And then my heart leaps, just for an instant, over who I spot at the back of the crowd. There’s a cluster of mob men—I recognize their faces, all of them, some from my time running with McEvoy, some from black-and-white photos that were pinned to the Prohibition Unit’s board of wanted Shaw men. Harrison Gunn, Win Matthews, and George Kerrigan, McEvoy’s underboss from the racketeering side, plus a few others I don’t know well enough to connect with a name. And they’re all heading with their little glasses of sorcerer’s shine into the left corridor off the main space.
“I better get going,” I say to Joan, a little too briskly. So I force a yawn. “Long night, and it’s going to be a longer week.” I look around quickly. “But should I stay? Is there a post-performance meeting or anything?”
Joan gives me a canned smile. I can’t read her—I’m not sure if she looks more anxious or disappointed. “No, of course, you’re free to go.”
I grab her hand, give it a little squeeze. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I angle my way through the sea of shiners and to the mouth of the hallway. I wait until a small crowd of half-crazed dancers surges forward, a perfect cover while I sneak down the hall after the underbosses. I reach for the cinder-block corner of the hallway, ready to round it—
But my fingers are stopped short, smack against a hard surface as smooth and strong as glass.
I step back a few feet, take in the perfect manipulation—a flat facade of an empty hall closing off the actual corridor. A protection wall, just like the ones Joan used to create, to keep our hallway conversations secret from prying eyes.
Is this Joan’s handiwork too?
On instinct, I look back to the stage, wonder if she’s watching me, and if I can somehow conjure a door straight through her replica without being detected. She and Grace are still up there, scanning the crowd slowly, talking in hushed whispers, both of their faces creased, concerned.
It’s not worth the risk. Not yet.
I bound up the two flights of stairs to the first-floor liquor bar, dart through the small space, needle my way out the door. I walk home quickly, only stop when I reach Iowa Circle, collapse onto a park bench to catch my breath. Plans are cooking inside the Red Den, maybe something involving Harrison Gunn, Win, others. Joan at least knows enough to protect them, to keep their meetings hidden behind magic walls.
I need to get more out of her, push her, figure out all I can.
But it pains me a little, thinking about actually doing it.
I’m so lost in my own thoughts that when I finally round onto P Street, I almost walk right by the black car sitting in front of my house. The window rolls down a crack, and a pair of feral, bloodshot eyes peer out over the glass.
“About goddamned time, Alex,” McEvoy’s voice bellows from inside. “Get in.”
My heart nearly stops. The last thing I want to do right now is get inside this man’s car.
I reluctantly slide into the passenger seat. Between McEvoy’s seat and mine, a small mirror lies facing up. It’s dusted with blue powder, and a rolled dollar bill lies on top of it. So McEvoy must have tried the dust—tried it many times, from the looks of him right now. Which means he’s paranoid, unpredictable.
Even more dangerous than usual.
“You’re supposed to check in every day with me.”
“I tried you last night, sir, but it was late,” I say slowly. “They have me there all day practicing, and nights are at the show. If I sneak out, it might arouse suspicion—”
“You’re there for me, you understand?” He roughly pinches his nose, sniffs loudly. “If you arouse suspicion, you find a way to deal with it.”
“Of course, sir, that’s not what I meant—”
“You’ve been there two days already. I need information, Alex.”
I steal a better look at him. McEvoy’s hand is itching over the pistol tucked into his holster, like he’s just waiting for a reason to use it. Now’s not the time to tell him that at least three underbosses were meeting behind a concealed door. Now is not the time to tell him that instead of somebody after him, it might be a goddamned coup. I need an answer that buys me as much time as possible at the Den, without McEvoy barreling through its doors before my Unit can. “Harrison Gunn wasn’t on the floor.” I give him the name of his youngest underboss. “He’s been more absent from the performances, seems a little distracted. Could be nothing. But whatever’s going down, my best guess is that he knows about it. I think I need to start homing in on Gunn, paying him a little more attention, tailing him.”
“Gunn.” McEvoy shakes his head, starts his car’s engine. “Time for a chat with Gunn—”
“Sir, wait, I’m not even sure if he’s involved,” I rush to say, “or if he’s just providing the meeting place. You go after him now, you might never find out the truth, or how far any of this extends.” I steal a breath. “Let me find out more, get to the heart of it, find my way inside the meetings at the Den.”
McEvoy stares at the window as his engine hums. My fate, the Feds’s sting, it all hangs in the balance.
“You start ringing every night, Alex,” he says. “You don’t reach me? I expect you to come calling, sit on my fucking doorstep till you find me and loop me in. Or I’ll find myself a new little rat to burrow in there. We clear?”
“Yes, I will. I’m sorry, sir.” I nod, relief coming out in a small gasp as I push my door open. “Of course I’ll find a way.”
WHILE THE CAT’S AWAY
JOAN