He walked away from the Cornstalk at a casual pace, forcing himself not to hurry. Stars glimmered in the darkening canopy above Royal’s wrought-iron balconies like tiny spotlights over a sprawling stage.
His footsteps halted at the intersection of Bourbon and Toulouse. A one-story, slant-roofed building occupied the northwest corner. The Mystic Arts Emporium.
That grandiose name, spelled out in faded letters above the entrance, stood in contrast to the small size of the place. It was really no more than a hurricane shack, built many decades ago from plaster and aged planks, resting on a foundation two feet above street level to secure against flooding and infestation by vermin.
Rusty took a last measured breath, then stepped through a curtain of multicolored beads.
The sound of those beads rattling yielded a powerful rush of nostalgia. It was heightened by a dank, musky fragrance filling the air: incense, the same hand-dipped sticks he himself used to make, wrap, and sell by the dozen in this same room. All those different scents came back to him like the names of estranged family members. Black Magic. Gris-Gris. Devil’s Bone. Spectral Love. Eau d’Laveau. And the ever-popular Gator’s Breath, whose tangy bayou bouquet now pulled him deeper into the Emporium with invisible hands.
Rusty heard the voice before he saw the man who spoke. From the far end of the room, Prosper Lavalle’s signature rumble cut through the darkness, sending a shiver up his spine.
“Circle in close now, people. This here magic, she thrives on communal energy.”
Rusty stepped deeper into the Emporium, marveling at what an odd hybrid it was—half low-end shop selling souvenirs of dubious value, and half legitimate shrine to the most rarified aspects of conjuring. For every cheap trinket made in Korea, an artifact of colossal import to anyone with the knowledge to recognize its value lay waiting to be discovered on the velvet-lined shelves.
He moved past a rack of plastic magic wands and $3 bags of gris-gris, approaching a small group of people clustered around a glass display case. Behind the case, clad in a black top hat and maroon velvet cloak fraying at the sleeves, stood the most elegant man Rusty had ever known.
Tall and rangy, Prosper carried himself with a studied poise that appeared utterly loose and natural. Simple actions such as laying his hand on a doorknob or scratching his nose assumed a poetic fluidity. His eyes, a shade of brown just slightly darker than his skin, gleamed with secret knowledge and a sense of mirth that could appear benign or malevolent by turns.
Rusty felt a thrill as he inched closer to the display case. But he also felt something else—a sense of shock that he hoped wasn’t visible on his face. Prosper appeared to have aged more than a decade in less than half that time since Rusty last saw him. Despite his familiar sartorial trappings, the man was a shell of himself.
That voice, however, rang out with all its former strength.
“I want y’all to pay close attention to the movement of these here bones,” Prosper commanded, eyes roving from one audience member to the next as his gloved hands manipulated a pair of large wooden dice, their black sides etched with grinning ivory skulls.
“This ain’t no parlor trick. What you’re about to see here is straight-up hoodoo, taught to me as a boy by my grandaddy out in Terrebonne Parish. He carved these blocks himself, and he set a spell on ’em the last night of his life.”
Rusty moved closer to the glass case, standing behind a man clad entirely in denim who watched the demonstration with one arm draped around his wife’s freckled shoulder.
Prosper breezed through the illusion with a series of precise motions and expert misdirectional cues. He caused the dice to disappear one at a time, then return to his palm from thin air. The inlaid skulls changed color, from stark white to bayou blue to a deep angry red. In a final flourish, he offered the dice to a young girl who squealed with delighted panic as they dissolved into a plume of gray smoke the instant she touched them.
An appreciative murmur rippled through the audience, augmented by a few claps. Someone dropped a bill in the tip jar.
Then it happened. Rusty’s gaze met Prosper’s, and for half a tick they were the only people in the room. Prosper broke eye contact first, producing the dice from a pocket and returning them to a leather case. Rusty saw a tiny tremble in his hand, but he doubted anyone else in the room noticed, or had the slightest idea what a disruption his appearance created.
