Martin Seay - The Mirror Thief

She finishes her doughnut, sucks the tips of her fingers. I hate this place, Curtis, she says. I hate the good things about it most of all. I hate that I like it sometimes. It’s such a relief to outsource your thoughts and feelings. You don’t have to worry about making an original gesture because original gestures are impossible. You just stick to the script. It’s like senior prom with gambling and shopping.

Hey, Curtis says. Can I ask you a question?

Sure.

Did you ask to meet for a specific reason, or did you just want to talk? Either’s fine with me. But if we need to do some business, I’d just as soon get it out of the way.

She laughs silently, straightens up. The tattoo disappears. I did invite you for a specific reason, she says. Which was, in fact, to talk. This morning I made a few calls to people in Philly and D.C., and I checked you out. Everybody told me basically the same shit. Stand-up guy. A little square. Not mixed up in anything heavy. Nobody in Atlantic City seemed to know you at all, which I took to be a good sign. But I wanted to feel you out myself. Without pulling a gun on you first.

I appreciate that. How am I doing?

Not bad. You’re a good listener. If we can improve on great sense of humor , I think you’ll be all squared away. You’re gonna make some young lady very happy.

Thanks. You mind if I ask who you talked to in Philly and D.C.?

No, I don’t mind, she says. But I’m not going to tell you, either.

She grins at him, but she won’t hold his gaze, and he starts watching her carefully, sure he’s close to something. Curtis hasn’t been part of her world in years. There’s only one person she could’ve talked to this morning.

Veronica turns away, crosses the bridge, walks back the way they came along the opposite side of the canal. He falls into step on her left. Somewhere behind them Napoleon and the courtesan are singing a hammy duet for the sidewalk diners; their harmonies blend and clash with the piped-in Vivaldi on the sound system, the murmured conversations of passersby, the low hum of air conditioners underneath everything. Just ahead there’s a German family —ein Papa, eine Mama und zwei Kinder —studying a lightbox map of the shopping area, their sharp angelic features gilt from below, like they’re peering into a sanctum sanctorum.

I think you should go home, Curtis, Veronica says. Right now. You’ve got no good reason to be out here. Don’t get mixed up in this.

I’m not mixed up in anything. I’m just looking for Stanley. Just trying to help.

She gives him an irritated look, the same look he often draws from Danielle when he’s being stubborn, and it makes him stifle a smile. Curtis, she says. C’mon. Damon Blackburn? Seriously? I know he’s your old war buddy or whatever. But you’ve got to know the guy’s shady.

No, I don’t know that. Why don’t you tell me about that.

Veronica draws a breath, opens her mouth to speak, then exhales quietly. She does this a couple of times. She’s slowing down; her neck and shoulders droop. For a second he’s afraid she’ll fall asleep right there on the pavement.

I would like to know, she says, exactly what Damon told you. About the marker he gave Stanley, and about the counters who hit the Point. I’d like to know exactly what he wants you to do for him, and why.

Curtis thinks about how best to respond. He’s not holding much, and he figures he’ll just lay it out. Damon told me he loaned Stanley ten grand, he says. Not long after, the counters hit the Point, and those other places. Stanley stopped returning Damon’s calls. Damon’s afraid that if Stanley defaults, Spectacular management will think he had something to do with the counters, and they’ll fire Damon for approving the loan. So he asked me to find Stanley, and to report back. That’s all he wants.

And you believed that.

Not really, no.

Why not?

Curtis is cautious with his answer. Damon and Stanley are friends, he says. I’ve never known Stanley to borrow money from a friend.

Veronica closes her eyes, smiles. That was the right answer, and he waits for the coins to drop. She’s still creeping forward, listing from side to side. Curtis thinks of spinal patients he met in physical therapy, and also some Japanese dancers he saw one time in Okinawa.

The marker for ten grand wasn’t a favor, Veronica says. It was to cover expenses while Stanley was putting the team together.

Curtis blinks. Shit, he says.

Stanley and I did all the legwork, but Damon helped with recruitment. He also brought in most of the money. Nobody but Stanley was supposed to know that Damon was involved, but of course Stanley told me, just in case anything happened.

Veronica’s tone is flat and tired, precise but unrehearsed. Listening, Curtis gets a quivery rollercoaster feeling; his pulse shifts into lower gear. He hadn’t expected this, but he’s not really surprised by it, either. It fits.

There were a dozen of us, Veronica says. Working in two teams. Big casinos have gotten good at spotting teams, but with us they never had a chance. We were like amoebas oozing through the tables. Transparent. Whenever a pit boss would start getting wise, we’d change shape. The bosses knew something was up, but every time they’d pin one of us down, they’d just create an opening someplace else. Pushing on a balloon. On top of that, the bankroll Damon put together was enormous. I personally started the day with two hundred grand in a Betsey Johnson bag. And I was one of the lightweights.

Hold up, Curtis says. You’re telling me Damon helped put this team together. Why did he think it’d be a good idea to hit his own place? That makes no sense to me.

We didn’t hit the Spectacular.

Curtis shakes his head to clear it. But the Point lost more money than—

Listen to me. We didn’t make a dime off the Point. They knew we were coming, and they immediately shut us down. They had security all over us from the moment we stepped through the door. Every time a count would go up they’d lower the table limit, drop the minimum to bring in the grinds. Every time we’d ID a weak dealer he’d disappear. It was like playing tick-tack-toe: it was obvious we were gonna spend the whole night fighting to break even. We left after an hour. The shift boss was waiting for us at the exit, handing us these cheap-ass gift baskets full of shampoo and lotion and shit. Big grin on his face. Better luck next time, assholes.

But—

Just listen. That was the agreement we had with Damon. Get it? We’d make the Point our last stop, we’d go in, and we’d get cut off at the knees. Damon would show up to work earlier in the day with screen-capture photos of all of us, he’d give a we-happy-few-we-band-of-brothers speech to his security detail, and he’d be a hero. Immediate induction into the casino-management hall of fame. The Spectacular: The One They Couldn’t Break! You see the picture? Remember, Stanley and I were the only ones who knew Damon was in on the deal. The rest of the team was bouncing around the tables with steam coming out of their ears, trying to figure out how we got burned so fast. Not a lot of acting was required.

Veronica, Curtis says, the Spectacular got slaughtered at the tables that night.

Not by us.

Well, then what the hell happened?

She shrugs theatrically. Last I heard from AC, she says, management at the Point’s brought in the cops. You know as well as I do how casinos like to avoid doing that, so they must be pretty sure they’ve got a serious problem on the inside. How is Damon explaining all this?

I couldn’t tell you. Whatever he’s saying, he’s not saying it to me.

When the last time you talked to him?