . . .
”

But my voice catches on the words, and it tears. I'm exhausted, mixed-up, my nerves burned out. My heart, anything but stalwart.

“That's enough.”

I look up guiltily. “I'm sorry—my heart, it's not in the right place, sir.”

“Well, it needs to be,” Gunn cuts. “I told you there's a window in which we need to accomplish this. And that window is
now
. You promised me you'd give me everything you have, that you wouldn't hold back.” He leans forward. “And what I'm trying to
achieve? There is no
partial
success story here, Joan. If you don't make this work, there won't be a happy ending for either of us, you understand?” He lets go of a deep exhale, shakes his head, looks more nervous than I've ever seen him. “It's too late to turn back. The only way we get out of this, the only way we win, is unlocking that bottle.”

Gunn's words are quick and damning, wind their way around my throat.
Too late. No way out. We.

We we we.

My fate is tied to this man's fate.

The fate of this sadistic, scheming enigma of a gangster.

I try to answer, but all that comes out is a gasp, and tears begin to fall.

“Christ.” For a sliver of a second, Gunn looks lost, or remorseful, something I've never seen in his face before—and then he opens his top drawer and pulls out a handkerchief. “Here.”

“Sorry, sir, I don't know what's come over me, I swear I'm fine.”
Collect yourself, Joan. Jesus, stop crying—

“I know I've been working you hard,” he starts slowly. “Because you can handle it. I know the way you work, because it's the same way I do. You keep pushing, fighting, and eventually you'll get past the wall. And we're so close, I can feel it.” Then he adds, tentatively, like a secret he's almost unwilling to share, “I believe in you.” He leans back in his chair, assessing me, his eyes still never leaving mine. “Take tonight off, understand? Be ready to work tomorrow, to approach our problem with a clear head.”

But a strange mix of shame, remorse, maybe even pride, all starts to churn inside. “No, sir, I don't need a break, I can do this. I know I promised I could do this—”

“Joan,” he interrupts, placing his hands in prayer position on his desk. “I mean it. No catch. Take the night.”

I look down at my lap.

Take the night
.

I can't remember the last time I had a night off. I don't even know what to do with myself. “Thank you, Mr. Gunn,” I manage. “I'll be back here in your office bright and early tomorrow morning—”

“Be ready for rehearsal tomorrow, actually.” He turns to his notes. “We're reopening in two nights' time.”

Rehearsal?
Does that mean we're going to persist with six sorcerers, despite the lack of the extra strength of seven? What happens to our magic if the troupe isn't complete? Does our magic fade? Will we feel it? “Sir, we only have six—”

“I've already found Stock's replacement.”

“His replacement.”

“His replacement for now, at least,” Gunn speaks to his notebook. “A young guy from the street side of our operation—Win says he has talent, but he couldn't handle the pressures of the job.” A smirk plays at his lips. “Apparently the boy actually got sick one night, after McEvoy had him using extreme forms of magical torture.”

Boss McEvoy
. Alex. My heart skips a beat.
He has to be talking about Alex
.

“You mean McEvoy's right-hand sorcerer?”

“
Former
sorcerer. McEvoy was happy to dispose of him, when Win told him we were short a man. Better to recycle him, I suppose, than lose the asset completely.”

I swallow. I've become an expert now at parsing vague gangster language.
Lose the asset
. Meaning get rid of Alex. Because there are no loose ends with the Shaws.

Gunn crosses his arms, looks at me with those searing blue eyes. “You've met him before, correct? Alex Danfrey?”

At the mention of his name, something warm and soft as butter slides down my sides and sinks into my core. “Around here, sir.”

“Bit of a charmer, if I remember?” Gunn raises an eyebrow. “Cast a flower into your hair?” When Gunn sees that he's made me blush, he picks up his pen, continues to scratch away at his goddamned notebook. “I like using people I've vetted, people I know are mine completely. Besides, the boy's got a cloudy past, which could end up proving a hindrance or a bonus in our new little venture, depending on how things shake out.” Gunn looks at me. “But we'll take what we can get right now—there're more important things to worry about. Just keep an eye on him, all right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And make sure the whole troupe—including Alex—is ready for reopening on Monday night. He'll be here tomorrow, ready to work.”

“When are you going to tell the rest of the troupe about him?”

Gunn looks at me funny. “That's your job.”

Wonderful. Now I'm Gunn's personal messenger, too.

As I move to Gunn's doorway, he calls up from his desk, “And I'll need the answer to our little blood-spell dilemma by the end of next week. I'm serious, Joan.”

Panic surges back like a tide, but I refuse to let it drown my relief about a night of freedom. “Understood, sir.”

I book up the three flights of stairs to our hall, run to Grace's door, and start pounding on it. “Grace!” I call out, near giddy over the idea of some real time with her, away from Gunn's watchful eyes, away from that ten-foot-square office I've spent the past few days locked inside. “Grace!”

