The Mirror Thief(103)

Doesn’t ring any bells. Who is he?

He was on the team of counters that hit AC over Mardi Gras. He’s here in town now. I got a call from him last night on my cell.

Did he give you any leads?

No. I think he’s looking for Stanley too.

Kagami chuckles, shakes his head. I hope Stanley’s getting a kick out of this, he says. For years it seemed like Stanley was just part of the landscape out here. People took him for granted. Now all of a sudden everybody’s looking for him, and nobody knows where the hell he is.

I think you know where he is, Walter.

Kagami’s smile is steady, his expression unchanged.

I think Stanley’s got a firewall set up, Curtis says, between the people who know where he is and the people who know what really happened in Atlantic City. I don’t think you know what happened in Atlantic City.

Kagami remains statue-still, but his eyes flicker evenly across Curtis’s face, his chest, his hands. Taking him in. Curtis feels like he’s being sliced up, sorted into piles. I have to admit, Kagami says, that I am pretty curious about that.

Yeah. Me too.

Kagami shifts his weight, crosses his legs. Did you get the latest bulletin? he says. As of last night, the Casino Gaming Bureau is no longer running the show at the Spectacular. It is now a Major Crimes investigation.

Curtis blinks. What happened? he says.

Well, it seems that a couple of days ago this old geezer was out on Absecon Bay in his Boston Whaler. Trapping crabs. The old guy hauls in one of his traps—

Kagami hold out his hands as if cradling a regulation football.

—and there’s this enormous blue crab in it. A real monster. And the crab is gnawing on a chunk of human foot. Foot belongs to a Southeast Asian male in his late twenties or early thirties. The missing dealer from the Point is a twenty-eight-year-old Korean kid. So. Everybody say hello to the Major Crimes Division.

Curtis is aware of his pulse, an impatient tap in his neck and temples. He looks out the window. A long way off the ground. This is f*cked up, Walter, he says.

A little more than you signed on for, ain’t it, kid?

Curtis stares at the table, rotates the empty mug beneath his fingers. Picturing Damon in the Penrose Diner. His red-rimmed eyes. His ripped sleeve. It was maybe a bad idea to drink the Irish coffee. He thinks he can feel the tower swaying in the wind, but there isn’t any wind. Walter, Curtis says, I’m not gonna ask you where Stanley is. I will ask you this. Did you put Graham Argos onto me? Did you give him my number?

You got a reason to think I did?

He tried to make me think he got it from a bartender or a pit boss or somebody. But I think he got it from you. He knew that I’d talked to you. And he knew Damon sent me out here. Only you and Veronica knew that. He hadn’t talked to Veronica.

What’s your point, kid?

That was not a nice surprise for me, man. That dude makes me nervous.

Yeah? Kagami says. Well, no shit, Curtis. He makes me nervous too. I was hoping you guys would short each other out.

You could’ve given me a heads-up. Why didn’t you call me?

Because I don’t like you, kid. You give me a bad feeling.

Kagami says it softly, almost apologetically. He crosses his arms over his chest, turns to look down at the Strip.

Curtis lets that hang for a few seconds, breathing in and out. You don’t even know me, man, he says.

Let’s just say that what I do know does not endear you to me.

They sit in silence for a while. Curtis clenches his jaw; Kagami slumps wearily in his chair. Curtis is angry, but he can’t shake the feeling that Kagami isn’t entirely out of line. He’s about to stand up, head for the door, when Kagami catches a passing waitress and orders a cognac. What’re you drinking, Curtis? he says. You want another coffee?

No, thanks. I’m good.

C’mon, kid. Hang around for a couple minutes.

Ginger ale, Curtis says, and settles back in his seat.

The lights have stopped flashing in Naked City aside from an ambulance headed west on Sahara; they watch it until it reaches the interstate and disappears. Then their eyes drift back to the Strip. Following its blazing path south as it grows denser and purer, a tracer round fired at Los Angeles.

Put yourself in my place, kid, Kagami says. I didn’t know what the hell was going on. I still don’t. What would you have done?

I hear you. You just want to protect Stanley.

I just want to be a good goddamn citizen of the People’s Republic of Clark County, Nevada. That’s all I want. I want to defend Stanley’s inalienable right to disappear when he wants to, and to stay disappeared for as long as he likes. I take this stuff very seriously, Curtis.

The waitress comes back with their drinks. Curtis sips his ginger ale, sips again. Kagami swirls his brandy, looks out the window. You spend a lot of time out here, kid? he says.

In Vegas? Not too much. My last trip was about three years ago.

Have you heard the CVA’s new ad slogan yet? The official slogan?

What happens here stays here? Curtis smiles. Yeah. I heard it.

It’s brilliant, Kagami says. It sums up everything. People call Las Vegas an oasis in the desert. No! It is the f*cking desert. That’s the key to the whole trick. Look down at that valley. You know what was down there a hundred years ago? Nothing. Some Mormons. A couple dozen cowboys. A few pissed-off Paiutes. The year I was born, there were ten thousand people living there. Today there’s a million five. That’s sixty years. Sixty years is nothing, it’s a heartbeat. What’s drawing all these people? Huh? Nothing. It’s like a big blackboard, or one of those—what do you call it?—a dry-erase board. Wipe it clean. Draw in what you like. I mean, read up on your history, kid. You wanna make something disappear? You wanna make it invisible? Haul it out here. The desert is the national memory hole. Manhattan Project? Never heard of it. American Indians? Hey, I don’t know where those guys went. Gambling. Hookers. Nuclear waste. I guess you probably noticed the Desert Inn.