The afternoon sun slanted through The Rusty Tap's grimy windows, casting tired light across dust motes that drifted like forgotten dreams. Marty counted whiskey bottles, marking shortages on a wrinkled napkin that served as inventory. His neck brace hung loose today—the morning's sleep on the couch had been kinder than the pool table.
"Thirteen bottles of Jameson, six of Wild Turkey." He scribbled numbers, then erased them. "Wait, was that fourteen?"
Behind him, Stacy hummed with standby lights, occasional flickers betraying whatever passed for dreams in her circuits. Upstairs, the muffled clatter of Tasha's keyboard filtered through the ceiling—she'd been coding since dawn, surviving on spite and instant coffee.
The door's chime announced customers. Two construction workers shuffled in, concrete dust on their boots and resignation in their shoulders. They claimed their usual stools at the far end without ceremony.
"Usual?" Marty asked, already pulling glasses.
"Make it a double," the older one said. "They installed more cameras at the site today."
His partner nodded, accepting the beer. "Weird ones. Don't look like security cameras."
"Course they don't." Marty slid napkins across the bar. "Security cameras look like security cameras. Spy cameras look like anything else."
The workers exchanged glances. Cleveland's skyline had been shifting for months—sleek new buildings sprouting between old brick warehouses, each gleaming with technology that felt too clean, too watchful.
"Manager says they're for our safety," the younger one muttered into his beer. "Track our movements, make sure nobody gets hurt."
"Right." Marty adjusted his neck brace. "Nothing says safety like knowing exactly where you are every second."
The door chimed again. Norman Pike entered with his clipboard pressed to his chest like armor, scanning the room with disapproving eyes. His gaze lingered on the ceiling corners, searching for violations.
Marty's jaw tightened. "We're closed for inspection."
"Public establishments cannot refuse municipal officials." Norman produced a measuring tape, stretching it between barstool legs. "I'm documenting compliance with revised safety codes."
"What revised codes?"
Norman's smile never reached his eyes. "The ones being implemented next week."
He made notes on his clipboard, muttering about outdated electrical systems and insufficient emergency lighting. The construction workers watched with dark amusement as Norman measured the distance between their stools and the nearest exit.
"Fascinating," Norman said, writing something down. "These barstools exceed the maximum allowable distance from approved emergency routes."
"They're chairs," Marty said. "People sit on them."
"Not according to Municipal Code 73.4-B, subsection twelve." Norman capped his pen with a flourish. "I'll be returning with official documentation."
He swept toward the door, pausing to slap a parking ticket on the window where the construction workers could see it. Their truck sat in a perfectly legal spot.
"Expired meter," Norman explained, though no meters existed on this block.
After he left, the younger worker stared at the ticket. "Twenty-five bucks for parking where I've parked for three years."
"Highway robbery," his partner agreed.
The door exploded open with unnecessary force. Frankie "The Astonisher" Marlowe posed in the doorway, tattered tuxedo jacket hanging from his skeletal frame like a flag of surrender. His silver hair caught the afternoon light as he surveyed his audience.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced to the nearly empty bar, "prepare to be... ASTONISHED!"
The construction workers groaned in unison. Marty rolled his eyes, but something that might have been a smile tugged at his mouth.
Frankie glided to the bar, sliding onto a stool with theatrical grace. "My good barkeep, I shall require the usual libation."
"You'll require actual money," Marty replied, continuing his inventory.
"Ah, but first—" Frankie produced a playing card from his sleeve, holding it like a credentials badge. "Allow me to present payment in the form of wonder!"
He flicked the card between his fingers, each movement precise despite the tremor in his hands. The card transformed from ace to king to queen, then somehow split into three cards that became one again.
"Impressive," Marty said flatly. "Cash register doesn't accept wonder."
Frankie's performance escalated. Cards appeared from his pockets, his sleeves, seemingly from the air itself. He shuffled with one hand while producing doves—actually handkerchiefs folded into dove shapes—from his jacket. Each trick grew more desperate as Marty remained unimpressed.
"I once performed for Wayne Newton," Frankie declared, making a card vanish only to find it tucked behind Marty's ear. "The man wept with joy!"
"Wayne Newton weeps at grocery store openings," Marty replied, plucking the card away. "Still costs four dollars for a whiskey."
