“There’s no shame in it, though, you know? Admitting you’re not hard enough for McEvoy’s street, for running with the big boys. ’Cause someone like you, Danfrey, you could have a whole bunch of futures. Hell, you could be one of those performers the crowds flock to see at the revamped Red Den every night.” He laughs. “You know, I haven’t thought about that before, but I have to say that’s a damned good idea. I hear Gunn managed to score quite a nice change purse to run the place. Could be a decent living. And a much safer one.”
Howie waits, as if he’s letting his idea settle in with me, but of course, I know the real reason for this “off-the-cuff” suggestion. Win’s been relying more on me these past few weeks, and Howie less—which obviously doesn’t sit well with him. Sure, Howie talks a big game, but in the end, he’s sloppy, often shined or coming down from a high when he shows up for a job. Plus, he forgets things. Like when he didn’t check all the rooms in a dealer’s house last week, and some dust-bunny dissatisfied with his high came barging down the stairs with a loaded gun. Or when he mixed up the address of a local shine redistillery, and we ended up driving around Hell’s Bottom for half an hour with ten gallons of newly lifted remedial spells in our trunk, looking for the right place.
“Besides”—Howie nudges me with his elbow—“there’d be other benefits.”
I blow into my hands. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh, you know who I’m talking about.” He arches one eyebrow, shoots me this exaggerated grin, and I can’t help but laugh, despite the tension. “I’ve seen the way you’ve been watching that hot black-haired Betty they’ve got working the place.”
“Who?”
“Oh, please, don’t ‘who’ me.”
He’s clearly talking about Joan, and I blush, as I hadn’t realized he was watching me, or rather, watching us. Sure, Howie’s right—every time we’re there, I try to catch her before she gets ready for her show and Howie and I head out the door. Never more than a quick flirtation, but it has me thinking about her from time to time. Joan’s a warm, welcoming distraction when I need to take my mind off things, something harmless and exciting of my own. I laugh to myself. “It’s that obvious?”
Howie shoots me an honest-to-God smile. “You might be a sorcerer, but you can’t trick me, Alex Danfrey.”
Win emerges from the boat and beckons us forward. “Howie, come on, grab the box,” he calls over the ship deck. “Alex needs to focus on getting us home.”
Howie’s face changes immediately at the barked order, the menial task. And then I can almost see it, the faint spark between us fizzles, until there’s nothing but cold, dull air. I offer to help Howie carry the goods, but that just seems to add insult to injury.
*
We spend the night near the coast, at some smuggler-friendly brothel-and-breakfast where I have to surround my room with a force field to sleep, considering the constant knocking bedposts and shine-induced singing blaring through the walls. Our entire next day is on the road, running our dust score to Win’s local dealers across DC’s sprawl, then a quick stop at the Red Den while Win shares a drink with Gunn. While Howie uses the chance to get shined in the bathroom, I manage to score a couple of minutes with Joan at the performance space’s bar. We sneak in a checkers game using a board she conjures, while she teases me about wearing last night’s clothes and smelling like a sailor.
When she’s not looking, I leave her a conjured starfish as a souvenir.
I’m so tired that I almost can’t see straight by the time Win takes us home. Still, I’m with-it enough to notice that Win makes a right onto 14th, instead of making a left up to my place. I sit straight up as we turn on F Street, drive through a neighborhood I’ve never seen, with shards of broken glass glistening on the curb like strange diamonds, sad row houses leaning on one another like shiners at the end of the night. We pull up to a nondescript building, three stories high, crumbling brick and mortar.
Before I can figure out what’s happening, Win mumbles to Howie, “I’ll stop by tomorrow.”
And then I’m chilled with the significance of this situation. Win’s ordering Howie out of the car. Which means that for some reason, I’m staying.
Howie steals a look back at me, then at his cousin. He laughs, the sound hard and brittle. “You two screwing each other behind my back or something?”
“I need your boy is all,” Win says. “Alone. Nothing personal.”
“Nothing personal,” Howie repeats. He grabs the back of his headrest and turns around to look me in the eye. “You been casting spells to make this happen, Danfrey? Working with me just to work my cousin, pushing me down so you can get ahead?”
“Easy, Howie, don’t be such a dame about it—” Win mutters beside him.
“You’d be nothing without me, you know that?” Howie cuts at me.
“Come on, Howie.” I try to calm him down, but he barrels over me with, “Just forget it. All you Danfreys are traitors.”
Heat sears my skin, blood rushes to my temples, the word “traitor” slapping me back to my father’s trial. Those D Street rats on the stand, my father in cuffs, the headline PHARMA MOGUL BETRAYS HIS CAUSE as reporters swarmed us on the courthouse steps—“That was a shitty thing to say.”
“And you deserve it.”