RETROGRESSION: the magician & the thief

“You all saw the card he chose?”

Shaw secretly exchanged one deck of cards for another as he tugged at the sleeves of his jacket, readjusting until he was comfortable again — the thin flannel was too warm in the Summer sun, even with the wind blowing through it, but he didn’t have the courage to take it off, not in front of so many strangers. Both card decks had the same plain back design, except that in the one he held now, taken from his left back pocket in secret, all of the card suits were black, including the Hearts and Diamonds. The deck in his right pocket, the one the man had chosen from minutes ago: all red. It had taken months to save up for both of them, and months after that before he had learned to perform with them. Even then, switching the decks without anyone calling him on it was a trying task, and he’d played fifty-two pick up several times while learning to do so in one fluid motion.

He shuffled the black deck now, fanned it out suits down in his hands, and pointed it — one by one — at the crowd that had formed a semi-circle around him. Everyone nodded and hummed their acknowledgements, waiting.

“Okay, well, let’s see if I can’t make it stand out a bit more, yeah?”

As he said it, Shaw looked at the group, and then just past them. It was late afternoon, and teenagers were beginning to flood into the park. Most of them were younger than him (he figured), carrying backpacks full of homework and books — not clothes, not their entire lives in one bag. They sifted through adults that were either just getting off from work, or taking late lunch breaks. All these people, all going somewhere.

Some of them, stopping to watch him. This group, right here, still waiting.

And the boy, hanging back a few steps from everyone else, where he had been standing longer than all the other teenagers. Shaw didn’t recognize him, but he felt like he wanted to.

He was well put-together, wearing the wrinkles of a three-days-worn suit with an ease and comfort Shaw had only ever seen Max pull off before. It looked like, at one point, it had been a near-tailored fit for him, but he was now a bit too tall and a bit too thin for it to compliment his build. He wasn’t wearing a tie, but Shaw could picture one knotted delicately around his throat, maybe wider than the long, skinny ones he always saw on Max.

His hair, dark brown and straight, wasn’t the first thing worth noticing, but it fell into his eyes and so Shaw had to take in his other features first. He had a dominant nose, with a sharper slope than Shaw’s, and his jawline was strong where Shaw’s was soft and rounded. He had full lips and — even unsmiling as he was now — the hint of a single dimple, high on his left cheek, that left Shaw wanting to see him grin or laugh. He looked older than he probably was; looked closer to Shaw’s nineteen, but didn’t quite carry himself the same way. 

Shaw tried to catch his eye, but couldn’t — tried for so long, in fact, that he almost missed the other half of the deck when he shuffled it again. He recovered quickly, jamming the cards together and thankful that he hadn’t been counting them for the trick. Pride and anxiety itched across his skin, down the backs of his arms and into his palms. He flourished the cards a few times, making sure that no one saw the suits. It had to look like he was putting some effort in. It had to look like he hadn’t simply slipped the card of one deck in amongst another.

“Alright,” he said, half-apologizing but smiling. He hesitated turning the deck over, knowing there was every chance that he had forgotten which deck he had been keeping in which pocket. Knowing that there was a definite possibility that when he fanned the cards out, every last one of them would still be a bright, ruby red.

Knowing, that if that happened and he flinched and frowned and the dead skin on his arms and collar crawled, everyone was just going to think it was part of the trick. The problem was that he wouldn’t be able to give them the payoff they would have wanted, after that. He didn’t know, after all, which card the man had actually chosen. The Seven of Hearts, if he had pandered properly.

He held his arm out, palm up, and pressed the full deck into the crook of his elbow. With effortless skill, he spread the cards along his forearm, down to his wrist.

The Seven of Hearts was a spotlight, a third of the way through the row of all-black suits, nestled between the King of Spades and a black Two of Diamonds. Shaw’s smile was as breakneck fast as the second it took for him to lift his head and watch the reactions of the crowd.

The only face he saw was the boy’s. Instead of watching Shaw, now he was watching the group. A curve in his lips made the dimple appear, and Shaw told himself not to forget it. He ignored the praise he was being given, he ignored the cash being dropped at his feet. He could only watch the determination on the boy’s face. Knew it.

Knew the way he suddenly stepped in closer, knew the linger of his whole body, knew the lean the grace and the speed with which he stepped back again and then turned on his heels to walk away.

Shaw was flattered.

Shaw was offended.

He was curious. Interested.

Concerned, was more like it.

“Same time next week,” he joked in a mumble, rushing to put his cards away and pocket all of the spare change at his feet. It only took one held breath to catch up to the boy, and he fell quietly into step with him.

They hadn’t crossed half the park when the boy’s posture began to change. His back straightened, but his chin ducked down. Even through the crowds, he knew he was being followed. It was a skill — something that had come from painstaking attention to detail, and practice. Quite a bit of practice. He dug his hands deep into his pockets, and quickened his pace as he wove his way around people, trees, and lamp posts. His confidence returned as he came to a stop at the street corner.

