The Mirror Thief (11 page)

What’s strange, though, is that the face in the mirror didn’t look like any memory from the Desert. It was a dead face, that’s for sure, and also a familiar one, but not a face from any battlefield he’s known. It looked like Stanley.

Curtis doesn’t know what to do with that; doesn’t want to think about it. He clears his throat again, rubs his face. Disgusted with himself. Topside, Veronica is waiting.

He pauses in the doorframe on his way out, just long enough to reach
and turn on the lights. Checking to see if the room really is empty, which of course it is. Pointless. Curtis’s gaze tracks the tile floor, the mahogany armoire, the wrought-iron divider, the tables and the couches, until it arrives at the windows, which show him the parts of the room he can’t see from where he stands: the big rack, the door to the head, his own small shadow in the corridor. The fancy room reminds him of the waitress who took his order in the Oculus Lounge, and also of some of the nurses at Bethesda: good at what they do, so good that their skill becomes a screen that conceals the fact that they don’t care. It’s a plush room, but it’s not comfy. Nobody’s home.

For an instant—only an instant—Curtis is scared that he might die out here.

The room seems ready for him to leave, so he does. He switches off the light, and the dark comes in behind him.

From the way the numbers run on his floor, Curtis can hazard a guess as to where Veronica’s suite is, and he climbs the stairs at the opposite end of the building.

Four flights. Taking his time. The door opens on a hallway identical to the one he just came from. He moves silently down the corridor, past the elevators, counting the numbers down, listening hard as he goes. There’s no sound beyond the drone of air ducts. Curtis is thinking that everyone must be at the tables down below when a door opens ahead, and two women in floorlength fur coats step out. They exchange parting words with a male voice inside, and the door closes behind them. Both women wear shiny red latex gloves; one carries a black attaché case. They smile brightly at they pass. Hi! they say.

When Curtis reaches 3113, he stands outside for a long time. A soft ding comes from down the corridor: the elevator opening for the women. Curtis steps back, listens at the door on the left, at the door on the right,
at the door across the hallway. Overhead, the HVAC system switches off. After a while it switches back on.

Curtis knocks. The tiny point of light in the convex peephole goes dark. Then the door clicks, swings open.

Veronica is wearing an ornate gold cat-face mask. Curtis can’t help himself: he gasps when he sees it. She laughs at him, a nervous laugh, and backs into the room. The mask clashes badly with her bare feet and frayed bluejeans and baggy Cypress Bayou sweatshirt. Hey, Curtis, she says. Little jumpy tonight, huh?

You gave me a start there.

Sorry about that. Come on in. Oh—make sure that door pulls shut, okay?

Curtis turns to tug the handle and instantly gets a bad feeling, but it’s already too late; there’s a rustle of fabric, the rapid creak-and-click of a spring and a slide, and her pistol is just behind his ear. Smooth and quick.

Arms up, she says. Spread your legs wide. Toes out. Do it! Now fall forward. Put your hands on the doorframe. Higher! Do not fucking move.

Curtis feels a tremble in his bladder and a few hot drops on his thigh, and he fights hard to keep the rest inside. This is something that has always happened, every time he’s been shot at, or thought he was about to be. It used to shame him badly afterward: the memory of coming out of situations with wet legs and darkened trousers. Now he’s surprised to find that the feeling is almost a comfort. It calms him down, reminds him that he knows what to do.

Curtis? Veronica says. You still with me? You doing okay?

Curtis takes a deep breath, lets it out. I been better, he says.

I’m not gonna shoot you. Okay? I have to pat you down. Do not move at all.

He’s scared she’ll search him with the gun in her hand, but she knows what she’s doing: it goes away, and there’s a swish as she secures it at her waist. She reaches under his arms, unclips his revolver from his belt, sets it on the deck behind her and pushes it away with her foot, off the tile,
onto the carpet. Then she works front to back, top to bottom, crushing and twisting each pocket before she reaches into it. She finds the speedloader in his jacket and the wallet in his jeans, and she drops them on the deck by the revolver. Then she pats down his groin, his legs, his ankles. She does all of this while wearing a gold cat-face mask.

She’s backing off now, collecting his things, retreating farther into the suite. Leaving him there. He wants very badly to open the door, to walk down the hallway, to run. Hey, he calls to her. We finished?

