Honest Illusions

  strip joint smoking a Camel. It was his kind of setting, the women with tired eyes bumping hips and twirling pasties, the smell of stale drunks and impersonal sex. He’d known Luke would follow him in.

  Luke had draped one arm over the back of his chair. He was forcing himself to relax, using every ounce of will to prevent those nasty flashbacks from sneaking into his mind. “What do you want?”

  “A drink, a little conversation.” Cobb let his eyes crawl over the cocktail waitress’s breasts and roam down to her crotch. “Bourbon, a double.”

  “Black Jack,” Luke told her, knowing his usual beer wouldn’t have the fire to purge.

  “A man’s drink.” Cobb grinned, showing tobacco-stained teeth. Years of hefting the bottle hadn’t been kind to him. Even in the dim light Luke could see the maze of broken capillaries in his face, those twisted red banners of the dedicated drunk. He’d put on too much weight around the middle so that his knit shirt stretched and strained over the girth.

  “I asked you what you wanted.”

  Cobb said nothing as their drinks were set down. He lifted his, took a deep swallow and watched the stage. An improbably built redhead was peeling away a French maid’s uniform. She was down to her G-string and a pair of feather dusters.

  “Je-sus, look at the tits on that bitch.” Cobb downed his drink and signaled for another. He grinned over at Luke. “What’s the matter, boy, don’t you like looking at boobs?”

  “What are you doing in New Orleans?”

  “Having me a little holiday.” Cobb licked his lips while the dancer bounced her abundant breasts and squeezed them together. “Figured since I was in the neighborhood, I’d look you up. Ain’t you going to ask about your mother?”

  Luke sipped carefully at the whiskey, letting the heat slide down into his gut and thaw frozen muscles. “No.”

  “That’s unnatural.” Cobb clucked his tongue. “She’s living in Portland now. We still get together from time to time. She started to charge for it, you know?” He gave Luke a lascivious wink, pleased when he saw the muscles in his jaw clench. “But old Maggie, she’s sentimental enough to give me a free pop when I come knocking. Want I should give her your best?”

  “I don’t want you to give her anything from me.”

  “You got a shitty attitude.” Cobb tossed back more bourbon while the music grew louder, more raucous. One of the men tried to climb onstage and was tossed out. “Always did. You’d stayed around a little longer, I’d have beaten some respect into you.”

  Luke leaned forward, eyes glittering. “Or you’d have turned me into a whore.”

  “You had a roof over your head, food in your belly.” Cobb shrugged and continued to drink. “I just expected you to pay for it.” It didn’t occur to him to be afraid of Luke. His memory was keen enough to recall how easily he’d cowed the boy with a few solid whacks of the belt. “But that’s behind us now, ain’t it? You’re a big fucking deal these days. Coulda knocked me over with a whiff of gin when I saw you on the TV.” He snorted into his bourbon. “Doing magic tricks for chrissake. Learned how to wave your magic wand, did you, Luke?” He roared with laughter at his own joke until tears sparkled in his eyes. “You and that old man got yourself a couple of prime pieces of ass out of it.”

  The laughter died into choking when Luke grabbed him by the collar. Their faces were close now, close enough for Luke to smell the whiskey on Cobb’s breath over the barroom stink of liquor and smoke. “What do you want?” he repeated, spacing each word.

  “You want to take me on, boy?” Always ready to brawl, he wrapped his meaty fingers around Luke’s wrists. He was surprised by the strength he found there, but never doubted his own superiority. “Want to go head-to-head with me?”

  He did, so badly his body shook with a need as basic as sex. But there was a part of him, buried deep, that was still a terrified little boy who remembered the snap of a leather belt, and the sear of it against tender flesh. “I don’t want to be in the same state with you.”

  “It’s a free country.” Because he was smart enough to know that a fight wouldn’t get him what he’d come for, Cobb jerked away and ordered another drink. “Problem with that is you got to pay for every damn thing. You’re making good money with your magic tricks.”

