A Criminal Magic (32 page)

PERFORMANCE

ALEX

And there he is. The man who brought my father to his knees with his constant threats and promises. The man who took my future into his hands and gutted it. The man who, in another time, another place, I'd take my magic to and break apart.

I'll never forget his face. I wonder if he recognizes mine
.

“Mr. Colletto!” Gunn booms across the hall, with more warmth in his voice than all the times I've heard him speak put together. He crosses the performance space and takes the hand of the man who haunted my father's nightmares, who served as a compass for why I first agreed to help bring the underworld down.
Why D Street? Why on earth would Gunn go after D Street, especially considering what they did to Gunn's father, and the ensuing decade of bad blood?

The only silver lining in all this: if we're taking the Shaws down, we're taking D Street down with them.

“Big place you've got here,” Colletto muses as he looks around. “Would never know it from the outside.”

“That's the point, of course.” Gunn smiles as Colletto's small army—gangsters, young and old, a crowd of about ten—filters into the performance space from the double doors. I recognize several of the faces from my days working by my father's side.
Moments later more Shaw men arrive—faces I can't all necessarily connect with names, but they're important, familiar faces. Powerful faces.

“You know my underbosses, Val Appicello and Chris Moretti.” Colletto nods to two middle-aged goons on his left side.

Gunn nods. “My colleagues, Win Matthews, Sam Sullivan, George Kerrigan, Calvin O'Donnell.”
Underbosses, all of them. McEvoy's right hands, now pledged to Gunn.

The handshaking and name swapping continue as the seven of us watch and stare, like the hired hands we are, around the perimeter of the performance space.

“I want to show you everything we can give you, everything you'll be a part of if we decide to move forward.” Gunn ushers his audience forward, toward the benches that the stagehands have arranged in front of the back stage like a makeshift theater. “Based on years of study, a dedication to finding and culling the best talent, and a strict regimen of training, I've taken seven sorcerers and elevated them into something extraordinary. There's no one across either of our organizations who knows what I know. There's no one in this city—hell, this country—who's managed to do what I've done,” Gunn says, as Colletto's men make their way to seats. “And I can do it again, and again.”

Again and again
 . . . so is this demonstration about Gunn opening up more magic havens . . . or transforming some of the other half-rate shining rooms in the city, like he did with the Red Den?

Is Gunn going to ask for a monopoly on the city's performance business, in exchange for flipping some of the profits to D Street?

What's Gunn's play here? What's the angle? And what does shine have to do with it?

Colletto sits, unbuttons his vest, and takes out a cigarette.
“I'm looking forward to every aspect of this demonstration.” And then, it might be my imagination, but I swear his eyes find and rest on me. It churns something thick and poisonous around inside.

“Without further delay.” Gunn gestures to the aisles around the audience, to us, his troupe of sorcerers.

My heart starts hammering inside my chest, the nerves and expectation pounding like a pulse. Whatever lies on the other side of this performance is what I've been trying to uncover for the Feds, what all the lying and sneaking around and sleepless nights have been for. In our pocket off the right-side aisle, I watch Joan, studying her.
How much does she know about what's happening today? What's her real role in all of this? Does she have any clue that her mob bosses are going to be taken down?

I take a deep breath.

Just get through this performance.

One step at a time.

BREW

JOAN

Grace begins by turning off the lights, one by one, and then Billy and Ral step in, fade the dark of the show space into a textured gray. Then it's Tommy and Rose's turn: the pair paints a burst of color onto the canvas above Colletto's crowd and sends thick clouds, gray and purple, lined and scaly like floating fish, over the heads of the mobsters, teasing the space from early dawn into sunrise.

And that's my cue. I conjure my sun manipulation, the glowing globe, breathe life into it, make it fuller, until Alex takes over and breaks my sun open, letting the sunrise fall like a sideways waterfall over the crowd.

I can't help but steal a glance at Boss Colletto, to see what he's thinking. His head is angled up, his eyes are wide and childlike. He's enchanted. They all are—just like any audience on any night—looking up as a sorcerer-made sky sizzles, cracks, and breaks open just for them. Rendered children by our magic, our magic that wraps around and hugs them tight.

When the immersion's over, Grace turns only a few of the space's lights back on, keeps the mood sexy, seductive, and we step up, one by one, onto the back stage. But unlike other nights, I'm going to have the final word.
I'm
going to be the finale.

Thanks to the stagehands, seven bottles of water already rest
on the altar in the center of the stage. We line up behind them, left to right: Ral, Billy, Grace, me, Alex, Tommy, and Rose. By this point, we have our rhythm down—there are no pauses. Together we reach for our bottles, and the water inside each jumps in response. Whirls of cherry-red tendrils swirl inside each bottle, the water surrendering quickly to the magic, the hisses and pops of the shine echoing through an otherwise silent show space.

