Excerpt of Lying Eyes by Amy Atwell

No doubt about it—Cosmo Fortune was a royal pain in the ass.

Mickey stepped back into the anonymity of the stage's
curtained shadows, aware that alerting the wily old coot to
his presence would be a mistake. Instead, he rifled his
jacket pocket for the familiar shape of the pain reliever
bottle. Withdrawing two oval tablets, he popped them in his
mouth and swallowed without water. With luck, they'd cut off
the headache before it turned horrific.

Stress seemed to induce the blinding pain, and today had
been nothing but stressful. Cosmo had failed to deliver the
goods. Worse, that two-bit magician had lied to him, and
Mickey was damned if he'd cover Cosmo's ass anymore in this
mess. The old guy was a bad liability, and Mickey wasn't
buying any more of his stories. He needed answers—and he
needed them tonight—or someone was going to get hurt.

Yeah, like King Kong gnawing on his skull wasn't enough.

His fingers drummed against his thighs as he waited for his
quarry to finish his performance. Cosmo tried to make you
think his brain power had receded like his hairline, mumbled
his way out of messes with his folksy charm, and all the
while he juggled his numerous little dealings with the same
precise arcs as those flaming torches he now wielded
onstage.

Well, this was bound to be Cosmo Fortune's last show for a
while. Quite a while.

The magician's deft fingers conjured a dove from within the
folds of his black cape. Capes had gone out with Liberace,
Elvis, Houdini, for God's sake. Amid sparse applause, the
dove fluttered upward until it disappeared in the bright
stage lights.

Careful, bird. Don't be giving your boss any ideas.

Mickey glanced at his watch. Time was quickly becoming his
enemy. Well, at least enemies were more predictable than
friends in this game. He'd tried to befriend Cosmo, and look
how that had turned out. Dangerous to have friends when you
played every hand against the other.

He'd been doing that ever since he arrived in Vegas. His
lifestyle didn't allow for friendships. Not anymore.

Beyond the footlights, the half-filled auditorium resounded
with sketchy applause and a few hoots as Cosmo Fortune took
a bow. His assistant, scantily clad in a blue satin tutu,
hauled a white rabbit roughly the size of a cocker spaniel
off the draped table, handed the animal to Cosmo and all
three took another bow. Finally, the curtain dropped.

Mickey marched forward to take the trickster's pudgy arm. A
strong smell of Axe aftershave wafted up from the magician
and made Mickey's headache bare its teeth again. He blinked
against the flash of pain, imprinting the image of Cosmo's
mad-doctor hair and silver goatee, which always made the guy
look like a cross between an aging Wolfman and a munchkin.

Cosmo's impish golden eyes lit in recognition. "Mickey, my
boy! Here, take Edgar—"

"Keep that damned carnivore away from me."

Cosmo blinked. "It was an accident he bit you that time."

"Like I'm going to believe anything you say," Mickey said
under his breath as the assistant came to lift the rabbit
against her globe-shaped breasts. "We need to talk, old
man."