The Mirror Thief (46 page)

Argos smiles wanly, makes a dismissive gesture. I tend not to dwell on such stuff, he says. It makes me unhappy. This business is all about attit—

His smile evaporates. He sits up in his chair. What the fuck is that? he says.

Curtis’s chin drops in disbelief. You got to be kidding, he says. I’m supposed to turn my back now, right?

Something’s on the road.

Argos picks up the two pistols, puts them on the concrete, and tips back the lid of the cooler: bottles inside, along with a pair of binoculars, which Argos lifts to his face. This would be a good time to rush him, but Curtis can’t psych himself up for it. Probably just your imaginary friend with the rifle, he says. Sick of waiting on you.

It’s a car. Did you have anybody following you?

Nobody followed me, Curtis says. Thinking about it, though, he never really checked the cab’s mirrors. Still, it doesn’t seem possible.

Well, Argos says, I gotta run.

He steps to the dirtbike, throws open the saddlebag, stuffs the binoculars inside. Keep your shit together, Argos, Curtis says. It’s probably just the park ranger.

It’s not the ranger.

Argos tucks his gun into his waistband, then unloads Curtis’s revolver
and puts it and the loose bullets in the cooler. Curtis rises from his seat. You’re just gonna leave me in the desert, huh? he says. How do you recommend I get back to town? I can’t use my phone out here.

Oh, you picked right up on that, didn’t you? Argos laughs. Pretty sharp. You got that phone from Damon, right?

Curtis blinks. What’s that got to do with anything?

He gave me one, too. Pretty nice phone. Funny thing, though. After I ducked Damon and his triggerman at the Point, for the next couple of days, I kept having these crazy close calls. I’d be sitting at a restaurant or some random place, I’d look up, and there Country Boy would be, looking around with his beady eyes. A couple of places I had to leave through kitchens and windows. But you know what? After I dumped the phone, that shit stopped. Sure, I know what you’re thinking: correlation ain’t causation. But if you’re wondering why I wanted to meet up way out here, well, that’s why.

Curtis shakes his head. You’re one paranoid son of a bitch, he says.

Argos puts his pistol in the saddlebag, along with two bottles of water from the cooler. His crazy grin is back; it seems less affected this time. You think I’m paranoid, huh? he says. Okay. Let’s talk about our pal Damon for a second. What did Damon do after the Gulf War, Curtis? Embassy security. Where? Bolivia. Pakistan. Who hangs out at those embassies? You’re gonna tell me Damon didn’t network with those guys? Damon Blackburn? C’mon, Curtis. This guy knows the secret handshake, okay? He owns the decoder ring.

Curtis laughs at that, shakes his head like it’s ridiculous, but at the same time he’s thinking: how did Albedo find me yesterday at New York?

Argos pulls his binoculars from the saddlebag to scan the rise again. Curtis risks a glance of his own this time. Sure enough, there’s a pink column of dust there, fading in the breeze. He can’t see anything moving on the ground.

A helmet hangs from the dirtbike’s handlebars; Argos pulls it on, fastens the chinstrap. Then he stows the binoculars and shuts the saddlebag. Wait a minute, Curtis says. We’re not done yet.

Oh, I’m afraid we are, my friend.

Curtis forces himself to think quickly, to get back in character. He still doesn’t have what he needs. Not enough. Not yet. You’re full of shit, man, he says. If you expect Damon to make a deal based on what you just told me, then you really are crazy. You’ve got nothing. Go ahead and give that story to NJSP. Damon’ll say you cooked it up. He’ll say you and the dealer put the scam together on your own, and that you whacked the dealer yourself. Anything you claim he did on the inside, he’ll say you could have done yourself from the outside with a little foresight. Who can corroborate?

Argos straddles the bike, tips it, and kicks up the sidestand. Have you guys found Stanley yet? he says. No? I didn’t think so. I guess I’ll see you at the finish-line.

Nobody’s gonna find Stanley, Argos. You know that. He’s not gonna save you. You need some kind of physical evidence against Damon, and you don’t have it. You’re going up against a decorated ex-marine, and you don’t even have a real name. All you’ve got are your paranoid bullshit stories.

I got a number, Argos says.

Say again?

A number. Seventeen ninety-seven.

What the hell are you talking about?

That’s the room at the Point where I met the dealer and Damon’s triggerman. I can’t say for sure, but I got a suspicion the dealer didn’t exit that room under his own power. I just hope for Damon’s sake he didn’t leave all the cleanup to Housekeeping.

