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You can’t con an honest man. Only the greedy or the desperate are willing to put aside their reservations to get something they don’t deserve. I’ve heard lots of people—my dad included—use that to justify grifting.
“Cut me in on the money,” I say to Anton. “If I’m earning it, I decide how to spend it.”
“Done,” Anton says.
“I told my roommate Sam that I was a worker. But when I did, I thought it was a lie.”
Anton lets out a long breath. “That’s it?” He starts to laugh.
Barron joins in. Soon we’re laughing like I told the best joke anyone ever heard.
A joke they’re greedy and desperate enough to believe.
“Good, good,” Anton says. “Put on a nice suit, okay? This isn’t some school dance we’re going to.”
I limp to my closet. Leaning down, I sort through my rucksack as if for something appropriate. Pushing aside my uniform and a few pairs of jeans, I find a dress shirt and straighten up.
“So Philip had an idea and you went along with it? That doesn’t sound like you,” I say, walking awkwardly back to the doorway. Something catches my foot accidentally-on-purpose and I fake-stumble into Barron. My fingers are quick and nimble. “Whoa, sorry.”
“Careful,” he says.
I lean against the door frame and then yawn, covering my mouth with my hand. “Come on. Tell me why you really didn’t say anything.”
A weird half smile grows on Barron’s face. “It’s so unfair. You, of all people, get the holy grail of curse work. And me stuck with changing memories like I’m some kind of cleanup crew. Sure, it’s useful when you want to make some mundane thing easier. I could cheat at school or I could keep someone from remembering what I did to them, but what does that mean? Not much. Do you know how many transformation workers are even born in the world in a given decade? Maybe one. Maybe. You were born with real power and you didn’t even appreciate it.”
“I didn’t know it,” I say.
“It’s wasted on you,” he says, placing his ungloved hand on my shoulder. The hair on the back of my neck rises.
I try to react like I haven’t palmed the last unbroken stone charm he cut out of me and then swallowed it. Maybe transformation work is wasted on me, but sleight of hand isn’t.
* * *
I end up taking one of Dad’s old suits out of my parents’ room. Mom, predictably, didn’t throw out any of Dad’s belongings, so all the suits still hang in the back of his closet, slightly out of date and smelling of mothballs, as though they’re waiting for him to return from a long vacation. A double-breasted jacket fits me surprisingly well, and when I stick my hands in the pockets of the pin-striped pants, I find a crumpled tissue that still smells like his cologne.
I make a fist around it as I follow Anton and my brother out to Anton’s Mercedes.
In the car Anton smokes cigarette after nervous cigarette, watching me in the rearview mirror. “You remember what you’re supposed to do?” he asks as we head into the tunnel to Manhattan.
“Yeah,” I say.
“You’re going to be okay. After this, if you want, we’ll cut you a necklace. Barron, too.”
“Yeah,” I say again. In Dad’s suit I feel strangely dangerous.
The brass front door of Koshchey’s is wide open when we pull up in front, and there are two enormous men in sunglasses and long wool coats checking a list. A woman in a glittering gold dress pouts on the arm of a white-haired man as they wait behind a trio of men smoking cigars. Two valets come and open the doors of the Mercedes. One of them looks about my age, and I grin at him, but he doesn’t smile back.
We’re waved right through. No list for us. Just a quick check for guns.
The inside is packed with people. Lots of them crowding the bar, passing drinks back for people to carry to tables. A bunch of young guys are pouring shots of vodka.
“To Zacharov!” one toasts.
“To open hearts and open bars!” calls another.
“And open legs,” says Anton.
“Anton!” A slim young man leans over with a grin, holding out a shot glass. “You’re late. Better catch up.”
