Win asks for directions to my place, and we screech in front minutes later.
I grip the door handle, ready for home, ready for sleep. I’m beat, my nerves shorted and spent. But I need to remember my endgame. I need to keep climbing, get to the next rung on the ladder. “What now, sir?” I venture, before stepping outside.
“Now I know where you live.” Win gives a nod. “You’ll hear from us.”
SETTLED
JOAN
Our troupe of seven doesn’t get much downtime, between our daily practices and our nightly shows at the Red Den, but early morning is one of those rare times we do have to ourselves. Time I’ll spend lying in bed, looking out my bedroom window on the top floor of the Den, watching shiny new Buicks chug down M Street, and thinking about what Ruby and Ben are doing back home. Or sometimes I’ll knock on Grace’s door, and the two of us’ll sneak out to spend our stipends on milky coffee and sugar cakes from Moby’s Diner around the corner. Then we’ll sit on my fire escape and chat about our dreams for the future, and the way we’re going to take over this city, show by show.
So I’m surprised, as I’m lying here, relishing my morning, to hear a sharp, impatient rap outside my room. And after I get up from bed and open my door, I’m even more surprised to find Harrison Gunn behind it.
He stands there, dressed to kill even at this hour: crisp, narrow pinstripe pants, tight vest over a pressed shirt. He’s got one forearm raised and pressed against my door frame. “Can I come in?”
The mixed-up emotions I always feel just on seeing him start battling inside me—what’s he want, what’s he see when he looks at me, am I performing well enough—and I have to shake my head to quiet the war. “’Course, sir.”
I sit down right on top of my pillow as Gunn perches on the opposite end of the bed. The entire cot is between us, but it still feels too close. Gunn’s talked with me alone a few times before, since he cleared his whole old staff out and moved our sorcering troupe into the Red Den a few weeks back. Some nights he’s pulled me into his office off the main show space after our performance, to get my pulse on whether we’re taking enough risks. And he’s stopped by my room once or twice before, in that tight window between rehearsal and our actual show, to give me his last-minute embellishments on the finale—but he’s never crossed the threshold.
Now, as he’s sitting on my bed, I wonder if he’s chatted alone like this with any other sorcerer, or if I’ve become some kind of face for the troupe. I’ve thought about asking Grace a couple of times, but I’m not sure what answer I’d prefer to hear.
And I’m sure as hell not going to ask Gunn.
“Wanted to let you know that your little parlor trick last night was a success with some of my colleagues,” Gunn says. “Underbosses Kerrigan and Sullivan were raving about it in the VIP lounge. Said it took the old rabbit-in-the-hat trick to a new level.”
Heat starts rising to my cheeks at the unexpected compliment, and I think about the parlor trick he’s talking about, the way I turned the gangsters’ handkerchiefs into a pair of doves that soared up to the rafters last night. During every show, there’s an intermission between the individual performances we sorcerers put on for the first hour, and the immersive magic finale we perform together at the end—and for those twenty minutes or so, we’re supposed to work the floor, cozy up to a patron, and perform an off-the-cuff parlor trick to get the audience even more excited for our finale. The little intermission is billed as “improvised,” but our troupe learned pretty quick who we’re supposed to target with our extra attention: wealthy regulars. Rich shine addicts. And of course, the higher-up Shaw men, on the nights they come in to see what all the fuss over Gunn’s revamped club is about. “That’s nice to hear, sir,” I finally answer. “Glad your colleagues enjoyed it.”
“It’s important, that they understand the true magic inside this place. And I knew they would. It’s all coming together.”
Gunn stays silent for a while, until the silence between us is suffocating, until I almost scream, Why are you really here, what do you really want?
“Your troupe continues to surpass my expectations,” he finally says. “An immersive show where people truly lose themselves in magic for a night. Sold-out performances for a hundred fifty people, six nights a week, at fifteen dollars a ticket. McEvoy laughed when I told him about my idea to transform the Den. He didn’t think I’d pull it off. No one thought I’d pull it off.” He looks at me suddenly, expectantly.