Argos turns the bike’s ignition key, shifts to neutral, squeezes the clutch, and presses the starter. The noisy little engine sputters and catches.
I’ll be back in touch in a few days!
Argos shouts over the buzzsaw drone.
You better have some good news!

He rolls forward, angles away, and opens the bike’s throttle, skidding in a long arc along the old drowned road, scattering fine gravel and alkaline dust in a seething cloud. Before Curtis can get his hands up, the brunt of it catches him in the chest and face. It feels a little like being downwind
from teargas. He spits and curses. Then he smiles. The whine of the bike’s engine pitch-shifts and fades. Room 1797, Curtis thinks. That’s good. That might do the trick.

The Styrofoam cooler still lies open on the concrete slab. Curtis stumbles to it, reaches inside. Two bottles left. He opens one, removes his glasses, fills his cupped palm, and splashes his face and scalp. He does it again, rubbing his wet hand over his neck, and drinks the rest of the water. Then he wipes his hands on his trouserlegs and puts the bullets back in his gun.

The vehicle on the dirt road must have been the park ranger. Just in case it wasn’t, he’d like to get out of here soon. He ties his jacket around his waist, puts the last waterbottle in its pocket. His left eyesocket stings and tears up: something must’ve gotten into it around the safety glasses’ lenses, or maybe while he was washing his face. He wants to rinse it again but he’s dehydrated already, and can’t spare the second bottle.

A short distance away, behind a waving screen of toothy grass, he spies the unbroken foundation of a house, well-made enough to trap and hold the most recent rains. It could almost be a rectangular pool in a Roman atrium but for the tumbleweeds clustered along its western edge. He makes his way to it in the hope of examining his reflection, but all he can see is the dark outline of his head. Then he kneels and closes his right eye tight, balancing blind as he lifts rainwater to his face.

It doesn’t help. He can’t stick around here any longer. The visitor center is ten miles back at least, part of that over rough ground. Curtis towels off with the upstretched hem of his shirt. The wind dries his scalp as he hikes the rise back to the road.

The clouds he saw east of town yesterday must have had rain in them, because the desert is blooming: yellow flares of sunray coreopsis, blue spires of phacelia and locoweed, pink evening-primrose and golden poppies,
and some rangy ocotillo, their coral-red flowerspikes bobbing over the orange dirt like hazard-flares. Curtis trudges past them all, head down, a salty trail on his left cheek.

When he reaches the blacktop it gets warmer, then steeper. He drains the last waterbottle. Brown lizards scurry from his path. Dead animals on the road: snakes, groundsquirrels, a ringtail cat pecked over by ravens. Curtis has a long time to think. Damon’s been using him as his hunting-dog, his pointer, flushing Stanley and Argos so Albedo can shoot. Not even that. A hunting-dog at least knows what it’s doing, knows how it’s being used. Not a decoy, either. Decoys are fraudulent, innocuous. Curtis is more like one of those machines they used to use a hundred years ago to trap songbirds. A flashing whirligig. Wind him up and watch the fun.

Across the state park boundary he finds a turnoff to some campsites and detours to look for a spigot, to drink and to rinse his eyesocket again. Still no good. He finds a restroom and checks the mirror, pulling the lid back. He can’t see anything wrong. When he gets back to the hotel, he’ll have to take it out.

It’s past one o’clock when he comes to the visitor center, a red-brown box skirted by a white sunshade, U.S. and NV flags flapping lazily in the traffic circle out front. The building almost disappears against the smooth elusive shapes in the ruddy sandstone: domes, columns, balanced rocks. Curtis looks up at them while double-checking that his jacket hides his gun. The formations look organic, alive somehow. Curtis sees things in them. Ghost faces. Cloacal openings. Spineless marine creatures. A human figure with a bird’s beaked head. He’s glad Argos wanted to meet early; he wouldn’t want to be out here at night.

He drinks from the waterfountain until he’s afraid he’ll get sick, then refills his bottle. Inside, he bypasses the video monitors and the glass cases of samples and artifacts and heads straight for the payphone. He digs into his wallet—old prepaid calling cards he hasn’t used in months, the name and number of that cabbie who drove him to meet Kagami—and he starts dialing.

