Magic City

by Paula Guran

“What’s ‘it,’ now?”

  “A mistake. I’m . . . I’m nobody. I’m nobody. I’m not supposed to be here. It’s for her.”

  I had made it and didn’t even audition. Maria auditioned with her whole heart. She had the discipline. She went down into the dark, where I was never brave enough to go. I was supposed to mess around in the back and say nothing. I wasn’t supposed to suddenly have to function in Athens, with a lost kid in my skirts. This was Maria’s place, and she couldn’t even see it.

  “Wake up, Maria, wake up,” I sobbed. “Wake up. There’s unicorns, like you said, sort of, and magic, and . . . ”

  She didn’t stir. But her breathing was better, deep and even, and she had locked her arms around my waist.

  “Well. Nobody,” the driver said softly, “where to?” I rubbed my nose, flowing with snot and tears.

  “What about these people? Don’t they need to get . . . places? Go where they want to go. We don’t care.”

  “Tourists.” He shrugged. “They wait for the . . . uh . . . fuel stop, and go where the trolley goes. It’s exciting—they never know what they might see. Besides, the old monster’s not too reliable as a method of mass transit. The kids come on sometimes, to haze each other—if it goes, well, they’re not as tough as they say. But mostly we just glide, child. It’s part magic and part machine and neither of the parts work quite right, so sometimes you’ll say, ‘Dinner at Café Cubana, hoss,’ and it’ll take you pert as a duck to Elfhaeme Gate and you’ll be dining on fines and forms. Sometimes it’s nice as you please, right up to the door at Cubana and no fuss. Not its fault, you understand. The magic wants to go Realmward and the machine wants to go Worldward, and in a mess like that you can’t ask for any straight lines.”

  “Then why ask where we’re going?”

  The driver looked down at me, his blue eyes dark in the starlight, like crystals.

  “It don’t run without desire, kid. Nothing does.”

  Well, what do you do when you don’t know what to do? What you’ve been doing. I wanted somewhere for Maria to get well, to get fed, to get happy again. Something like a benevolent golden Denny’s, something I could sing in front of, somewhere with coffee all night for $1.10 in a cup like a grail and just a little more room on the blank pages in the backs of my books. Just a little more room.

  I didn’t say it. I didn’t say anything. But the Unicorn Trolley veered off sharply into the shadows and light of the city, into the sound of it like a wall.

  And I looked over my shoulder, back toward the moon and the gnarled, thorny weeds of the road. Something banged there, hanging from an iron pole, banged in the wind and the night. On a scrap of tin that might have once been painted blue, I read: “Starfire Station.”

  And just then, just then, Maria opened her eyes, bright and deep as a fairy’s.

  And that’s my story, Mr. Din. If you don’t mind I’ll take that beer now. I still need a little something to be brave. I guess that’s better than not being brave at all. It’s Titania’s world and I’ll never be Hermia, and not Helena either. Just Fig, but not in the background. Not anymore. I still stand with the fairies with glued-on leaves, but oh, you’d better believe I’ve got lines to sing. Hail, mortals, we attend. Well met, and what ho, and all that jazz, every word, down to the last verse.

  Now, I see a microphone up there, and my girl and I are hungry.

  May I?

  Catherynne M. Valente is the New York Times bestselling author of over a dozen works of fiction and poetry, including Palimpsest, the Orphan’s Tales series, Deathless, and the crowdfunded phenomenon The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making. She is the winner of the Andre Norton, Tiptree, Mythopoeic, Rhysling, Lambda, Locus, and Hugo awards. She has been a finalist for the Nebula and World Fantasy Awards. She lives on an island off the coast of Maine with a small but growing menagerie of beasts, some of which are human.

  The City: Las Vegas—a place where illusion is common.

  The Magic: We think real magic, not the type of tricks that entertainers fool us with on stage, is a rare, exotic thing. But, really, it isn’t . . . if you know what to look for.

  THE ARCANE ART OF MISDIRECTION

  Carrie Vaughn

  The cards had rules, but they could be made to lie.

