The Mirror Thief(91)

No? Oh, wait—it was Damon who worked embassy security, right? Not you. I get y’all mixed up. I tell you, though, that little darlin’ sure brings back the old Force-Recon days for me. I know this dude who’s got a little shooting range set up outside of Searchlight. Sub rosa. Strictly off the books. I’m gonna take it down there in a couple of weeks, tear shit up a little. You ought to tag along if you’re still in town.

I’m not gonna be, Curtis says. He steals a glance over at Albedo. Sure, he thinks. This guy was Force-Recon. Just like I was Secret Service.

So what you got under that jacket, man? Albedo asks. Curtis doesn’t answer. What’s the matter, you shy? C’mon, what’re you carrying?

.357 snub, Curtis says.

Magnum? Holy shit, man. You came out here to do business.

I’m using hot thirtyeights, Curtis says. You get better control.

Albedo looks over at him, eyebrows arched behind his shades, and then laughs. That is exactly like you, my brother, he says. If I may say so. Little dude, big gun, medium-size bang. That’s real cute. Yeah, man, I got your number.

Laugh all you want, Curtis says, scowling. You ever shoot a magnum cartridge in a closed-in space, like a hotel room? You wanna go blind and deaf in the middle of a firefight, knock yourself out. I don’t go for that Schwarzenegger shit.

I ain’t arguing, man, I ain’t arguing. Can I take a look?

Huh?

Lemme see your little gun, man. C’mon.

They’re pulling up to the stoplight at Koval and Flamingo, cattycornered from the Westin. Curtis looks hard at Albedo, trying to see his eyes through the shades. No way could he pull anything now. Not while he’s driving. And Curtis is sure he cleared the backseat before he sat down. Almost completely sure.

He looks around sheepishly at the nearby drivers, all of whom seem to be gaping at Albedo’s car, not at its occupants. He leans forward and draws the revolver from his waist, keeping it low, near his thighs. Curtis swings open the cylinder, works the ejector rod, and dumps the five oily bullets in his right palm.

He gives the gun to Albedo. Albedo takes it, looks it over. It all but vanishes in his big hand. Smith, right? he says. Pretty nice. That’s a Speer cartridge you’re loading? Gold Dot?

I guess, Curtis says. It was on sale.

The light changes. Albedo hands the revolver back, puts his palm on the wheel. So what do you think I should do with that thing on the deck, man? he asks. You think I can get two grand for it?

I wouldn’t know, Curtis says. He’s reloading, slipping the pistol back in its holster. The convention center is coming up on the left, the rear entrance to Curtis’s hotel just beyond it.

I’m thinking about just hanging onto it, Albedo’s saying. I know these guys in North Cackalack—buddies of mine from the Desert—who’re looking for a few good men right about now. Once boots start hitting the ground over in Iraq, and ol’ Saddam gets himself deleted, it’s gonna be the Gold Rush over there. See, Dick f*cking Cheney’s privatized the whole deal. The occupation, the rebuilding, the policing, the oil-stealing: that’s all gonna be private, run by these private corporations.

Is that so.

And the thing is, these beancounting cocksuckers don’t much like getting shot at. So they’re looking for guys like us to provide security, run counterinsurgency ops, shit like that. And they’re really writing the checks, man. Huge money. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I didn’t enjoy the f*cking shit out of the Corps or anything—I left for a reason—but it would’ve been a hell of a lot more tolerable if they’d been paying me a hundred-fifty grand a year to do it. See what I’m saying? Plus with these guys there ain’t all the hierarchical, shit-floats-to-the-top, byzantine-ass bureaucracy we had in the USMC. Not much in the way of government oversight, neither. Yeah, sure, you gotta put up with a bunch of fat guys from Halliburton, but f*ck it, man. Just keep those checks coming.

They’re pulling into the porte-cochère now. The valets crane their necks to get a good look at the ugly gleaming ride. I can absolutely put you in touch with these fellas, Albedo says. You got just the stuff they’re looking for. You say the word, man. Pronounce the syllables.

Thanks for the ride, Curtis says, and pops the door. An empty Styrofoam cup and a battered and accordion-folded color brochure drop onto the pavement.

I’m serious, man. The next couple years are gonna be for private paramilitaries what the day after Thanksgiving is for Wal-Mart. You mark my f*cking words.

Curtis lets the big door slam, picks up the cup and the brochure, and starts toward the hotel entrance. Hey, Curtis! Albedo shouts.

What?

This thing you got going? With Damon, with the Spectacular? It’s maybe not gonna work out the way you’re hoping it’s gonna, partner. I’m real sorry to tell you. It’s gonna turn out bad, or it’s not gonna turn out at all. You know it, and I know it, and baby makes three. You might oughta start making other plans. Okay? Peace.

Albedo flashes two fingers, pushes his shades up the bridge of his nose, and puts the Mercury in gear. Curtis stands there with Albedo’s trash in his hand, watching him roll away. The brochure is sticky. Looking down, Curtis sees the words SIN CITY ESCORTS, a pair of lipsticked mouths pouting beneath them.

He finds a trashbin near the automatic doors, then walks into the lobby. His fingers stick to the button when he summons the elevator, cling again to his thumb when he tries to wipe them off. He struggles for a minute in front of his room, fishing out his wallet, removing the keycard, and opening the door without touching anything with his right hand. In the midst of his contortions, a white guy about his own age passes in the hall. Fat, balding, sunburnt, in baggy swimtrunks. He’s carrying goggles and a tiny underwater digital camera. He and Curtis eye each other uneasily. What happens here stays here, Curtis thinks.