Iron Cast (8 page)

“No one except a wordsmith.”

“No one except an exceptionally skilled wordsmith,” Corinne said, skipping over an uneven patch of concrete. “Elephants aren't particularly subtle.”

“I still don't get it.”

“It's not that complicated. We pretended we were with a failing circus from Canada, selling off our attractions as we traveled south. The Franklin Park Zoo is managed by the city, and Turner was eager to make his mark as councilman. We offered to sell our elephants for an absurdly low cost—or I guess it was. I'm not entirely sure what
the market value for elephants is. Honestly, I didn't expect him to make such a public spectacle of the deal.”

Once the newspapers had been tipped off, Ada wanted to call it quits, but Corinne couldn't resist the challenge. If they could swindle the councilman on a bridge full of citizens and press, then they would be the talk of Boston for decades to come. Hemopaths had been running small cons in the city for as long as Corinne had been alive, but no one had ever pulled off anything like her version of the Bengali banker. The fact that the councilman was the chief proponent of the movement to illegalize hemopathy only made their success that much sweeter. She just wished she could have seen Ned Turner's face at the moment the elephants faded into nothing.

“I understand the con,” Gabriel said, with only the barest hint of irritation in his voice. “I just don't see how you tricked a Columbia graduate with twenty years of politics under his belt into thinking there was an elephant on the Harvard Bridge.”

“It was four elephants,” Corinne said. “And in my experience, the smartest person in the room is always the easiest one to fool.”

Gabriel shook his head. “Maybe if you catch them off guard. Maybe years ago before anyone knew what hemopaths could do. But as soon as I hear you start quoting Wordsworth or Keats, then I know that you're about to create an illusion. I know it's not real.”

“First of all, I would never waste breath on one of the Romantics. Second of all, are you really suggesting that I couldn't fool you, right here, right now?”

Corinne stopped walking and turned to face him.

“How could you, if I know you're about to do it?” Gabriel asked.

“Take off your hat,” Corinne said.

“What?”

“Let's find out if you're smarter than the councilman. Take off your hat.”

“I just said—”

“If it only works on the weak brained or the gullible, then you have nothing to worry about.”

Gabriel looked ready to protest further, but he removed his hat, holding it in both hands. There were a few people passing on the sidewalk, but they were all bundled in their coats, lost in their own business.

“Now, what are you holding?” Corinne asked.

With a pained expression, Gabriel tried to keep walking, but Corinne blocked him.

“I know we just met last night,” she said. “So here's the first thing you should know about me: I never back down from a challenge.”

“I didn't challenge you to anything.”

“Two minutes,” Corinne said. “That's all I need, I swear.”

Gabriel glanced around them at the passersby, who weren't paying them any mind. He sighed his consent.

“What are you holding?” Corinne asked.

“My hat.”

“ ‘ 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre—'”

“What the hell are—”

Corinne pressed her finger against his lips. He let out a startled breath, warm even through her glove. She forged ahead. Her left hand was in her pocket, gloved fingers wrapped around the brass timepiece. Its familiarity helped her find focus.

“ ‘Did gyre and gimble in the wabe. All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.' That ought to do it.”

Corinne stepped back and crossed her arms in satisfaction.

“Do what?”

“What are you holding?”

“My hat.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I—” Gabriel looked down and saw that he was holding a soft black rabbit.

He cried out and dropped it, stumbling back a few steps into a hunched old lady in a Sunday hat who whacked him across the back with her walking stick.

Corinne was laughing so hard, she gripped her stomach and doubled over. People were starting to stare now. Gabriel regained his dignity and approached the animal with the caution of a soldier approaching a land mine.

“It's not real,” he said, but it came out as more of a question.

“Touch it,” Corinne said. “It won't bite. Probably.”

Gabriel knelt down and prodded the fur hesitantly. The rabbit looked at him and twitched its nose.

“I find Carroll especially potent for animals,” Corinne said. “There are some wordsmiths who swear by Blake, but Carroll captures the
motion
best, I think.”

