The Mirror Thief(184)

The valet opens the Merc’s door, then steps hurriedly aside. His expression is disgusted, freaked-out. Your chariot stands at the ready, my brother, Albedo tells Curtis. You may take up the reins.

Hey, Curtis says. Guess what? I can’t drive.

Albedo gives him a fierce look. Then he steps forward. Hey, he says. Guess what? Fuck you. I known me a whole shitload of one-eyed dudes in my time. All of them motor around just fine.

Too bad none of them are here, Curtis says. Because I don’t.

Albedo has already opened the passenger door. Look, he says. Don’t smartmouth me, Curtis. Get in the f*cking car.

Curtis gets in the car. He has to slide the seat forward a good six inches to get his feet comfortable on the accelerator and clutch. The shoulder-straps bolted to the seatback are too high for him; he doesn’t even try to put them on. Something somewhere in the car smells like piss and shit and worse things, and Curtis starts to breathe fast and feel sick. He fastens his lap belt. Then he fusses with the mirrors.

Oh come the f*ck on, Albedo says.

You’re gonna have to help me watch to my left, man. I can’t see there at all.

Albedo puts the pail with Argos’s pistol on the Merc’s cluttered floor. Curtis’s revolver is in his right hand. There ain’t nothing to your left, he says. There ain’t nothing nowhere. Now get this bitch in gear and drive.

Curtis puts the car in gear. It rolls gently from the curb. The downgrade carries it past the limestone QUICKSILVER sign to the narrow roadcut of the exit-ramp. Curtis brakes to a stop and sits there for a long time with the Merc’s left-turn indicator clicking and flashing. No traffic comes from either direction. Over the mutter of the big engine, Curtis hears a jet pass overhead.

You’re clear, Curtis, Albedo says. You are completely, totally clear, my man.

Once he’s made the left turn, Curtis eases toward the flashing red light, coasting in neutral as the incline grows steeper, stopping well before the white band painted on the blacktop. It’s easy, driving. He’s not sure why he expected it to be hard.

Okay, Curtis says. You gotta help me out here.

A long line of headlights is coming from the right: cars hung up behind some kind of heavy truck, maybe a dumptruck. Vehicles on the left, too, in the distance: the blurry lump of Curtis’s nose is edged by the glow of approaching halogen. On the other side of the road there’s a wide shoulder and a guardrail, then nothing: the ground plunges away into what must be a deep wash. Traffic on the through-street seems to be doing about fifty as it passes beneath the two flashing yellows. Tilted on the downgrade, the Merc’s weight strains against its brakes.

You can turn now, Albedo says.

This is not gonna work, man.

Quit acting like a little girl, Curtis. You just missed your shot. Ooch up a little so’s I can see, and put your signal on.

Curtis flips on the right-turn signal, eases up very slightly on the brake. The Merc jerks forward a few inches. To the right, the big truck labors on the upgrade; cars cluster impatiently behind it. More vehicles pass from the left, lit by the Merc’s headlamps: an SUV, two sedans. Soft underwater whooshes as they go by. Am I clear? Curtis says.

Not yet, Albedo says, leaning forward in his seat. Almost. Hang on.

The big truck—it’s a cement-mixer—is gathering speed, puffing black smoke from its exhaust. Behind the smoke, the stars and valley lights mute and flicker. Curtis can’t watch it anymore. He looks ahead, measuring his breaths. The rearview is still tilted wrong, angled so that he sees the stubbly dome of his own head whenever the red light flashes. He’s not sure what he should be thinking right now, what he wants to be thinking. About Danielle, probably. He tries to put his mind on her, but he can’t do it. Instead he just keeps staring at the shape of his skull in the tilted rearview mirror. There I am, he thinks. That’s me.

Two more cars speed by from the left, startling him. Okay, Albedo says. You’re good. Let’s go.

That truck’s over the line, Curtis says. It’s too tight to turn. I can’t see distances, man. I got no depth perception.

Albedo looks to the right. It ain’t over the line, he says. You got scads of room.

I’m gonna wait, Curtis says.

He moves his right hand to six o’clock on the steering wheel, closer to his seatbelt buckle. Then he takes a deep breath, relaxes, and pisses himself.

Look, dumbass, Albedo says, turning to face left again. Next time I tell you to go, you f*cking go. See, now you got another bunch of cars—

Curtis releases the buckle, lifts his foot from the brakepedal, pulls the handle to open the door. The Merc lurches forward, rolling into the intersection, under the flashing lights; Curtis’s wet warm boxers scrape his thighs. As his left foot swings over the pavement he hears Albedo’s strangled scream, the squeal of brakes, the low blast of the cement-mixer’s airhorn, and then every sound is swallowed by the roar of the gun. Albedo’s first shot tugs Curtis’s jacket-sleeve and smacks into the door—Curtis hears it ping between layers of steel—and then Curtis slips from the seat onto the moving blacktop, showered by glass as Albedo fires again, bluegreen tesserae pricking his face and hands as he falls, mixing with bits of silver from the exploded side mirror, all lit up by oncoming headlamps and hanging in the dusty air. Curtis slams to the ground, rolls away from the Merc’s rear tire, and is scrambling to his feet—has raised himself to a half-crouch—when an oncoming Toyota truck hits him.