The Mirror Thief(23)

Back in the Oculus Lounge he finds himself a Deuces Wild machine with a good sidelong view and stops a passing cocktail waitress to order a cranberry juice. He thinks she’s the same one who served him last night, but he can’t be sure. Like all the girls here she’s tall, pretty, sharp-eyed. Dressed in an absurd burgundy-and-gold corselet with chiffon ruffles at the hips. The bridesmaid of a trapeze artist. She probably clears eighty grand a year in tips alone. A vast smile is drawn across her face like a curtain.

Curtis watches the casino floor for twenty minutes, scanning, then drifting, then scanning again. Thinking about Danielle. The strange and vital smell of her, tangled up with sweat and Bactine and isopropyl alcohol. Recalling his forearm tight across her lower back. The weight of her hips. A sound she made.

His phone wriggles to life, and he jumps, looks at the display. A number he doesn’t know, a 609 area code. Damon, maybe. He switches the phone to his right hand, plugs his left ear with a finger.

Hello?

Silence on the other end. He can hear crowds, raised voices, music, electronic murmurings. Another casino. Atlantic City? He holds his breath, listens.

Then a voice. I don’t think she’s coming tonight, pal, it says. I think you scared her off.

Albedo, Curtis thinks at first. But it’s not Albedo. The pitch is too high, and the accent’s wrong: Ohio or Western PA, not Appalachia. Who is this? he says.

This is the guy you’re looking for. Who do you think it is?

Stanley?

Curtis can’t help saying it, although he knows it isn’t Stanley. A younger guy, white, probably on the small side. He whistles a little on his s’s. Curtis tries to listen around his voice for other sounds, clues to where he’s calling from.

Look, the voice says. Spare me the Stanley shit, okay? I’m the guy you’re really looking for.

How’d you get this number?

Are you kidding? C’mon, Curtis. You gave your number to every bartender and blackjack dealer on the Strip.

So the guy’s here in town. Curtis starts running through casinos in his head, thinking of their signature background noise. Nothing falls into place. He needs to buy more time. What do you want, man? he says.

The guy’s voice is tense, coiled and snakelike; he’s fighting hard to sound calm. What I really want, he says, is to talk to Veronica. But it looks like that’s not happening tonight. Thanks to you.

A few feet in front of Curtis, a skinny middle-aged Hispanic woman has just hit the jackpot on a Double Double Diamond machine; she’s hopping up and down, bug-eyed, screaming I won I won I won I won, and Curtis wrinkles his brow and jams his finger farther into his ear before he realizes that he’s hearing her over the phone, too. He jerks in his chair, blinking hard, staring into the huge room.

There’s a slight intake of breath on the other end of the line, barely audible. When the guy speaks again, his voice is steady. Well, he says, at least it’s somebody’s lucky night.

The whistle on somebody is canary-clear. Curtis stands up slowly, trying to be patient and careful. Leaving five unplayed dollars in his machine. Nobody’s watching him that he can see. He needs to get the guy talking again, to look for moving lips. Quit messing with me, man, Curtis says. Tell me where you are.

The guy forces a dry laugh. Where’s your jacket, Curtis? he says. No gun tonight, huh? Probably a good idea. Veronica didn’t like it too well when she saw that jacket last night, did she?

Curtis’s back has been turned to the high-limit slot area, and although there’s no one standing there now, the guy could be hiding inside. Curtis moves, checking all the faces, keeping the round bar on his left. Sure, man, he says. I left the jacket topside tonight. So come on out. Let’s talk.

Curtis steps into the high-limit area, clears it in a couple of seconds—there aren’t many people—and moves back to the casino floor, watching for eye contact or unusual movement, heading toward the food court. His vision scrapes away layers of detail as they emerge from the roiling background.

That is not how it works, Curtis, the guy says. You don’t get to see me. Not yet. Besides, we’re talking now, aren’t we? Is this not good enough for you?

Through the whistle at the end of this, Curtis hears it: a canned recording of a crowd shouting in unison WHEEL! OF! FORTUNE! The sound fades toward the end. The guy’s in the slots, and he’s in motion.

Curtis hangs a sharp left into the path of a cocktail waitress who’s approaching in his blindspot; she slams on the brakes, his extended elbow misses her nose by inches, and three of her drinks—two strawberry daiquiris and a screwdriver—slide from her tray and land on his shoes. She swallows a curse, screws her smile back into place, and starts spitting apologies through clenched teeth. Another waitress and a couple of janitors are already moving in. My fault, my fault, Curtis says, and sidesteps them.

His phone snickers at him. Better watch your step there, it says.

Curtis hoped his sudden turn would spook the guy, make him change position, but nobody’s moving in the slots that he can see. A casino suit is hustling over, concerned and irritated, and Curtis cuts him off before he starts talking. I’m fine, Curtis says. It was my fault. I’m sorry, but I have to take this call.

Listen, the voice on the phone is saying, I’ve obviously caught you at a bad time. I’m going to let you go. But first I’m going to ask a favor. Would you give Damon a message for me? Curtis? Hello?