Her voice, muffled a little by the walls: Yeah, she says. Sorry. Come on in. Make yourself at home.

He pushes himself upright, straightens his clothes, turns around. The reflector bulb directly overhead is lit; a table lamp glows at the far end of the room. Aside from that the suite is dark.

He steps forward. Veronica’s suite is a looking-glass version of his own: higher up, maybe a little bigger—she’s got two queens instead of one kingsize rack—but he’s got the nicer view. One of her closet doors is ajar; nothing’s inside. He looks around for luggage, but there isn’t any.

She’s on the couch in the sunken living area, with his gun unloaded on the coffee table before her, speedloader and five loose bullets beside it. Her own pistol—a black SIG, small enough to fit in a purse—is on the cushion next to her, in her shadow, about an inch from her hand.

He pauses on the steps. Her mask glitters in the dim light: gold paint and rhinestones, tufts of peacock-feather at the ears. She’s flipping through his wallet: his VIC, his TRICARE card, his Pennsylvania ID and concealed-carry permit. I thought you were married, she says.

That’s right. I am.

She closes the wallet, holds it out to him. Her eyes, dull amid the filigree, flit between his face and his left hand. No wedding ring, huh? she says. I guess what happens here stays here. Right, cowpoke?

Curtis doesn’t move, doesn’t respond.

Come on, Curtis, Veronica says. Don’t act like you’re upset. What did you expect me to do?

He steps down, retrieves the wallet. Next time you do a body-search,
he says, you ought to ask your detainee if they’re carrying any needles or sharp objects.

Hey, that’s great advice. Thanks. You know, I was planning on talking to you about Stanley and Damon, but if you want to turn this into some kind of squarebadge best-practices seminar instead, then that’s just awesome. I’ll take some notes.

Curtis lowers himself into an armchair and looks at her. He sweeps a finger before his eyes like a tiny windshieldwiper. Could you take that off, please? he says.

She reaches back and unties the black ribbon knotted under her ponytail. The mask sinks to her lap. She’s wrecked. Curtis thinks of a truckload of Romany refugees he stopped one time near the Serbian border: sleepless for weeks, shot at by everyone, they’d been stealing gas when they could, hiding in barns, traveling by night, with no notion at all where they were going. Veronica’s not that bad yet, but she’s on her way.

Stanley bought this for me in New Orleans last week, she says. It’s a
gatto
. A carnival mask. We were there for Mardi Gras.

I heard you were in Atlantic City for Mardi Gras.

She gives him a cool glare. We were in AC on
Vendredi
and
Samedi
, she says. We were in New Orleans for Lundi Gras and Mardi Gras. Stanley was pissed we didn’t get to see the Krewe of Thoth march. But what can you do? Gotta earn a living.

Veronica winds the ribbon around the mask, blindfolding it. She shifts it to her left hand, keeping her right hand near the gun, and sets in on the table. Curtis’s vision has grown accustomed to the dim light, and he notices two more objects there: a glass tumbler, mostly empty, and a slender brown chapbook. The book seems familiar. He tries to remember where he’s seen it before.

Here’s a suggestion, Veronica says. Why don’t we quit fucking around? Tell me what Damon wants.

Curtis looks up from the table. Far as I know, he says, it’s like I told you before. Damon just wants Stanley to get in touch—

No. Please do not start with that skipped-on-a-marker bullshit again, Curtis. It’s insulting. Let’s do some business. What’s Damon’s offer?

Curtis shakes his head. I don’t mean to insult you, he says. But I can’t make any deals for Damon. He didn’t send me out here to negotiate. Just to deliver the message.

I don’t believe this, she says. She leans forward, furrows her brow. Stares hard at his face, like she’s about to pick an eyelash off his cheek. You’re fucking serious, she says. Stanley skipped on a marker. That’s why you’re out here. That is seriously all Damon told you.

No. He also told me about the cardcounters that hit the Point.

Did he tell you that Stanley put the counters together?

No, Curtis says. He didn’t tell me that.
Did
Stanley put the counters together?

Veronica ignores the question, sinks back into the couch. Are you absolutely sure, she says, that you’re the only one Damon sent out here?

I can’t be sure of that, no. I’m the only one I know about.

