EPILOGUE

The uniform was dark, royal blue. The brass buttons down the front gleamed if you kept them polished, which he did. So did the star. The fabric, though, was almost too heavy for the humid summer nights. It made him sweat in the armpits and also down his back. Even so, Flip liked the uniform because it made him look wide and substantial in the shoulders. It was not quite a leather jacket, but it would do.

A Friday night in summer. Still early. Glorious weather, and the sun not yet set. Flip walked alone. Despite the clear sky and pleasant breeze, the street felt more than a little off. Wrong. Subdued. Like when they hold the parade even though the president or the Pope has just died. You still go through the motions, yeah, but nobody’s really feeling it.

The other men—and a few women—who walked past Flip seemed furtive. Hunted. They kept their eyes low and their hat brims lower. They looked straight ahead, giving no indication they intended to duck into a storefront or head down a dark alley, until the very last moment when they did.

South State Street felt like a one-industry town where the mill has just closed. Only just. People want to pretend that it’s going to be fine. Just a small setback. But you can see it in their faces. They know. Inside? They know.

The Palmerton came into view, and here, Flip saw a welcome sight. A familiar figure, furtively taking in the air on the front porch.

He made a beeline.

When he got close enough to be noticed, Sally turned her head and ducked back through the doorway. There she paused, examining the approaching policeman more carefully. After a moment’s hesitation, she crept back outside.

“Shit,” she said as Flip walked up. “I’m still getting used to you in that thing.”

“So am I,” Flip said, running a finger around his collar.

It had been weeks since he had seen her last, but ages since they had really talked.

“How the twins?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

“About to turn four,” Sally said. “Can you believe it?”

“Four already?” Flip said politely. “How the time does fly.”

The look in Sally’s eyes told him her mind was far away. It hardly taxed Flip’s skills of deduction to know she was thinking about what the future might hold for her young ones.

Flip glanced through the front window of the Palmerton. There were customers, but not as many as there should have been. And those there were seemed cautious and reserved. The funereal mood held here too. Visitors had the sense it would be gauche to celebrate anything too heartily.

“There’s ways around it,” Sally said glumly. “That’s what we’re all finding. You can’t sell booze on the open anymore, but it’s not illegal to drink what you already had in your house. So we’re thinking: What if my place was a private club, which is practically a house in the eyes of the law? And lord knows we got a stockpile in the basement. I ain’t a fool. I knew this was coming.”

Flip nodded. If anyone had sensed the shifting winds, it had surely been Sally.

“And I’ve partnered up with some people,” she said, brightening a bit. “There are organizations that specialize in operating under this kind of situation. Did you know that? I aim to work with the best of them.”

Flip leaned against the railing of the Palmerton’s front porch.

“I’ve heard about those organizations,” he told her. “We known each other too long for me ever to tell you to be careful. But, Sally? Do me a favor and be careful just the same. These folks moving in. They give me a feeling.”

Sally smiled.

“You mean a feeling like making hooch illegal ain’t gonna get rid of all crime forever? That feeling you used to talk about?”

“That . . .and some others too,” Flip said.

“Anyhow,” Sally continued, “they’re not so bad. They know how to handle things. And that one over there’s even kind of sweet.”

Sally gestured to the entryway of the Palmerton. Her new partners had installed a pair of their own as doormen. They were meaty Italians who bulged in their suits. Sally waved to one—indicating he should join her and the police sergeant.

The man could not have been much more than twenty, but his face already seemed to hold a lifetime of experience. He had an unpleasant nose, ugly fish lips, and deep scars that ran all across one cheek. Flip immediately recognized these as what happened when somebody tried to slit your throat, but you lowered your chin just in time.

“Alphonse is one of their best,” Sally said. “Helps with hospitality and security both. Does top notch work.”

The young man turned to Flip and shook his hand vigorously.

“If there’s ever anything I can do for you, officer—anything—you just let me know,” he said.

Flip assured the young man that he would. Then Flip and Sally returned their attention to the street, and Alphonse hustled back to his post.

“Ursula used to say it would happen again,” Flip observed, looking down at South State Street. “A war in Europe again. Big Bill mayor again. A killer in the city again. Maybe she’s right. But the other day I was thinking . . . maybe that also means the good times will come back, yeah? We’ll have Mardi Gras once more here along this stretch. Maybe your arrangement with these people is temporary. Maybe it just gets you through . . . until those good times come back.”

“It’s not all that bad,” Sally said, shaking her head. “Like I told you, they’re nice people.”

“For now,” Flip said.

Sally’s face curled into a tight, forced smile. Flip realized she was thinking of something deeply troubling. Or painful. The policeman wondered if perhaps he had been too unserious regarding her predicament.

“Forgive me, Sally,” he said. “You’re your own woman, and you make your own decisions just fine. I don’t mean to come across as though I’ve forgot that. You got—what?—about a thousand times what I do in the bank? Counting that money the city let me keep. If anybody has proven they can handle themselves—whatever the times—it’s you.”

“No, it’s not that,” Sally said. “You’re sweet, Flip. But it’s not that. It’s just . . . I seem to remember that there was a woman named Ursula Green . . . Right? Like you just said. And she lived in the back of this building, down in the basement? And told fortunes?”

