There are mumblings of agreement. “We shouldn’t go after McEvoy until we have D Street fully signed on,” Gunn says. “Once we shake hands with Colletto, then we’ll deal with the loose ends, and make the changing of the guard official.”
Go after McEvoy, loose ends, changing of the guard. Christ, Gunn really plans to take McEvoy out—
“When do you want to hold the demonstration?” Win asks.
“It needs to be here. I want Colletto to see the full scale of everything we can do. I want him to buy into all of it, taste and crave all of it. It’s the only way he’ll sign on.”
I close my eyes, pray for another clue as to what this demonstration is about, whether it’s of our troupe’s immersive magic, or something else altogether.
“A live demonstration is going to be tricky, though—we’ll need to close, and that could arouse suspicion,” Gunn adds.
“There’s always Sunday,” the third gangster chimes back in. “You’re closed that night, right? Plus, the Bahama Boys say there’s a smuggling party out on Magic Row: some four-night spirit-raising voodoo bender on the water, right behind the coast guard border. McEvoy, all his top dogs on the smuggling side, they’re all invited.”
The fourth answers, “So we need McEvoy, Baker, and Murphy on that boat, and out of your way.” Baker and Murphy—the names are familiar. They’re two of McEvoy’s underbosses—Murphy’s in trafficking, Baker manages a few middling shining clubs somewhere in the city. They’re likely McEvoy’s last two remaining loyal underbosses, from what I’m gathering.
As the men give a round of nervous laughter, I try to figure out my next move. McEvoy’s going to expect my daily check-in—maybe I can avoid him tonight, but there’s no avoiding him for long. Do I tell him, warn him about this somehow? I can’t. He could take matters into his own hands, bring this whole place crashing down, blow this monumental score before Gunn can bring it home and the Unit can bust it.
I agree with Gunn and Win on one thing—McEvoy needs to be out of sight, on that voodoo party cruiser, and out of my and the Unit’s way.
“Well done, Harrison. Never thought I’d see the day, but you’ve proven yourself. You’ve delivered.” I hear the clinking of glasses, the squeak of leather. “To Sunday. To the Gunn legacy.”
They’re wrapping up. I back away from the door quickly, run back through the hall, out of the performance space, and hit the street.
It’s far too late to dial Frain, so I take the walk home to run everything over and through again: Gunn is challenging McEvoy as top dog and already has the support of the majority of the Shaw underbosses. But it all rides on some unprecedented deal with D Street happening, and there’ll be a demonstration to ensure that it all goes down.
But a demonstration of what? The troupe’s performance?
And why D Street?
I stumble to a pay phone, put my obligatory call into Boss McEvoy, pray that he doesn’t answer his phone at this hour, since I’ve got no idea what I’m going to say if he does. I let the phone ring four times, and then I hang up, relieved, and head home to sleep everything off. I’ll sort out what I’m going to tell him, and stop by his house as soon as I wake up. I won’t make it through the day without some rest.
*
I dream about Joan. But instead of warm, or even seductive dreams, they’re disorienting. Her teasing me, racing ahead of me, and then turning into a raven right before I can hold her. In one, I follow her through a strange house of illusions until I think she’s around a corner, but instead of finding her, I find Gunn. Needless to say, when I wake to a loud, insistent “Mister, Mister!” outside my door a couple of hours later, I’m not happy. It’s not even seven a.m.
I open the door to find a young boy standing on my crumbling front stoop. He’s in a cap, no more than nine or ten, scrawny and hard in that street-rat sort of way. No coat, despite the weather. He holds a piece of folded stationery, which I take and read:
Be in the back alley in exactly one hour.
After he hands it to me, he bounds down my stairs and runs away.
I study the note again. I’m playing so many parts that I’m not certain who to expect is coming to call. McEvoy? Frain? Joan?
I take a quick bath, get changed, make a cup of coffee, hit the back alley right at the hour mark. A black car pulls up minutes later. The passenger door cracks open two or three inches, and McEvoy calls through it, “Get in.”
Nerves on fire, I settle in beside McEvoy and steal a quick glance at him. And then my anxiety doubles. He looks even worse than he did at the Den: faded gray skin, wild, wet eyes, hair that looks like it needs to be washed. I’m not positive, but I think the suit he’s wearing is the one from last night. “I tried calling you,” I say quickly. “I was going to stop by first thing this morning. Have you been up all night, sir?”