  The rules said that a player with a pile of chips that big was probably cheating. Not definitely—luck, unlike cards, didn’t follow any rules. The guy could just be lucky. But the prickling of the hairs on the back of Julie’s neck made her think otherwise.

  He was middle-aged, aggressively nondescript. When he sat down at her table, Julie pegged him as a middle-management type from flyover country—cheap gray suit, unimaginative tie, chubby face, greasy hair clumsily combed over a bald spot. Now that she thought about it, his look was so cliché it might have been a disguise designed to make sure people dismissed him out of hand. Underestimated him.

  She’d seen card-counting rings in action—groups of people who prowled the casino, scouted tables, signaled when a deck was hot, and sent in a big bettor to clean up. They could win a ridiculous amount of money in a short amount of time. Security kept tabs on most of the well-known rings and barred them from the casino. This guy was alone. He wasn’t signaling. No one else was lingering nearby.

  He could still be counting cards. She’d dealt blackjack for five years now and could usually spot it. Players tapped a finger, or sometimes their lips moved. If they were that obvious, they probably weren’t winning anyway. The good ones knew to cut out before the casino noticed and ejected them. Even the best card counters lost some of the time. Counting cards didn’t beat the system, it was just an attempt to push the odds in your favor. This guy hadn’t lost a single hand of blackjack in forty minutes of play.

  For the last ten minutes, the pit boss had been watching over Julie’s shoulder as she dealt. Her table was full, as others had drifted over, maybe hoping some of the guy’s luck would rub off on them. She slipped cards out of the shoe for her players, then herself. Most of them only had a chip or two—minimum bid was twenty-five. Not exactly high rolling, but enough to make Vegas’s middle-America audience sweat a little.

  Two players stood. Three others hit; two of them busted. Dealer drew fifteen, then drew an eight—so she was out. Her chubby winner had a stack of chips on his square. Probably five hundred dollars. He hit on eighteen—and who in their right mind ever hit on eighteen? But he drew a three. Won, just like that. His expression never budged, like he expected to win. He merely glanced at the others when they offered him congratulations.

  Julie slid over yet another stack of chips; the guy herded it together with his already impressive haul. Left the previous stack right where it was, and folded his hands to wait for the next deal. He seemed bored.

  Blackjack wasn’t supposed to be boring.

  She looked at Ryan, her pit boss, a slim man in his fifties who’d worked Vegas casinos his whole life. He’d seen it all, and he was on his radio. Good. Security could review the video and spot whatever this guy was doing. Palming cards, probably—though she couldn’t guess how he was managing it.

  She was about to deal the next hand when the man in question looked at her, looked at Ryan, then scooped his chips up, putting stack after stack in his jacket pockets, then walked away from the table, wearing a small, satisfied grin.

  He didn’t leave a tip. Even the losers left tips.

  “Right. He’s gone, probably heading for the cashiers. Thanks.” Ryan put his radio down.

  “Well?” Julie asked.

  “They can’t find anything to nail him with, but they’ll keep an eye on him,” Ryan said. He was frowning, and seemed suddenly worn under the casino’s lights.

  “He’s got to be doing something, if we could just spot it.”

  “Never mind, Julie. Get back to your game.”

  He was right. Not her problem.

  Cards slipped under her fingers and across the felt like water. The remaining players won and lost
at exactly the rate they should, and she collected more chips than she gave out. She could tell when her shift was close to ending by the ache that entered her lower back from standing. Just another half hour and Ryan would close out her table, and she could leave. Run to the store, drag herself home, cobble together a meal that wouldn’t taste quite right because she was eating it at midnight, but that was dinner time when she worked this shift. Take a shower, watch a half an hour of bad TV and finally, finally fall asleep. Wake up late in the morning and do it all again.

  That was her life. As predictable as house odds.

  There’s a short film, a test of sorts. The caption at the start asks you to watch the group of people throwing balls to one another, and count the number of times the people wearing white pass the ball. You watch the film and concentrate very hard on the players wearing white. At the end, the film asks, how many times did people wearing white pass the ball? Then it asks, Did you see the gorilla?

