Martin Seay - The Mirror Thief

What was your take?

Argos grins nastily. Did Damon give you permission to ask me that?

That’s between me and Damon.

Yeah, Argos says. I guess it is. Okay, Curtis. At twenty K a hand, I cleared a million and a quarter in a little under ten minutes. That’s the number I took to the cage, and that’s what I walked out with.

They just let you leave with over a million dollars in cash?

They didn’t like it much. They tried to hold me up with bullshit excuses about filing a Form 8300, so by then they must’ve figured something was off. But at that point, what could they do? Again, I wasn’t just some guy in a suit. I was a rated player.

Curtis looks over Argos’s shoulder to the long grasses along the water, watching patterns form and vanish as the wind shakes them. Damon had you working at the Point before, he says. As a position player. After he burned you. Before any of this happened.

Did he tell you that?

Is it true?

Sure, Argos says. So what?

So you’re telling me that you used to play poker at the Point on a daily basis — and then you came in with your team, ripped off a high-limit table for over a million bucks, and cashed out at the cage — and nobody recognized you?

Argos shrugs. I am good at what I do, he says.

Curtis sits back and looks him over. He could be twenty-five, thirty-five, forty-five years old. Beneath the sunglasses his skin is smooth and uniform, like plastic, or clay. Something about him is creepy, not fully human. He resembles a regular person the same way a coyote resembles a dog. Curtis isn’t afraid of him at all anymore.

What happened to the dealer? he asks.

Curtis expects Argos to hesitate here, but he doesn’t. This is the part he’s been wanting to tell.

After I cashed out, he says, I hid my take in a deposit box and met my team up at Resorts. There was a lot of hand-wringing and confusion and cussing the Spectacular, but nobody was heartbroken, because everybody made very nice money everyplace else. Stanley, I think, knew by then that he’d been fucked at the Point, and I think he knew that I’d been in on it. But he wasn’t feeling good, and he kept pretty quiet. It took us a while to work the split, then we went our separate ways. I went back to my deposit box to get the money, and then I went back to the Point.

Wait a minute. You went where?

Yeah. I wasn’t too happy about it either. But that’s where Damon wanted to meet to settle shares, because he and the dealer couldn’t get away from work for very long. Or at least that’s what he said. So I made some adjustments to my appearance, and I headed back. Very confused vibe on the gaming floor. Lots of people showing up from other casinos with congratulations, wanting to find out how the Point had burned us, while at about the same time, Spectacular management was realizing just how badly they’d been hosed. It felt like walking into a convenience store a few minutes after it’s been held up. Or coming through a little town after a tornado’s hit. Only nobody could see the tornado. Everybody was excited, keyed-up. I didn’t hang around very long. I hustled up to the room.

What room?

Just a regular room in the tower. I knocked, some guy answered.

What guy?

I’d never seen him before. I knew right then it was a setup. The thing was done, we had the money. Why bring in somebody else?

What did he look like?

Tall. Six-four, I’d guess. One-eighty, one-ninety. Greasy. Country-boy accent. Obvious muscle: a guy who’d done time. He let me in — the dealer was already there — and then he left. He said he’d be back in a minute with Damon.

What did you do?

I got the fuck out of there. What do you think I did?

Why?

Because I’m fucking smart, is why. Look: I show up, Damon’s not there, some hardcase thug I don’t know answers the door, checks to make sure I have the money, tells us to stay put, and splits. I mean, holy shit, Curtis. He might as well have spread out some plastic sheets and told us to lie down on them till he got back.

You got scared.

Maybe I wasn’t a hundred percent sure at the time. I just had a bad feeling, and I went with it. But look what happened to the dealer. The dealer stuck around. Now he’s a chumline in Absecon Bay.

You didn’t actually see what happened to him.

No, Curtis, I didn’t. I didn’t hide in the bushes while Damon and his triggerman loaded the body in a trunk. I didn’t follow them to the harbor like Nancy fucking Drew. You’re absolutely right. I’m being silly. The Jersey cops won’t give a shit about what I know. I’m sorry I wasted your time. But isn’t the lake lovely? Now come get your gun and shoot me in the head.

Did you take any of the money?

No, I didn’t take the fucking money! Is Damon saying I took the money?

Why not? Why’d you leave it?

Argos squirms, runs a hand through his hair. It wasn’t winnings, he says. It was stolen. Which, fine. But a lot of it was new bills. I wasn’t sure what to do with it. And Damon’s plan wasn’t seeming all that clever at the time. I opted to cut and run.

What did the dealer do?

He tried to stop me. He was freaking out. I tried to explain why I was leaving, but his English wasn’t too good. We got into it a little bit. I pushed him down. He probably would have chased me, but he didn’t want to lock himself out of the room.

What was his name?

He never told me. I didn’t see him until I sat down at his table, and then I didn’t think to look at his badge. When we met up later, I wasn’t there long enough to do any icebreaking activities. I found it on the internet yesterday, and wrote it down somewhere. Some Korean name.

Curtis squares his jaw, looks at the water. Grinding his teeth. He’s angry, enough to scare himself. Thinking about ways to get to the guns. The sun is high now. Some of the big birds he had taken for gulls are white pelicans, gliding inches off the water, fishing the reedy shallows, pressing long bills into their breasts.

What if the other guy wasn’t a hired gun? Curtis says. What if he was there to buy the cash?

What are you talking about? Argos says. But he knows what Curtis is talking about; he’s been thinking it too. It’s in his voice, if not his face.

You said yourself it was new bills, Curtis says. Maybe that was the other guy’s job, to wash the money. Maybe he wasn’t a shooter. Maybe the deal only went bad because you left, and they panicked, and they went after each other. Maybe this is all your fault, Argos. You ever think about that?

Argos smiles wanly, makes a dismissive gesture. I tend not to dwell on such stuff, he says. It makes me unhappy. This business is all about attit—

His smile evaporates. He sits up in his chair. What the fuck is that? he says.

Curtis’s chin drops in disbelief. You got to be kidding, he says. I’m supposed to turn my back now, right?

Something’s on the road.

Argos picks up the two pistols, puts them on the concrete, and tips back the lid of the cooler: bottles inside, along with a pair of binoculars, which Argos lifts to his face. This would be a good time to rush him, but Curtis can’t psych himself up for it. Probably just your imaginary friend with the rifle, he says. Sick of waiting on you.

It’s a car. Did you have anybody following you?

Nobody followed me, Curtis says. Thinking about it, though, he never really checked the cab’s mirrors. Still, it doesn’t seem possible.

Well, Argos says, I gotta run.

He steps to the dirtbike, throws open the saddlebag, stuffs the binoculars inside. Keep your shit together, Argos, Curtis says. It’s probably just the park ranger.

It’s not the ranger.

Argos tucks his gun into his waistband, then unloads Curtis’s revolver and puts it and the loose bullets in the cooler. Curtis rises from his seat. You’re just gonna leave me in the desert, huh? he says. How do you recommend I get back to town? I can’t use my phone out here.