The Mirror Thief(14)

10


The taxi that picks him up has jazz on the radio—“Invisible,” from the first Ornette album—and this puts Curtis somewhat at ease. He stretches his legs as they turn right on the Strip; the cab’s interior smells like cigarettes and mint.

The driver is Middle Eastern, in his late fifties, with a full head of gypsum-white hair. Careful and patient behind the wheel. He has an air of certainty that Curtis envies. The ID card in the backseat gives his name as Saad; Curtis can’t make out the last name without staring, and he doesn’t want to stare.

So how are you doing? the cabbie wants to know.

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

The cabbie aims an accusatory finger at the Mirage on their left. You are smart to leave the Strip, he says. Very smart.

Oh yeah?

It is true. It is always good to move around. People always say, oh, my luck is good, oh, my luck is bad. But places have luck too. The casino has luck. Everyone forgets this. If the casino is being lucky—if the dealers are hot, as you say—then you must go someplace else. Not to do so is foolish.

I guess that’s right.

The stoplight on Industrial Road catches them. Chartered buses pass by. The radio rolls Ornette Coleman into Art Pepper. Curtis looks down again at the ID card. Your name’s Saad? Curtis says.

Yes. Saad. That is correct.

You a Muslim, Saad?

The driver shoots him a hard look in the rearview: flinty eyes, deeply lined from squinting. Why do you ask me this, my friend? he says. You are from the Homeland Security Department, maybe. You think I blow up your casino with my taxicab.

No, no. I just—my dad is a Muslim. And he won’t set foot in this town.

Ah. I see. Islam says no gambling.

Saad flips on his turn signal, merges onto the northbound lanes of the interstate. I am Muslim, he says. But I sometimes like to play roulette. And sometimes also the video poker. And I like to drink a glass of wine. I do not pray very often as I should. So maybe I am not a very good Muslim. Your father is Muslim, you say?

That’s right.

Like Malcolm X?

Yeah, sure, I guess.

Or Muhammad Ali? Kareem Abdul-Jabbar?

More like Ahmad Jamal.

Ahmad Jamal! Yes! Very good. Or Tupac Shakur?

No, Curtis laughs. Not like Tupac Shakur. I don’t think Tupac was a Muslim. His mom was, maybe.

You like jazz? Saad reaches for the radio, turns it up a little. Cool jazz? Bebop?

Sure. My dad plays jazz. He plays the bass.

Saad drums along with Philly Joe Jones on the battered steering wheel for a few bars before he speaks again. I was working on the Strip the night they shot Tupac Shakur, he says. I was less than one mile away.

Is that so.

I did not hear the shots. But I saw the police arrive. The ambulance. The black car, full of holes. It was a terrible sight.

Curtis doesn’t respond. He’s looking out the window, not really seeing anything, remembering. Ladder drills on the practice field at Dunbar. The smell of new grass crushed underfoot. Sirens everywhere. Policecars speeding down Florida toward Adams-Morgan. Helicopters in the air, circling. The assistant principal jogging out, waving to Coach Banner. More than twenty years ago now. Twenty-two, this month.

Many people come to this city to die, Saad is saying.

Yeah, well. I don’t think that’s exactly what Tupac had in mind. I think he just wanted to catch the Tyson fight.

Maybe this is so. Who can say?

Saad’s turn signal clicks again; he’s exiting at Lake Mead Boulevard, turning right, toward Nellis and Sunrise Manor. The white spires of the Mormon temple gleam in the distance. Frenchman Mountain looms beyond.

Maybe your father is smart, Saad says, or is wise, maybe, to think of these things. Everything in this city is made by gambling. Yes? It builds the buildings. It builds the roads. It pays the people. It pays me. All of these things. And always with gambling there is death. You see?

Okay.

This is why we gamble. To face what is uncertain. To confront the unknown, the great unknown. You make your wager. The wheel spins. What will happen? To gamble is to prepare for death. To rehearse. This is the appeal.

You do this rap for all your fares, Saad?

Saad cackles, a rough smoker’s laugh, slapping his palm on the wheel. Only for you, my friend! Only for you. Because you are a serious man. Concerned with serious things. I know this about you. It is in your eyes.

Curtis smiles, doesn’t respond.

Or the man who died here last year! Saad continues, picking up a dropped thread. The Englishman. The rock star.

I don’t know who that is.

The Ox. The one who stands very still.

A thin electronic rendition of “La Marseillaise” is playing below the radio: the ringtone of Saad’s cell. Forgive me, he says, and answers it. Speaking first in English, then switching to Arabic. Curtis tries to follow but soon gives up; some phrases sound familiar, but he can’t recall their meanings. The cab rolls through the light at Pecos Road, passing over the depleted river in its concrete channel. Fewer houses on the sidestreets now. A low roar of jet engines overhead. Curtis settles back in his seat, tries to relax, to think. To get his mind back on Stanley.

But Stanley is slippery, and seems to go everywhere, spinning Curtis back onto himself. His father. Kagami. Los Angeles, in the late Fifties. Art Pepper, dragging himself into the Contemporary studios, white junkie with a dried-up horn, Band-Aid on the broken cork. Pepper was an MP too, Little Man. A prison guard, in London during the war. Columns of orange flame off to the north. The sky burnt black at two in the afternoon. Oily poisoned rain. Ijlis. Sit down. Inhad. Stand up. Sa tuffattash ilaan. Now you will be searched.