The Mirror Thief(181)
Every substance, Hermes says,
must fashion its own reasons.
Even now, oligarchy’s thugs
unmuzzled stalk Rialto’s corridors.
To hide what can’t be seen, Crivano,
install it in plain sight, everywhere.
Invisible commonplace! Machine
for unseeing! Submerge your name,
weighted with your past. Wall-hung,
neglected, the moon-skin lies in ambush.
And then, one unexpected day, you meet
the stranger you have always been.
A couple of UNLV co-eds dressed as leprechauns are stationed between the Quicksilver’s riverstone columns; they grin and wave as Curtis’s cab pulls up, bend to pin plastic shamrocks to the cardigans of wheelchair-bound gamblers. Curtis pays his cabbie, steps onto the rubbery sidewalk. At the valley’s opposite edge, Mount Charleston is a blue shadow on the purple dusk. The setting sun lights its snowcap like a brand.
Welcome to the Quicksilver! one of the leprechauns says. Need some luck?
No thanks, Curtis says. I’m not playing tonight.
The PA in the lobby has swapped its New Age flutes and rainsticks for New Age bodhráns and uilleann pipes. The kid behind the counter wears a green plastic bowler hat, keeps himself busy by adding links to a six-foot paperclip chain. Hello, Curtis says. I’m Curtis Stone. Walter Kagami is holding a room for me.
The kid hands over a keycard in a small paper envelope. Top floor, he says. First door on the right. It’s a suite.
The elevators are on the far side of the gaming floor. There’s not much traffic at the tables or the slots, but what traffic there is moves awfully slowly, and Curtis doesn’t feel like navigating it. He tracks the right-hand wall to the bow windows that overlook the sunken courtyard, then follows them across the length of the casino. Lights are coming on below: in the palmtrees, under the recirculating fountain and the waterfall. The guineafowl that he saw last time are not to be found—gone wherever they go at night—but a peacock has climbed atop one of the stone picnic tables, and as Curtis passes, he spreads and shakes his tailfeathers into an oscillating iridescent screen.
When Curtis reaches the corner he immediately tenses, feeling a bad closeness, something wrong, but it’s already too late: a heavy plastic coinpail bumps his ribs and a smooth voice murmurs in his ear. You ain’t wearing anything green, my man, it says. Somebody’s liable to pinch you.
Curtis jerks to a halt. Albedo shoves the pail against his side again; something in it is heavy and solid. Keep on marching, my brother, Albedo says.
A flood of adrenaline sweeps through Curtis’s limbs into his groin; he shudders with the need to piss. Takes a deep trembling breath, lets it out. Walks on.
Albedo came up on Curtis’s left, from slightly behind: exactly the spot where Curtis’s nose blocks his peripheral vision. He knows about Curtis’s eye; Damon must have told him. When Curtis first met him in the Hard Rock the other night, Albedo kept leaning back in his chair: he was testing Curtis, feeling out the limits of his sight. This has been the plan all along. Albedo knows that Stanley’s on his way.
There’s no surveillance by the windows, probably. Cameras watch the elevators for sure—but when he and Albedo reach the elevators, Albedo falls back, giving Curtis plenty of room. Even if Kagami is watching, he won’t see anything.
Curtis doesn’t press the callbutton. He hopes Albedo will talk to him—ordering him to do it, giving himself away—but Albedo just moves past him and presses it himself. A car opens at once, empty, and they step into it. Don’t talk to me, Albedo whispers as he crosses the threshold.
There’s a small lens behind the tinted glass of the instrument panel; maybe a mic somewhere, too. They rise to the top floor, the sixth, in sullen silence, sunset streaming through the glass at their backs. Curtis studies Albedo closely. Albedo doesn’t meet his gaze. He has a cool dead-eyed aspect like some guys get when they’re drunk, but Curtis doesn’t think he’s drunk. He wears a bright-green T-shirt under his motorcycle jacket. His boots and bluejeans are dusty, snarled with burrs and what look like tiny pricklypear needles. Through the frayed fabric at Albedo’s knees Curtis glimpses bloody skin. The handle on the coinpail is stretched slightly by whatever weight it contains, and a plastic bag spread over the top hides its contents. The big hand that holds the pail is raw, scored all over by scrapes and scratches. FIGHT ME—I’M IRISH! Albedo’s T-shirt says.
On Five the door slides open with a low chime, and a turkey-necked old codger with a glossy toupee, a bolo tie, and a poof-banged, decades-younger date on his arm tries to step in. Albedo moves into his path. You goin’ up? he asks.
Goin’ down, the old dude says.
Albedo pushes the guy backward lightly with the fingertips of his right hand. Well, sir, he says, y’all might oughta give that little down-arrow button a tap.
Albedo’s outstretched hand looks like it was worked over with a potato peeler. The old guy stares at it openmouthed. The door slides shut again.
I believe I went to high school with that girl, Albedo says.
As soon as Curtis exits on the next floor, Albedo draws a pistol from the pail, spread-eagles him against the wall, takes away his revolver, and pats him down. Albedo is fast, looking for nothing but wires and weapons. When he’s done he tugs Curtis upright by his collar, aims him down the hall. Open the door, he says.