Expectations

  As I sat listening to Victor Tucci’s story, a single refrain ran through my head.

  And what do you expect me to do about it?

  I wouldn’t say such a thing, of course. Perhaps some variation on it, something more polite, without the inherent connotations of indifference such a phrase could carry. Yet the gist would be the same. What did he expect me to do about it?

  A rhetorical question. I knew precisely what he expected me to do, without so much as a hint as to his intentions in his words, his bearing or even his eyes. I knew. And I knew that when he finished, and made clear that expectation, we’d both be disappointed. Perhaps I even more than he, for I was about to receive yet another glimpse into my future, where my value would forever be measured only by my parentage and what that parentage could do for men like Victor Tucci.

  I thought of stopping him. I suppose I should have, to save us both the bother. I certainly couldn’t afford the waste of this hour. It was two A.M., I had an exam at eight and, when it came to sleep, I was well below my quota, a combination of a busy exam study schedule and a stressful visit from my father two days ago having deprived me of all but a few restless hours of

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  slumber. So, I should have said, “Look, I know what you want, but I can’t help you” . . . or some more polite variation on the sentiment. Yet I didn’t.

  My father taught me to hear people out, whether it was a VP with a new marketing concept or a junior custodian complaining about a switch in toilet paper brands. Cutting people short demonstrated a basic lack of courtesy, and made people feel their thoughts and opinions weren’t worthy of your attention. Ironic, isn’t it, that as fast as I run from my father’s influence, in so many things, it’s his words I hear, and his words I follow. Does that mean I lack the will to really break free? Or that I’m mature enough to acknowledge when he was right about something? I don’t know.

  I swallow a yawn and blink hard, hoping my eyes aren’t glazing over.

  Maintain eye contact. Don’t fidget, don’t check your watch, don’t glance at the clock, don’t do anything that might make it seem you have better things to do. Don’t just try to appear interested; try to be interested.

  That last part was easy. I was interested in what Tucci had to say. Any conversation involving the words “rare,” “black-market” and “spellbook” were guaranteed to get my attention.

  Of course, I could have informed him that the correct term for what he was describing was

  “grimoire,” but it’s never polite to correct someone when you know perfectly well what they mean. Of course, the first thing I thought when Tucci mentioned the book was “where is it and how can I get hold of it?”

  From the sounds of it, though, this book didn’t contain the sort of spells I’d care to add to my repertoire. I have no aversion to dark magic, not in principle nor in practice, provided that the principle and the practice are guided by ethical standards. All martial forms of magic are considered dark magic. Dark, not evil. The morality of dark magic depends on the application.

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  One cannot argue that using an energy bolt spell to kill a business competitor is moral (unless you happen to be my father, in which case, morality is a clay that can be molded to suit the requirements of circumstance). Yet nor would most people argue that using that same spell to foil an assassination attempt is equally immoral.

  Still, while I’m cognizant of the value of such magics, and have been actively studying martial and lethal spellcasting, there is a limit to how many such spells one conceivably needs.

  They are, after all, only weapons. A non-supernatural who foresees the need for self-defense may acquire a gun, perhaps a knife, and learn a form of martial arts. Different weapons for different circumstances. Yet the only person who requires a dozen varieties of guns is one who is not fending off assassination, but carrying it out.

  Given the type of spells Tucci was describing, a more accurate analogy would be, not additional varieties of guns, but ones specially designed to do more than kill, perhaps to put out an eye or disfigure a face or create a wound that will cause untold agony before death. In other words, not instruments of defense, but instruments of torture. And that is one form of weapon I have no use for, proof that I have not absorbed all of my father’s teachings.

  “So you can see why I’m concerned,” Tucci said as he finished.

  “Naturally. Such spells should not be in the public domain, and I will agree that it is a cause for concern, and yet . . .”

  I paused, about to ask some variation on “what do you expect me to do about it?’ and try not to cringe as I awaited the inevitable response, when a thought struck. Perhaps Tucci didn’t expect that at all. Perhaps what he wanted was . . .

  “You’d like me to retrieve these grimoires,” I said, straightening, the drowsiness I’d been fighting finally falling away. “To remove them from circulation.”

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  A blank look, and I was about to rephrase myself, substituting spellbook for grimoire when Tucci nodded.

  “Yes, yes, that’s it exactly, Mister . . .” He faltered on the word, as if he couldn’t bring himself to use the formal mode of address for someone half his age, but knew he should, out of deference to that surname, which he finally got out. “Cortez.”

  “Lucas. Please.” I snatched my notepad and pen from the side-table. “Now, first, let me be very clear that I’m not certain I could undertake a task of this magnitude. My work thus far has been limited, primarily in the simple legal advice. Yet that is not to say I have no experience with more active work, so to speak, including surveillance. The removal of property not my own would entail slightly more expertise than I currently possess, but one cannot gain experience without taking that first step.”

  Tucci stared at me, uncomprehending. A not-uncommon reaction when I open my mouth.

  I propped the notepad on my knee. “Why don’t you tell me some more about where this grimoire is being held, and by whom?”

