Already? Teddy thought. They’d agreed on nine. “I’ll be right down,” he said. Fortunately he was already showered and dressed. He’d put on one of his best bespoke suits, a charcoal and black pinstripe merino, handmade downtown by none other than Frank DeBartolo. The tie was a purple paisley, the tie pin diamond. The gold cuff links were an award for distinguished service that he’d won from a Shriner in 1958. The final accessory remained to be chosen from the black velvet tray. But really, there was no choice at all.
He picked up the Daytona Rolex. It was the twin of the one Nick Pusateri had taken from him. The thing about twins, though; they were never truly identical, even if they looked it at first glance. One of them might be worth twenty grand, the other twenty bucks. Hard to tell unless you knew your watches. Nick didn’t, obviously. But it wasn’t just the fake diamonds that had fooled him. The man had trophy blindness. All Teddy had to do was act wounded when it was taken from him, and the gangster felt like he’d won something priceless, because of how much it had cost his enemy. He’d never suspect it was a fake, because that would mean admitting that his victory was fake. Once a man had committed emotionally to the con, it was near impossible to claw his way back to objectivity.
He fastened the watch to his wrist and felt the quality radiate up his arm. Trophies couldn’t blind if you knew exactly what they were worth.
He returned the tray to the safe, and tucked it below Maureen’s letters.
Downstairs, Frankie stood at the front door, blocking Destin Smalls from entering. Matty nervously hovered behind Frankie. “Let ’em in,” Teddy said. “Let’s get this over with.” He patted Matty on the shoulder. “Nothing to worry about. Trust me, all right?”
Frankie stepped aside, and Smalls ducked through the door. “We won’t take long,” he said.
“You knew Smalls was coming?” Frankie said, outraged. “With him?”
Him being G. Randall Archibald. The magician entered carrying a metal suitcase. Cliff Turner came in behind him with more cases in hand and a loop of electrical cable slung over one shoulder.
Archibald held out his hand to Matty. “A pleasure to meet you. I assure you, the entire process is painless.”
“What process?” Matty asked.
“A simple test of psionic potential,” Archibald said. “We’ll set up here by the couch.”
Buddy came into the room with a tray of cinnamon rolls drizzled with white goop, just like the ones in the mall. He set them on the coffee table and vanished without a word.
“How about some coffee?” Teddy asked. “Cliff?”
“That would be great, Teddy,” the man said.
Archibald raised his bushy eyebrows.
“Okay, you too,” Teddy said. To Frankie he said, “Son, could you tell Buddy to get some coffee for these boys, and a cup of warm water for Agent Smalls? Also, and this is just a suggestion, put on some pants.” Frankie looked like he was hungover. He wouldn’t have blamed the kid if he’d drunk heavily last night.
“I’m going upstairs,” Frankie said.
“Fine. Matty, could you talk to Buddy? And then why don’t you wait in the basement until we’re ready.” The boy was only too happy to skedaddle. Mary Alice went with him.
Cliff ferried in more cases from the van, and Archibald hopped about the room, stringing cables, plugging in devices, and turning on colored lights like a Christmas elf. Teddy took a seat to watch the show. God he wished he could smoke a cigarette, but the place was too full of disapproving women and impressionable children.
Graciella came down, looking casually elegant as always, wearing a light summer dress with her hair pinned back. She surveyed the living room and said, “Are we filming a documentary?”
Teddy introduced Graciella to Cliff, who didn’t know who she was, and Smalls, who pretended not to know. Archibald kissed her hand.
“Oh, I’ve heard of you,” Graciella said.
“Alas, my advance publicity cannot help me now,” said the little white gnome. “I’ve retired from the stage. And yet”—he vanished his handkerchief, and made it reappear—“I can’t help but perform in the presence of grace.”
“You’re worse than Teddy,” Graciella said approvingly. “Don’t let my sons see you do that, they’ll pester you all day.”
She pulled Teddy aside. “What in the world are they doing here?”
“I made a deal,” he said. “One test. If Matty scores well, Destin gets to report the results and keep his program running until Matty turns eighteen. Then, Matty gets to make his own decision.” He didn’t mention that he’d promised to keep the children away from Smalls, because that would require more explanations about how he wasn’t really breaking his promise.
“I mean today,” Graciella said. “If Nick shows up—”
“He won’t be able to do a thing. Look at all these people! So many witnesses! Plus, that man?” He nodded to Destin Smalls. “That man there is a government agent. There’s no one better to have hanging around the house in case your criminal-minded father-in-law shows up.”
She didn’t look reassured.
“I promise you,” he said. “No place safer.”
As Archibald and crew set up, children started popping out of the woodwork, many of them carrying squirt guns. The young ones kept asking what the men were doing. Teddy made up a different story each time: recording insect songs; freezing time; setting up for karaoke. That last was a mistake. The three little girls went crazy.
Three? Teddy thought.
“Where’s the microphone?” the Asian girl asked.
She could have been any age between seven and twelve. Teddy paged through the roster of children he knew to be in the house, sorted them by gender, age, and race, and came up empty. Graciella and Irene weren’t in the room.
“And who might you be?” Teddy asked.
“June,” she said.
“Hi, June.”
“June,” she said, slightly differently.
“June.”
She was already bored trying to correct him. “It’s not really karaoke, is it?”
“No, it’s not,” he admitted. “It’s for highly advanced psychometry. Do you live in the neighborhood?”
He didn’t get an answer. One of the twins shrieked in joy and sprinted from the room, and Not-Exactly-June gave chase.
That’s when Irene walked in the door, carrying two paper sacks of groceries.
IRENE
“What the fuck?”
The living room had been turned into a laboratory: black cases sprouting wires and cables; half a dozen small satellite dishes on tripods, like inverted umbrellas; control boxes on the coffee table and the floor.
Destin Smalls greeted her with a cheery hello, and G. Randall Archibald—the Astounding Archibald himself—waved at her from near the couch.
Teddy ushered her toward the kitchen. “Nothing to worry about, Irene. Just a little science.”
“Where’s Matty?”
“Downstairs, playing. Perfectly safe.”
She gave him a dark look. “You’re on top of this, right?”
“I’m offended you even asked. Off you go.”
Buddy passed her carrying a tray of coffee cups. Irene went into the kitchen with the groceries, where someone stood at the counter, chopping vegetables. The someone was Joshua.
He set down the knife and lunged forward, just in time to grab a bag as it slipped from her grasp.
“Hi,” he said.
Her body was having a full-on chemical reaction. She wanted to throw herself on him. She wanted to run away. She wanted him to run away, and then she’d catch him, tackle him, and squash him into the ground.