Martin Seay - The Mirror Thief

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?