The Mirror Thief(90)

The valet looks on, popeyed. What the f*ck is that, man?

Mercury Montclair Phaeton sedan, my young friend. Manufactured in the year of our lord nineteen hundred and fifty-eight.

Is it real rare?

Naw, Albedo says. You see ’em around sometimes.

He tips the kid who’s stepping out of the car, slides the seat all the way back, leans in and unlocks the door on Curtis’s side. You restore it yourself? the kid asks.

Hell no, son, Albedo says, settling into his seat, flashing his yellow teeth. I don’t know shit about cars. I hit the progressive at Caesars last June, and I went a little crazy. Bought the whole thing as-is on eBay.

Curtis pops the door, sits down, and Albedo puts the machine in gear, pulls into the stream of traffic. Curtis reaches to fasten his seatbelt and finds that there isn’t one. Yeah, sorry, man, Albedo says. I never bothered to put a harness on yours. The girls always ride in the back.

Curtis cranes his neck to the left, and sure enough, Albedo is wearing both a standard lap belt and an aviator’s double-strap shoulder harness, bolted onto the back of his seat. No sweat, though, he’s saying, plucking the sunglasses from his T-shirt, sliding them onto his face. I promise I won’t wreck us. We going back to your hotel?

Curtis has been trying to come up with a gambit—a wild-goose chase he can lead Albedo on to take control of the situation, to trick him into revealing what he knows—but he’s got nothing. Yeah, he says at last. I’m staying at the— I know where you’re staying, man. Damon told me.

Most of the traffic coming off the freeway is turning onto the Strip, and their pace picks up after they get through the light. Curtis tries to settle in his seat, feeling naked without a belt. The Merc’s interior is cluttered and filthy, M&M wrappers and paper cups and empty In-N-Out bags on every flat surface. Curtis kicks aside a set of jumper cables, a slim attaché case, and a folded-over and underscored copy of Soldier of Fortune before his feet find solid purchase on the sticky floorboard.

Something else, Albedo says. Damon wants us to start leaning on Veronica.

Curtis blinks. What? he says.

Veronica, man. That skinny little bitch Stanley runs around with.

I know who Veronica is.

Well, Damon thinks we need to sweat her a little. The girl is weak, man. After a few days with Stanley being UA, she’s apt to be freaking out. Apply a little pressure, and she’s gonna roll.

Curtis stares at Albedo: his beaked nose, his slit of a mouth. Yeah? he says. And what the f*ck does Damon know about it? I’m not gonna go around town extorting people just because—look, this is bullshit. Damon wants to keep playing, he’s got to show some cards. There’s shit going on that he’s not telling me about.

Albedo snickers, punches the cigarette lighter on the dash. You got that right, man, he says. And you are way better off without the details, believe me. I mean, jesus christ, Curtis, what’s with this wanting to know everything all of a sudden? I thought you were a marine, man.

That was very different from this, Curtis says.

Was it? Was the Desert very different from this? Isn’t it always about taking care of your buddies, and f*ck the big picture? You know the answer, man.

The lighter pops up. Curtis jumps a little, but he doesn’t think Albedo notices. Albedo pulls it out, holds the orange coil to his cigarette, and smoke swirls between the half-open windows. Curtis turns away, looks outside. They’re at the light at Koval, on the edge of McCarran: Boeings and Airbuses are queuing up for takeoff, the heat from their engines bending the light, deforming the air.

You been checking out NA meetings? Albedo says.

Say again?

NA meetings, man. Miss Veronica used to have herself a little coke problem back before Stanley straightened her out. If he’s not around, she might start going to meetings. It’s worth a shot. But, hey, you know what? Let me handle that angle. I’m connected pretty good with that crowd. You just keep doing what you’re doing. And if she turns up again, you call me. I’ll take care of it.

Albedo makes a sharp left, heading north. The decorations hanging from his rearview mirror jangle and sway, and Curtis turns to get a better look: a strand of green Mardi Gras beads from the Orleans, a mini-discoball, a set of dogtags on a beaded steel chain. Curtis reaches up to look at the tags, thinking he’ll get the proper spelling of Albedo, but they’re made out for a marine named L. ALLODOLA, O-positive, who wears a medium gasmask and has no religious preference. Curtis lets them drop.

Hey, you wanna see something real cool? Albedo’s saying. Pick up that case there at your feet. Pop that sucker open.

Curtis picks it up. From the weight he can guess what’s going to be inside, but he opens it anyway, just enough to see. A submachinegun, nine-millimeter, about a foot and a half long, nested in a foam lining. It’s supposed to look slick, very James Bond, but the case’s shell is cracked, duct-taped in a couple of places, and the foam lining is yellow and uneven, like it was ripped out of an old couch. The gun looks like all guns look: scary and stupid, like a wasp trapped in a room. A suppressor and a couple of extra clips sit next to it, and they slide around whenever Albedo jostles the steering wheel, which is often. The suppressor looks like it could have been some junior-high-school kid’s shop class project. Curtis shuts the case.

Sweet, huh? Albedo says. Bet that brings back some memories.

Not for me.