Shaw stepped up beside him.

The boy looked over, and that confidence faded into panic. They may have been the same height, but Shaw hunched forward a bit, tilting his head so that he was looking up at the other boy. It was almost a submissive gesture, innocent and nonthreatening, and he coupled it with a smile and the softest push of his eyebrows.

“I saw that,” he whispered, voice melodic.

The boy considered two options: give in to the panic and run, or play naïve and see if he could get himself out of and away from the situation. He chose the latter. Without making the slightest sound, he questioned Shaw with little more than the squinting of his eyes and the lift of one brow.

Shaw swayed, and it was almost an illusion that he stepped closer at all. He glanced around, then licked the impressed smirk from his bottom lip and replaced it with something that mocked true disappointment. There was no one within earshot, but he kept his voice low with sarcastic accusation.

“You stole that woman’s wallet.” 

The only acknowledgement Shaw received was a passive shake of the boy’s head. He smiled, then, and shook his head as well, lips pursed to chastise. That this boy hadn’t said a word yet was startling, in a way; that he hadn’t made a sound was something Shaw only noticed, then. He put the thought aside, shrugged gently, and then lifted his hand towards the other.

“Could you hold this a sec?”

Shaw didn’t wait for a proffered hand, instead setting the deck of (all red) cards into the boy’s grasp. He held a finger up for a pause — not that he had been interrupted, not that this boy could interrupt him if he wanted to, apparently.

“There’s something I need to…” he muttered, tone dipping into the playful friendliness that he typically put aside for his performance patter. The boy, confused, held tight to the deck of cards. Shaw reached into his back pocket, took more time than he needed for effect, then stood straight and smiled.

“Thanks,” he said quickly, and exchanged the wallet in his hand for the cards in the other’s.

When the recognition hit, the boy’s jaw nearly dropped. He stared down at the wallet with disbelief for another second, then took a moment to frantically pat at his pockets. When he, indeed, found them empty, his brows furrowed in bewilderment. The magician was good. Too good. It almost made the thief jealous. Vaguely resentful for being upstaged, he slipped the wallet into his front pocket this time, his hand lingering for a few seconds as he cautiously looked Shaw over.

Again, Shaw shrugged, and again, Shaw smiled, and again, Shaw was interested — but concerned. 

Because now, the woman the wallet belonged to was pointing to them from halfway across the park, and he knew he should have expected it, running after the thief the way he had. A con gone wrong. Max would have been so disappointed.

“C’mon,” Shaw whispered, and pinched at the sleeve of the boy’s jacket, just above his elbow. He tugged, once, hard enough that when he turned to run, the thief had no choice but to break into a sprint with him.

So much for trying not to panic.

They quickly put distance between themselves and the impending trouble. Two blocks later, when Shaw saw a familiar alley, he turned into it, dragging the boy along with him. They didn’t stop until they were almost at the other end, safely hidden by old boxes and debris. Shaw slumped against the wall, resting most of his weight on one leg so that he could massage an ache from his knee. He watched the thief lean on the opposite wall; his jaw was tense as he swallowed large gulps of air. He hissed for a breath at one point, and Shaw spotted the dimple again.

Shaw wanted to know this boy.

“So, what’s your story?”

And then, realizing that if he hadn’t said a word yet, he wasn’t going to say one now, Shaw thought of something a little easier to answer.

“How long?”

The question was an unexpected one — so unexpected that the thief nearly gave himself whiplash when he looked across the alley. He took a moment for himself, catching the last of his breath as he wondered just who this other boy was. More importantly, he wondered how much he could trust him. While it was Shaw’s fault that they’d almost been caught, he also could have left the thief in the park to fend for himself, and he hadn’t, and for that, he was grateful. It was because of that gratitude that he held up his index finger in answer.

Shaw squinted.

“A month?”

The boy shook his head and pressed his palms together for a moment, then pulled them apart, stopping at the equal width of his shoulders. Shaw took in a secret breath, long and deep and enough that it hurt down to the pit of his stomach. He pushed off from the wall, back straight as he pulled his hands through his hair and rubbed at the back of his neck.

“A year?”

Sadly, Shaw didn’t sound surprised. More empathetic, than anything. He had been lucky, he knew, or else he’d have ended up in the same position. He couldn’t remember the handful of days he had spent on his own, but he knew he didn’t want to. He also knew, for a fact, that he didn’t recognize this boy before him at all, and even though that wasn’t really saying something, it said everything, too.

“Where have you been staying?”

He watched the thief lick his lips, and watched the dimple appear one more time as he took in a breath and screwed up his nose. He sighed, quietly, and it was the most Shaw had heard from him since he had been standing in that crowd. His answer, then, was little more than a disheartened shrug.

And Shaw, no longer concerned, smiled.

“Can you keep a secret?”