The Mirror Thief(183)

He wanted me to be at the airport, Veronica says, because he’s got me booked on a flight out. It’s boarding in like five minutes. I still have to put some stuff in a locker and go through security, so I don’t have much time.

Curtis closes his eyes, puts a hand on the desktop to steady himself. Through the tangle of white noise on the telephone line he imagines he can hear Stanley laughing, shouting coded numbers like a quarterback.

Don’t ask me to explain what he’s doing, Veronica says, because I have no idea. But I wanted to call, to let you and Walter know what’s up. Now I better—

Curtis opens his eyes. Walter? he says. Walter’s coming?

Yeah. I figured he’d be there by now. He’s usually off-duty by—oh, shit, I gotta run. Listen, Curtis, I’m really sorry. And thanks. I’ll be in touch.

The phone clicks, goes dead. Albedo’s watching him, a furrow deepening on his brow. Curtis lets his focus go soft on the desktop, studies Albedo’s face in his periph. Fumble recovery, he thinks. The ball is lying at his feet.

Sure, Curtis tells the dead phone. I guess that works. What’s the arrival time?

Ghostly clicks from the earpiece, like pebbles dropped in a dry well.

Got it, Curtis says. Look for me at baggage-claim. Don’t leave. I may be a couple minutes late.

He hangs up the phone. Change of plan, he says. Stanley’s flight was delayed. They’re not coming here. I’m supposed to meet them at McCarran.

Albedo stares at him. Then he stands up. How is that gonna work? he says.

Look, man, I didn’t know what else to do.

Albedo still seems dazed, but he’s snapping out of it. How ’bout you get ’em the f*ck over here, he says. That’s what. Or you send ’em someplace else. Anyplace else. A goddamn police station’d be an improvement. Jesus, Curtis, the f*cking airport? Exactly how many people are you gonna make me have to shoot?

Curtis swallows hard. I think Stanley’s spooked, he says. He knows something’s off. Veronica wasn’t sure where they were going after they picked up his bags. I don’t even know if he’s gonna wait for his bags, man. I think he might bolt.

Albedo’s face clouds; his jaw sets. That’d be kinda bad for you, he says.

Yeah? Curtis says, forcing a panicked shrillness into his voice. So let’s get rolling, all right?

Albedo drops Argos’s pistol back in the coinpail, then tucks Curtis’s revolver into his belt, covering it with his motorcycle jacket. On their way out of the room they both step over The Mirror Thief, a dark window in the neutral beige carpet. Curtis hopes that whoever finds it will know what to do with it. Know better than he did, anyway.

He’s scared the elevator will slide open to reveal Walter’s surprised face—that after their week of butting heads, he and the old man will each wind up being the last thing the other sees—but when the car arrives, it’s empty. They don’t meet him on their way out either, only a prim pink-haired old lady in a gold lamé jacket, balancing on an aluminum-frame walker. Her blue eyes are big and damp; her pupils frosted with blindness. She smiles sweetly as they rush past.

Curtis keeps hoping that Kagami’s gotten wind of what’s up—that he’ll have LVMPD waiting at the exit—but everything looks routine on the gaming floor. On the way to the lobby Curtis spots a couple of security officers among the tables, but none who’s likely to be armed. He doubts Albedo would think twice about shooting in here, so he keeps his eyes forward, doesn’t try anything. He’s still jittery from the gunshots, but his legs are firming up fast, his mind is humming. All week long he’s just been playing around; now he’s in real trouble. It still doesn’t feel real, though. Stanley wouldn’t have put him in this spot unless he was sure Curtis could find a way out. Would he?

G Seventeen, says a clear amplified voice from the bingo room. G Seventeen.

Outside the western sky is dark except for a blue rind at the horizon. The black field is vented all over by starlight, gritty and diamond-hard, except for a few spots where invisible clouds block it. Albedo wraps his parking ticket in a twenty, passes it to the valet, tells the kid to f*cking step on it. Then he turns to face the leprechauns. You Irish, sweetheart? he says. You don’t look Irish. But green is definitely your color.

The girl flashes a grin which immediately turns queasy when she notices Albedo’s bloody hands and ripped knees and the dead-fish look in his eyes. She shrinks back, lifts her basket of plastic shamrocks in both hands like a flimsy shield. Her partner—a little older, a little more assured—glances at Curtis. She looks worried, which must mean that Curtis looks scared. What’s wrong? her eyes say. Can I help? Curtis tries to smile.

Soon he hears the monstrous engine of Albedo’s car; he still can’t see it. The valet parking lot is underground, off the building’s north side; Curtis hadn’t noticed it before. The big black Merc makes the corner, rolls up the drive. Its weak yellow headlamps sweep them: searchlights in search of something else. Curtis still doesn’t know how he’s going to sidestep whatever’s coming. Then, suddenly, he does. He knows exactly.

As the car pulls to the curb, Curtis glances through the windows. The usual junk inside—magazines and newspapers, paper bags and plastic cups—plus some interesting new hardware in the backseat: what looks like a tablet PC with a GPS attachment, what looks like a handheld police scanner. Interesting, but not surprising.