Ripley laughed, then realized Higgins wasn’t joking and took a gulp of his Sprite.
“Hey, Higgins,” I said, moving a little closer to put my hand on the arm of his new suit. “Thank you.”
He gave a dismissive wave. “That stuff was collecting dust anyway.” He looked genuinely uncomfortable; I wondered why he was so allergic to gratitude. “Plus, like you said, it’s going to be worth way more now.”
I smiled. “I hope so.”
He stared into his unfinished drink. “And, uh, thank you, too. For the whole . . .” He mimed flying around like Peter Pan. “That was awesome.”
“It was a thing to behold,” I agreed.
He took another sip of his drink, then set it on the bar with a clink of finality.
“Well. Next time you’re in Vegas, look me up.” He gave me an awkward smile. “I have a lot of free time.” Then he nodded, turned, and headed for the exit.
Ripley watched me watching him leave. “That guy is a unicorn.”
When we had finished our drinks, I gave Liam, Ripley, and Jude a VIP tour. I introduced them to Irma the invisible pianist, who knew every request—even the Drake song Jude called out. Then I took them downstairs to the museum to walk through the aisles of dusty props and costumes, some of them over a hundred and fifty years old. Ripley and Jude stopped to examine an antique Zoltar machine, giving Liam and me a chance to be on our own. It was nice to have a moment alone with him in a quiet place. We didn’t say anything, just walked together, fingers intertwined.
Liam paused in front a large framed poster. It was a sepia-toned illustration of a grim-looking African American man wearing a tuxedo and sitting on a globe. The caption read: Black Herman, The World’s Greatest Magician. Secrets of Magic, Mystery, and Legerdemain. The date on the bottom right corner read: Printed in 1938.
Liam pointed at the caption. “What’s legerdemain?” he asked.
“Close-up magic,” I said. “Coins, cards, stuff like that. But I’ve always liked the literal translation: lightness of hand.”
We caught Georges-Robert’s mentalism and fork bending in the Parlour of Prestidigitation, Yuji Yamamoto’s classic silk production in the Palace of Mystery, and then headed to the Close-Up Gallery to watch Johnny Ace Palmer, the best close-up magician alive, perform his famous version of Cups and Balls to a standing ovation. I still don’t know where he hides those live baby chicks.
The night was next to perfect; the only thing missing was Dad. Throughout the evening, I took dozens of pictures so he could relive the night with me the next day, adding his quips and comments and memories. It would almost be like he’d been there.
Just before midnight, I excused myself to use the restroom. I put a damp paper towel on the back of my neck and looked in the mirror. My eyes were bright, my skin was clear, and my smile looked genuine. I felt invincible.
Then I noticed the subtle red rings around my eyes; they were my tell. The one reliable indicator that this burst of joy I felt was nothing more than a neurological fireworks display—and that soon enough it would end, leaving behind only trails of smoke.
But I smiled anyway, wide and bright, as if none of that were true. As if those thoughts were just the dark fantasies of a self-indulgent girl. I would suffer soon enough; tonight, I would celebrate.
I was halfway back to the table when I heard another familiar voice call my name; apparently, it was my night for familiar voices.
“I told Devereaux he should have hired you before you got famous.”
“Rico!” I turned and pretty much ran into him.
“Whoa. Hey,” he said, laughing as he returned my awkward hug.
“Did you see it?” I asked.
“I saw you thrashing around like a wounded sea lion, if that’s what you mean.”
I swatted his arm. “You saw it!”
He smiled. “Front row. Daniel insisted that I come.” His smile faded, and he put his hands on my shoulders. “That was, hands down, the coolest escape I’ve ever seen live.”
“Really?”
He paused. “Well, the coolest one that didn’t involve lava or the Space Shuttle.”
“I’ll take that.” I grinned. “Oh, hey, do you know if Devereaux watched? Probably not, right? I mean, he’s still prepping his new show. He was probably—”
“Actually,” Rico said, running a hand nervously over his bald head, “he watched it on TV. He thought you were good.”