  “Is that what you want?” Luke would have laughed if disgust hadn’t blocked his throat. “You want me to give you money?”

  “Helped raise you, didn’t I? I’m the closest thing to a father you had.”

  Now he did laugh. There was enough fury in the sound to have the people nearby glance over warily. “Fuck off.” Before he could rise, Cobb took hold of his sleeve.

  “I can make trouble for you, and for that old man you’re tangled up with. All I got to do is make a couple of calls to some of them reporters. What do you think the TV producers would think once they read about you? Callahan—that’s what you call yourself now, ain’t it? Just plain Callahan. Escape artist and male prostitute.”

  “That’s a lie.” But he’d paled, and Cobb saw it. All those memories flooded back, the fat hands pawing, groping, the sweat and heavy breathing. “I didn’t let him touch me.”

  “You don’t know what happened after I kicked you senseless.” Cobb was pleased to see the bluff take root. He fed on the horror, the doubt, the revulsion in Luke’s eyes. “One way or the other, people’d wonder, wouldn’t they? People like that hot little number you were making time with a little while ago. You think she’d let you dip your wick once she found out you were blowing freaking fags when you were twelve?” He grinned, with hate in his eyes. “Don’t matter if it’s a lie or the God’s truth, boy, not once it’s in print.”

  “I’ll kill you.” Nausea weakened Luke’s voice and had sweat pearling on his forehead.

  “Be easier to pay me.” Confident he could run the show, Cobb took out another cigarette. “I don’t need much. Couple thousand to start.” He blew smoke in Luke’s direction. “Starting tomorrow. Then I’ll drop you a line now and then, telling you how much I want and where to send it. Otherwise . . . I go to the press. I’d have to tell them how you sold yourself to perverts, how you took off from your poor, grieving mother, how you got tangled up with that Nouvelle. Seems to me he broke a law or two taking in a runaway. Then again, it might sound like he had other uses for you. You know.” He smiled again, satisfied with the revulsion on Luke’s face. “I could make people wonder if he didn’t get for free what you sold to others.”

  “Keep Max out of it.”

  “Be glad to.” Cobb spread his hands in cooperation. “You bring me two thousand tomorrow night, right here. That’s a show of good faith. Then I’ll be on my way. You don’t show, I’ll just have to make me a call to the National Enquirer. I don’t guess all the little boys and girls, and their mommies and daddies, would have much use for a magician who had a taste for young meat? Nope.” He took another drag. “Can’t see you doing another performance for the Queen of England when you’re accused of buggery. That’s what those limeys call it. Buggery.” Cobb laughed again as he rose. “Tomorrow night. I’ll be waiting.”

  Luke sat where he was, fighting just to breathe. Lies, fucking lies. He could prove it, couldn’t he? His hand shook as he reached for his glass. No one would believe, could possibly believe that Max had . . .

  Sickened, he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.

  Cobb was right, once it was in print, once people started to question and whisper, it wouldn’t matter. The stain would be there, the shame and the horror.

  If he could stand it for himself, he couldn’t bear the thought of any of it touching Max or Lily. Or Roxanne. Sweet God, Roxanne. He squeezed his eyes shut as he downed the rest of his whiskey. He ordered another and settled down to get miserably drunk.

  She was waiting for him. Roxanne had gone inside and slipped into her room unnoticed. A long, hot bath had soothed most of the aches, and some of the frustrations. Then she’d settled herself on the balcony to wait.

&nbs
p; She saw him stumble through the drizzle and fog. Watched him weave and stop, and start again with the exaggerated care of a drunk. Her worry and confusion vanished in a white-hot rage.

  He had left her and her humming nerve ends standing in the rain, and had gone off to find a bottle. Or several bottles by the look of him. Roxanne stood, jerked the robe of her belt tight—like a soldier gearing for battle, then rushed down to intercept Luke in the courtyard.

  “You imbecile.”

