Most of the booths were occupied, leathery men and women in leathery coats. He found a small table near the restrooms and sat down alone. He set a suitcase full of props on the floor by his stolen boots.

The first act came on at eight ten.

Roman was stunned. The tricks themselves were no better than those he knew well, but the performer was incredibly talkative and engaging and, Roman had to admit, even funny. The magician, Paul the Pretty Good, was obviously going for a certain thing, but between his well-timed jokes and the smile of his gorgeous assistant, he was achieving it. Roman wanted to dislike it, wanted to hate what he was seeing. But oh, how it worked.

The crowd applauded, laughed, oohed and ahhhed at all the places Paul wanted them to. A volunteer got onstage and didn’t mind it at all when Paul broke an egg over her head.

The second act was just as successful. As was the third. The fourth…

Roman felt sick. It was suddenly very clear to him that not only did he have no help onstage, but he had almost no personality to boot.

Dark thoughts rose mistlike in his mind, coloring the entire club, and forcing him to consider leaving.

The fella who went on before him called himself the Titan of Terror and had the crowd roaring as he pretended to fail at feats of strength, then succeeded at ones that were much harder. Can’t lift a toaster? How about the whole stove? He introduced his tricks with just enough flair to make them sound more difficult than they were. Roman had fallen into a psychological tailspin. The laughing crowd seemed to be laughing at him, seemed to be saying,

You better be good, buddy. You better…be…good…

He hardly relished the moment he’d been waiting for, as, for the first time in his life, his name was announced over the club’s crackling PA.

Roman Emperor, folks! And with a name like that, this shoulda been a toga party. Make sure your money is secure, lest he make it disappear…

Roman took the stage.

The spotlight was filtered red and, looking down at the sleeves of his white shirt, it looked as though he’d been shot, many times, in the shoulders, elbows, and wrists.

The crowd looking back at him suddenly appeared so knowledgeable to him. As if each and every person in the club had read all the same magazines he had, had practiced the same tricks in empty buildings, had even defeated their fathers at chess to earn the right to call themselves magicians.

Roman understood clearly that he was not special. That he had no gag, no bit, no act. And all the eyes upon him would know that very soon.

Striking his best showman’s stance, Roman began without speaking, opening his box and removing objects far too big for it. Nor did he talk while presenting the objects at the foot of the stage. And the silence of the warehouse and the sugar plant, the inaudible intensity and proof of his undeniable command, felt like rejection on the stage of the Canteen.