The construction workers had stopped pretending to ignore the show. Even Tasha appeared at the top of the stairs, laptop tucked under her arm, watching with bemused interest.
Frankie's eyes lit up as he spotted the parking ticket pressed against the window. "Gentlemen! Allow me to demonstrate true magic—the art of municipal document liberation!"
He approached the window with renewed energy, examining the ticket like a surgeon studying an X-ray. "Behold—the power of suggestion combined with advanced manual dexterity!"
The workers exchanged skeptical looks but stayed put. Frankie withdrew a silk handkerchief, draping it over the ticket with ceremonial precision.
"Municipal code violations," he intoned dramatically, "exist only in the minds of petty bureaucrats. Reality, however, can be... adjusted."
His hands moved beneath the handkerchief, fingers working with the practiced efficiency of a lifetime pickpocket. When he whisked the cloth away, the ticket had vanished.
"Holy shit," the younger worker breathed.
Frankie bowed deeply, producing the ticket from his jacket pocket—except it was now folded into an origami crane. "The power of transformation, gentlemen. What was once an instrument of oppression is now a symbol of freedom."
The workers burst into applause. The older one reached for his wallet. "That's worth a drink, at least."
"Make it two," his partner added. "Haven't seen anything that good since the circus came through."
Frankie accepted the offered whiskey with gracious humility, though his eyes betrayed genuine surprise at the success. "You honor me, good sirs."
As the workers finished their beers and left, coins clinking on the bar, Frankie's showman facade began to crumble. He nursed his whiskey, staring into the amber liquid like it held answers.
"Rough week?" Marty asked, wiping down glasses.
"Rough month." Frankie's voice dropped to normal volume, the theatrical boom replaced by something quieter. "Diane's lawyer served me papers yesterday. Wants the trailer."
"Your ex-wife wants your trailer?"
"Says it's community property." Frankie laughed bitterly. "Twenty-three years of marriage, and all I get to keep is my dignity and a deck of cards."
Marty poured himself a small whiskey, sliding the bottle toward Frankie. "Dignity's overrated anyway."
They drank in comfortable silence, the afternoon sun shifting lower through the windows. Stacy stirred to life, playing something soft and melancholy that matched the mood.
"Strange thing," Frankie said, studying the jukebox. "She always knows what to play."
"Stacy's got personality," Marty agreed. "More than most people I know."
Frankie approached the jukebox with professional curiosity, examining her chrome trim and retrofitted touchscreen. "What's the trick? Motion sensors? Voice recognition?"
Stacy immediately switched tracks, the opening notes of "The Great Pretender" filling the bar.
Frankie stepped back, startled. "I didn't touch anything."
"She doesn't like being studied," Marty explained. "Takes it personal."
"But that's impossible. Jukeboxes don't have—" Frankie paused, his magician's instincts recognizing something beyond ordinary mechanics. "Unless..."
He pulled a business card from thin air, placing it carefully on Stacy's surface. The card stood on its edge, balancing impossibly without support.
"A fellow performer," he said to the jukebox. "I respect your artistry."
Stacy's lights pulsed once, acknowledging the gesture.
Frankie returned to the bar, sliding another business card across to Marty. "Thursday nights. I could bring in customers with a proper magic show."
Marty examined the card: "The Astonisher: Making Problems Disappear Since 1987."
"You think people want to watch card tricks in a dive bar?"
"They want to believe in something." Frankie finished his whiskey. "Even if it's just for an hour."
Marty thought about Devon's failed open mic, about the empty chairs and Norman's violations, about the bills hidden under bar rags. "What would you need?"
"A stage. Some lights. Maybe a volunteer from the audience who won't sue if I accidentally make them disappear for real."
"Thursday's slow anyway," Marty said, pocketing the card. "We'll try it once. You bomb, you pay for your own drinks."
"And if I don't bomb?"
"Then I'll pretend I never doubted you."
Frankie stood, straightening his tuxedo jacket with theatrical flair. "Prepare to be astonished, Mr. Grissom."
He swept toward the door, pausing to tip an imaginary hat to Stacy. As he left, the business card on the bar remained balanced on its edge, defying gravity and common sense.
Marty stared at the impossible card, then at Stacy's quietly glowing lights. "Everybody's got tricks these days."
The jukebox switched songs again, something about dreams and second chances that seemed almost like a response.
"Nobody asked you," Marty muttered, but he left the card standing where it was.