“I know your mother told the papers that you were both completely in the dark about Richard’s remedial magic scheme, but I’m sure you learned some facts from his trial.” Frain keeps his eyes on his file. “I take it you know the name Anthony Colletto, the D Street Outfit boss? The man your father was ultimately working for?” I nod, as the name will forever be seared like a brand in my mind. “My understanding is that your father agreed to steal his own company’s government-sanctioned spells right off his shelves and funnel them to D Street, in exchange for Boss Colletto’s forgiveness of some pretty exorbitant gambling debts. Maybe in late 1924, early 1925?”
It was January 1925. I remember because my father had been on a shine bender since the holidays, and after a week on the stuff was barely recognizable. He’d come home lit out of his mind on New Year’s Eve, thrown me against a wall, all the while barking at me with shined-up, pinprick pupils, sputtering that our lives were over. “I’m not too familiar with the details, sir, but that all sounds right to me.”
“And from your training class, I’m sure you know the name Erwin McEvoy.”
I nod, still not sure where this is going. “He’s Colletto’s sworn enemy, has been boss of the Irish Shaw Gang for almost a decade, a position he assumed after D Street killed his predecessor and cousin, Danny the Gun. McEvoy’s nickname: Jackal of the District. A nickname well-earned, from what I understand,” I say. “Our Unit instructor estimated McEvoy’s killed over a hundred men since he took over the Shaws.”
“Very good.” Frain looks me in the eye. “I also understand, from our inside sources, that McEvoy’s in need of a new right-hand sorcerer.”
Right-hand sorcerer. I think back to training class. “You mean his magic protector on the street, his personal sorcerer?” I ask. “What happened to his old one?”
“Homicide said it looked like a trick gone wrong, from what they could tell. Some elaborate manipulation backfired, and apparently the young man ended up half-charred.” Frain pauses. “Unless, of course, McEvoy just decided to set him on fire.”
I shift uncomfortably in my thin metal chair. “Sir, all due respect, what’s this have to do with me?”
“As you know from the Unit, McEvoy is on our most-wanted list.” Frain gives me a wan smile. “He’s a man synonymous with magic, who uses sorcery in nearly every way you can to break the law. Force fields to assist in robberies. Manipulations to coerce enemies. Elaborate smuggling rings to bring the haunted island brew, obi, and this newer product, fae dust, in from overseas. He’s even got his hand in performance—owns a few middling shining rooms across the city, where I’m told you can get a shot of shine and a little sorcery show any night of the week.” Frain leans across the table. “We’ve been tracking McEvoy for a long time, but we’ve never had an agent worthy enough to plant by his side, who can keep us informed about the Shaws’ dealings, who can help us hit them at the right time.” Frain pauses. “And we want that someone to be you, Danfrey. We want to send you undercover.”
Undercover. With McEvoy? The boss of the most dangerous gang in DC? “Sir, I’m sorry, what—how would that even be possible?”
“We’d do it nice and slow, make it look credible,” Frain says. “We’d get you in at the lowest level, hook you up with someone junior, on the periphery of McEvoy’s operation, and you’d work your way up the ranks. Like I said, McEvoy’s looking for a new right-hand sorcerer, and someone like you, who’s talented, smart, and savvy about the underworld? You’ll find your way to him, I’m sure of it. Besides, McEvoy’s had a vendetta for Colletto since Colletto took out his cousin, Danny the Gun. We’re positive McEvoy would take you into his fold just to spite the D Street boss. It’s perfect.”
But I’m still stuck on Frain’s description of me. Talented. So Frain knows I can sorcer. At least, he has a suspicion that I can sorcer. It doesn’t matter, there’s no way I’m doing this. For one, I despise gangsters, can’t even imagine rubbing shoulders with them again, much less trying to win them over—their whole magic racket ruined my life. For another, it sounds like a death sentence.
“Sir, you just said McEvoy’s last sorcerer pretty much ended up burned at the stake,” I say slowly. “So thanks for the offer, but I think I’m better cut out for the field.”
Frain studies me. “The field.” He takes a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lights one. He doesn’t offer one to me. “And are you proud of what you’re doing with the Unit, Alex? How you’re setting yourself up ‘for the field’?”
Warren’s words from earlier—it’s like you’re trying to be your father, it’s like you can’t help it, you’re poison—they start gnawing at me again. But I manage to answer, “I’d like to think so, sir.”
“Mmm.” Frain sits back in his seat. “So hitting up illegal magic parties, serving sorcerer’s shine to minors, casting prohibited magic in public . . . that’s all part of your plan to end the manipulative, coercive sorcery and addiction that has cursed this country? To put men like your father behind bars?” He gives a put-on laugh. “We’ve got a lot of corrupt men within our ranks, Alex. But I have to say, corrupt sorcerers? You’re a special breed.”