The Mirror Thief(113)

A short distance away, behind a waving screen of toothy grass, he spies the unbroken foundation of a house, well-made enough to trap and hold the most recent rains. It could almost be a rectangular pool in a Roman atrium but for the tumbleweeds clustered along its western edge. He makes his way to it in the hope of examining his reflection, but all he can see is the dark outline of his head. Then he kneels and closes his right eye tight, balancing blind as he lifts rainwater to his face.

It doesn’t help. He can’t stick around here any longer. The visitor center is ten miles back at least, part of that over rough ground. Curtis towels off with the upstretched hem of his shirt. The wind dries his scalp as he hikes the rise back to the road.





39


The clouds he saw east of town yesterday must have had rain in them, because the desert is blooming: yellow flares of sunray coreopsis, blue spires of phacelia and locoweed, pink evening-primrose and golden poppies, and some rangy ocotillo, their coral-red flowerspikes bobbing over the orange dirt like hazard-flares. Curtis trudges past them all, head down, a salty trail on his left cheek.

When he reaches the blacktop it gets warmer, then steeper. He drains the last waterbottle. Brown lizards scurry from his path. Dead animals on the road: snakes, groundsquirrels, a ringtail cat pecked over by ravens. Curtis has a long time to think. Damon’s been using him as his hunting-dog, his pointer, flushing Stanley and Argos so Albedo can shoot. Not even that. A hunting-dog at least knows what it’s doing, knows how it’s being used. Not a decoy, either. Decoys are fraudulent, innocuous. Curtis is more like one of those machines they used to use a hundred years ago to trap songbirds. A flashing whirligig. Wind him up and watch the fun.

Across the state park boundary he finds a turnoff to some campsites and detours to look for a spigot, to drink and to rinse his eyesocket again. Still no good. He finds a restroom and checks the mirror, pulling the lid back. He can’t see anything wrong. When he gets back to the hotel, he’ll have to take it out.

It’s past one o’clock when he comes to the visitor center, a red-brown box skirted by a white sunshade, U.S. and NV flags flapping lazily in the traffic circle out front. The building almost disappears against the smooth elusive shapes in the ruddy sandstone: domes, columns, balanced rocks. Curtis looks up at them while double-checking that his jacket hides his gun. The formations look organic, alive somehow. Curtis sees things in them. Ghost faces. Cloacal openings. Spineless marine creatures. A human figure with a bird’s beaked head. He’s glad Argos wanted to meet early; he wouldn’t want to be out here at night.

He drinks from the waterfountain until he’s afraid he’ll get sick, then refills his bottle. Inside, he bypasses the video monitors and the glass cases of samples and artifacts and heads straight for the payphone. He digs into his wallet—old prepaid calling cards he hasn’t used in months, the name and number of that cabbie who drove him to meet Kagami—and he starts dialing.

Nobody picks up at the cabbie’s number. A brief vague greeting—English, then Arabic, then French—followed by a beep. Hello, Saad, Curtis says. You probably don’t remember me, but my name is Curtis Stone, and a couple of days ago you gave me a ride to the Quicksilver. We talked about jazz a little bit. Listen, I don’t know if you’re working today, but I need your help. I managed to get myself stranded out here at Valley of Fire State Park, and I could use a ride back to the Strip. I know that’s probably not on your regular route, but I can make it worth your time. My phone’s not getting a signal, so I guess I’ll just call you back in a little while. I’m at the park visitor center. Thanks.

Curtis dials again, selects Directory Assistance, and asks for the number for Sin City Escorts in Las Vegas. He listens to sleazy music and breathy boilerplate for a minute. Then the phone rings and a woman answers. Sin City Escorts, she says. How can we make you happy today?

I’m looking for a guy who drives for you, Curtis says. A guy named Albedo. He drives—

Hold please, the woman says.

Curtis holds for a while. Wiping his cheek with some toilet paper he took from the campsite restroom. A man’s voice answers. Who’s it you’re looking for? it says.

A guy named Albedo. He drives for you sometimes. He drives a big black car, an old car. I’m trying to get in touch—

I know the guy, yeah. But I can’t put you in touch. We don’t give out that kind of information. You leave me your name and number, and maybe next time I see him I’ll give it to him, if I think about it.

You don’t have to do that, man, Curtis says. I’ve got his number. I’m just trying to figure out if he’s back from Atlantic City yet.

Atlantic City? the guy says. Yeah, he’s back from Atlantic City. He’s been back for like a week and a half. Did he go out there again?

Thanks, Curtis says, and ends the call.

He wipes his cheek and leans against the wall and thinks for a minute.

Then he calls the switchboard at the Spectacular in AC and asks for lost-and-found. Hi, he says. I was in your hotel a couple of weeks ago, and I think I might have left something in my room.

Young female voice on the line. Sure, it says. We’ll check. What did you lose?

I lost a cufflink, Curtis says. Gold, with a black gemstone.

And do you remember what room you were in, and the dates of your visit?

I was in Room 1797, Curtis says. I was there for one night, on—when was it? It was over Mardi Gras weekend, I remember that.