The Mirror Thief(126)

He crosses the room and taps Whitey on the shoulder before anyone sees him coming. It isn’t hard. Stanley keeps his weight back, his stance open, in case somebody takes a swing.

Whitey turns, does a doubletake. For an instant, alarm flickers in his eyes; then he plasters on a hyena sneer. Well, whaddya know, he says. We may get some blowjobs tonight aft—

Can it, meathead. I’m looking for your boss.

Whitey squares his shoulders and juts his jaw, puffed up like a peacock, but his voice is clear, and he’s breathing through his nose: he’s not going to pull anything. For my what? he says.

You heard me. Where is he?

Probably still at the last job I quit, *. I ain’t got no boss.

Okay, smart guy. Then where’s the joker does your thinking for you? You know who I’m talking about. Don’t act like a putz.

It ain’t my week to watch him, nosebleed. You think I’m his secretary?

I don’t think about you at all, chum. When you see him, you tell him that me and my buddy are about to do some business on the waterfront. If he wants a cut, he better let me know pronto. I’m not gonna track him down.

Whitey’s sneer sags, like his face is getting tired; he sifts the contents of his brain for a sharp response. Stanley fades back slowly until Whitey open his mouth again. Then he spins on his heel and walks.

Claudio’s watching with panicked eyes; he steps forward, meets Stanley halfway. What are you doing? he whispers. Why do you go to the hoods?

You know why, kid, Stanley says. Look, we can’t talk about it now. I need you to hold onto something.

He pulls Alex’s wad of bills from his pocket and presses it into Claudio’s hand. Claudio’s eyes get wider; his jaw drops. Stop it, Stanley says. Look at me. If you see those punks make a move—I mean if they come over here, understand?—then you let me know right off. If anybody throws a punch, then you scram the hell outta here. I’ll meet you at the hideout.

Alex and his buddy are playing adjacent machines at the room’s far end, a Shoot The Moon and a Mercury, their mist-damp heads silhouetted against the sleek painted rockets of the glowing backglasses. Alex is good: he tilts his machine with subtlety and skill, lecturing as he plays. Pinball’s true appeal, he’s saying, resides in its embodiment of the stiff social mechanisms that ensnare us. To play is to strike at them in effigy. Pinball and jazz are the two finest things your country has given the world, and they arise from the same spirit of opposition.

Stanley moves past them to an Arabian Nights machine. He drops a dime and the backglass lights up: a veiled bellydancer, a turbaned sultan ringed by busty harem girls. The sultan is smug, portly, reading aloud from a massive book; Stanley thinks of Welles and grins. He figures he doesn’t have much time, so he draws back the plunger, launches the first ball, and lets it drain. He does the same with the second, and the third. Then he starts to play for real, racking up points in a hurry, slowing down when he feels Alex loom behind him. Not bad, Alex tells him when the game ends.

Thanks. Not too shabby yourself.

I used to play quite a lot in Paris. I’ve rusted a bit, I’m afraid.

Stanley puts his hand in his pocket, comes out with another coin. Time for one more game? he says.

Why not? The fish will wait, I suspect.

You wanna win back some of your cash?

As Alex plays—warping the cabinet with the pressure of his knees and elbows, deforming the course of the little silver balls—Whitey and his hammerhead sidekicks exit, flipping Stanley the bird as they go. Claudio seems to relax a little. A light breeze filters through the windows, and Stanley can see moonlight on the waves; the rainclouds must be blowing through. The pinball cabinet groans against Alex’s weight. Score lights climb the backglass; the machine clunks and dings.

Soon it’s Stanley’s turn. He doesn’t even look at Alex’s score. Moments after he’s launched his first ball Alex begins to laugh; he takes a fin from his billfold, creases it down its middle, lays it across the lockdown bar. Ah, but you’re a good f*cking con, Stanley, he says. Go as long as you can, now. It’s worth five just to see you play, you magnificent bugger.

Stanley never tilts; he’s never tried, isn’t really sure how. He touches nothing but the flipper-buttons. The left is a little tacky; sometimes he can see where the ball’s going but can’t do much about it, and that gets on his nerves. His eyes track the streak of silver as it ricochets between bumpers. The trapholes light; the machine vomits replays. Three million points. Four million. Five. Claudio, bored, taps out a mambo rhythm on the tin bucket with his fingertips. Stanley’s still on his first ball. Sweet christ, Alex whispers to Claudio. I’ve not seen anything like it.

Eventually the machine maxes out. Stanley pockets the fin, then tears off the replays and hands them to Alex. So, he says, who’s ready to go fish?

They find Stuart and the others near the entrance channel to the new marina. Stuart and Milton are at the water’s edge, staring into the swash, outlined against the emergent moon. The others sit farther back on the dry sand, beside empty buckets and scattered shoes. The group has grown: Lyn’s here, with three other women, faces Stanley recalls from the coffeehouse. One of them plays a soft melody on a guitar. Charlie’s nearby too, a little apart, nursing a bottle from a paper bag.

One of the women greets Claudio by name; he must’ve met her last night, while Stanley was with Welles. While Claudio talks to her, Stanley slips off his shoes to join Milton and Stuart. As he approaches, Stuart signals caution with a raised hand, and hisses for silence, although Stanley isn’t making any noise.