So I nod. Once.
“In my office, after rehearsal.” Gunn extends his fingers onto the bed but doesn’t touch mine. “Just you and me.”
And then he walks to the door and closes it behind him.
As soon as Gunn’s gone, I try to banish him from my mind, think only about Ben’s letter, let the world begin with Ben’s scrawl of my name and end with his signature. But what I just promised, what I’m going to share with Gunn—it teases, itches, claws at me inside. There wasn’t a choice, comes from somewhere deep within. You’re in this world to fight for Ruby and Ben with everything you’ve got. Just keep going. Like Gunn said, run until you win, or until you fall.
*
By the time Gunn leaves, it’s time for practice, so I tuck Ben’s letter into my bureau drawer. The Shaws take care of the troupe’s room and board in addition to our weekly pay: our entire troupe resides on the second floor of the Red Den, so there’s never a good reason to be late for a rehearsal or show. I walk past Grace’s room, Ral and Billy’s across the hall, Stock’s, and Tommy and Rose’s beyond that, to the back stairs and down three flights to the cellar. I follow the cavernous, lantern-lit hall past Gunn’s office and into the center show space of the Den, a two-story performance area floored with cement and walled in cinder blocks, which spans our entire corner lot.
Each day we begin practice with our solo and duo tricks—the ones we open our show with at eight p.m.—the five-or ten-minute performances that we’ll run on repeat until about nine. These “warm-up” tricks are performed on the small circular stages in the front of the show space, Gunn’s thought being that the audience can come in, get a drink at the bar and ease into the show, mosey around our stages and take in the tricks of their choosing. So during morning practice, we’ll try new flourishes on these tricks, or sometimes we’ll perform them for the rest of the troupe for a gut check or critique.
We wrap up around lunch, after which Gunn comes in to give us his latest idea on the “immersive magic finale” for that night. Sometimes the finale is an entirely new idea Gunn thought up, other times it’s a fresh take or twist on a theme we’ve used before. We’ll brainstorm how to execute the finale, practice, then run it as a dress rehearsal for Gunn, and around five or six p.m. we break for about an hour before getting ready for the actual show. Every day except Sunday we spend like this, sorcering from pretty much morning until midnight, all for a hundred fifty patrons willing to pay top dollar. Besides, Gunn says the long day serves another purpose: strengthening the bonds of our magic until they’re made of steel. Sure, it makes for exhausting days. But it’s good work—work I can lose myself in. Work we’re all proud of.
“Nice of you to show, Kendrick,” Billy calls across the show space. He stands in the center of his and Ral’s stage, the one in the front right corner of the space. I hustle over to join the rest of my troupe. Billy’s got a pile of about ten cards floating six inches over his outstretched palm. Ral’s beside him, in the midst of stacking a square of face cards up like a thin wall above his head.
I reach the benches that encircle their stage and slide in beside Grace to sit. “Sorry—lost track of time.”
Grace snaps her pack of cigarettes against her leg and offers me one. She drops her voice. “You really didn’t miss anything.”
I give a little smile as Ral adds, “We wanted everyone’s take on our royal palace of cards trick.” He points up to his wall of face cards. “Billy thinks it’s getting stale.”
“It was stale three days ago,” Billy mutters. “Now it’s moldy.”
I peer across the circle to the far bench, where Stock, Tommy, and Rose sit in a row. “What do you all think?”
“Building a house of cards based on the type of card?” Stock answers with a shrug. “It’s tedious, boring. If I was a patron, I’d pass.”
“Sort of like being awake and counting sheep,” Rose adds, and Tommy laughs.
“You know the deal,” Ral says evenly. “Constructive criticism only, please.”
“Constructive criticism,” Stock repeats. He leans onto Tommy’s shoulder. “Okay, I’d rather watch paint dry than watch you two fuckups sort cards above your heads. Constructive enough?”
Billy mumbles an obscenity and takes a step forward, but Ral holds him back, keeping him inside the perimeter of their stage.