“I’ll be needing some assistance for my next illusion,” Prosper said, running his eyes over the assemblage in search of a worthy candidate.
A giggly redhead wearing a tanktop with the words “Flotation Device” spelled out in spangles raised a hand to volunteer, nudged by her hulking boyfriend.
Prosper appeared to weigh her worth as a participant, then shaped his right hand into a gun, long forefinger pointing like a barrel directly between Rusty’s eyes. Rusty almost flinched, feeling as if the full accusatory weight of that finger could strike him down with an invisible bullet.
“You, sir. Do you think you’re capable of assisting me with this ancient and sacred illusion?”
“Do my best,” Rusty said, stepping forward and ignoring a nasty look from the disappointed redhead’s companion.
“It requires no special skill. Only an honest mind and a small modicum of physical coordination.” Prosper rolled his eyes in a pantomime of doubt that his chosen assistant possessed those qualities, drawing a laugh from the audience.
He signaled for Rusty to join him behind the glass case. Rusty did so, his dismay rising as they stood shoulder to shoulder. The last time he’d seen Prosper, they were of virtually identical height. Now, with his wilted stance, the elder magician appeared at least two inches shorter.
“Before we get started,” he said, eyes boring into Rusty’s with unnerving intensity, “perhaps you’d be willing to empty the left pocket of that fine leather jacket.”
Feeling a shiver of almost telepathic anticipation, Rusty slid a hand into the pocket. His fingers touched something that wasn’t there mere seconds before.
Son of a bitch.
“Pull it out!” Prosper shouted, voice raw with anger.
Shaking his head, Rusty produced a small folding knife from the jacket. It was oblong in shape, constructed entirely of wood. The handle’s smooth surface was inlaid with a complex pattern of arcane symbols. Inside the handle lay a four-inch blade of polished teak that was sharper than any switchblade.
A stunningly unique object. It even had a name, carved in letters so minute as to be unreadable unless seen in bright light: The Marrow Seeker.
Rusty had first held this knife in a tremulous grip at the age of seventeen. That was just a few days after Prosper found him shivering and underfed on the stoop in front of the Emporium and decided for reasons—never fully explained—to take the homeless runaway under his wing.
He didn’t feel Prosper planting the Marrow Seeker on him a moment ago. Rusty himself had performed countless similar plants, either slipping an item into some unwitting person’s pocket or liberating it from them. He was supposed to be a pro, and his old mentor just schooled him badly in front of an audience.
“Are you familiar with this establishment’s policy regarding thieves?” Prosper asked loudly.
“I’m guessing it’s harsh.”
“That’s an item of incalculable worth. The only one of its kind, also hand-carved by my grandfather and never replicated. You’ve dishonored the spirit of the Lavalle lineage by trying to steal it.”
Murmurs of disapproval arose from the cluster of spectators. Rusty could almost feel waves of contempt floating across the room in his direction.
He gave the Marrow Seeker a last admiring glance, then set it down on the glass case.
“Guess it was a bad idea.”
“Bet your life it was a bad idea,” the tourist decked out in denim snarled, as if a theft had been attempted on his own property. “This man could throw a curse on you, boy. Ought to, anyhow.”
“Hell yes,” anoth
er voice rose in agreement. “Hex his ass.”
Prosper waved away that suggestion, speaking to the lowly thief without favoring him with eye contact. “Doesn’t appear you’ve made any friends here. Should I notify the police?”
The Flotation Device’s boyfriend took an aggressive step forward. “Forget the cops,” he slurred. “I’ll deal with him.”
“No need for that,” Rusty said, hands raised in a conciliatory posture. The last thing he wanted to do was lay this drunk fool out cold on the floor, but another step in his direction would limit the alternatives.
“I believe a hasty exit is your best course,” Prosper said, turning his back on Rusty. “Remaining gone would be a wise decision.”
