Page 19 of East

Aus in real life, on the other hand, is gorgeous.

He could be a statue in a museum. That’s how perfect he is.

Maybe I’ll reopen my tab, have another drink, sit at the bar sipping it slowly until Aus descends that hidden staircase from the block of jade.

Then I’ll bump into him. Tell him I was stood up, maybe even fake a tear or two.

Men eat that shit up. They love playing the hero to the maiden scorned.

It’ll reel him in. Then we’ll have a drink, maybe make plans for dinner sometime next week.

One problem with this plan, though. I don’t know how much longer Aus is going to be before he takes his break.

He has to take one at some point. There’s no way he’s working the booth until the club closes at three in the morning. But it could be an hour. I could put away three of Kin’s vodka sodas by then, and then I’ll be tripping over myself. I want to make a good second impression, and I don’t want Aus to think I’m a lush.

Besides, we had a good back and forth. I want my wits about me so I can twist anything he says into a clever double entendre.

I can hold my own with one more drink in me, so I flag Kin down. “Sorry, but I changed my mind. I’ll reopen my tab. Another vodka soda, please.”

“R-Right away, m-ma’am.” He grabs his tumbler with a shaky hand but then stops. “I’ll need your c-credit card again.”

“Of course. Sorry for the hassle.”

I’m about to reach into my purse to grab my card when a gravelly voice rumbles in my ear.

“It’s on me.”

8

AUS

Las Vegas. The city that never sleeps.

That makes two of us.

God, I’m so tired.

As I look in the foggy cracked mirror of my dressing room wearing the rented tux that’s two sizes too small, I wonder if it was all worth it for this.

I knew when I came to this town that I’d have to work hard. I knew it would take a lot of blood, sweat, and tears to establish a career in a profession like magic—even in Vegas—not to mention a lot of luck and good connections with important people.

Those last two factors have eluded me. I’ve certainly put in the work. Put together a tidy little magic show with all the greatest hits—sawing a lady in half, producing a bunny rabbit from a hat, making people disappear, the works. I’m proudest of my house act, which is the best draw I have right now.

I bring out a small collapsible tent, the type a child might have in their playroom, which I set up on a turntable. I invite a volunteer from the audience—an honest-to-God volunteer, not a plant who knows what they’re doing like a lot of the so-called greats depend on. The volunteer sits inside the tent and I zip the front up, obscuring them from view completely. I revolve the turntable to show there are no holes in the back of the tent, and a light from inside shows off the volunteer’s silhouette. I ask them to make various gestures, like a peace sign, and then I ask for suggestions from the audience. The most popular request is to flip the bird. Then the light flickers out and I return the turntable so the tent is facing forward. Without warning, a large set piece falls from the rafters—several pieces of plywood arranged into a cube with an angled roof that is painted to look like a cartoon house—which crushes the tent. The audience gasps in horror, and I act as if this is a terrible mistake, that a rope must have snapped. I try to lift the “house” off the tent, but it’s too heavy. I then knock on the door of the “house,” which opens to reveal the volunteer unharmed.

The trick is in the turntable. Classic misdirection. The tent has no bottom, so when I return the turntable to its original position, a trapdoor slowly unscrews within the turntable. It’s slow enough that the volunteer doesn’t feel it, and they don’t see the tent moving away from them because of the darkness. Once they’ve descended low enough into the safe space, a door closes over them to protect them from the falling house. The next part happens so quickly that people can’t make sense of it. All they know is that the tent has been crushed by a falling house. Once the house is down, the trapdoor reopens and the volunteer, alerted by the sound, stands up and looks around. They’re always in place by the time I knock on the door, and the crowd goes wild.

Well, they would go wild if I had more than a dozen people in the audience during my shows.

That’s the thing with Vegas. Everyone wants to go see David Copperfield, Penn and Teller, Lance Burton. The greats. No one is thinking “Gee, maybe I’ll support a working-class magician tonight.”

It costs a lot of money to rent the theater once every other week, and advertising eats up the rest of my budget. Plus I still need to eat and pay my rent, so I can only afford to do my show every other Friday night. During the day I work as a blackjack dealer at the Mister Joker casino off the Strip, and I also freelance as a DJ for bar mitzvahs and weddings on the weekends to make ends meet. I spend all my free time standing on Las Vegas Boulevard with showgirls handing out fliers for my show, hoping to grab some stragglers who can’t afford tickets to one of the “good shows” after dumping their life savings into a slot machine.

The house act is pretty damned good. To date, no one has guessed how I do it, and I’ll get some word-of-mouth patrons in my audiences if I’m lucky. Problem is, I perform my show so sporadically that people who get recommendations to see me have usually left by the time my next performance rolls around. And I can’t afford to do my show any more often than I already do.

Damned if I don’t, damned if I do.

That’s what this life is beginning to feel like. And there’s no end in sight.