Martin Seay - The Mirror Thief

Nobody picks up at the cabbie’s number. A brief vague greeting — English, then Arabic, then French — followed by a beep. Hello, Saad, Curtis says. You probably don’t remember me, but my name is Curtis Stone, and a couple of days ago you gave me a ride to the Quicksilver. We talked about jazz a little bit. Listen, I don’t know if you’re working today, but I need your help. I managed to get myself stranded out here at Valley of Fire State Park, and I could use a ride back to the Strip. I know that’s probably not on your regular route, but I can make it worth your time. My phone’s not getting a signal, so I guess I’ll just call you back in a little while. I’m at the park visitor center. Thanks.

Curtis dials again, selects Directory Assistance, and asks for the number for Sin City Escorts in Las Vegas. He listens to sleazy music and breathy boilerplate for a minute. Then the phone rings and a woman answers. Sin City Escorts, she says. How can we make you happy today?

I’m looking for a guy who drives for you, Curtis says. A guy named Albedo. He drives—

Hold please, the woman says.

Curtis holds for a while. Wiping his cheek with some toilet paper he took from the campsite restroom. A man’s voice answers. Who’s it you’re looking for? it says.

A guy named Albedo. He drives for you sometimes. He drives a big black car, an old car. I’m trying to get in touch—

I know the guy, yeah. But I can’t put you in touch. We don’t give out that kind of information. You leave me your name and number, and maybe next time I see him I’ll give it to him, if I think about it.

You don’t have to do that, man, Curtis says. I’ve got his number. I’m just trying to figure out if he’s back from Atlantic City yet.

Atlantic City? the guy says. Yeah, he’s back from Atlantic City. He’s been back for like a week and a half. Did he go out there again?

Thanks, Curtis says, and ends the call.

He wipes his cheek and leans against the wall and thinks for a minute.

Then he calls the switchboard at the Spectacular in AC and asks for lost-and-found. Hi, he says. I was in your hotel a couple of weeks ago, and I think I might have left something in my room.

Young female voice on the line. Sure, it says. We’ll check. What did you lose?

I lost a cufflink, Curtis says. Gold, with a black gemstone.

And do you remember what room you were in, and the dates of your visit?

I was in Room 1797, Curtis says. I was there for one night, on — when was it? It was over Mardi Gras weekend, I remember that.

Okay, the voice chirps. If you’ll hold for a minute, we’ll see what we can do.

A click. An Eagles song comes on. After a verse and a chorus, another click. I’m sorry, the same voice says. What was your name?

My name is Albedo, Curtis says. But I don’t know if the reservation was made under my name. I was there with a group.

Well, I may have some good news, Mister Albedo. We did have a lost cufflink logged on March Second. I’m going to check with Risk Management now.

The Eagles come back on. Then they fade into Fleetwood Mac, and Fleetwood Mac fades into Norah Jones. Curtis is leaning his head on the wall with his eyes closed when a voice comes from behind him. Hey, it says. Are you Curtis Stone?

Curtis spins, blinks. Yeah, he says.

It’s a park ranger, looking irritated. Your taxi just called, she says. He’s coming. He says it’ll probably be two hours before he gets here.

Okay, Curtis says. Thanks.

Do you want to talk to him?

I can’t right now. Sorry. Thanks.

The ranger rolls her eyes and walks away. Curtis wipes his cheek and rests his forehead on the wall again. Thinking of Damon in the Penrose Diner. Look, this is not dangerous. Nobody’s breaking any laws . Curtis grimaces. Norah Jones rolls over into Elton John. Then a click. Mister Albedo?

Yeah. I’m here.

The girl’s voice is tense now, and Curtis knows he’s getting close. I’m really sorry for the delay, she says. I’ve got Security Officer Ramirez on the phone now. He’ll explain the situation regarding your cufflink. Okay? Officer Ramirez?

Another voice: Hello? Mister Albedo?

That’s right.

I’ve been, ah, investigating the matter of your cufflink, and what I have basically discovered is that we do have a record of such an item being found in Room 1797 on March Second, but the item is no longer in our lost-and-found. Do you know anybody else who was in the room that night who might have claimed it?

You know, Curtis says. I just might. I’ll have to check. Don’t you guys keep a record of what gets claimed?

We do, the guy says, but, y’know, sometimes paperwork doesn’t get done. I’m really sorry about this. Um — while I’ve got you on the phone, Mister Albedo, do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions about some damage that was done to that room?

Curtis ends the call. He stands there holding the dead phone until it starts to buzz. Then he puts it back in the cradle. Running different formulas in his head. Weighing things against each other that he’d never really appreciated as separate before. Coming up with the same result every time.

In the end he thinks: this is how I help Stanley. This is what it comes down to.

He lifts the receiver, dials again. A few rings. His dad’s voice on the answering machine. Curtis talks over it. Pop, he says. I know you’re there. It’s Curtis. Pick up.

A click, and his father’s voice again, louder and clearer. What’s up, Curtis? it says. What’s wrong? You in trouble?

A tear falls from Curtis’s face and makes a dark spot on his foot. His black shoes are pinkish-gray with mud and dust. Their laces are snarled with burrs. They look like some foul echinoderms that might slither along a reef. It’s okay, Curtis says. I’m okay.

I didn’t ask if you’re okay, Little Man. I asked what’s wrong.

Curtis laughs quietly. Well, he says, a lot’s wrong. Nothing that can’t be fixed, though. I’m sorry to put this on you, Pop, but I’m in a tricky spot out here. I can’t really explain specifics right now, but I need you to do something for me that’s gonna cause you some aggravation and take up a little of your time.

In the silence that follows, Curtis senses a great gathering of judgment, like the rise of water behind a dam. When his father speaks again, Curtis can hear strain in his voice from the effort of holding it back. He loves the old man for that.

Okay, his father says. What do you need?

You got something at hand to write with?

Yeah.

Okay, Curtis says. I need you to call the Jersey State Police.

When Saad appears — dressed in sandals, a workshirt with rolled sleeves, and khakis stained dark brown at the knees — Curtis is taken by surprise: he hasn’t see a cab pull into the visitor center lot. I am not working today, my friend, Saad says. I am in my personal vehicle. I was at home when you called, working on the roof of my house. What is wrong with your eye? Do you need Visine? I have Visine.

Saad shows Curtis to a white Honda and opens the back door for him. There is no meter, of course, he says. For the distances I looked at MapQuest. It will be one hundred fifty dollars. Okay? I hope you will give me a good tip.

Sure I will. You’re making me feel bad for messing up your day off.

Saad shuts Curtis’s door with an indifferent wave. Bah! he says. Why do you feel bad? I told you, I was working on my roof. Now what am I doing? I am driving in the beautiful mountains. Maybe you will give me a nice tip, and then I can pay some men to fix my roof, which is what my wife always has been telling me to do. You see? I am happy you called. And soon we will be gone from the mountains, and I will find some nice jazz on the radio. Yes?