Confused and flustered, he reclaimed his shackles—or rather, those that appeared to be his; already I’d swapped them with a trick set from a hidden pocket of my black magician’s coat. My brazenness might have owed mainly to sleep deprivation—or to the overall feeling that I had little to lose—but I presented my wrists in a fashion bordering a dare. By then, a growing crowd had encircled us. The officer reattached the cuffs, detectably self-conscious over his folly, and took care to cinch them tighter. Not that it mattered to my efforts. For as he turned for my bag, even more easily I maneuvered out again.

Spectators laughed, their faces alight. Between hatted heads, kids stretched for a peek. When I offered back the restraints, the cop didn’t hesitate in reaching to snatch them away, only to have them vanish midswipe. His gaze dropped reflexively, scanning the pavement.

More watchers, more giggles, a smattering of applause. We were a Charlie Chaplin act. A Laurel-and-Hardy show.

The officer, having caught on, searched my sleeves, then my visible exterior pocket, and out came the trick cuffs. Glowering, he went to clamp them back on me, unaware I’d flicked a lever rendering them unlockable.

The crowd’s laughter from his subsequent attempts warmed me to the core; it seemed a lifetime since I’d reaped such joys. But a flash in the cop’s eyes and the reddening of his neck, bright as rising lava, said he’d had enough.

The prospect of a paddy wagon reined in my senses.

I snapped toward the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, please give a round of applause to this fine sport of an officer who, unbeknownst to you all, had generously agreed to assist with my act, purely for your viewing pleasure.”

The policeman startled slightly, and a burst of clapping flowed his way.

I’d lobbed an easy out for us both. Yet I could see his deliberating, a pendulum swinging between duty and pride. I was bracing for the worst when he tipped his hat cordially toward the crowd. A show within a show.

As the viewers dispersed, many tossing coins into my top hat on the ground, the officer whispered hotly near my ear. “I catch ya round here again, and your next stage’ll be the cell.”

I nodded with a tight smile. Once he strode away, I exhaled with relief.

Only after everyone was gone did I notice a curious contribution to my hat; it was the business card from a dime museum with a note scrawled on the back:

Come tomorrow

The exchange with the officer turned out to be a plain piece of luck. Beyond the retention of my freedom, it led me to a job, albeit meager paying, then to a partnership with the museum’s unpolished yet charming contortionist, from which together we paved a path of opportunities.

Until that path diverged.