  He continued to stare. I mentally replayed the last sentence, but it seemed straightforward and simply worded enough. So I waited, presuming he needed more time to organize his thoughts.

  “You . . . you’re going to . . . get them . . . yourself?” he said finally.

  “Preferably, although, if necessary, I do have a few contacts I could call upon who have some experience with this kind of . . .” I let the sentence drop away as I saw the look in his eyes, and knew this wasn’t what he meant. “You wanted me to take this to my father.”

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  “Well, yes,” he said, as if such a thing should have been obvious. And it was, being precisely what I’d assumed he’d intended from the start, misled only by my own misguided surge of optimism.

  Tucci continued, “I’m sure your father would let you help. As you said, it would be good experience for you, getting to know the business from the bottom up, so to speak.” A flash of a smile. “Can’t learn everything sitting behind a desk, can you, son? At your age, I’m sure you don’t want to, either.”

  I waited a moment, to be sure none of my disappointment leaked into my words. “True, I’m sure, for any young man who intends to follow the path into the family business. However, as you are doubtless aware, I have disavowed all connections to the Cortez Cabal.”

  “Yes, yes, that tiff with your father—”

  “It isn’t a—” I swallowed the word. “I realize that my alienation from my father and the Cabal is widely considered an adolescent act of rebellion, but I should think that, after five years, and having outlasted my teens, it is apparent that this is more than that.”

  From his look, I knew that the only thing that was apparent to him was that I was living proof that some young men didn’t leave teenage rebellion behind when they reached their twenties. I looked into his eyes, and I could see myself reflected back as he saw me, a resentful, ungrateful brat, someone he’d rather not deal with at all but, as a non-Cabal sorcerer he stood no chance of an audience with my father or brothers, so this spoiled scion was as close as he could get to the Cortez Cabal inner family.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, rising to my feet. “If you wish to bring this to the Cabal’s attention, I would recommend you notify—”

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  I stopped. Did I want him bringing this to the Cabal’s attention? Granted, however rare he thought this grimoire was, my father probably had a copy hidden somewhere, or access to one.

  And yet . . . If he didn’t, did I want to hand it over to him? Possibly get the current owner killed over it? My stomach twisted at the thought, yet I forced the worry back with logic. My father wouldn’t order the owner killed so long as he could get the grimoire without resorting to such drastic and potentially untidy measures.

  “Notify who?” Tucci said, his gaze impatient, probably assuming my attention had slipped to thoughts of keg parties and girls and whatever else rich college boys filled their empty heads with. “See here, I don’t think you’re understanding the seriousness of this, young man. This is a very important spellbook, and it’s in the hands of a witch.”

  My head jerked up. “A witch?”

  “I said that, didn’t I? The moment I arrived, I told you who has this spellbook—”

  “Evan Levy,” I said. “From Minnesota, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Who the hell is Evan Levy? I sai d—” His jaw shut with a clack, as if forcing his mouth shut, reminding himself that, inattentive brat or not, I was still a Cortez, and heir-apparent to my father’s throne. “I’m sorry, but you must have misheard. I said Eve Levy.”

  “Eve Levy?” I frowned, running the name through my head. Familiar, and yet . . .

  “Levy, Levi, some—” Tucci’s hands fluttered. “Some Jewish name.”

  “Levine,” I said slowly. “Eve Levine.”

  I sat down. Tucci rambled on, but my father’s lessons on proper listening behavior flew out of my head, and I made no effort to pretend I was still listening. Vincent Tucci wasn’t bringing this to my attention because it was a dangerous spellbook that should be put under lock and key, but because it was in the hands of a witch. Such a thing should not be tolerated. Preposterous,

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  of course. Racism at its ugliest. No, not its ugliest. Its ugliest would come if the Cortez Cabal got wind of the situation. While my father’s attitude toward someone like Eve Levine was pragmatic—he’d try to buy the book from her and, failing that, intimidate her into handing it over, my brothers and the board of directors would not be so willing to treat Eve as they would a sorcerer. For them, this would be an excuse to execute an embarrassment, a witch who fancied herself a master of sorcerer magic, who dared teach sorcerers to use their own magic.

  Would such an execution be unwarranted? I would like to disagree with capital punishment in all situations, but I have seen cases where one cannot argue for anything less, where it becomes a matter of kill the transgressor or allow more innocents to die, and in such an instance I must value the life of the innocent over that of the criminal. Although I knew Eve Levine by reputation only, a criminal, a killer. Yet, not knowing the circumstances behind her crimes, I cannot judge her on those.

  But I can judge her on one indisputable fact: that she made her living instructing sorcerers in magic they weren’t skilled enough to use properly and, if this grimoire Tucci was concerned about was any indication, in magic no one should use. She gave men the power to torture and kill. An executable offense? I don’t know. What I do know, though, is that my brothers and the Cabal board of directors would not kill her for this. They would kill her for the indignity of a mere witch presuming to teach sorcerers, and an indictment on those grounds was as despicable as a KKK lynching.

  “A witch . . .” I said, adjusting my glasses as I pretended to ponder this. “That does make a difference. You’re quite correct. She does need to be stopped, and anything I can do to help, I will.”

