The Mirror Thief(89)

What do you mean?

Did all of them just ask you about Stanley? Or did they ask about each other, too?

She thinks for a second. The big guy asked me about both of the others, she says. About Veronica, and about the little guy. The little guy asked me about Veronica. Veronica and the little guy both asked me about you.

Curtis smiles. What’d you say about me?

That I’d seen you in here Friday night, at the end of my shift. That’s all.

Did you give anybody my number?

No. I didn’t have it with me.

But you’ve still got it someplace.

Yeah. Yeah, I still got it.

If Stanley shows up here, Curtis says, don’t call me. It’s not safe. Give him my number if he wants it. Tell him about everybody who’s looking for him. Tell him everything you told me.

He’s in some trouble, huh?

I think so, yeah.

Curtis lifts the two bills off the bar, looks up at her, and folds them into his wallet. Absolving her. He is on his own.

If anybody asks you about me, he says, just tell them the truth. I’m not going to bother you anymore.

He stands, turns to go. Turns back. How did he look?

Who? she asks.

But she knows who. Not too good, she says after a while. Not good at all.





34


Walking out of the bar, Curtis comes across a little indoor brook that flows into the fake Greenwich Village from the fake Central Park, and he follows it upstream toward the gaming tables. He’s moving slowly, unsure of where he’s going, turning what the bartender said over in his mind, when he feels eyes on him. He stops, looks up. Turning automatically to his left.

And there’s Albedo, grinning, watching him from a craps table a few yards away. Skywriting illegibly with the cigarette in his beckoning fingers.

Curtis freezes for a moment. Albedo shifts in his seat, tokes his dealer, stands up. Draining his plastic cup, leaving it on the baize. Hey, man, he says, sauntering over, his big soft hand coming out. Curtis blinks, shakes himself, takes it. Thinking. Trying to make himself think.

You have a good talk with ol’ Red in there? Albedo says.

Curtis just looks at him.

She’s a classy lady, that Red. I know her real well. Albedo returns his cigarette to his thin lips. Say, man, you’re not headed back to the North Strip, are you? I got a pickup at the Sahara in another hour, a two-girl deal. I can give you a lift.

No thanks. I’ve got some errands to run down here.

Albedo looks back toward the piano bar, steps in closer. Curtis smells patchouli and brine. Listen, Albedo says, I got a message for you. From Damon. I talked to him this morning. Things are getting all manner of f*cked-up back in AC, man. We need to talk. C’mon, walk with me.

You talked to Damon? On the phone?

Albedo’s bloodshot eyes swing his way. No, Curtis, he says. With the telepathic powers of my mind. Yes, on the damn phone. What’re you talking about?

What’s the message?

Hey, can we walk? I gotta get rolling here.

Curtis gives him a hard look. Albedo is sporting a sleeveless Metallica T-shirt today, sunglasses weighting down the droopy neck. No jacket. Jeans too tight to hide anything except maybe a knife. Okay, Curtis says. Let’s go.

They cut through the slots on the way to the main entrance, Curtis doubletiming it to keep up with Albedo’s long stride. Damon just wanted me to tell you that he’s gonna be out of touch for a few days, Albedo’s saying. Hard to reach. That you just oughta hang tight in the meantime and be cool.

A few days? How many days?

I dunno, man. A few days. He’ll let you know.

And he told you that this morning?

Yeah. It was about ten a.m., I think. Woke my ass up.

That doesn’t make any sense. This thing I’m doing out here, it’s time-sensitive.

Yeah, Damon told me all about that, Albedo says, then checks his enormous wristwatch. Sixty hours, right? A little under that, now. Look, here’s what you do. You keep looking for Stanley, just like you been doing. When you get a line on him, you call me. I’ll put him in touch with Damon. No cause for concern.

Curtis is shaking his head. This is no good, he says. Why doesn’t Damon call me himself? What’s going on in Atlantic City?

Things are hairy out there, man. Ownership at the Point’s gone completely Joe McCarthy over this cardcounting shit. They’re looking to tar and feather. Damon’s got to watch his ass, be careful about who he talks to. That includes you.

But not you?

Albedo laughs. Aw, don’t be jealous, man, he says. It’s unbecoming.

They’re walking under the porte-cochère, headed for the valet station. Albedo flicks away his cigarette, gives the Vietnamese boy standing there a folded bill and a quick and elaborate handshake. He jaws with the kid while the car comes around. Curtis fumes silently, staring at the battlements and parapets of the Excalibur across the street, until he hears the kid yell holy shit.

The car coming up the drive is massive, gleaming, thunderously loud. Black and silver and chrome. Boxy, with a few grooved recesses near the tail, like a block of balsa attacked halfheartedly with a router. Four headlights. A bumper that looks like it weighs more than Danielle’s Saturn. A steeply angled windshield that seems to jump forward ahead of the rest of the car. The silver hood-ornament a bold right-angled V inscribed in a circle. Ain’t she a beaut? Albedo’s saying.