Martin Seay - The Mirror Thief

Okay.

About three hundred yards over your right shoulder, on top of the rise, there is a little clump of creosote-bush. Don’t look. Just take my word for it. Sitting in that clump of creosote-bush is a friend of mine, all decked out in camouflage. My friend has a rifle with a scope on it, and right now he’s got the crosshairs of that scope glued to the back of your skull. I’m sure you know more about these things than I do, Curtis, but my friend tells me that with his rifle three hundred yards is a pretty easy shot. So just keep that in mind, please.

For an instant Curtis tenses, his skin crawling, but it doesn’t last. Argos is already holding a pistol on him; why mention the rifle? It has to be bullshit: the guy’s alone out here, and he’s scared. Scared enough to be dangerous, maybe. But definitely alone.

You made pretty good time, Argos says.

Thanks. What do you want?

I want to make a deal. I’m sick of getting chased around. I want to get back in business, start putting teams together again. I’m not greedy, and I know where I stand. I want some specific and convincing guarantees from Damon that he’ll lay off me from here on out, and let me do my thing.

What are you offering?

Argos grins. His grin is crazy, but calculatedly so: a crazy grin. I’m not offering, he says. I’m giving . We’re having ourselves a little potlatch here.

Okay. What are you giving?

I’m giving up my memory. I’m forgetting any and all claims I have on any portion of my take from the Spectacular. Okay? I’m forgetting what happened in AC. It’s entirely forgotten. Hell, I’m forgetting that Atlantic City even exists . I’m never setting foot there again. All this I do unilaterally. No need for reciprocal gestures. You can tell Damon that it’s my gift to him.

He and Curtis look at each other. The wind hisses through the salt-cedar. It makes a lot of noise, but Curtis can barely feel it.

However, Curtis says.

Argos sighs. However , he says, before I did all that forgetting, I wrote a few letters. I won’t say how many. I sent these letters to some friends of mine. Good friends, and not-so-good friends. I told these people that if they hang onto these letters, I’ll send ’em a little something every year for their trouble. Some cash. They don’t have to do anything. Unless, of course, if that little something of mine doesn’t show up one year. Then they’re supposed to forward the letter to the New Jersey State Police. You know how this process generally works, Curtis, I’m sure. I don’t have to spell it out.

Curtis nods. His heartbeat is gathering steam, but he tries to keep his face calm. He’s getting close, but he doesn’t know how to play this guy. Then something clicks, and he does. He can see himself through Argos’s eyes now: who and what Argos thinks he is. It’s not a good feeling, but he can use it.

Well, Curtis says, Damon’s gonna want to know what that letter says.

Argos makes a face. What are you talking about? he says. It’s not about his techniques for cheating at the Links, Curtis. What do you think it says?

That’s not good enough. Damon’s gonna want to know exactly what you said, and exactly how you said it. You say you know what happened in AC. Okay, that sounds good. But what do you actually have? You need to show some cards.

What? Argos laughs. Does Damon want me to send him a copy of the letter? I hope he opens his own fucking mail.

Tell it to me, Curtis says. Right now. Tell me, like you’d tell the cops.

A weird twitch passes from Argos’s nose to his lips. As if his face might be changing shape. Curtis, he says, I don’t really have time—

You need to make time, Curtis says. If you want to settle this.

Argos is still for what seems like minutes. The wind ruffles his short brown hair. Okay, he says. Where do you want me to start?

Curtis thinks back to Veronica’s story, trying to remember where the gaps were. Stanley and Damon put the cardcounters together, he says.

Stanley put the team together, Argos says. I knew from Damon to expect his call. But Stanley didn’t know what Damon had planned for the Point. That was between me and Damon and the dealer. Though I’m sure Stanley’s figured it out by now.

What happened at the Point?

Look, Argos says. Do I really—

Tell it, goddamn it. What happened at the Point?

Argos makes an irritated little puff. The team moved into the tables, he says, just like it did at all the other joints. We got into position, and the dealers started burning us, just like Damon had planned. When my team scattered, I ducked into the restroom, I changed, and I headed for the high-limit area.

His eyebrows arch over the rims of the sunglasses. As if this should be enough. Spell it out, Curtis says. What did you do?

I sat down , Argos sneers. I began to play blackjack . I began to bet the table maximum , which was ten thousand dollars a hand. I broke even for a while, and then I asked them to double the limit. They doubled the limit. Then I started winning.

How did that work?

This is ridiculous, Curtis.

How did it work?

It’s fun, though, you know? I’m really enjoying it. I feel sort of like a kinky hooker right now. Can we do some more roleplay when we’re done? Scoutmaster and his young Cub, maybe? How does that grab you?

Tell me how it worked, Argos.

Argos stares at Curtis for a second, slackjawed. What did you call me? he says.

The question catches Curtis off-balance, but he keeps the doubt from his voice. That’s what you go by, right? he says. Graham Argos?

Argos smirks, shifts his weight in the rickety chair. Sure, he says. If you write a check to Graham Argos, I will have no trouble cashing it. Is that the name Damon gave you for me?

Curtis leans forward, puts his elbows on his knees, and fixes Argos with a steady glare. I want you to tell me, he says, right now, how it worked.

The ensuing silence is broken by a strong warm gust that sweeps ashy powder from the old lakebed. It hisses against Argos’s cooler and Curtis’s shoes, and forms a brief dancing spiral in the spreadfoot foundation of a nearby ruin. A few grains ping off Curtis’s safety glasses.

The dealer was crooked, Argos says. That’s how it worked. It was pretty amazing, if you want to know the truth. He was as good a mechanic as I am a blackjack player, and I do not say that lightly. I knew exactly what he’d be doing — what to look for — and I still couldn’t see it. That is not a skill you hear praised a lot, but it ought to be. It is a shame and a sin that that guy is no longer in the world.

How come they didn’t catch you?

Like I said, the guy was good.

Bullshit, Curtis says. Doesn’t matter how good he was. The casino was on high alert. They knew they had counters on the floor; they had already burned some. Who authorized increasing the limit? Why didn’t anybody see the money moving your way?

They were looking in the wrong places, Argos says. Sure they knew they had counters on the floor. That was the beauty of it. I told you, I was in the high-limit pit. Cardcounting teams don’t work high-limit tables; they’d get caught there in a fucking snap. Too much attention, not enough traffic. Damon had pulled his hotshot pit bosses and his best eye-in-the-sky guys out of high-limit, to the regular tables. That’s where the perceived threat was. He was offering cash bounties for burning our team. Meanwhile, I’ve got a crooked dealer, a green pit boss scared of pissing off a whale, and a bunch of security freaking out because they’re missing the real action across the room. Plus — this is key — Damon had worked up a phony credit history for me, so on paper I looked like a whale. I could’ve gone into the drop with a fucking shovel and gotten away with it.