The Mirror Thief(11)

Is that really what Stanley said? Or did Curtis conjure this memory from other half-recalled conversations he half-listened to through the years, adding detail from his own Italy trip back in—what was it, ’98? And why should it matter anyway what Stanley said? Does it relate in some way to the fix he’s in now? Where does that trail lead?

Goddamnit, kid—I forgot the most important thing! The whole reason I started telling this screwy story. Listen: the Doge brought three columns back from Greece. Not two: three. The longshoremen f*cked up, and one of ’em wound up in the drink. It’s still down there, stuck in the muck at the bottom of the lagoon. And that’s the lesson you gotta learn, kid: there’s always gonna be three. Anytime you think you see two of something—doesn’t matter what—you start looking around for the third. Likely as not, you’re gonna find it. This profound secret I now entrust to you.

Curtis yawns, stretches, turns back toward the entrance. He trudges past the gold armillary-sphere fountain in the domed lobby, heading for the elevators. Then he slows to a stop.

On the wall behind the registration desk hangs an old-style perspective map: a turkeyleg island viewed from midair, imagined onto paper by some ancient earthbound cartographer, now repurposed by hotshot design consultants into this great gilded frame. Swarmed by tall ships, crowded with palaces and domed churches, bristling with belltowers and spires. The blue reverse-S of a canal slashes through its thick western end. From the corners, cherub-headed clouds blow favorable winds. A couple of bearded gods look down. MERCVRIVS PRECETERIS HVIC FAVSTE EMPORIIS ILLVSTRO. Curtis stares at the map for a long time before he realizes that he’s looking for Stanley there, expecting to spot him loitering in a tiny piazza, smirking. The clerks at the desk are eyeing Curtis nervously. He shakes his head, turns to go.

And not toward the elevators this time, but into the grand galleria. Strolling between marble columns, below meticulous fake frescoes: plump foreshortened angels vaulting through white cumulus. Feeling like maybe he’s onto something, though he’s not yet sure what. His rubber soles are silent on the cube-patterned stone deck as he passes the entrance to the museum—ART THROUGH THE AGES extended through May 4th!—into the casino beyond.

He finds her without much effort, alone at a $25 blackjack table near the baccarat pit. She’s wearing jeans and a loose pink tanktop; her hair is up in a clip. She and the dealer—a stocky South Asian kid—have fallen into a comfortable rhythm, barely looking up or speaking, moving cards and chips. She’s playing two spots, with a nice pile of green and black in front of her. It looks like she’s given up on Stanley for tonight.

Curtis picks up a plastic cup of orange juice and watches from the slots, writing on the back of one of Damon’s SPECTACULAR! business cards with a hotel inkstick. Then he moves in closer until he’s a short distance behind her. She’s in good shape: back and shoulders well-muscled, posture ramrod-straight. Pro gamblers have to be athletes, Stanley always said; poised enough to sit for hours, waiting for the right cards. Curtis tries to remember how long the two of them have been a team.

The dealer—his nametag reads MASUUD—looks up at him. A minute later he looks up again, and Curtis steps forward, reaches into the pocket of his jeans. He colors in two hundred of Damon’s dollars and takes a seat a couple of spots to her right, far enough along the table’s curve to keep her in view. He keeps his eyes trained on the cards at first, but within a dozen hands he’s down to two green chips, and she still hasn’t recognized him, hasn’t even looked at his face.

On the next round she stands on a twelve and a sixteen with the dealer showing an eight; Masuud turns over a six, busts with a jack. If this was his joint, Curtis thinks, he’d bounce her right now. He glances over as he collects his single chip: she had four hundred dollars on the line.

Thanks, he tells her. That was a gutsy play.

She shrugs. Glad it worked out, she says.

How you doing tonight?

She doesn’t answer right away, doesn’t look up at all. I’m doing okay, she says. And yourself?

Not too good tonight, Curtis says. Can’t seem to get anything started.

Well, she says, meeting his gaze at last. I hope your luck changes. Her face is blank. She turns back to her cards.

Three rounds later he’s wiped out. He tokes Masuud with the last bill in his wallet and retreats, hiding in the slots again. He thinks about going to the cage—cashing one of Damon’s traveler’s checks, coming back—but he doesn’t want to lose sight of her, and at this point he’s pretty sure he can wait her out. It’s nearly four a.m. The casino is still hopping; he keeps forgetting it’s the weekend.

He stops at the Oculus Lounge to get icewater for his empty cup. As he steps back onto the carpet, he sees Masuud clap out, receive his toke, and go. A middle-aged Filipino woman takes his place: the graveyard shift coming on. Stanley’s girl plays a few more rounds—out of courtesy, and to make sure the new dealer isn’t running cold—then gets up, stretches impressively, and heads toward the cage with her chips.

He waits for her to cash in, tracks her through the tables, and falls into step beside her as she approaches the slots. Coming up on her left. Hello again, he says.

She glances over, flashes a thin smile. Doesn’t slow down.

Looks like you did pretty well tonight, Curtis says.

Yeah.

You win everything on blackjack?