“He means stay out,” Denim Man offered for clarification.
Rusty was already moving through the beaded curtain and leaving the Emporium. He stepped out onto the damp sidewalk and just stood for a moment in mute admiration. Despite the deficiencies of advancing age, Prosper Lavalle remained the best magician he’d ever seen.
No question about it. But tonight’s not over.
Rusty carried that resolution across the street, leaned against a lamppost, and waited.
3.
Just past midnight, a few last lingerers filed out of the Emporium. Prosper emerged through the bead curtain and turned to close a folding iron gate. The ancient hinges screeched in protest.
Rusty quickly crossed the street to assist him. The gate clanged shut and Prosper locked it.
“Didn’t ask for no help. Don’t need no help.”
He pocketed the key and pulled down the brim of his top hat.
“Nice plant,” Rusty said, following him up Bourbon toward Canal Street. “Never saw it coming.”
“How could you see it, with your eyes glued up high like that? Child’s play to make a cross-hand placement, as long as you hold the mark’s gaze above the neckline.”
“Of course,” Rusty nodded. “Misdirection 101.”
“I guess you forgot that, along with everything else I taught you.”
“Only thing I forgot is how fast your hands are. That was a stupid mistake I’m not apt to repeat.”
“Ah, Rusty,” Prosper uttered with a shake of the head. “If there’s one thing we’ve learned about you, it’s that you’re certain to repeat mistakes. Especially the stupid ones.”
They walked in silence for twenty paces before Rusty tried again.
“Buy you a drink? Or coffee and a beignet?”
“Thank you, no.”
“Where you headed?”
“Storyville. Got a real nice hoochie out there. She’s waiting for me with a pitcher of Hurricanes and a feathered whip.”
The sardonic spite of those words landed so harshly on Rusty’s ears that he didn’t offer a reply. He’d expected no better, but it still stung.
“I’m catching a streetcar home,” Prosper said, a measure of acid removed from his tone. “Been on my feet for ten hours and barely a hundred in the till to show for it.”
“Can you tolerate my company from here to the stop?”
The old man offered no answer, which Rusty chose to interpret as tacit acceptance.
They traversed, without words, the noisiest blocks of Bourbon. Past open doorways filled with blaring music, stumbling tourists, ladies of questionable repute. All of it bathed in a murky neon glow and smelling like last week’s spilled beer.
Not until they’d reached the streetcar stop at Canal and Decatur did Prosper speak.
“Why you here, Rusty?”
“Does making up for lost time sound too optimistic?” Answering his own question with a nod, he quickly added, “I came to square things, with you and Marceline both. Really hoping it’s not too late for that.”
He saw Prosper recoil slightly.
“You don’t want to see me,” Rusty continued, “that’s fine. But the ledger still needs balancing. You two left Vegas in such a hurry, never collected your full pay from Caesars.”
Prosper stopped in his tracks. He looked at Rusty with fresh surprise.
“You think some money’s gonna patch it up? Make things like they were before that desert turned you into something…”
He didn’t finish the sentence, like the memory it alluded to was too distasteful to be spoken aloud.
“For 682 shows,” Rusty said, “you and Marcie served as the best backstage assistants I could ever want. You only got paid for 360 of those shows before you bailed on me.”
“And it took you two years to figure out we’re owed this money?”
“I’ve known all along. Just didn’t know the best way to face you. If this opens a door to getting us back on a good footing, I’d love that. If not, I’m on a plane in two days and won’t bother you again.”
“Keep your payoff. We’re getting along just fine.”
“It’s not a payoff, damnit. It’s simple compensation for the work you both did.”
“I said keep it.”
“Are you answering on Marceline’s behalf? I really don’t think that’s your call, old man.”
Prosper wheeled on him angrily, but Rusty kept talking.
“She’s entitled to decide for herself. I don’t believe she’ll turn it down. Not with a baby on the way.”
“How you know about that?”