Gabriel shook his head, still prodding at the rabbit. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“I'm just proving that you have no idea what
you're
talking about, Mr. Stone. Now pick up your hat. You're causing a scene.”

Gabriel started to protest, but before he could make a sound, the rabbit had become his hat once again. He picked it up, carefully, and put it back on his head. He stood up, watching Corinne with a new look in his eyes. Fear with a smidgen of awe. Her favorite.

“Come on,” she said. “Ada will be waiting.”

Corinne tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and tugged him gently along. The brick and stone businesses of the financial
district dominated the cityscape, casting vast shadows across the lines of sleek black Oldsmobiles and low-riding roadsters in the street. As they got closer to the heart of the district, the car horns and sputtering exhaust fumes drowned out all memory of the Cast Iron's sleepy neighborhood.

“I don't get it,” Gabriel said after a few minutes, his hand drifting again to his hat. “I
knew
it was an illusion. How did it feel so real?”

“You've heard the phrase
mind over matter
?” she asked. “Well, that doesn't apply here. When I recite, I give you whatever image I want, but I don't have to convince you it's real. Your own imagination does it for me. It's a rare person who can overcome their own mind, and the better your brain works, the stronger the illusion.”

“Making the smartest person in the room the easiest one to fool.”

“Now you're on the trolley.”

Gabriel just shook his head.

“What?” Corinne looked up at him.

“It's bizarre. Poetry of all things.”

“Why not poetry? Makes perfect sense to me,” Corinne said. “When a reg quotes Lewis Carroll at you, what happens?”

“I think they're off their rocker.”

“You might imagine the gyring and gimbling of the slivy toves or the mimsy borogoves, and as the poem progresses you might start to feel the Jabberwock coming closer, picture the vorpal blade in the hero's hand.”

“I suppose.”

“When I quote Lewis Carroll at you, I can make you see so much more than that. I can make you see anything I want.”

His brow was wrinkled in concentration. Corinne imagined he probably tackled most problems in his life with that exact same expression.

“So Ada is a songsmith?” he asked.

“Probably the best in Boston. She's the only reason we can pull off any con.”

“Why's that?”

“I can make you see all the rabbits I want, but you said it yourself—I can't make you trust me.”

Gabriel's thoughtful frown deepened, but before he could formulate a question, they had reached their destination. Corinne led the way down a side street, away from the busiest thoroughfares. Ada was waiting for them in front of an empty storefront, buttoned into her navy blue coat and adjusting the satin lining in her cream-colored cloche. Her hair was styled into flat twists, protected against the dry winter. When she saw them, she replaced her hat and picked up her violin case from the sidewalk.

“How's your mother?” Corinne asked.

“Angry that I disappeared for two weeks,” Ada said. “She yelled at me for ten minutes in Swahili, then another five in Portuguese. It was a lovely visit.”

She cast Gabriel a curious glance.

“He's playing tourist,” Corinne said. “Johnny asked us to show him the ropes.”

“Well, have a seat,” Ada told him, pointing to a bench just across the street. “We don't have a lot of time. Corinne—the jeweler will be here any minute.”

“I'm ready. You're the one who hasn't tuned yet.”

“Wait,” Gabriel said as Ada knelt to open the case and retrieve her instrument. “Are you two pulling a job right now?”

“We have to hit him today,” Corinne said. “He only carries cash every second Friday.”

“You might have told me,” Gabriel said.

“What, did you think this getup was all for you, Mr. Stone?” Corinne twirled to show off the flounce of her dress under her coat.

Gabriel glanced briefly heavenward. “It never occurred to me to assume anything about your wardrobe, Miss Wells.”

Ada laughed and plucked at the strings of her violin.

“Could you drop a few coins in there?” she asked Gabriel, nodding toward the case at her feet. “I'm trying to look like a busker.”

Gabriel obliged, though he was still watching them both warily.