  Hardly anyone does.

  Until they watch the film a second time, people refuse to believe a gorilla ever appeared at all. They completely failed to see the person in the gorilla suit walk slowly into the middle of the frame, among the ball-throwers, shake its fists, and walk back out.

  This, Odysseus Grant knows, is a certain kind of magic.

  Casinos use the same principles of misdirection. Free drinks keep people at the tables, where they will spend more than they ever would have on rum and Cokes. But they’re happy to get the free drinks, and so they stay and gamble.

  They think they can beat the house at blackjack because they have a system. Let them think it. Let them believe in magic, just a little.

  But when another variable enters the game—not luck, not chance, not skill, not subterfuge—it sends out ripples, tiny, subtle ripples that most people would never notice because they’re focused on their own world: tracking their cards, drinking free drinks, counting people in white shirts throwing balls. But sometimes, someone—like Odysseus Grant—notices. And he pulls up a chair at the table to watch.

  The next night, it was a housewife in a floral print dress, lumpy brown handbag, and over-permed hair. Another excruciating stereotype. Another impossible run of luck. Julie resisted an urge to glance at the cameras in their bubble housings overhead. She hoped they were getting this.

  The woman was even following the same pattern—push a stack of chips forward, hit no matter how unlikely or counterintuitive, and win. She had five grand sitting in front of her.

  One other player sat at the table, and he seemed not to notice the spectacle beside him. He was in his thirties, craggy-looking, crinkles around his eyes, a serious frown pulling at his lips. He wore a white tuxedo shirt without jacket or bow tie, which meant he was probably a local, someone who worked the tourist trade on the Strip. Maybe a bartender or a limo driver? He did look familiar, now that she thought about it, but Julie couldn’t place where she might have seen him. He seemed to be killing time, making minimum bets, playing conservatively. Every now and then he’d make a big bet, a hundred or two hundred, but his instincts were terrible, and he never won. His stack of chips, not large to begin with, was dwindling. When he finally ran out, Julie would be sorry to see him go, because she’d be alone with the strange housewife.

  The woman kept winning.

  Julie signaled to Ryan, who got on the phone with security. They watched, but once again, couldn’t find anything. Unless she was spotted palming cards, the woman wasn’t breaking any rules. Obviously, some kind of ring was going on. Two unlikely players winning in exactly the same pattern—security would record their pictures, watch for them, and might bar them from the casino. But if the ring sent a different person in every time, security would never be able to catch them, or even figure out how they were doing it.

  None of it made sense.

  The man in the tuxedo shirt reached into his pocket, maybe fumbling for cash or extra chips. Whatever he drew out was small enough to cup in his fist. He brought his hand to his face, uncurled his fingers, and blew across his palm, toward the woman sitting next to him.

  She vanished, only for a heartbeat, flickering in and out of sight like the image on a staticky TV. Julie figured she’d blinked or that something was wrong with her eyes. She was working too hard, getting too tired, something. But the woman—she stared hard at the stone-faced man, then scooped her chips into her oversized handbag, rushing so that a few fell on the floor around her, and she didn’t even notice. Hugging the bag to her chest, she fled.

  Still no tip, unless you counted what she dropped.

  The man rose to follow her. Julie reached across the table and grabbed his arm.

  “What just happened?” she demanded.

  The man regarded her with icy blue eyes. “You saw that?” His tone was curious, scientific almost.

  “It’s my table, of course I saw it,” she said.

  “And you see everything that goes on here?”

  “I’m good at my job.”

  “The cameras won’t even pick up what I did,” he said, nodding to the ceiling.

  “What you did? Then it did happen.”

  “You’d be better off if you pretended it didn’t.”

  “I know what I saw.”

  “Sometimes eyes are better than cameras,” he said, turning a faint smile.

  “Is everything all right?” Ryan stood by Julie, who still had her hand on the man’s arm.

