Martin Seay - The Mirror Thief

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?

I know the basics, sure.

A while back, Veronica says, Stanley and I were working Foxwoods. I signaled him into a table that was heating up. When I came back twenty minutes later, he was into the next shoe, with this enormous pile of chips in front of him. Completely in control. Making perfect bets every time. The pit boss was starting to sniff the air, so Stanley colored up and we split. I asked him what the count was when he left, and he had no idea. He laughed at me. You have to realize how natural this is to him, Curtis. The man’s formal education stopped in the fifth grade. He has no theoretical understanding of probability whatsoever. He doesn’t even believe in it.

He doesn’t believe in what?

Probability, she says.

She leans forward, lifts the tumbler from the coffee table. Stops, realizing it’s empty. Stares at it, as if she can’t figure out how it got that way. Want a drink? she says.

No thanks.

You mind fixing me one? I’d do it myself, but I’m still afraid you’ll shoot me.

Curtis takes the glass from her hand. There’s a bottle of bourbon by the minibar, the red wax peeled from its neck, and he pours her a couple of fingers. Then he unwraps a second tumbler and pours himself some, too. In Stanley’s mind, Veronica’s saying, about the least interesting thing you can do at a blackjack table is win money. Gambling without any goal beyond making smart bets is like—

She takes the tumbler from Curtis.

— it’s like using the Yellow Pages exclusively for pressing flowers. Or it’s like using an English-to-Latin dictionary to translate Latin into English.

Wait. Say that again.

Never mind. Bad example. It’s more like William Blake’s optics. May God us keep from single vision and Newton’s sleep! Right?

I wouldn’t know anything about that, Curtis says.

Okay. What do you know about the sephirot? Or gematria?

Curtis gives her a blank look.

What about kabbalah?

Just what Madonna tells me, I guess. Never paid it much mind.

Veronica pulls an ugly face, sips her bourbon.

It’s a Jewish thing, right? Curtis says. Some kind of mysticism?

Originally Jewish. Primarily Jewish. Although goyim have been piggybacking on it since at least the Fifteenth Century. Primarily mystical, too, although it’s also a system of practical magic. That’s what most interested Stanley.

When you say practical magic, Curtis says, I get the feeling you’re not talking about Siegfried and Roy.

No, I’m talking about the practice of using talismans, formulas, and incantations to invoke angelic and demonic entities and to cause them to do your bidding.

Curtis blinks. You have got to be bullshitting me, he says.

I’m not bullshitting. Is Stanley bullshitting? That is the sixty-fucking-four-thousand-dollar question.

Curtis isn’t sure what to say to that. He sets his tumbler on the table. Then he reaches for the book: a paperback octavo, sewn at the spine. Its weathered wraps feel like soft leather, or an old dollar bill, and Curtis knows it belongs to Stanley the moment he touches it. It’s dense in his hand, heavier than he’d have guessed. He loosens his grip, feels the downward tug against his fingers.

Walter’s worried, Curtis says. He seems to think Stanley’s gone off his rocker. You’re saying he’s just getting religion in his old age?