Page 13 of New Orleans Rush

Axel and Huxley pulled the coffin apart. Fox, now sliced in two, twisted his head and smirked at the crowd. He pointed and flexed his toes. Huxley walked between the severed body, and Bea couldn’t help herself. She clapped wildly, excitedly, horrified by Fox’s current state of halfness, but mesmerized. Her face hurt from grinning.

Huxley didn’t remember the last time he’d loved performing so much. The audience was pitiful. Fox was furious about standing in for Ashlynn. They had to pay a kid to fold himself into the sawing box to become Fox’s feet. Yet Huxley felt fifty feet tall. He executed his Reappearing Dollar Bill number with flair. He shot fire from his hands and released doves as though entertaining thousands at the Superdome.

All because of Beatrice.

She squealed and winced and clapped like a kid at Christmas. The fire in his hands may as well have engulfed his chest.

After the show, Axel cornered him in the stage wing. “Fox is fuming.”

“I know.”

“And that audience was craptastic.”

“They were.” Except for one redhead who’d enjoyed the shit out of it. And that cute kid whose jaw had hung open for the last half. Even with those unexpected diversions, he could feel his good mood draining, his troubles marching a line across his tensing shoulders.

“Not sure how much more of this I can take,” Axel said as he undid the buttons of his red shirt. “We need to shake things up. Make a change. And if you go on about the type of show Dad wanted in his theater, and that we have to honor him—yadda yadda yadda puke—I’ll deck you.”

Huxley removed his hat and scratched his head. “We have bigger problems than shaking up our shows.”

He hadn’t spoken of his morning encounter yet. His brothers knew the theater needed major work, but Huxley never let on how rough things were. They didn’t know how high the bills had piled, or that he’d been struggling to pay Ashlynn. If they questioned the state of affairs—Fox, in particular, was attuned to details—he’d brush off their concern with vague answers about plans and money coming in. He was the oldest brother. The theater had been left to him. It was his responsibility.

Instead of telling them it was spiraling out of control, he’d spent the day brooding. He’d marched into the dressing room, ready to find Beatrice and lay down another ultimatum: the cops or her assistant duties. If she wasn’t all in, there was no point training her. Finding her curled up and fast asleep had derailed his plan. She’d looked so peaceful, the antithesis to his unraveling life. He’d covered her with a blanket instead and had watched her sleep longer than was decent, unsure why he didn’t want to leave.

He’d finally forced himself out and had driven his vandalized Mustang awhile, followed by a session with his father’s puzzle box. He’d hunched over the small contraption, hoping to find his oyster. He still didn’t have a plan, or an oyster, and there was no hiding the blight complaint from his brothers.

Axel whipped off his shirt, a nightly habit. The snake tattooed around his ribs writhed as he stretched. “I’m scared to ask, but what could be worse than performing while people play Candy Crush on their phones?”

“We could lose the theater.”

His Jane Fonda moves ceased. “Lose it how?”

Before Huxley could reply, Fox joined the duo, his face still sour from his assistant duties. Fox folded his arms and regarded them. His lip curled in irritation. “Was it Oliphant?”

“He’s my best guess.” Not having to explain much to Fox was always appreciated.

Axel waved his fisted shirt to remind them he hadn’t vanished. “You two mind filling me in?”

Huxley fingered the edge of his top hat. It was slightly big on him, like the cape. Like the responsibility of running the theater and ensuring his brothers got paid. He went on to describe the blight complaint and the cost of upgrading the exterior of their real estate under a tight time frame. He tugged at his shirt collar as he spoke.

Axel looked as venomous as his tattooed snake. “First, you’re a dick for not telling us right away. Second, if Oliphant is behind the complaint, I’ll fill his theater with termites.”

“Fact is,” Huxley said, “it doesn’t matter. The building is rundown. It’s become an eyesore, and that’s unacceptable. I consider this the push I need to turn it around. I’ve got it under control.”

Fox focused on an indeterminate spot above their heads. “I agree on the dick part, and nothing about this is under control. If Oliphant is the culprit, he won’t add more poker games. So unless you’ve learned how to make cash appear out of thin air, we’re in serious trouble.”

Fox didn’t know the half of it, and Huxley planned to keep it that way. The last time things had fallen this far off track they suggested selling the theater. “Oliphant’s always happy to up the stakes, and I have something else on the go.” A total lie, but he’d become adept at looking Fox in the eye and feigning confidence.

“We need to modernize the show,” Axel said, voicing the same lament Huxley had endured the past few years.

The Marvelous Max Marlow hadn’t subscribed to modern. He’d done classic. Elegant. He’d expected Huxley to uphold their family tradition. “More shows,” Huxley told them instead, heeding Edna’s blunt advice. Their ticket salesperson may have been a crotchety old woman, who often poked her nose where it didn’t belong, but she could be shrewd. “We’ll go from five days to seven, starting next week. With my other plans, it’ll be a cake walk.”

“I can do six, not seven,” Axel said. “I can’t give up my Monday street magic gig. But I’ll ramp up those shows, too. Contribute what I earn.” His quick agreement eased some of their tension.

“Six works for me, but”—Fox fixed Huxley with a hard stare—“you need to keep us in the loop. And I’ll bring in what I can.”

Ignoring the “keep us in the loop” jab, Huxley rounded on him. “No pickpocketing.”

Fox didn’t reply.