On a normal night, in a normal show, this would be the cue for the stagehands to head up the stairs with trays of shot glasses, pour our shine into them, and pass them out to the crowd. But tonight is different.

Almost like he's finishing my thoughts, Gunn interrupts the nearly hour-long silence. “On a regular night, it's at this point in the performance that our stagehands pass around my sorcerers' shine. The sorcerers brew the shine live every night, of course, and just enough, because up until now, shine, like all pure magic, doesn't last more than a day.”

Colletto grunts in assertion and shifts in his seat below us.

Gunn ascends the stairs to the stage, angles himself next to me and picks up my bottle of shine. “Shine's the highest trip on the black market. Euphoric. Transcendent. Lets you see the magic in the world. Some say that it lets you see God. Rendered even more rare and coveted because it's impermanent, and fleeting.” Gunn looks up. “Until now.”

He nods to the three sorcerers on my left, and then the three on my right. “Please step away from the altar,” he tells them. But I don't look at my troupe, especially not at Alex. I'll just get more nervous. So I stare straight ahead and wait for my cue.

“Now, the full extent of the magic I can give you, if we find a way to put the past behind us and join forces. A shine that can be stored, and shipped, and transported all over the world. Joan, if you please.”

ETERNAL SHINE

ALEX

The rest of the troupe takes a step back, completely in the dark about what Joan's going to do, as she holds the spotlight. And the dread I've managed to dam, as I've played the dutiful cop playing the dutiful troupe member during the performance, starts flooding in.
There's a shine that defies the laws of magic, a shine being sold by a gangster who wants to take over the underworld—

And the girl I'm falling in love with is taking the stage to somehow bring it home.

The room falls completely, deathly quiet, as Joan places both of her hands back on her bottle of shine. She mumbles words of power, words I can't quite hear, even this close to her, but in seconds, a glass stopper appears and lodges itself right into the mouth of her bottle. Colletto and his men shift below us, mumble speculation.

Then Joan takes one of her hands off the glass, digs around the shelf under the altar, and pulls a switchblade out from it. As she pushes up the right sleeve of her dress, I have to stop myself from reaching out and grabbing her hand, telling her that whatever she's about to do, it's not worth it, not for them. Grace gasps on Joan's other side, and her hand flies to her mouth, while a strange, deep regret floods through me and settles into my skin.
On Joan's forearm is a patchwork of scars, some fresh and red, some pink, older. She leans her arm over the bottle, and with a calm precision, presses the blade right into her arm.

After a trickle of blood wraps around her skin and drips into the stoppered bottle, she caps the bottle and begins another spell. Again I can't hear the words, but this time I strain to: “
Less of me . . . offering . . . eternity
 . . .”

Her bottle begins to tremble, quake, then settle, just like it's alive.
What did she just do? Some dark sorcery, a spell of blood? Devil's magic?

As Joan backs away from her new creation, again Gunn goes to her side. He takes Joan's bottle into his hands, lifts it up for the crowd to assess: a bottle of glistening shine, stoppered with a cork of bloodstained glass.

“An eternal shine,” Gunn says to the audience. “A bottle of pure, liquid magic, caged by magic. An old and secret magic that we have perfected, that would not have seen the light of day without the power of this magic haven.” Gunn hands the bottle back to Joan. “Or of course, without a powerful, resourceful sorcerer.”

Colletto stands up slowly and walks to the front of the stage. “May I see the bottle?” he asks Joan.

“Go on,” Gunn tells her.

Joan heads down the stairs to hand the bottle to Colletto, while I get a strong, overwhelming urge to gut Gunn, right here and now. He's standing so close, I could wrap my fingers around his neck. I could conjure a thousand knives, incise him with cuts just like Joan's, let him bleed out slowly.

“That's yours to keep,” Gunn tells Colletto, once Joan takes her place back among us. “I knew you wanted to make sure there was no tampering with the sample I showed you last time. You saw this one brewed and bottled yourself—so take it back with you, confirm its shelf life, and open it in a few days. When you see it's real, I expect we'll have a deal.”

As Colletto studies the glass bottle, the room buzzes around him. The air is tense, expectant, excited—and my mind is buzzing right along with it. Because everything I've been shelving . . .
Joan's relationship with Gunn, her caginess, her secrets, her unparalleled power
 . . . there's no ignoring it anymore. It's impossible not to bring this deal down without bringing Joan down with it. Because Joan is the magic behind the largest score in Unit history
. Joan
is
the eternal shine.

Colletto says, “Tell me exactly how it's done.”

Gunn shakes his head. “If we're going to embark on this road together, there needs to be a foundation of trust, of partnership. I assured you that I can make this product, again and again. Now leave the magic to me,” he says. “Our history of hate has lasted far too long. It's time to put the past behind us.”

Gunn is a cold, ruthless bastard, but even still, I can't wrap my head around his decision to team up with Colletto. He's shaking hands with the gangster who gunned down his father, Danny the Gun. He's delivering the death blow to his mentor McEvoy, to align with the enemy. This bastard deserves everything that's coming to him.