Flip nodded slowly and encouragingly.

“There are times I start to think she wasn’t here at all,” Sally continued. “She doesn’t feel real, you know? Some days, I wake up and I just forget about her. Not like I forget that the capital of France is Paris. But like I forget France exists altogether. It’s like I can remember another past in which she wasn’t there. Or where there was just a pile of rags and wood in the basement that maybe we called ‘Ursula Green’ as a joke, but it wasn’t a real woman. But then, other times, I’m sure she was there. That I spoke with her and knew her. Isn’t that strange, Flip?”

“It’s strange,” Flip agreed. “But I’ve seen stranger.”

Sally took a deep breath and steadied herself on the porch railing. Behind them, Alphonse gripped a misbehaving patron by the collar of his jacket. The Italian pulled him close and whispered something into his ear, nearly biting it. Flip watched the exchange, and understood for certain that those hands knew murder.

Back down on the street, a drunken man howled at the sky and flapped his arms like a bird.

“You never did tell me about those things,” Sally said. “Those strange things that you took care of.”

Flip looked over at Sally to say she ought to know better.

“My babies really going to be safe?” Sally pressed, watching the flapping man.

“Yes,” Flip said quietly. “They are. At least from-”

“How do you know for sure?” Sally pushed.

“Because they’re not what he was after,” Flip said. “Who he was after.”

Sally looked down at her shoes.

“Why won’t you ever talk about it?” she whispered. “Why won’t you just tell me straight what happened? Just tell me you found him and killed him? I know you’ve done it, Flip. Can’t you just say it? I’d feel a whole lot better if you did.”

Flip said nothing. Stared at the flapping drunk.

“I mean . . . I can guess,” Sally said. “I’m not stupid. I can guess just from what they printed in the Defender, scant though it was.”

Flip stayed silent.

“How long have we known each other?” she entreated, cooing almost sensually. “Do an old friend this single kindness? Why, Joe Flippity?”

“Because the story doesn’t end with him,” Flip replied. “Because it’s bigger than one man. I won’t lie to you, Sally.”

“Then just tell me you done him,” Sally pressed coyly. “That’s all I want. Nod once if it’s yes.”

She smiled. Flip looked at her for a very long time.

“You really want to know what happened?” Flip asked.

Sally did not have to speak.

“Fine,” Flip said. “Then I’m going to tell you something I never told nobody. Are you ready? Are you listening carefully? Nash was after Tark. All that time, he wanted Tark and his brother. To kill them both at the same time. He thought Tark had stolen magic power from some beast that lives out in the lake—an invisible giant with triangle eyes. Its power came up through magic ramp. I don’t fully understand that part.”

Sally opened her mouth to ask about ten questions, but Flip kept going.

“The night after I did it—yes Sally, after I put three bullets into Nash—I went directly to see Tark. I planned to catch him after hours in his caravan, but they were doing a double midnight show and it ran into the early morning. I found Singer outside the tent and talked to him while I waited. Singer said Tark had a new trick that was knocking ’em dead. Said I really ought to see it. He let me in for free, and I sat in the back. Pretty soon, Tark came on. He began with tricks I’d seen before. Manipulations with cards. Pulling a rabbit from a hat. All that bit.”

Flip swallowed hard. He slowly brought his gaze up from the drunk flapping in the street to the sky above the buildings. There, he let his eyes linger.

“But . . . the act was building to something, Sally. It had this feeling about it, that it was leading someplace. At first, I thought I could guess to what.”

“Yeah, sure,” Sally said. “To that trick where he transports himself across the tent. Like always.”

Flip nodded, still looking up at the sky.

“That’s what I thought too. But when it came time, he did something new. He brought a long mirror out onto the stage. Big as a chalkboard in a schoolhouse. First, he held it to the side where the audience couldn’t see. Then he tilts it and we can see his reflection. And already, I know where this is going. I watch him do a pantomime dance with the reflection of himself. He touches his toes. Tips his hat. Does a flexing routine with his fingers. The reflection matches it all perfectly. Then he turns to the audience and smiles. But the reflection doesn’t turn. It keeps looking out. The audience gasps. You can practically hear the air being sucked out of the tent. It only lasts a second. Then the people applaud like you wouldn’t believe. They go crazy. And the reflection steps through the mirror.”

“So?” Sally said. “He and Ike learned a new trick. What about it?”

“Yes,” Flip said distantly, looking at the night sky above the rooftops. “But see, then an assistant pulled another long, high mirror out onto the stage. It was the same as the first—like a school chalkboard on wheels. And the two Tarks, they took turns playing with their reflections. They did more routines together. Held hands and passed objects back and forth. Then they turned to face the audience. . . and once again, the reflections didn’t. You could have heard a pin drop, Sally. A woman in the front row actually fainted. Then people went crazy all over again—clapping, hooting, cheering to beat the band. It was a standing ovation. The two reflections stepped out of the mirror, and they all stood on the stage together. All four, hand in hand. All absolutely identical. Then they took a bow.”

