Page 53 of Slow Burn

“Two fingers,” she instructed, and moved Velvet’s hand slightly. “Relax. Relax. There.”

Velvet jerked the wallet triumphantly out of her pocket, whooped, and tossed it in the air. Robby caught it deftly and slipped it back in her jacket.

“That was terrible. Remember what I told you. Two fingers, move with your mark, let his momentum take the wallet. If you jerk it like that, he’ll know the second you have it. Try again.”

Velvet, face tight with concentration, slipped two fingers into the pocket and snagged the wallet. When she had it halfway out, Robby took a step forward, and Velvet lost her grip. The wallet flopped on the carpet, spilling credit cards.

“Shit!” Velvet kicked the wallet into a skid across the hardwood floor, sent credit cards skittering. “You moved! No fair!”

“That should make an impressive defense in court.” Robby bent and scooped up a Gold American Express, a Visa, a Discover. None of them had her names. She retrieved the wallet and slotted them back in place. “Do you want to stop now?”

“No. I just want to do it right, just once.”

“In a day?” Robby shrugged and handed her the wallet. “Here. Put it somewhere.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere.”

Velvet grinned and stuffed it in the inside pocket of the blazer she wore—Robby’s, of course, a muted green that was the brightest of her wardrobe. Robby considered for a second, examining the fit of the coat, and reached out to straighten the lapels. She pursed her lips, cocked her head, smiled, and walked away.

“Hey! Aren’t you even gonna try?”

For an answer, Robby held up the wallet. She looked over her shoulder to see Velvet slap at the pocket, lips parted.

“You are totally great,” Velvet said, and grinned. “Can you teach me to do that?”

“In a day? No.” Robby pocketed the wallet, outside pocket, and came back to face her. “Try again.”

“So how long have you been practicing?” Velvet bit her lip as she reached in the pocket, eased the leather out. Not bad, considering. Robby let it pass.

“I began when I was six. At fifteen I apprenticed to a magician named Alex the Magnificent; he taught me true sleight of hand. The rest of it came from my father. Try again. This time, do it faster.”

Velvet had clever fingers—not God-given instinct, perhaps, but she was trainable. Robby stood patiently while she practiced. She’d learned on a threadbare sewing dummy, bought from a second-hand shop, draped with ragged coats and unraveling suits. Da hadn’t tolerated clumsiness, not from someone who so clearly had the gift. Funny, how she could remember the smell of that room, the close musty scent of old clothes, dried sweat, old whisky. Tweed had felt so rough on her young fingers, leather so smooth. He’d watched her while he drank, nodding approval, slamming her against the wall with a casual slap when she faltered.

For all that, what she most remembered about him was how warm he’d felt when she’d clung to him that last day. Fever-warm, in the chill of the trainyard. As if, somehow, he’d known it was the last time.

“How’s that?” Velvet crowed, and held up the wallet. Robby blinked.

“Good. Very good. Now do it left-handed.”

“Left-handed?” Velvet’s grin collapsed. “What do you mean, left-handed?”

She was spared by the jingle of the doorbell. Robby checked the peephole.

Sol, dressed in unseasonable off-white. As she watched, he smoothed his hair back and checked the shine on his fingertips, frowned, and punched the doorbell again.

“So who is it?” Velvet asked. She clutched the wallet like a life preserver, and her eyes were wide and tragic and ready for betrayal. “That guy? It’s the suit, isn’t it, the one from the warehouse?”

And for a second, Robby thought about opening the door and pointing to her and saying to Sol,there she is, go on, leave me out of it.Jim would have, without a second thought.

She could see from Velvet’s eyes that she expected it.

“It’s Sol. Go in the bedroom, lock the door, stay there. Don’t make a sound.” Velvet fled without argument. Robby waited until she heard the click of the bedroom door, then began unlocking deadbolts.

Sol’s smile looked worn razor-thin by the time she swung the door open for him. When she stepped aside, he sauntered in and looked around like a landlord.

“Nice,” he said, and shrugged off his coat to hand it to her. “Hang it up. I don’t like wrinkles.”

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