  He teetered back, tried to maintain balance on the suddenly slanting bricks and grinned stupidly. “Babe, whatcha doing out in the rain? Catch cold.” He took a staggering step forward. “Christ you look pretty, Roxy. Drives me nuts.”

  “Obviously.” It didn’t seem like much of a compliment when the words were slurred almost beyond recognition. She reached out to grab his arm in reflex when he swayed. “I hope you pay for this in the morning.”

  “T’morrow night,” he muttered while his head went round and round on his shoulders. “Gotta pay tomorrow night.”

  “You should live so long.” She sighed, but took his weight, draping one of his arms over her shoulders. “Come on, Callahan, let’s see if we can get a drunk Irishman to bed without waking up the house.”

  “My great-grandfather came from county Sligo. The old lady told me that once. Did I mention it?”

  “No.” She grunted a bit with the effort of dragging him toward the side door.

  “Supposed to have a voice like an angel. Sang in the pubs, you know.” Rain washed over his face, cool and sweet, when his head fell back. “Sumbitch was never my father. Nothing of him inside me.”

  “No, there’s just a gallon of whiskey inside you from the way you stink.”

  He grinned and bumped heavily against the door before she could open it. “Sorry. You smell good, Rox. Like rain on wildflowers.”

  “Ah, the Irish poet.” And her face flushed as she braced Luke upright with one hand and pushed the door open with the other.

  “I’m just as glad you don’t have tits like that broad tonight. I don’t think I’d like it.”

  “What broad?” Roxanne demanded in a stage whisper before she hissed out a breath. “Never mind.”

  “I don’t get much of a thrill watching some babe strip when there’s a couple dozen guys in the room. One-on-one’s more my style, you know?”

  “Fascinating.” She didn’t feel the least remorse when she turned and rammed him into the kitchen counter. “Leaves me in the rain and runs off to a strip joint. You’re a prince, Callahan.”

  “I’m a bastard,” he said with drunken cheer. “Born that way, die that way.” He reeled around as she tried to steer him toward the back stairs. “Maybe I should just kill him. Cleaner that way.”

  “No, you promised me you’d just talk to him.”

  Luke ran a hand over his face to make sure it was still there. “Talk to who?”

  “Gerald.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He tripped on the first step, and though he went down hard, he didn’t seem to notice. To Roxanne’s dismay he simply stretched out on the staircase and prepared to go to sleep. “It’s scary, so fucking scary when he comes at you that way. And you know you might not be able to stop it. Grabbing you, slobbering on you. Oh, Christ . . .” His voice died to a bleary whisper. “Don’t want to think about it.”

  “Then don’t. Think about getting upstairs.”

  “Gotta lie down,” he muttered, all irritation when she pulled and tugged at him. “Let me alone.”

  “You’re not going to pass out here, like the drunken jerk you are. Lily’ll worry sick over you if she finds you here.”

  “Lily.” He sighed, crawling up the steps at Roxanne’s prodding. “First woman I ever loved. She’s the best. Nobody’s ever going to hurt Lily.”

  “Of course not. Come on, just a little farther.” Her struggles had her robe spreading open. From his vantage point, Luke had an excellent and disturbing view of smooth, white thigh. Even the whiskey couldn’t stop his blood from heating. “Going to hell,” he said on a groaning laugh as Roxanne shushed him. “Straight to hell. Christ, I wish you’d wear something under your robe once in a while. Let me just—” But as he reached out to touch, just to touch that smooth white skin, he landed with a heap on the top landing.

  “On your feet, Callahan,” Roxanne hissed in his ear. “You’re not going to wake up Max and Lily.”

  “Okay, okay.” He tried to swallow, but his spit tasted like poison. He made it to his knees on his own, then did his best to stand upright when Roxanne dragged him to his feet. “Am I going to be sick?” he asked as nausea curled in his belly.

  “I hope so,” she said between her teeth as she half carried, half dragged him to his bedroom. “I sincerely hope so.”