Colletto looks up at Gunn on his stage, nods. “How much?”

“You give me two hundred and fifty dollars for every gallon. You charge double on the street, and the difference of course will fall to you. We shake hands, and you'll have our word that you'll be our sole distributor, on the only shippable shine known to man,” Gunn says slowly. “And in exchange, you give up the shining room business—my Shaws get a complete monopoly on performance magic in the city.”

Colletto keeps his eyes on the glistening red bottle. “And the rest of our operations? Gambling, racketeering, loans?”

“The rest of our proposed agreement would go immediately into action. We reorganize the district. Everything west of Fourteenth Street is ours. You take the east. A smooth criminal
empire, as I believe my father once called it,” Gunn says tightly. “Before lesser men took a hammer to his vision.”

A true deal between the Shaws and their enemies. A deal across all operations, no less—hell, a
partnership
. Agent Frain is going to flip.

Colletto turns the bottle over once more in his hand. “Thursday,” he finally answers. “I'll give you ten thousand for fifty gallons. You throw in the sweeteners we talked about, and we've got a deal.”

Gunn breaks into an uncharacteristically wide smile, a smile that almost makes him look boyish—reminds me of just how young this mongrel is, and just how high he's managed to claw. He gestures for our troupe to descend the stage. “I think this calls for a toast.”

On cue, stagehands file into the performance space with large silver trays loaded with shot glasses, ascend the stairs, and grab the remaining six bottles of shine from the stage. And with that, the vibe of the room shifts. Shine is being poured. The deal is going forward. Foes have turned into allies, and an almost festive air settles over the crowd.
I need to pass this on to Frain, all of it—

“But first, how about a round of applause for our performers?” Gunn says.

Colletto claps a full, long applause, and his team of thugs joins in. We bow slightly, as Joan, the star, takes a full curtsy in front of their benches.
Does she realize that all eyes are on her now? Does she understand that these gangsters see her as a commodity, a valuable asset that could be sold, or stolen?

Another reason why I need to shut this operation down.

Another reason why this whole magic racket is wrong—because of sorcerers like her, and once upon a time sorcerers like
me
: sorcerers who get used, turned around, and forced right into the line of fire.

As the crowd moves toward the VIP lounge, Joan edges beside me and whispers, “Go up the fire escape to my room when this is done. Wait for me. Gunn's giving everyone a cele­bratory shot of shine—they'll be in the lounge for at least an hour, I'm sure.” She flashes me a heady smile. She's clearly emboldened by what she's done, empowered, not ashamed. She's exactly where I was a year ago: being manipulated,
handled
, tricked into thinking she's invincible. Before I can think through it, I give her a discreet little nod. She breaks away and goes back to Gunn's side.

As the stagehands lead Colletto and his men to the VIP lounge, Gunn lingers and surveys our troupe. “You all did spectacularly. But I won't lie: there're going to be long, tough days ahead. I expect you all at eight a.m. tomorrow, ready to live and breathe brewing shine until Thursday, to ensure that our first shipment's on time. So enjoy your night.” Then he drops his voice, addresses Joan. “I'm sure Colletto wants to meet you.”

Joan nods, but as she trails him, she throws a glance at me behind her shoulder.

I can't meet her on her fire escape.
I can't have Joan, even if I want her. This is about far more than her and me—

But as she turns down the hall, these thoughts are strong-armed by a greater truth: this can't be the last time I watch her walk away.

“So that's what she's been hiding,” Rose says as soon as Gunn, Colletto, and their respective teams of thugs turn down the hall toward the VIP lounge.

“Stock warned us so many times about her.” Tommy shakes his head. “We saw it that night in the house of magic manipulations, remember? Something evil was going on up there.”

Rose nods as she plays with her dark, knotty hair. “Stock thought she was working for the devil.”

“Did you know Joan was in on this?” Ral demands of Grace.

But I'm half listening at best, inside my own head.
Joan's in deeper than she realizes. Maybe her allegiance to her family and Gunn's promises have turned her around so much, she's got no sense of which way's up. Maybe I can stop her, reason with her, before it's too late for her, without compromising my score.

“Alex,” Grace says, and when I look at her, I can tell this isn't the first time she's said my name. “Did you know about any of this?”

I shake my head. “No,” I say sadly, “Joan tricked us all.” I clear my throat. “Excuse me, I think I'm going to leave while I can, get some rest.”

Grace gives me a sympathetic smile as the rest of the troupe devolves back into their whispers and accusations.

I burst through the double doors, hit the shock-cold January air. Part of me is fully aware that I should keep walking right out to M Street, find a phone and call Frain, tell him the deal particulars that are as good as done, and not look back.
You know what Joan's room means. You shouldn't get mixed up with her like that. It will complicate things even further—

But the other part of me is already climbing up her fire escape.