“There he is,” Corinne said, whirling to face them. “Gabriel, go sit down. For cripes' sake, you look about as inconspicuous as a smoking gun.”

Gabriel frowned at her, but Ada started playing, and he seemed to forget what he was going to say. He crossed the street and sat down on the bench. Corinne patted her hat down and then started to pace up and down the sidewalk. This street was emptier than most in the district, with only a few businesses and negligible traffic. Corinne had seen their mark turning the corner up ahead, his brimmed hat low over his ears, his chin tucked into his collar against the cold. There was no one else in sight. It was now or never.

“Help me out with a little tragedy, won't you?” she murmured to Ada. “I'm no thespian.”

Ada obligingly sailed through a few minor chords. Corinne felt the wave of sorrow almost instantly. She had no trouble summoning tears after that. Provided they were focused, hemopaths could generally remain unaffected by other hemopaths, but if they were caught off guard—or wanted to be—they were just as susceptible as regs.

By the time the man had reached them, Corinne's eyes were red and swollen. She paced more quickly, wringing her hands and making short, intermediate sobs. As the man tried to pass, she bumped into him and sprawled backward to the concrete.

“Sorry about that, miss,” the man said, tucking his newspaper under one arm and offering her a hand.

Corinne took it and immediately felt the iron of his ring, even through her glove. She jerked her hand away and made a show of dusting herself off. She hoped her weeping was enough to hide her wince.

“Oh,” she said, between gasps. “Oh, he's going to be so
angry
.”

The man watched her for a moment, hesitant. Ada changed her tune, very slightly, and his expression changed with it.

“Is there something the matter?” he asked Corinne. He was a short man in a fine black suit, gripping a brown leather briefcase in his left hand.

“Oh,” she said. “I don't want to trouble you, sir, only—only—I wonder if perhaps you could help me.”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, glancing past her down the street. Ada slowed her song to a leisurely pace, drawing out each note with ringing clarity. The man set down his briefcase.

“Perhaps I can,” he said to Corinne.

“I've lost a huge sum in a bet—nearly a year's worth of savings! My beau is going to be furious with me. The money was set aside for when we're married, and I promised him I wouldn't gamble anymore—only I thought for sure that this would pay out.”

“Gambling is a terrible vice for a young lady,” the man said.

Corinne started sobbing again. “I know,” she wailed. “If he finds out, he'll leave me. I know he will.”

The man was starting to look impatient again. “Miss, I'm sorry, but I don't see how I can help.”

“That's just it,” Corinne said. She grabbed his sleeve, careful to avoid the hand with the ring. “That's why I'm here. I've been in that pawn shop all morning trying to make the clerk see reason, but he
doesn't believe me. He thinks I'm a . . . a . . . woman of the night.” She spoke the last in an exaggerated whisper.

Ada sniggered and dropped a few notes but quickly righted herself.

The man scratched his head beneath his hat, revealing a receding hairline.

“I'm still not sure how I can help,” he said.

“Can I tell you something first?” Corinne asked, her voice softer.

The notes of Ada's violin wafted above and around them. The man's face was lax, and Corinne could see a familiar blurriness in his eyes. She had learned to recognize it a long time ago. Clear eyes were a warning sign—there were those rare few who weren't as receptive to Ada's gentle nudging.

Corinne's hand moved to his lapel, and she tugged him closer. She whispered in his ear for almost thirty seconds. When he stepped back, he blinked at her, expression even more dazed. She had opted for a few lines from a volume of poetry that Ada had given her a couple of years ago. Edna St. Vincent Millay hadn't gained much renown yet, but Corinne was betting on a Pulitzer by the time she turned forty.

“I'm not sure I catch your meaning, miss,” the man said, still blinking.

If Ada hadn't been churning out a healthy dose of trust mingled with confusion, he would no doubt have fled after the first couplet. Or garroted her with the thin iron chain she could see peeking out from beneath his collar. There was no truth in the belief that pure forged iron made the wearer immune to hemopathy, but it didn't stop regs from paying through the nose for it.