  “Hate that. Makes me feel like that time Mouse gave me my first cigarette. Not getting drunk anymore, Rox.”

  “Right. Here we—Shit.”

  He pitched toward the bed. Though she was quick, she wasn’t quite quick enough to avoid going down with him. He landed on her with enough force to steal her breath.

  “Get off me, Callahan.”

  His answer was an unintelligible mutter. Because his breath reeked of Jack Daniel’s, she turned her head away. His lips nuzzled sleepily at her throat.

  “Cut it out. Oh . . . damn.” The curse ended on a muffled groan. Pleasure, heavy and dark, crept into her when he cupped a hand over her breast. He didn’t grope, didn’t squeeze, he simply possessed.

  “Soft,” he murmured. “Soft Roxanne.” His fingers caressed over the thin silk, lazily, absently while his lips rubbed flesh.

  “Luke. Kiss me.” Her body was already floating as she tried to turn her mouth to his. “Kiss me like you did before.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” He gave a long, windy sigh, and passed out.

  “Luke.” She shook his shoulders. It couldn’t be, she told herself, not twice in one night. But when she took a handful of his hair to pull his head back, she saw that he was out cold. Grinding her teeth and swearing under her breath, she shoved his inert body aside.

  She left him sprawled crossways on the bed, fully dressed, and went off to try the time-honored remedy of a cold shower.

  14

  He nearly killed himself. Between a vicious hangover and a precarious emotional state, Luke found his timing and his equilibrium were off. He knew better. There were rules, hard and fast rules governing the art of escapology. They quite simply fashioned the border between life and death.

  But the choice of playing by the rules and ignoring pride left little room for maneuvering. Luke went forward with the escape segment of the first show, allowing himself to be straitjacketed, shackled and leg-ironed before folding himself into an iron chest center stage.

  It was hot, black and all but airless inside. Like a tomb, like a vault. Like a closet. As always, he felt that initial bolt of panic. Being trapped.

  No way out, boy, Cobb’s voice chortled inside Luke’s head. No way out until I let you out. And don’t you forget it.

  That old, helpless fear swept into him, grinning masked bandits hunched in the shadows ready to ambush control. He took slow, shallow breaths to beat the nerves back as he worked on freeing his hands.

  He could get out. He’d proven time and time again that no one would keep him locked up ever again. Focusing, focusing, he turned the next corner.

  Cobb was waiting for him.

  I got the key, you little bastard, and you’ll stay right where I put you. It’s time you remember who’s boss around here.

  The image of the closet came back, the small boy sobbing, beating his bound hands raw against the door. Luke’s breath hitched as his heart knocked fitfully against his ribs, echoing in his spinning head. The lingering nausea churned in his stomach like a sea of acid. Fear came back, skittering like tiny insects along his sweaty skin.

  He hissed with pain as the irons bit into his wrists. For one blind moment, he fought them like a desperate man fighting his shackles
on his way to the gallows. And he smelled the coppery scent of his own blood.

  Breathing too fast, he told himself, unnerved by the helpless, whooshing sound of his own lungs struggling for oxygen. Calm down, damn it, calm down.

  He twisted his body, the familiar and expected twinge as he manipulated his joints helped. His shoulder shifted into an impossible position, allowing him to slither and slide in the straitjacket.

  The pounding at his temples had him cursing Jack Daniel’s. He was forced to stop again, to gather enough composure to float by the pain.

  He was light-headed, a sensation that reminded him too vividly of his condition the night before—and Roxanne. The flashes came, even when he fought to hold them back and concentrate on freeing his arms. Her skin, that soft white skin and his hands moving over it. Her body, curved and yielding under his.

  Oh God, Jesus God, had he seduced her, had he used his own turmoil and drink as an excuse to act on the fantasy that had been plaguing him for years?

  The sweat was running off Luke in thin hot rivers. He’d lost track of the time, a huge mistake. If he’d had the breath left he would have cursed himself. By the time he was free of the straitjacket, his tortured muscles and joints were screaming. He