The Mirror Thief(114)

Okay, the voice chirps. If you’ll hold for a minute, we’ll see what we can do.

A click. An Eagles song comes on. After a verse and a chorus, another click. I’m sorry, the same voice says. What was your name?

My name is Albedo, Curtis says. But I don’t know if the reservation was made under my name. I was there with a group.

Well, I may have some good news, Mister Albedo. We did have a lost cufflink logged on March Second. I’m going to check with Risk Management now.

The Eagles come back on. Then they fade into Fleetwood Mac, and Fleetwood Mac fades into Norah Jones. Curtis is leaning his head on the wall with his eyes closed when a voice comes from behind him. Hey, it says. Are you Curtis Stone?

Curtis spins, blinks. Yeah, he says.

It’s a park ranger, looking irritated. Your taxi just called, she says. He’s coming. He says it’ll probably be two hours before he gets here.

Okay, Curtis says. Thanks.

Do you want to talk to him?

I can’t right now. Sorry. Thanks.

The ranger rolls her eyes and walks away. Curtis wipes his cheek and rests his forehead on the wall again. Thinking of Damon in the Penrose Diner. Look, this is not dangerous. Nobody’s breaking any laws. Curtis grimaces. Norah Jones rolls over into Elton John. Then a click. Mister Albedo?

Yeah. I’m here.

The girl’s voice is tense now, and Curtis knows he’s getting close. I’m really sorry for the delay, she says. I’ve got Security Officer Ramirez on the phone now. He’ll explain the situation regarding your cufflink. Okay? Officer Ramirez?

Another voice: Hello? Mister Albedo?

That’s right.

I’ve been, ah, investigating the matter of your cufflink, and what I have basically discovered is that we do have a record of such an item being found in Room 1797 on March Second, but the item is no longer in our lost-and-found. Do you know anybody else who was in the room that night who might have claimed it?

You know, Curtis says. I just might. I’ll have to check. Don’t you guys keep a record of what gets claimed?

We do, the guy says, but, y’know, sometimes paperwork doesn’t get done. I’m really sorry about this. Um—while I’ve got you on the phone, Mister Albedo, do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions about some damage that was done to that room?

Curtis ends the call. He stands there holding the dead phone until it starts to buzz. Then he puts it back in the cradle. Running different formulas in his head. Weighing things against each other that he’d never really appreciated as separate before. Coming up with the same result every time.

In the end he thinks: this is how I help Stanley. This is what it comes down to.

He lifts the receiver, dials again. A few rings. His dad’s voice on the answering machine. Curtis talks over it. Pop, he says. I know you’re there. It’s Curtis. Pick up.

A click, and his father’s voice again, louder and clearer. What’s up, Curtis? it says. What’s wrong? You in trouble?

A tear falls from Curtis’s face and makes a dark spot on his foot. His black shoes are pinkish-gray with mud and dust. Their laces are snarled with burrs. They look like some foul echinoderms that might slither along a reef. It’s okay, Curtis says. I’m okay.

I didn’t ask if you’re okay, Little Man. I asked what’s wrong.

Curtis laughs quietly. Well, he says, a lot’s wrong. Nothing that can’t be fixed, though. I’m sorry to put this on you, Pop, but I’m in a tricky spot out here. I can’t really explain specifics right now, but I need you to do something for me that’s gonna cause you some aggravation and take up a little of your time.

In the silence that follows, Curtis senses a great gathering of judgment, like the rise of water behind a dam. When his father speaks again, Curtis can hear strain in his voice from the effort of holding it back. He loves the old man for that.

Okay, his father says. What do you need?

You got something at hand to write with?

Yeah.

Okay, Curtis says. I need you to call the Jersey State Police.





40


When Saad appears—dressed in sandals, a workshirt with rolled sleeves, and khakis stained dark brown at the knees—Curtis is taken by surprise: he hasn’t see a cab pull into the visitor center lot. I am not working today, my friend, Saad says. I am in my personal vehicle. I was at home when you called, working on the roof of my house. What is wrong with your eye? Do you need Visine? I have Visine.

Saad shows Curtis to a white Honda and opens the back door for him. There is no meter, of course, he says. For the distances I looked at MapQuest. It will be one hundred fifty dollars. Okay? I hope you will give me a good tip.

Sure I will. You’re making me feel bad for messing up your day off.

Saad shuts Curtis’s door with an indifferent wave. Bah! he says. Why do you feel bad? I told you, I was working on my roof. Now what am I doing? I am driving in the beautiful mountains. Maybe you will give me a nice tip, and then I can pay some men to fix my roof, which is what my wife always has been telling me to do. You see? I am happy you called. And soon we will be gone from the mountains, and I will find some nice jazz on the radio. Yes?

The Honda turns left on the Valley of Fire Highway, and soon crosses the park’s western boundary. The radio starts to flicker and the scenery calms down. You are tired of the casinos, I see, Saad says. Your luck did not improve.