toward the Venus de Milo. This was probably the most sought-after piece of magic paraphernalia in the world. “It has to be—”
“A hundred and eight years old.” Higgins glanced up at it. “Pretty neat, huh?”
Higgins seemed pleased at Dad’s reaction. Clearly, he was proud of his collection, and eager for actual magicians to admire it.
“I can’t believe you’ve got all this stuff,” I said, figuring it couldn’t hurt to butter him up a little. “You could start a museum.”
Higgins grinned. “But you didn’t come here to admire ancient relics,” he said. “You came to rent some.” He turned to walk farther down the aisle. Ripley shot me a look that said don’t overdo it.
We turned right at the end of the row, and that’s when I saw it, parked at a perfect angle in the center of the concrete floor:
The 1947 Chevrolet pickup.
Higgins must have had it polished, because the bloodred hood and chrome grille shone under the fluorescent lights. It was bigger than I remembered, and somehow more aggressive, as if it might roar to life at any moment and run us down. I glanced at Dad and saw an expression on his face I’d never seen before—a mixture of revulsion and longing. I touched his arm, and he flinched.
“Step right up,” Higgins said in a corny carnival-barker voice. “Don’t be shy.”
Ripley and I stood back as Dad slowly approached the truck. He circled it once, then placed a palm on the hood and closed his eyes. Whatever memory he was reliving in that moment was a painful one.
“Looks good, right?” Higgins said. “Check these out.” We followed Higgins down the aisle. He yanked aside a blue tarp, and there stood the massive Plexiglas tank.
Dad looked at it like he was sizing up a hostile bear. Then he spotted the steampunk prop lever, an old tractor brake that he had spray-painted antique bronze and topped with a fiberglass handle, and his eyes lit up. He grasped the lever and pulled it. Nothing happened, of course—it was just a prop—but a faint smile played on Dad’s lips nonetheless. “Still works,” he muttered.
I approached and reached for the handle—then shrank back.
My mother had pulled this lever. Her hand had been right there. I felt a stab of sadness and turned away. Higgins was watching, enjoying our reactions. I couldn’t tell if he was just proud, or if there was something darker at play, some kind of emotional vampirism.
He looked from Dad to me, and then said, “About that rental fee.”
My stomach tightened. This was the make-or-break moment.
I cleared my throat and turned to Higgins—but before I could say anything, Ripley cut in.
“I read on Forbes.com that you’re worth forty million.”
I sucked in my breath. What was Ripley doing? Dad looked about to intervene, but then Higgins eyed Ripley and snorted.
“Forty. As if.”
“Oh,” Ripley said, crossing his arms. “So it’s less.”
“What are you, an idiot? Forbes only reports public information.” He gestured around the warehouse. “As you can see, I keep my assets well sheltered.”
Ripley pretended to be taken aback. “You bought all this with cash? Under the table?”
Higgins grinned.
“But you must have the biggest collection in Vegas,” Ripley said.
“In the world, actually. There’s a guy in Japan who thinks he’s got me beat, but I’ve been to his place. His whole collection would fit on one of my racks.” He shrugged, then clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Back to business. I believe we agreed on a fee of five thousand dollars?”
I looked at Dad; his face was stone. My heartbeat accelerated. That invincible feeling was gone. Then Ripley cut in again.
“It’s probably none of my business—but how does five grand make a difference to a guy worth more than forty million?”
Now I understood his strategy, and I had to hide a smile. This was the Ripley I knew: clever, resourceful, and unafraid to speak up when it mattered.
I played along, shooting Ripley a shut up look. Higgins grinned as if we were all behaving exactly as he had expected us to. When he spoke again, he looked directly at me.
“When I turned sixteen, my father refused to buy me a car. The jackass was worth twice what I am now, and he wouldn’t drop five grand on a used Corolla. Said I wouldn’t take care of it unless I bought it with my own money.” There was no trace of the cocky teenager now; he was confident and in control. “So my mom stepped in and bought me an