Page 4 of New Orleans Rush

She lifted her car keys from her purse.

I honestly think you’re a fungus beetle.

Fisting the keys, her mind drifted to her father. To the feeble shrug of Franklyn Baker’s shoulders when he’d admitted to gambling away her life savings, and how she’d caught nothing but a mouthful of flies in reaction. Her wicked grin faded. Her keys bit into her palm.

I am no man’s doormat.

2

Huxley Marlow was used to being the center of attention. He’d spent the majority of his teen and adult years on stage. He had no qualms walking around in a top hat and costume, but it wasn’t often a sexy redhead asked to nuzzle his velvet cape. Most women giggled and gawked, understandably. Some even winced when they noticed his scars. This woman wore the brightest pink pants he’d ever seen, her turquoise polka dot top had his lips curving into a smile, and her imaginative cape story had him struggling not to laugh.

Him. Laugh. A guy who spent most of his days scowling.

Then there was her colon rectum comment.

Before he could ask her to explain her odd animal insult, or why she was alone with a hint of sadness behind her playful quips, his beady-eyed archnemesis dragged him away.

The Great Otis Oliphant narrowed his gaze at Huxley. The curled ends of his mustache twitched. “You cheated.”

“Of course I cheated.”

“Your skills are uncultured. Nothing but a bag of cheap tricks.”

Huxley offered a condescending smirk. “Who’s walking out of here with a stack of twenties and a new gold Rolex?”

Oliphant ran his thumbs under his suspenders, his evil glower locked on Huxley’s wrist. The heavy Rolex hung loosely. Oliphant glared harder. “Your execution is sloppy.”

Huxley tipped up his hat. “Call my handwork sloppy again, and I won’t give you the chance to win back your cash and save your pride.”

“That’s against the rules.”

It was. Huxley knew it. He also knew his comment would get under Oliphant’s twitchy mustache.

Three rules governed Club Crimson’s weekly underground poker games.

Rule One: Only skilled magicians were permitted.

Rule Two: The winner always gave his or her competitors a rematch.

Rule Three: Sleight of hand was not only allowed, it was encouraged.

If you could count cards, false shuffle a deck, or exploit other handwork skills to win, you deserved to rule the poker table. You also gained bragging rights as king or queen of the New Orleans magic scene. Huxley’s winning streak was the stuff of legends.

And so went their usual post-poker chit-chat, with Oliphant lamenting his losses, shit talking like the little brat he was. He may have been ten years older than Huxley’s thirty-five, but the man was a snotty former street urchin, whose mustache was larger than his IQ. Huxley had even caught the man picking pockets at the bar, preying on drunk patrons. If the owner, Vito, knew Oliphant was jeopardizing his livelihood, Oliphant’s suspenders would be the only part of him left.

Huxley glanced over his shoulder. Beatrice Baker was gone, and disappointment sunk into his chest. Instead of chatting with an alluring woman, he’d gotten stuck with Otis Oliphant. Annoyed, he made a show of checking his new Rolex. “As exciting as these conversations are, I need my beauty rest. See you next week?”

Oliphant grumbled under his cigar-tinged breath and shoved past Huxley. He’d take that as the yes he needed. The burst pipe that had flooded his theater boiler room this morning was just another addition to his ever-growing Fix-It List, right below tending to the warped ceiling, patching the crumbling plaster, and avoiding electrocution from the sparking spotlights. At this rate, it would take five years of poker games to repair the dilapidated building.

Rubbing his eyes, Huxley pictured his father scowling down on him with regret, wondering why he’d entrusted The Marvelous Max Marlow legacy to his eldest son.

His father couldn’t have been clearer about the items bequeathed to Huxley in his will. The theater, where he and his four brothers had grown up learning magic and watching their father mesmerize crowds, would thrive under Huxley’s caretaking. The 1977 midnight blue Mustang Cobra, with the white pinstripes down the hood, would be his to keep pristine. Max Marlow had passed his prized velvet cape to his eldest son, with the message: Be magical. He’d also left him a small puzzle box.

The attached note had read: If you can open it, the world will be your oyster.

Max Marlow died nine years ago. For those nine years, Huxley had tried every trick imaginable to open that damn box. Needless to say, the world had not yet become his oyster.

The box tormented him with endless frustration, but it was the aging theater that ate at him most. The Marvelous Marlow Boys were supposed to honor their father with a successful dynasty and extravagant shows. Instead his two youngest brothers had disappeared without a trace, leaving the remaining three to perform in front of half-filled rooms, while the building sagged under the weight of Huxley’s self-reproach.