The expression on Flip’s face showed he was deeply troubled by what he had just described. That there was a bewildering terror to it.

Sally, in contrast, clucked as though Flip were a child who had worked himself into a tizzy over nothing.

“That could have been done a thousand different ways, and you know it,” she told him. “With makeup or costumes. Or maybe the Tarks are identical quadruplets. Ike had gone down to Indiana to stay with family, right? Maybe he brought two more up with him. Did you ever think of that?”

“I went and waited by Tark’s caravan after the show,” Flip said. “He came out of the tent very late, bottle already in his hand. He looked surprised to see me. At first he was cheerful. Excited. Asked if I’d seen his new finale, like he was proud of it. I wanted to slap him across the face. I told him the things Nash had said to me. About the magic ramp along the shoreline, and a thing in the lake with triangle eyes. I asked if he remembered playing on the beach when he was a little boy, with Ike. I asked if the ramp had given him powers. Real powers. He went stone still. Then I asked if he understood that the thing he sometimes sees and talks to when he’s drunk—a great insect beast—is connected to it. I believe that’s the thing he stole from, Sally. I told Tark that whatever he took, that thing wants it back. I told Tark the thing was never going to stop. That it was going to send another Rotney Nash to prey on him. Then another. It would keep happening and happening until he was dead. His brother too.”

“And what did Tark say?” Sally asked.

“He was quiet for a long spell,” Flip told her. “Then he asked me what I thought he should do.”

“And what did you say?”

“I told him he should do what Du Sable did after he was touched by the ramp. Leave town for good. Never come back to Chicago. Dis-a-fucking-pear.”

“And?” Sally asked after a moment.

“And he said he would. And you and I ain’t seen him since.”

“Yes,” Sally said, pondering. “I thought that was strange, the way he just evaporated. I figured he would have stopped by here, after it all happened. At least to drink some gin, or ask if he could see the girls, now that we weren’t working together. I always wondered why he didn’t. I figured the circus must have gone on a long tour. Then, to be honest, it kind of slipped from my mind. Last couple of years, now and then I’d meet someone who’d seen the Singling Brothers Circus. I’d ask about a magician, and they’d say there wasn’t one in the show anymore. I wondered about that. I worried Tark had died, maybe drank himself to death. Do you know what became of him? Where he is?”

Flip inclined his head and gave a little pout, like a physician about to make a ‘probably’ diagnosis.

“About a year ago I saw a newspaper from Portland, Oregon,” Flip said. “There was a piece about a travelling Negro magic act that’d come through. Said the performer did animal tricks and card tricks, but that he was best known for disappearing and reappearing all the way across a room. Went by the name of Cornelius Mack. Wasn’t a photo, but the way they described him, it sure did sound like Tark.”

Sally nodded thoughtfully.

Out in the street, the flapping drunk was beginning to accost passersby. In the doorway of an illegal tavern—they were all illegal now, of course—a man in a straw porkpie looked at Flip imploringly. Private drunkenness was one thing, but if you acted up in public, people were going to wonder where you had got so soused. It was not uniformed police that concerned the proprietor. It was the reformers and do-gooders who might be patrolling South State to see if that new laws were actually being enforced. And who might, depending on what they saw, insist the municipality perform a proper disinfecting of the area, as opposed to the cursory papering-over that had occurred.

Flip waved his hand to indicate that he would be on it in a moment.

“Duty calls,” he said to Sally.

“It certainly does,” she replied, glancing back to the Italian gents who lingered at her door.

Sally began to retreat inside, and Flip marched down the brothel’s front steps.

Then a voice. Her voice.

“Flip. . .”

He turned back.

“Flip. . . help me not to forget Ursula Green, all right?” she said. “I want to remember her. I want to remember all of this. I don’t ever want to forget her. Or Tark, either. Ursula used to tell me that there were many people in me. Other versions of me. And they were in other places, doing other things. . .”

Flip nodded.

“That does sound like Ursula,” he said.

“These past two, three years, I feel like I’ve stepped into a world where I’m one of those different me’s. Where I don’t exist as I once did. Like I’m a train car sent down the wrong track, and now I’m in the wrong place. But I want to stay in my place, Flip. You know? This place. And I want to remember all the things that happened. Ursula, Tark. . . you.”

“I know,” Flip told her. “Tell you what, Sally; I’ll help you. I’ll help you keep all this in your mind. We’ll both remember Ursula, all right? We’ll do it together.”

Something like relief crossed Sally’s face. She nodded down at Flip. Her eyes and her smile radiated relief.

Flip smiled too. Then he turned back around to handle the flapping drunk. He walked a few paces into the street, and began to roll up his sleeves.

Unobserved now, he relaxed . . . and his face fell.

His words to Sally had been a lie.

In truth, Flip wanted only to forget.

And on those lonely midnights when he crept back to the promontory jutting out into Lake Michigan, when he sat there alone, silently watching the swaying, sentient ramp riffle like playing cards while the full moon shone overhead, when he gazed up into the sky a thousand feet above the lake at two small, triangular pinpoints that seemed to hover there—sentient, furious, and suspended in the empty ether. . .

That was when he wanted to forget most of all.