Maybe a cigarette, hell, a pack of cigarettes outside, hitting up a dance club on M Street, going for a slice of pie at Moby's Diner around the corner
—

I stop pounding after a full minute and crack open her door. Her room's empty.

I cross the hall to Billy and Ral's, try theirs. No answer. I
even tentatively knock on Tommy and Rose's, that's how desperate I am, but both of them are long gone—

And my disappointment is as real and needling as a splinter.

I shake it off, try to hold on to the rush I got when I first heard about my night off, despite the fact that I'm alone. I grab my coat, hat, and gloves and hit M Street, turn down 15th Street, and soon run into a church. It's packed outside, people coming and going, the church's wide stone stairs busy and festive. A chorus of red-dressed girls and boys stand on the front lawn holding candles, all bundled up in their new coats and Sunday best, start belting out an adorable version of “Silent Night.”

And it's only then that I realize it's Christmas.

An intense loneliness falls over me like a shadow. I want to call Ruby and Ben, make sure that Ben made my gingerbread for her, ask if he remembered to pick her up something from the Drummond Five and Dime. But they've got no phone. I want to find Grace, enjoy the holiday with her, but I've got no clue where she went. In an impulsive moment, I think of calling on Alex, surprising him, telling him that I'm beyond excited that he's joining our troupe, and that I couldn't wait to see him one more day. But I don't know where he lives.

And now my night off feels less like a gift, and more like a sad trick. Even more pathetic, I find myself wishing the Den was open tonight, so I could forget everything else, just throw myself headfirst into performance magic. I finally grab a hot cocoa from the meeting hall next to the church, watch the carolers for a little while longer, and try to make the most of the night.

*    *    *

The next morning I get up early, ready to break the news about reopening up and down our hall. I start with Grace. She opens her door to find me all smiles.

“Season's greetings,” I say.

She's still got sleep on her: matted hair, long white nightgown. “Did Gunn finally let you out last night? I stayed around here as long as I could, but it was too depressing.”

“Yeah, I got some time off, it was good.” Like a reflex, I turn inward, erect a mental wall to keep Grace from reaching in and pulling out the truth. “But I've got some better news—we're reopening.”

She shakes her head. “Are you serious? How?”

“Gunn found us a replacement sorcerer. Get ready, meet me downstairs in a few minutes.” This morning actually seems more like my Christmas—getting back on the stage, performing. “We've got to train the boy,” I tell her as I cross the hall, “work him in, get him up to speed!”

I round up the rest of the troupe, tell them the same, then double back to my room and quickly throw on a splash of rouge and a wipe of lipstick. I'm nervous about seeing Alex again, with no McEvoy or Gunn breathing down our necks. It kind of feels like a first date. A date five other sorcerers happen to be attending.

I head downstairs to the show space, my excitement about performing—about sharing something I love with Alex—flooding me with a warm anxiety. Soon the troupe files in and settles on the benches around my stage.

“When do we open?” Ral asks, as he sits down wearily.

I steal a longer look at him. Not sure how he spent his first Christmas away from his family, but if I had to guess from his gray face and dull eyes, I'd bet it was on an all-night shine bender with Billy. Losing Stock probably made the holiday even worse.

“Tomorrow night, and then we perform straight through the week.” Then I add, “Should be enough time to get our heads on straight again,” hoping Ral catches my message.

“Gunn's not worried about the patrons?” Grace asks. “About . . . about what happened keeping people away?”

Tommy and Rose exchange a loaded look at the veiled reference to Stock. None of us have been able to really talk about it.
Was it Tommy and Rose's sporadic lightning that killed him? Was it me running away?

“Gunn thinks the show must go on,” I say simply.

“Who's the replacement?” Ral asks.

“He used to be Boss McEvoy's right-hand sorcerer, on the street side of the Shaws' operation. He comes highly recommended.”

“A
street sorcerer
?” Billy snaps. “Has he ever performed?”

There's no use lying. “I don't think so.”

Ral and Billy start mumbling to each other on the far bench. I knew they'd be the most resistant to this. They're the biggest believers in the magic of seven, and two days to train and insert a new guy into our troupe, for our first reopening after a freak—and public—accident, is not a lot of time.

“And Gunn didn't think we should have any say in the matter?” Billy says to me.

“It came as an order, not a suggestion. You know Gunn.”

“Not as well as you.”

Billy's words sting—especially since I don't think I've ever felt more distant from him. Gunn's been pulling me in one direction, and Billy's loud, shine-laced lifestyle has sent him spinning in another. But the sting must be evident from my face, because Billy softens his tone. “You know this is ludicrous, Joan. How's this new boy going to keep up? I don't think this is the way the magic of seven works—if you're down a man, you can't just find some schmo and insert him as a stand-in. We've been working for
months
, months of magic ties and connections. You can't replicate that in two days. And if the show doesn't come together, there'll be hell to pay from Gunn.”