The Mirror Thief(109)

Hey, Curtis calls, Could you maybe knock that shit off?

Argos doesn’t answer, and the mirror doesn’t go away. Curtis takes another few paces forward. Slow and deliberate. Squinting. When he’s an arm’s-length from the empty chair, the light disappears, and Argos’s other hand comes up.

There’s a gun in it: a matte-black semiautomatic pistol. Argos holds it like he’s watched a lot of movies. It makes Curtis nervous, but not too nervous. He’s figured on this, more or less.

Come toward me, Argos says. Keep your arms out. Closer. Now turn around, put your hands on your head. Spread your legs. Good.

Curtis steps onto the slab and does as he’s told, letting Argos take away his pistol and ineptly pat him down. Curtis takes off his jacket, hangs it on the back of the empty chair, and sits.

Argos wears white-framed sunglasses with blue lenses, iridescent and opaque. He’s dressed in a sleek padded motocross outfit, so spotless it looks like he changed into it after he got here. He sinks into his own seat, setting the two guns beside him on the closed lid of a Styrofoam cooler. Curtis can see what Veronica meant: the guy’s face is totally unremarkable. He’s white, but not just white. Part Asian, probably, though he could just as easily pass for Hispanic, or Middle Eastern. Staring hard, trying to see around the sunglasses to what’s underneath, Curtis thinks of an illustration from an Intro Psych textbook he had at Cal Lutheran: a blurry picture of a man’s face, made up of the superimposed images of dozens of faces. Curtis can’t remember what the picture was supposed to be illustrating, but that’s what Argos looks like, right down to the blur.

Before we get started, Argos says, I ought to tell you something.

Okay.

About three hundred yards over your right shoulder, on top of the rise, there is a little clump of creosote-bush. Don’t look. Just take my word for it. Sitting in that clump of creosote-bush is a friend of mine, all decked out in camouflage. My friend has a rifle with a scope on it, and right now he’s got the crosshairs of that scope glued to the back of your skull. I’m sure you know more about these things than I do, Curtis, but my friend tells me that with his rifle three hundred yards is a pretty easy shot. So just keep that in mind, please.

For an instant Curtis tenses, his skin crawling, but it doesn’t last. Argos is already holding a pistol on him; why mention the rifle? It has to be bullshit: the guy’s alone out here, and he’s scared. Scared enough to be dangerous, maybe. But definitely alone.

You made pretty good time, Argos says.

Thanks. What do you want?

I want to make a deal. I’m sick of getting chased around. I want to get back in business, start putting teams together again. I’m not greedy, and I know where I stand. I want some specific and convincing guarantees from Damon that he’ll lay off me from here on out, and let me do my thing.

What are you offering?

Argos grins. His grin is crazy, but calculatedly so: a crazy grin. I’m not offering, he says. I’m giving. We’re having ourselves a little potlatch here.

Okay. What are you giving?

I’m giving up my memory. I’m forgetting any and all claims I have on any portion of my take from the Spectacular. Okay? I’m forgetting what happened in AC. It’s entirely forgotten. Hell, I’m forgetting that Atlantic City even exists. I’m never setting foot there again. All this I do unilaterally. No need for reciprocal gestures. You can tell Damon that it’s my gift to him.

He and Curtis look at each other. The wind hisses through the saltcedar. It makes a lot of noise, but Curtis can barely feel it.

However, Curtis says.

Argos sighs. However, he says, before I did all that forgetting, I wrote a few letters. I won’t say how many. I sent these letters to some friends of mine. Good friends, and not-so-good friends. I told these people that if they hang onto these letters, I’ll send ’em a little something every year for their trouble. Some cash. They don’t have to do anything. Unless, of course, if that little something of mine doesn’t show up one year. Then they’re supposed to forward the letter to the New Jersey State Police. You know how this process generally works, Curtis, I’m sure. I don’t have to spell it out.

Curtis nods. His heartbeat is gathering steam, but he tries to keep his face calm. He’s getting close, but he doesn’t know how to play this guy. Then something clicks, and he does. He can see himself through Argos’s eyes now: who and what Argos thinks he is. It’s not a good feeling, but he can use it.

Well, Curtis says, Damon’s gonna want to know what that letter says.

Argos makes a face. What are you talking about? he says. It’s not about his techniques for cheating at the Links, Curtis. What do you think it says?

That’s not good enough. Damon’s gonna want to know exactly what you said, and exactly how you said it. You say you know what happened in AC. Okay, that sounds good. But what do you actually have? You need to show some cards.

What? Argos laughs. Does Damon want me to send him a copy of the letter? I hope he opens his own f*cking mail.

Tell it to me, Curtis says. Right now. Tell me, like you’d tell the cops.

A weird twitch passes from Argos’s nose to his lips. As if his face might be changing shape. Curtis, he says, I don’t really have time—

You need to make time, Curtis says. If you want to settle this.

Argos is still for what seems like minutes. The wind ruffles his short brown hair. Okay, he says. Where do you want me to start?