  Tucci tried not to smirk. “Glad you feel that way.”

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  I picked up my notepad. “If you can provide me with the particulars, I will pass them along to my father immediately.”

  My motorcycle idling at the curb, I looked up at Eve Levine’s apartment building. A modest high-rise in a good neighborhood. One might expect something more luxurious for a world-class teacher of the dark arts. If you’re going to sell your soul, you might as well put a decent price tag on it. As always, though, teaching isn’t the most lucrative way to make a living, whether it’s black magic, high school English or criminal law.

  As with my law professors, Eve would see people pass through her classes destined for jobs that would net triple her income. Yet the old adage about “Those who can’t do, teach.” failed in this instance. Eve Levine was widely known as an expert practitioner of her art, and I had heard enough stories that, even sitting here looking at her building, I had to put such tales from my mind, remember the importance of my mission and bolster my resolve.

  Why did Eve Levine teach when she could earn more by “doing”? I will admit to some optimistic bent in my nature that makes me long to believe that she refrained from acts of evil out of a basic core of good that shunned immoral uses of her powers. Yet if it is possible, much less advisable, to rate such things on a continuum, teaching magic to kill and maim must be seen as more, not less wrong than carrying out such acts oneself.

  It’s a matter of scale. If you commit such acts, you commit them for personal gain. It you teach them, you give countless others the power to do the same, and the sheer number of “evil”

  acts is multiplied many times over. One could argue, and rightly so, that most of Eve’s students

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  didn’t have the spellcasting wherewithal to maim a cockroach much less a human, but the fact remains that her lessons exist to give people that power, whether they can use it or not.

  It is possible that Eve taught out of a misguided sense of morality, a “But I’m not doing this stuff myself” defense that let her conscience rest easy. Yet I suspected there was more to her decision than that, and it was prompted by the same impulse that compelled her to rent a modest apartment in a good neighborhood, rather than a good apartment in a seedier section of town.

  That reason showed itself ten minutes later, when the front door of the apartment opened, and out strode a slender woman with dark hair to her waist, dressed in black jeans, a turtleneck shirt, a hip-length leather coat and boots that added another inch or two to her already formidable height. Eve Levine. And that “reason?” It was at her far side, almost hidden behind Eve, only sneakers, a backpack, dark hair and gesticulating hands visible. Eve’s preadolescent daughter: Savannah.

  A cab waited at the curb, as it did every weekday morning. Eve opened the door and waved her daughter in. The girl paused, hands still moving, relating some story that couldn’t be interrupted. Her mother waited, mock exasperated, then playfully shoved her into the taxi the moment she’d finished, and climbed in after her. Savannah had to be nine or ten, old enough to take the cab by herself. And the school was less than a mile away, not an unreasonable distance for a child to walk, but they always took a cab and Eve always went along, then walked back herself, picking up a coffee on the way. It was an unwavering routine that I’d been following for the past week, long enough to reassure me that I now had close to an hour to break into Eve’s apartment and confiscate that grimoire.

  I waited for a break in traffic, then swung out. At the light, I stopped beside two young women in a sports car, who tried to get my attention. This, however, was one case where my

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  father’s advice about paying attention to people did not apply, and I could, without guilt, pretend I didn’t notice them. The driver rolled down the window, calling to me, and I considered employing my surefire method of deflecting unwanted female attention while riding my motorcycle: removing my helmet.

  The safety gear necessary for proper use of a motorcyle—a full helmet with tinted visor, bulky leather jacket, gloves and boots—renders one’s features and physique invisible, and even the most unlikely male suddenly becomes attractive, a dark, mysterious figure astride a vehicle that symbolizes rebellion and freedom from cultural mores. To destroy that image, I merely need to remove the helmet, and endure the looks of surprise, disappointment, and even, occasionally anger, as if I’ve committed the unforgivable sin of false advertising.

  There had been one time, about a year ago, when I removed the helmet, and the young woman didn’t flee, but even, after a few moment’s hesitation, asked me out to dinner. I’d accepted—out of surprise, I think, and perhaps a healthy dose of that unrelenting optimism. We hadn’t even made it through the appetizers before she’d started making “suggestions.” Had I considered contact lenses? Perhaps a less generic haircut—something longer . . . or shorter . . .

  highlights might be nice. And, while I appeared to be in reasonably good physical condition, she knew a friend who swore by protein shakes for bulking up. In short, if I wasn’t what she’d hoped I’d be when I removed that helmet, perhaps she rectify that. After dinner I’d begged off with a lie about an overdue paper, walked her to her car and beat a fast retreat.

  The light changed, sending the memory skittering away.

  I let the sports car get two car lengths ahead of me before zipping into that lane and turning the corner beside Eve Levine’s apartment. I’d park a block over. I’d mapped out my route—indeed, every step of this expedition—days ago. Then, yesterday, I’d carried it through

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  right to the point of opening her front door, then walking through my escape. Overkill, I’m sure but, having never undertaken a break-and-enter before, I was leaving nothing to chance.

 

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