  She didn’t know how to answer that and blinked dumbly at him. Finally, she pulled her arm away.

  “Your dealer is just being attentive,” the man said. “One of the other players seemed to have a moment of panic. Very strange.”

  Like he hadn’t had a hand in it.

  Ryan said, “Why don’t you take a break, Julie? Get something to eat, come back in an hour.”

  She didn’t need a break. She wanted to flush the last ten minutes out of her mind. If she kept working, she might be able to manage, but Ryan’s tone didn’t invite argument.

  “Yeah, okay,” she murmured, feeling vague.

  Meanwhile, the man in the white shirt was walking away, along the casino’s carpeted main thoroughfare, following the woman.

  Rushing now, Julie cleaned up her table, signed out with Ryan, and ran after the man.

  “You, wait a minute!”

  He turned. She expected him to argue, to express some kind of frustration, but he remained calm, mildly inquisitive. As if he’d never had a strong emotion in his life. She hardly knew what to say to that immovable expression.

  She pointed. “You spotted it—you saw she was cheating.”

  “Yes.” He kept walking—marching, rather—determinedly. Like a hunter stalking a trail before it went cold. Julie followed, dodging a bachelorette party—a horde of twenty-something women in skin-tight mini-dresses and over-teased hair—that hadn’t been there a moment ago. The man slipped out of their way.

  “How?” she said, scrambling to keep close to him.

  “I was counting cards and losing. I know how to count—I don’t lose.”

  “You were— She shook the thought away. “No, I mean how was she doing it? I couldn’t tell. I didn’t spot any palmed cards, no props or gadgets—”

  “He’s changing the cards as they come out of the shoe,” he said.

  “What? That’s impossible.”

  “Mostly impossible,” he said.

  “The cards were normal, they felt normal. I’d have been able to tell if something was wrong with them.”

  “No, you wouldn’t, because there was nothing inherently wrong with the cards. You could take every card in that stack, examine them all, sort them, count them, and they’d all be there, exactly the right number in exactly the number of suits they ought to be. You’d never spot what had changed because he’s altering the basic reality of them. Swapping a four for a six, a king for a two, depending on what he needs to make blackjack.”

  She didn’t understand, to the point where she couldn’t even frame the q
uestion to express her lack of understanding. No wonder the cameras couldn’t spot it.

  “You keep saying he, but that was a woman—”

  “And the same person who was there yesterday. He’s a magician.”

  The strange man looked as if he had just played a trick, or pushed back the curtain, or produced a coin from her ear. Julie suddenly remembered where she’d seen him before: in a photo on a poster outside the casino’s smaller theater. The magic show. “You’re Odysseus Grant.”

  “Hello, Julie,” he said. He’d seen the nametag on her uniform vest. Nothing magical about it.

  “But you’re a magician,” she said.

  “There are different kinds of magic.”

  “You’re not talking about pulling rabbits out of hats, are you?”

  “Not like that, no.”

  They were moving against the flow of a crowd; a show at one of the theaters must have just let out. Grant moved smoothly through the traffic; Julie seemed to bang elbows with every single person she encountered.

  They left the wide and sparkling cavern of the casino area and entered the smaller, cozier hallway that led to the hotel wing. The ceilings were lower here, and plastic ficus plants decorated the corners. Grant stopped at the elevators and pressed the button.

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “You really should take a break, like your pit boss said.”

  “No, I want to know what’s going on.”

  “Because a cheater is ripping off your employer?”

  “No, because he’s ripping off me.” She crossed her arms. “You said it’s the same person who’s been doing this, but I couldn’t spot him. How did you spot him?”

  “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. How would you even know what to look for? There’s no such thing as magic, after all.”

  “Well. Something’s going on.”

  “Indeed. You really should let me handle this—”

  “I want to help.”

  The doors slid open, and Julie started to step through them, until Grant grabbed her arm so hard she gasped. When he pulled back, she saw why: the elevator doors had opened on an empty shaft, an ominous black tunnel with twisting cable running down the middle. She’d have just stepped into that pit without thinking.