Curtis looks down at the table, at the dull rectangle of the book on the glossy wood. Somebody else is looking for you, he says. But Damon didn’t send him.

Veronica has grown very still. Really, she says. Do tell.

I ran into him about an hour ago. Little guy. Gap between his front teeth.

White guy?

I’m not sure. I didn’t get a good look.

You don’t know if he’s white, but he’s got a gap between his front teeth?

He called me on my cell. He whistles when he talks.

Wow, she says, raising an eyebrow. That’s good. I am very impressed.

I was downstairs in the casino when he called me. He was, too. He could see me, but I couldn’t see him. Not at first. When I spotted him, he cleared out in a hurry.

How fucking adorable. How delightfully Foucauldian.

You feel like telling me who he is?

Foucault? He was a French philosopher. Looked like Telly Savalas.

She lifts the tumbler from the table and drains it. Using her right hand this time. Curtis relaxes a little. He can tell she’s thinking hard, and he lets her think. His eyes keep drifting back to the book. It’s bothering him like a song he can almost remember the words to.

He’s nobody, Veronica says after a while. Nobody I’m worried about.

You sure about that? He knew to look for you in the casino.

Well, he didn’t find me, did he? she says. Neither did you.

She’s smiling sweetly to herself, staring into space. Rocking back and forth like she’s trying to stay awake.

Point taken, Curtis says. But I was just thinking. Most folks I know tend not to answer the door with a gun in their hand unless they’re worried about something.

Well, that’s a charming bit of folk wisdom, Curtis. You should cross-stitch it onto a pillow.

I’m also starting to feel like there’s something going on that I don’t know about. Something heavier than cardcounting and delinquent markers. If you know what I mean.

Oh, I know exactly what you mean, she says. But you, on the other hand, have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about. And I’d be more inclined to buy your Miss Marple routine had I not just pulled a .357 snub off your belt. If you’re confused, you can take it up with your buddy Damon. I am not going to explain this shit to you.

She’s looking around the room now, everywhere but at Curtis, and he thinks he sees an opening. She’s been on her own for a while now, and she doesn’t like it. She’s ready to talk to somebody.

So, he says, you’re telling me Stanley didn’t borrow any money from the Point?

I’m not telling you anything. Look, Curtis, use your head. Why would Stanley ask Damon for a marker?

Curtis shrugs. Why would anybody ask anybody for a marker? he says. I had lunch with Walter Kagami today. Walter told me that Stanley’s been on a real bad streak lately. Losing a lot at the tables.

Veronica laughs. Walter! she says. Christ. Listen, Curtis, Walter
Kagami is a very sweet man. But he has a tendency to talk out of his ass.

Stanley’s not hurting for money?

She’s giving him a strange look. As if she can’t decide whether he’s being extremely subtle or extremely stupid. Curtis, she says, how well do you actually know Stanley Glass?

Curtis thinks about that. He doesn’t really know how to answer. Stanley’s like my uncle, he says. He’s my dad’s oldest friend. My mom died when I was real young. And my dad had some troubles. So Stanley helped me out. He found my mom’s folks living in Shaw, and they took me in and raised me. He helped out with money, and with other things. I owe him a lot.

So you know him as family. Not so much as a friend.

I consider him a friend.

But you don’t know him in any professional capacity.

No, Curtis says. I guess I don’t.

She sits quietly for a moment. Tallying something in her head. You’re the one who introduced him to Damon Blackburn, aren’t you? she says.

Curtis nods. Veronica looks at him. Her face so blank it’s like another mask. Then she picks up her gun.

Curtis shifts his weight to his toes, ready to tip the chair and roll, but the barrel is pointed at the ceiling. Veronica ejects the clip and sets it by the lamp on the endtable. Then she clears the chamber and puts the pistol and the loose round next to the clip. You probably think of Stanley as a professional gambler, she’s saying. That’s not correct. Gambling is not Stanley’s profession. It’s his mode of existence in the world. Do you understand?

I don’t think I do, no.

She settles back on the couch, lifts her feet from the floor, crosses her legs. Her toenails are movie-star pink, and look freshly painted. You know he doesn’t count, right? she says.

Say again?

Stanley doesn’t count cards. Did you know that? You know how cardcounting works, right?