Martin Seay - The Mirror Thief

He’s reached the door to his room, is swiping his keycard, when his cellphone throbs to life. The unfamiliar ringtone startles him; he jumps, the door swings open, and the keycard drops and slides along the tile just inside the jamb. Curtis digs for the phone as he stoops to retrieve it.

A loud voice on the line, not one he can place. Curtis! it says. How you been, man?

I’m good. What’s up?

You know who this is? You recognize my voice? It’s Albedo, man! Remember me? I hear you’re in town!

Curtis doesn’t know anybody named Albedo — or Al Beddow, for that matter. A white guy, probably his own age. Blue Ridge accent: North Carolina, Virginia. Crowd noise in the background. Yeah, Curtis says. I’m here for a few days.

That’s great, man. We gotta hook up, we gotta hang out. What are you doing right now?

I’m — I just got back to my hotel.

Your hotel? Fuck, man, it’s like eleven. You can’t go back to your hotel. Look, I’m at the Hard Rock right now with some people. You need to get your ass over here. You know where it is?

Curtis knows where it is. He’s half inside his doorway, dead phone cradled in his hand. Trying again to place that voice. Maybe somebody he talked to earlier. Maybe somebody who’s watching what he says because of who he’s with. Curtis closes his eyes, tries to form a picture of Albedo — shrouded in dim light, loud music, the clamor of raised voices, Stanley’s maybe among them — but at the center of Curtis’s picture is an absence, a void in the smoky air, and he quickly gives up.

Leaning farther into the dark entryway, checking the fax and the message-light, he hears a door slam somewhere down the corridor and is suddenly uneasy, an interloper in shared space, aware of the closeness of unseen others. Somebody’s been here while he was out: housekeeping, of course. For a second he can sense the strata of odors in the room — a hidden history of cleansers, perfumes, sweat — before his nose habituates and they’re blended, gone. Due south, a block off the Strip, some kind of event is going on, the grand opening of something. Four times a minute the beam of a swiveling searchlight falls through the open curtains; the suite’s furnishings appear, disappear, appear. With each sweep, the air over the city turns a solid blue, flat and opaque, and the room seems telescoped, shallow, a diorama of itself.

After a couple of passes, Curtis pulls his revolver and checks it in the wan light that leaks from the hallway. Then he hurries back to the elevators, and the door shuts itself behind him.

The Hard Rock is on Paradise Road, between the Strip and the UNLV campus — not far, but Curtis doesn’t want to risk missing Albedo, so he hops a cab and is there in minutes.

He’s been here before, but only briefly and drunkenly, and he doesn’t remember it well. It’s small, chalk-white and curvy, lit from below by purple-gelled spots; the glowing diodes of a streetside readerboard flash OZZY OSBOURNE! as the cab turns onto the palm-lined drive. A parade of revelers — off-duty dancers and bartenders, highrollers from the coast — pours inside by the light of an enormous neon-strung guitar.

As soon as he’s stepped through the Gibson-handled doors Curtis knows Stanley won’t be here. It’s all young MBA types inside, college kids on extended spring break: aside from Ozzy, Curtis is probably the oldest guy in the place. On his way through the crowded lobby he passes a cardigan-clad Britney Spears mannequin, somebody’s glassed-in drumkit, a chandelier made of gleaming saxophones. Aerosmith blasts from speakers overhead. In the circular casino Curtis stops to read the mulberry baize of a blackjack table: there, above a line of lyrics he can’t place — something about getting lucky — is a notice that dealers must hit soft seventeens. Stanley wouldn’t be caught dead within a hundred yards of this joint.

Close to the disc-shaped bar it’s even louder. The crowd, the machines, the PA blend and collide into an indistinct roar, a new silence. Curtis only gradually becomes aware of someone screaming his name from a few yards away: a longhaired white guy. Ripped jeans, Guns N’ Roses T-shirt, motorcycle jacket. He’s grinning, half-silhouetted against the wavery light of a flatscreen TV, one splayfingered arm swaying over his head like a strand of kelp. Curtis is certain he’s never seen this guy before in his life.

Up close, Albedo looks like a bad blend of Chet Baker and Jimmy Buffett. His fingers are sepia-stained; his grip is firm but clammy, tentacled, and Curtis is quick to release it. He’s tall, six-three at least, but soft in the middle. His thin brown hair is pulled back in a curly ponytail, gray at the temples. His eyeballs are rose-rimmed, watery, and he smells of whiskey and pot.

Albedo’s sitting with two young women — one pale, blond, the other dark, probably Hispanic, both wearing sequined halters. Curtis can’t read anything in their faces aside from exhaustion and low expectations. The women move apart and leave two empty barchairs between them; Albedo claps a hand on Curtis’s back and steers him into the one on the right. As he sags into his own seat, his fingers drag drunkenly down Curtis’s blazer and brush the shape of the revolver at his waist, and Curtis knows immediately that this is wrong, that he ought to get out of here.

Albedo’s ordering him a Corona; he introduces him to the women as if they’re old friends. We were in the Desert together, he says. The first Iraq war. The women’s names are unusual, foreign; Curtis is thinking fast, trying to keep his shit together, not really paying attention, and he forgets them immediately.

You been keeping up with the news from over there? Albedo asks. You believe all the bullshit that’s going down?

What? Did it start?

Any minute, man. Albedo nods sagely, as if privy to secret knowledge. And I tell you what, he says, raising his glass. Better them than us. Right, my brother?

Curtis nods, sips silently.

I was just now trying to articulate to my two young companions, Albedo says, neither of whom has the good fortune to be a citizen of this great nation of ours, the magnitude of the fucked-up-ness going down in the Middle East tonight. Because, see, the first war —our war? — that was total bullshit. No doubt about that. But this just takes the proverbial cake. Am I right, Curtis?

Curtis picks up his beer, then rotates the cardboard coaster under it, aligning the text with the edge of the counter. He sets the beer down again. He doesn’t want to talk about this, or think about it. It’s a messed-up situation, he says.

Truer words were never spoke, my man. You are putting that shit mildly.

A pack of cigarettes and a silver Binion’s lighter appear on the bar, and Albedo lights up with a flourish. He’s leaning way back in his chair, balancing it on two legs; Curtis has to crane his neck to keep him in sight. The blond girl to Albedo’s left is looking back and forth between them, her brow wrinkled, like she’s trying hard to understand. Something about her reminds Curtis of the Balkans, almost but not quite, and he figures her for Ukrainian, or maybe Slovak. He’s calming down now, assessing. His beer is still three-quarters full.

So how’s civilian life treating you, Albedo?

Real good, man. Real good. I am every day relishing my freedom. And I’m telling you, this is the place . Shit is happening out here. Lots of opportunities for guys like us. I oughta make a few calls while you’re in town. Introduce you to some people. Would you be into that?

Sure, maybe. How long you been out here?

Albedo flashes a sharky grin. Long enough to get the lay of the land, my friend. To learn the ins and the outs. This town is all about the juice , man.