Rusty paused before answering. He knew he was entering perilous ground but saw no way around it.
“She came to visit me. A few months ago.”
Prosper sagged for a moment, as if receiving long-delayed verification of some dreaded suspicion.
“It was entirely her doing, OK? She used the Internet to track me down, showed up on my doorstep without any advance notice.”
“In that godawful desert?”
“No. I left Vegas over a year ago. Pretty sure you must’ve heard about that.”
“I heard you vanished, that’s all. Everybody asking, ‘What happened to the Raven?’ Big star magician disappears without a trace, and just when things were going so well for you.”
The biting disdain of that last utterance was enough to give Rusty pause about his whole purpose in coming to New Orleans.
“I moved back to Maryland,” he soldiered on. “Got a house in Ocean Pines, near where I grew up. That’s where Marcie found me. We spoke briefly, but the conversation got cut short.”
A rattling of unoiled brakes announced the imminent appearance of the next streetcar from around a blind corner.
“She’s an adult who can make up her own mind,” Prosper grumbled. “What are you bothering me for?”
“I don’t have her address, or even a phone number. Hoping we can all sit down tomorrow and handle this.”
Prosper almost replied, then stopped. His upper body trembled as if animated by some inner palsy. Rusty laid a hand on his shoulder, half surprised it didn’t get shrugged away.
A streetcar rolled noisily toward them, its bottle-green flank grinding to a halt at the curb. People started filing in. Some with the $1.25 fare handy, others searching their pockets for change.
“What’s wrong?” Rusty asked, hand still on the quaking shoulder. “Talk to me, please.”
“Won’t do no good,” Prosper answered, stepping forward to free himself. “Even if I give you the address, you won’t find her.”
“What are you talking about?”
Prosper eased himself onto the first step leading into the streetcar, then turned. For the first time, Rusty beheld the full grip of misery suffocating his estranged mentor. It wasn’t mere age that had carved those hollows in his face, etched those dark circles under his eyes. The man was clearly terrified.
“She’s gone, Rusty. Five months pregnant, and my baby girl’s gone.”
He stood on the step for an agonized moment, backlit by the soft yellow light of the streetcar’s interior. Rusty grabbed the hem of his velvet jacket, yanking him around.
“Hold it! What do you mean, gone?”
Prosper brought both gloved hands together as if
in prayer, then drew them apart with splayed fingers. It was a familiar performance bit, usually accompanied by a burst of flame from ignited flash paper.
“Disappeared, like smoke. Four days and no trace of her. Tell me, what you gonna do about that?”
Prosper turned away and dropped a handful of coins into the fare box. Rusty remained for a moment on the curb, mind churning incoherently. The sense of disorientation he’d been surfing since the turbulent plane ride reached a dizzying crest.
Gone?
The door started to swing shut with a metallic shudder. Rusty reached one arm in through the gap and lurched up the step. The door clanged hard against his shoulder.
The gray-haired driver, screwed into his pilot’s chair with a weary mien that suggested he’d been navigating this route since the first tracks were laid, shot Rusty a dirty look.
“What the hell, man? Ever boarded a streetcar before?”
Prosper sat slumped in an aisle seat, not even glancing up as Rusty bumped past him. The window seat was occupied so he took one two rows behind. He forced himself to stay calm and wait for a chance to ask the question humming in his brain like a maddened wasp.
What the hell happened to Marceline?
• • •
Twenty minutes later, Prosper reached up to pull the cord as the streetcar approached the intersection of St. Charles and Felicity. They’d advanced into the Lower Garden, a largely residential district with a smattering of food and nightlife options adding to the foot traffic.
Rusty rose and followed him out the car’s back exit. They walked slowly down Felicity’s cracked sidewalk, toward the river.
“Are you gonna tell me what’s going on, Prosper?”
“Told you already. I ain’t heard from my daughter in going on a week. If you came to see her, I can’t tell you where she is ’cause I don’t know.”
Blind Shuffle Page 2
