Chapter Text
Honking horns provide the background music. Rancid exhaust hangs like a burst of dry ice on center stage. The lights of Times Square emit a colorful spotlight upon the well-dressed young magician and his black hatbox marked ‘tips.’ He folds a deck of cards into his palm and flashes a bright showman’s smile at the assistant of the moment.
“Okay Krista, are you picturing your card?”
The lovely young raven-haired woman blushes and nods. She speaks with a convincing New Orleans drawl and claps her perfectly manicured hands, adorned with costume jewelry, with manufactured excitement.
“Yes, I sure am.”
“Okay, excellent. Don’t tell anyone.” The showman flashes a flirty smile and raises one eyebrow. “Even me.”
She laughs and flips her hair. He paces in a circle through the five by ten-foot performing space, riffling his deck, and drags his eyes around the individuals in the crowd. A few young backpack-wearing travelers look on with wide and shining eyes to his left, some laughing adolescent boys hold up the center, and his right holds black wool trench coats and the brother leather briefcases dangling from tight fingers.
“Now, I need one more volunteer to complete this trick.”
Several hands reach for the sky. Thirty sets of vaguely interested eyes, mostly enthused tourists and a few New Yorkers waiting for the light to change, look to the floppy-haired magician in the center of the circle for his answer. He pretends to scan the crowd, adjusting the sleeves on his second-hand suit, and zeroes in on his chosen mark.
“You sir, with the very pretentious hat.” The tall and lean Armani suit turns around, phone still lodged in his ear, and raises his eyebrows in question. “I…I think you have something of Krista’s up your sleeve so if I can just check…”
The tall man steps back and adjusts his newsboy top. Curly brown hair spills out the sides and his phone drops mid-conversation. Narrow green eyes throw silent accusations and a thin mouth dips down into a palpable scowl.
“Get the fuck away from me you conniving little shit.”
The crowd boos. Daniel puts his hands up, quelling his captive audience, and casts a winning smile, eyes shining.
“Oh, my bad. Boundaries. Well, would you mind just checking for me, then?” He points awkwardly. “Just right there by your expensive watch…yea that’s it.”
The man shakes his sleeves as if dispelling an annoying insect and a single card flutters out. The wind from a passing cab catches it and sends it straight into the showman’s hand. He holds it up and looks to his beautiful assistant for confirmation.
“Krista, is this your card?”
She plucks it from his two first fingers and her lips expand into a glorious toothy smile. The joker rises above their heads and stares down upon newsboy hat and his murderous glare.
“Yes, it’s my card!”
There is spirited clapping followed by a few generous woos. The magician beams.
“I am J. Daniel Atlas and that was magic!”
The magician raises his arms in thanks and sends his deck billowing into the wind, creating a tornado of queens, kings, and jacks against the neon sky. It swirls above the traffic and collides with a billboard to make a fluttering pattern of white and red.
The crowd’s applause echoes. The tourists cheer and a handful of bills and some change lands in the old hat box. Daniel shakes a few hands, slips Krista her share of the tips, and watches as the group dissipates into the early morning hours, leaving him alone with his meager winnings and the pilfered grand prize resting in his jacket pocket.
The September chill hits hard without his audience as protection. Daniel pulls his suit jacket closed and smiles to himself, crouching to the ground to pack up his few possessions. It’s been a good night, better than most, and he can afford to sleep in an actual bed and maybe even grab breakfast at a diner in a booth where he can read in comfort and peace. He’s considering the memorized menu carefully when an abrupt yank on his jacket collar pulls him up to a standing position.
He’s dragged over to a darkened corner between two buildings. Half a second later he’s facing the newsboy hat and a fist collides with his left cheek. Pain spreads from his cheek to the rest of his face and his eye feels like it will jump out of his socket in protest. The same fist uses his bent-over surprise to cannonball his stomach and his shaky legs collapse. He hits concrete with a shudder and a foot presses down on his chest, holding him in place. An inhale burns his lungs and his undamaged eye opens to observe his angry curly-haired mark snickering.
“See, I’d think a real magician would know better than to choose another magician as his mark. Guess you’re just a con artist like all the rest.”
The sing-song response triggers his defiance.
“Fuck you.”
Daniel whispers the words between gasps and angrily swats with his hands. The man gives a squawking laugh.
“That’s cute. Shut up now and let old Dev have his wallet back.”
A hand grips Daniel’s hair, lifts, and slams his head against cement. The sky erupts in bright flashing lights. The foot moves, allowing his lungs to empty with a forceful cough and a metallic taste. Then a hand is in his coat, searching his pockets. He paws weakly at the wool sleeves, eyes blurry. An attempt to sit up causes the sky to spin. Persistent waves of dizziness send him back to his prone position.
He stills, blinking up at the man stealing his food money and the shadow that now hovers just above. There is a hand on Dev’s shoulder and another face next to his ear whispering something Daniel can’t make out over the ringing in his ears. Dev’s smug smirk drops, his lips hanging slightly open, and he slowly stands and moves out of his vision like a robot on a mission.
Daniel tenses. He needs to move before this shadow comes for him too. He swallows blood and tries again to push up on to his elbows. A gentler hand touches his chest and he’s being guided back down. This time there is a palm behind his head, cushioning his throbbing skull until it meets something softer than concrete. A set of lips serenade his left ear.
“Down you go to the ground and while you’re down the drowsiness will devour your desire to dart until the doctors decide you are sound of body and heart.”
The kinder hand brushes the hair from his forehead with an additional assurance.
“You’re safe with me, Daniel.”
Sleep grows at his edges and slowly takes over his body like a weighed blanket.
The last thing he sees before it all goes dark is a bald man in a fedora speaking into a cell phone.
The last thing he feels before he sleeps is that warm hand still resting protectively on his chest.