Nobody picks up at the cabbie’s number. A brief vague greeting—
English, then Arabic, then French—followed by a beep. Hello, Saad, Curtis says. You probably don’t remember me, but my name is Curtis Stone, and a couple of days ago you gave me a ride to the Quicksilver. We talked about jazz a little bit. Listen, I don’t know if you’re working today, but I need your help. I managed to get myself stranded out here at Valley of Fire State Park, and I could use a ride back to the Strip. I know that’s probably not on your regular route, but I can make it worth your time. My phone’s not getting a signal, so I guess I’ll just call you back in a little while. I’m at the park visitor center. Thanks.

Curtis dials again, selects Directory Assistance, and asks for the number for Sin City Escorts in Las Vegas. He listens to sleazy music and breathy boilerplate for a minute. Then the phone rings and a woman answers. Sin City Escorts, she says. How can we make you happy today?

I’m looking for a guy who drives for you, Curtis says. A guy named Albedo. He drives—

Hold please, the woman says.

Curtis holds for a while. Wiping his cheek with some toilet paper he took from the campsite restroom. A man’s voice answers. Who’s it you’re looking for? it says.

A guy named Albedo. He drives for you sometimes. He drives a big black car, an old car. I’m trying to get in touch—

I know the guy, yeah. But I can’t put you in touch. We don’t give out that kind of information. You leave me your name and number, and maybe next time I see him I’ll give it to him, if I think about it.

You don’t have to do that, man, Curtis says. I’ve got his number. I’m just trying to figure out if he’s back from Atlantic City yet.

Atlantic City? the guy says. Yeah, he’s back from Atlantic City. He’s been back for like a week and a half. Did he go out there again?

Thanks, Curtis says, and ends the call.

He wipes his cheek and leans against the wall and thinks for a minute.

Then he calls the switchboard at the Spectacular in AC and asks for lost-and-found. Hi, he says. I was in your hotel a couple of weeks ago, and I think I might have left something in my room.

Young female voice on the line. Sure, it says. We’ll check. What did you lose?

I lost a cufflink, Curtis says. Gold, with a black gemstone.

And do you remember what room you were in, and the dates of your visit?

I was in Room 1797, Curtis says. I was there for one night, on—when was it? It was over Mardi Gras weekend, I remember that.

Okay, the voice chirps. If you’ll hold for a minute, we’ll see what we can do.

A click. An Eagles song comes on. After a verse and a chorus, another click. I’m sorry, the same voice says. What was your name?

My name is Albedo, Curtis says. But I don’t know if the reservation was made under my name. I was there with a group.

Well, I may have some good news, Mister Albedo. We did have a lost cufflink logged on March Second. I’m going to check with Risk Management now.

The Eagles come back on. Then they fade into Fleetwood Mac, and Fleetwood Mac fades into Norah Jones. Curtis is leaning his head on the wall with his eyes closed when a voice comes from behind him. Hey, it says. Are you Curtis Stone?

Curtis spins, blinks. Yeah, he says.

It’s a park ranger, looking irritated. Your taxi just called, she says. He’s coming. He says it’ll probably be two hours before he gets here.

Okay, Curtis says. Thanks.

Do you want to talk to him?

I can’t right now. Sorry. Thanks.

The ranger rolls her eyes and walks away. Curtis wipes his cheek and rests his forehead on the wall again. Thinking of Damon in the Penrose Diner.
Look, this is not dangerous. Nobody’s breaking any laws
. Curtis grimaces. Norah Jones rolls over into Elton John. Then a click. Mister Albedo?

Yeah. I’m here.

The girl’s voice is tense now, and Curtis knows he’s getting close. I’m really sorry for the delay, she says. I’ve got Security Officer Ramirez on
the phone now. He’ll explain the situation regarding your cufflink. Okay? Officer Ramirez?

Another voice: Hello? Mister Albedo?

That’s right.

I’ve been, ah, investigating the matter of your cufflink, and what I have basically discovered is that we do have a record of such an item being found in Room 1797 on March Second, but the item is no longer in our lost-and-found. Do you know anybody else who was in the room that night who might have claimed it?

You know, Curtis says. I just might. I’ll have to check. Don’t you guys keep a record of what gets claimed?

We do, the guy says, but, y’know, sometimes paperwork doesn’t get done. I’m really sorry about this. Um—while I’ve got you on the phone, Mister Albedo, do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions about some damage that was done to that room?

Curtis ends the call. He stands there holding the dead phone until it starts to buzz. Then he puts it back in the cradle. Running different formulas in his head. Weighing things against each other that he’d never really appreciated as separate before. Coming up with the same result every time.