The Mirror Thief(45)

Have you noticed how many of your neighbors are using Herman Miller furniture these days? Charlie says, feigning a radio voice. It’s an open secret in Detroit—the Edsel is going to be copied!

Stanley squats on his haunches and looks Charlie in the face. The man’s eyes are bobbing, floating like June fireflies. Hey, Stanley says, what are you drinking there, Charlie?

Buh-BAH buh-buh BAA-buh BUH-buh! Charlie sings, misting Stanley a little on his b’s. Lemon and salt in a martini? Caramba!

But Stanley can smell the gin on his breath: it’s a bottle of Seagram’s in the bag. He gives Claudio a hard look. Claudio returns it, his eyes full and glassy. Stanley can’t guess what’s behind them. Let’s go down to the water, Charlie, he says. What do you think?

Charlie is inviting me to go back to his pad, Claudio says.

His what?

Hey, you should come, too, man, Charlie says. Two’s company, three’s more company. More the merrier. Dig?

No, Stanley says. Let’s go down to the water. The water’s nice, Charlie. It’s cold. It’ll wake you up.

That’s good, that’s good, Charlie says. That’s a good idea. I love the water, man. I love to just get out in it and—

He turns back to Claudio. Is that cool, man? he says. Is that okay? José? Sorry! I’m sorry. Uh—your name again? Cassius? My lean and hungry friend. No. Claudius? C-C-Claudius? No, man, wait—I got it, I got it. Bait the hook well, this fish will bite. Let’s go the water. Where deeper than did ever plummet sound I’ll drown my book.

Stanley takes hold of Charlie’s right arm and tugs. It’s like pulling taffy: he feels like he’s making progress, but Charlie’s still on the bench, fishing for his bottle. Claudio closes his hands around Charlie’s left arm, and in a moment he’s on his feet.

They steer him across the boardwalk, aiming him toward the sound of the surf. Their arms interlock at his waist. They don’t look at each other. Now that Stanley’s this close, he can tell Charlie’s a serious drunk, well along the skids: he’s a wisp, scarecrow-thin under his clothes, and his shaggy blond hair is brittle and dry. Stanley knows he won’t have anything but pocket change on him, if that. He wonders why he started this.

A few yards into the sand, near the edge of the light from the boardwalk, Charlie’s feet start to drag. You okay there, buddy? Stanley asks.

Don’t go to the water, Charlie whines. Not ready.

What’s that?

I said—

Charlie’s feet are dug in hard now, his back straight: he’s standing at parade rest. The slur has vanished from his speech, and his accent is pure Boston brahmin.

—that I am not ready to go to the water yet. If you don’t mind.

Stanley’s hand reaches under his shirttail, closes on the blackjack’s braided handle. As he unwraps his arm from Charlie’s waist, the man drops facefirst, pulling Claudio with him. Both of them are down before the bludgeon clears Stanley’s belt. Odors of alcohol and juniper rise to his nose, and he hears the soft gurgle of the dropped bottle emptying. Charlie’s laughter is muffled by the sand.

Stanley looks around, then stuffs the blackjack in his pocket. Let’s be quiet now, Charlie. Okay? he says.

Claudio is rolling Charlie over. Quiet! Charlie says, spitting sand, palming Claudio’s lean cheek. Shhh! Silence is the perfectest herald of joy. Ain’t that right, Tadzio? Speak low, man. Speak low, if you speak love.

Stanley kneels by Charlie’s side and pats his trouser pockets, looking for a wallet, looking for anything. The sky is dark except for a blue line at the horizon. The half-built amusement park on the pier to the north makes strange silhouettes against it. Stanley tries to keep Charlie distracted while he works. So, he asks, how do you like being an ad man?

No no no no no, Charlie says. Atman. I’m an atman, man. I’m an anima, a soul, a psyche. Like you are. Like him is. Like all of us. Dig?

You don’t write ads?

Not anymore, man. I absolutely do not do that anymore.

So what do you do, then, Charlie? Aside from drinking?

I am a poet, Charlie says.

Stanley withdraws his hand from Charlie’s pocket, then absently smoothes the wrinkled fabric. Somewhere to the south, a foghorn sounds its two long notes. A full yellow moon has bloomed over the city; Stanley can see its reflection in front of him, scattered among the waves. Of course, he thinks. Of course it would happen like this.

Charlie, Stanley says, I don’t suppose you know of a guy called Adrian Welles?





20


A cavalcade of bikers is making the curve at Brooks as Stanley and Claudio march north along the boardwalk. Girls in circle skirts and pedal-pushers jam fingers in their ears and stare openmouthed while the oscillating line of headlamps sweeps the buildings, the reports of V-twin engines reshape the waterfront air. A pair of panhead Harleys is parked outside a liquor store on Breeze Avenue, their chrome-plated pipes and chassis so polished that they’re visible only by the deformed images they return of the night around them. Stanley picks up the pace without sparing the bikes a second look.

You see? Claudio is saying. I am a great detective.

You’re a lucky detective, is what you are.

Claudio shrugs. I don’t think I understand what is the difference, he says.

You’re not even lucky, Stanley says. You got the dope on what I’m looking for, not on what you’re looking for. That guy didn’t have one red cent on him.