The Mirror Thief(44)

They sit like that for a moment. Stanley’s arm rises and falls with Claudio’s breath. One of the spheres vanishes, followed by the second, and the third.

There they go. See?

Claudio is quiet for a moment. There is nothing there, he says.

Stanley slumps backwards, flat on the sand. Closes his eyes. Goddamn, he says. I need some sleep.

The sun is warm on his face, his eyelids. He feels Claudio’s hand on his bare stomach. How did you get money in New York? Claudio asks.

He can feel the crash of the surf through the sand beneath him, rocking him like the engine of the bus. Lots of ways, he says.

What ways?

Ways you need a gang to make work. Ways that ain’t gonna help us here.

No ways that can work with two people? You are certain of this?

Stanley takes a deep breath, lets it out. The seashell hiss of sleep fills his ears. Maybe we can roll lushes, he mutters.

What does this mean?

Lushes. Drunks. You find ’em, and you take their wallets. Simple.

Do you hurt them?

Not unless they make a fuss. Even then they usually fall down on their own. Most times they don’t even know what’s going on.

I don’t think this is a good idea.

Fine. Let me know when you got a better one.

I have ideas, Claudio says.

Stanley thinks he’s only been asleep for a second, but when he jerks awake with the sensation of falling his throat is sore, his lips speckled with sand, and everything is glowing orange. The sun is enormous in front of him, its cool disk split across the bottom by the horizon, and Claudio is gone.

He staggers to his feet, heart thrashing. The tide is going out. Big waves are still breaking a few yards away, and Stanley sees a dark shape—a log, or the trunk of a washed-out palmtree—just beyond the spot where they crest. As he watches, a pair of bright black eyes appears; then the shape jerks, arcs into a bow, and rockets into the depths. A little farther out are two more, rolling and swimming in the black water. Seals. Sea lions. Stanley’s frogmen come to shore. He laughs at himself, shaken.

The streetlamps are coming on along the boardwalk, and knots of people are milling around in front of the arcades, laughing, shouting, huddling close. A sinister few stand in the shadows, nursing bottles, surveying the crowd. Stanley spots a couple of Shoreline Dogs loitering by the Bridgo parlor: young kids, new recruits, not faces he knows. He stops to rest the combat pack on a bench and shuffle through its contents. Coiled at the bottom among the tinned meats is his blackjack, two tapered strips of leather stitched into a long pouch and filled with a halfpound of double-ought buck, something he fashioned in his spare hours a few months ago while working on a ranch in Colorado, or maybe New Mexico. He tucks it into his bluejeans at the small of his back and buckles the pack again.

As he strolls the boardwalk, Stanley scans the crowd, concentrating on groups; he has a feeling Claudio won’t be alone. The kid’s nowhere to be seen under the arcades or on the benches, so Stanley turns around at the Ocean Park pier and heads south again, checking the sidestreets as he goes. The roar and sputter of motorcycles echoes from a few blocks away: a gang of bikers passing through. This will bring the Dogs closer to the water tonight, looking for fights they can win. He quickens his step.

A pack of shaggy hipsters is coming up the boardwalk: two bearded men in sandals, a dirty-blond girl in a black leotard, a white guy with a saxophone case, a Negro with a trumpet. Just before Stanley meets them, they make a right on Dudley. The blonde turns and gives him a weird knowing look as he crosses the street. He walks on, the hipsters’ rough voices ricocheting in the shadows behind him. This bunch reminds him of the menthol-and-turtleneck crowd he used to see in the Village, but wilder, more sunburnt and desperate. The sight and sound and smell of them trouble him for blocks, though he’s not sure why.

He’s so distracted that he nearly misses Claudio, seated on a bench off Wave Crest Ave, next to a lean and handsome man. The man is dressed in a wrinkled Bali Cay shirt and what was once a nice pair of trousers; he’s speaking Spanish with a flat American accent. The man laughs as he talks, gesturing with his left hand, which alights now and then on Claudio’s lithe shoulder. Stanley steps to the corner and stands there until he’s certain that Claudio sees him. Then he crosses to the opposite side of the street. Claudio doesn’t meet his gaze. He’s leaning in close, flashing his eyes, beaming into the handsome man’s face.

A shiny black and silver Montclair squeals through a stopsign on the Speedway, Chuck Rio’s saxophone blaring through its open windows, and now the handsome man is dancing in his seat, singing along, screaming Tequila! into the seething night. Claudio laughs and pats his leg. The man reaches for a bag-sheathed bottle at his feet, and his long fingers miss the neck by a full inch. Stanley crosses his arms, leans against a column, breathing steadily. His pulse throbs in his injured calf, pressing against the knots of the bandage. The blackjack is heavy at the base of his spine.

Claudio is looking up, beckoning with a curled finger. Stanley crosses the street again and saunters over. He pastes on a smile, narrows his eyes.

Charlie, Claudio says to the handsome man, please meet my good friend Stanley. Stanley, this is Charlie.

Encantado de conocerle, Se?or, the man says, and extends an unsteady hand. His grip is damp, pickled. Claudio laughs.

Pleasure, Stanley says.

Charlie works in advertising, Claudio says. He is an ad man.