So I waited, pretending to be interested in my phone but becoming increasingly irritated, minute by minute, as the sleet fell and the roads froze over. Meanwhile, the attorneys made trip after trip to the raw bar, the carving station, the sushi station. I kept glancing at all that expensive food and thinking, These aren’t even the top lawyers! I could tell from their suits, the way none of them hung right. Jackets too tight in the shoulders, too long in the cuff. Trousers with front pockets so loose I could’ve had my pick for the stolen cell phone routine I performed only when I was certain I could get away with a clean grab.
“Actually, your card wasn’t the ace of spades,” I said to Lou. “If you’ll remember all the way back to two minutes ago, it was the three of diamonds.”
His eyes narrowed. “Are you accusing me of lying?” Mock outrage, a performance—unless I had screwed up my force at the beginning of the trick. (I hadn’t.)
“Either you’re lying,” I said, “or your eyes aren’t so good.”
“My eyes are perfect, honey,” he said. “I think it’s your magic act that’s on life support.”
And that, ladies and gents, is what did it. I suppose his words hit so hard because they happened to be true. What had once, long ago, been infinite potential was now, yes, on life support. But that didn’t mean I was ready for that kind of appraisal. Especially today. Especially during the act. And worst of all was hearing it from a pickled show-stealer who had read me so easily I might as well have been blinking neon.
What I’m saying is, his jab caught me at the worst possible moment. I was desperate to be done with this trick, this show, this whole day of frustration and disappointment and self-doubt, and I felt all of it harden at that exact instant into a white-hot hunk of fury.
What I’m saying is, I let the card fly.
Once, I was clocked throwing a playing card at 72 miles per hour. No, that won’t get me into the Guinness Book. Still, a card flying 72 mph travels twenty feet in a fifth of a second, which isn’t enough time for a volunteer to react. No time to move out of the way, or even to flinch.
So it seemed like no time at all, when really it was one-fifth of a second later, that Lou Husk dropped the target, covered his left eye with his hands, and began to howl.
2
What happened next happened quickly and is a bit hazy in my memory. Someone ran to the stage, then a few someones. Lou Husk’s friends, or rivals, or whatever they were, started pooling their extensive knowledge of the city’s urgent care clinics. Soon they were leaving the ballroom with the patient (who was still groaning, his palm shoved against his eye).
With my thinking pretty much limited to holy shit, holy shit, I hurriedly packed my gear with trembly hands. I wanted to get out of there as fast as possible and was doing my best to avoid looking at anyone (well aware that everyone was peering at me) when a representative from Great Nation Physical Therapy approached. She stopped several feet away from me as if I were feral and might decide to attack her, too. Not that I blamed her.
“You were scheduled for an hour,” she said, “but you performed for less than thirty minutes and injured a guest.”
I knew this already—I’d been there—and didn’t know what to say. Anyway, I couldn’t have said much. My mouth was dry and I felt shaky all over.
Did I just blind a man? Was I about to get arrested?
“We’re going to have to hold on to your payment,” she said.
“Of course,” I told her. “I’m so sorry …” But she was already walking away again.
I carried my bag and fold-up table into the elevator. As the doors were shutting, a lawyer’s thick arm shot forward, causing them to fly open again. The man stepped into the elevator and flashed a close-mouthed smile as we waited for the doors to shut.
My face must have revealed my terror, because he said, “Relax. I’m not in a suing mood.”
We descended to the lobby, and when the doors opened again I started to hurry away. Before I could get anywhere he blurted out, “His nickname is Lucifer.”
I stopped. “Excuse me?”
“Lou? He’s not a well-liked individual. I thought you should know that.”
The lawyer beside me had an ill-fitting suit, jowly cheeks, and a glistening forehead. He certainly had the look down.
“What does that possibly matter?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Maybe it doesn’t. Are you looking for legal representation, Natalie?”
“I have to get out of here.”
But it was a bluff, and he called me on it.
“In the middle of an ice storm? No, I don’t advise that.” And that was without him knowing about my bald tires and screeching brakes. “Come on,” he said, taking the handle of my fold-up table from me. “Let’s step into my office.” He scanned the lobby. “Just as soon as I can find one.”
The lobby bar was bright and close to the elevators, not crowded but moderately bustling, people coming and going. But across the large lobby, in a dimly lit corner, was a much smaller spillover bar, just long enough to accommodate four bar stools. The area was closed, roped off. It was as good a place as any to hide and wait.
So that’s where we sat, folded table and bag of gear beside me, while the ice continued to fall over Newark.
“I just want to say,” he began, “that what you do with those cards …” He whistled. “Not the throwing. The other stuff. Like where the queens all ended up together? It’s truly amazing.”
“I don’t know why you’re
