He finally releases me, then thrusts his head against his passenger seat.
We drive the rest of the way in silence, whether because McEvoy’s too messed up to talk or because he doesn’t want to. Hell, I’m not sure what’s next, if he doesn’t say yes. Does he get rid of me? Beat me to a pulp for suggesting that someone is out to take the Jackal down? Make me an example?
“Go to your place. I’m fine to drive home.” He finally breaks our silence as we make our way over the Highway Bridge.
He doesn’t speak again until we pull up in front of my house.
I cut the engine to complete and deadly silence.
After a full minute of sitting in his dark car, finally McEvoy whispers, “I’ll tell Win you’re good. But you’re too soft. That you’d be better suited somewhere else in our operation, away from the street’s front lines.”
Relief and surprise collide inside me, burst like a goddamned fireworks show. In a strange, dissociated moment, I think, Howie will be thrilled.
“You hold to that story, understand? Win won’t be too surprised. He warned me you might not be able to stomach the job when he first brought up your name to me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll let him suggest the Den. I’m sure he will. Gunn mentioned some big accident, one of his little performer monkeys getting killed by magic a few nights back.” He glares at me. “You tell me everything you see, everything you hear, understand? Anything that looks or sounds suspicious. You don’t spare any details. You don’t censor yourself. I make the calls on what is and isn’t important.”
“Of course, sir.”
He looks at the shine bottle hungrily. “Too bad you can’t preserve this stuff.” He clutches the remainder of my shine to his chest. “I’ll need to figure something out, or still come calling from time to time—”
“I might be able to help with that.” I nod across him, back to my home, the shabby porch, the cracked windows. I’ve never realized how much it looks like a magic junkie house. And I force myself to finish this. “You ever try fae dust, sir?”
McEvoy follows my gaze to my home. “That Irish psychedelic shit? Once, didn’t take to it.” He gives a grunt. “Have to say, never would have taken you for a dust-bunny, Alex.”
“Well, some of the stuff Win’s been smuggling in for your operation is hard to resist.” I look at my hands, praying that he’ll buy the lie. “I can vouch for the high, though it takes a few trips to really hit your stride. It’s not the same as shine, obviously, but it . . . might carry you through in the meantime.”
Without another word, McEvoy kicks open his car door. I let go of the air I’ve been holding on to and slink after him, up my own stairs and to my front porch.
Christ to hell.
This is a dangerous, dangerous game I’m playing.
PART THREE
THE PERFORMANCE
NEW BOY
JOAN
The Red Den has been closed for days, the first hiatus we’ve had since Gunn moved our troupe in here. Stock’s death sent a shock through the crowd—I close my eyes and can still see the faces of the nearby audience twisted in horror, hear the screams bubble up from the flying handbags and furs—but even more, it’s gutted the troupe. It wasn’t all love and roses with Stock, but we were a team. Maybe a fractured team. Hell, maybe a failing team—but a team just the same.