Martin Seay - The Mirror Thief

On the next round she stands on a twelve and a sixteen with the dealer showing an eight; Masuud turns over a six, busts with a jack. If this was his joint, Curtis thinks, he’d bounce her right now. He glances over as he collects his single chip: she had four hundred dollars on the line.

Thanks, he tells her. That was a gutsy play.

She shrugs. Glad it worked out, she says.

How you doing tonight?

She doesn’t answer right away, doesn’t look up at all. I’m doing okay, she says. And yourself?

Not too good tonight, Curtis says. Can’t seem to get anything started.

Well, she says, meeting his gaze at last. I hope your luck changes. Her face is blank. She turns back to her cards.

Three rounds later he’s wiped out. He tokes Masuud with the last bill in his wallet and retreats, hiding in the slots again. He thinks about going to the cage — cashing one of Damon’s traveler’s checks, coming back — but he doesn’t want to lose sight of her, and at this point he’s pretty sure he can wait her out. It’s nearly four a.m. The casino is still hopping; he keeps forgetting it’s the weekend.

He stops at the Oculus Lounge to get icewater for his empty cup. As he steps back onto the carpet, he sees Masuud clap out, receive his toke, and go. A middle-aged Filipino woman takes his place: the graveyard shift coming on. Stanley’s girl plays a few more rounds — out of courtesy, and to make sure the new dealer isn’t running cold — then gets up, stretches impressively, and heads toward the cage with her chips.

He waits for her to cash in, tracks her through the tables, and falls into step beside her as she approaches the slots. Coming up on her left. Hello again, he says.

She glances over, flashes a thin smile. Doesn’t slow down.

Looks like you did pretty well tonight, Curtis says.

Yeah.

You win everything on blackjack?

Yeah, she says. Hey, listen — I’m not looking for any company tonight. Okay? No offense.

None taken. You’re Veronica, right?

She jerks to a halt. He steps into her path, turns to face her. Her hands come up, then move to her hips. Excuse me? she says.

Can I talk to you for a second?

What is this? she hisses, her lip curling into a sneer. You’re security? Jesus. Okay, I want to see some ID, and I want to talk to the shift boss, because this is bullshit.

Curtis backs up a step, palms out. I’m not security, he says.

Then what is this?

You don’t remember me, do you?

She looks at him. Squinting, like it’s dark, like they’re underwater. Then her eyes widen, go to his jacket, his belt. Her pupils dilate. Blood flees from her face.

Hey, listen, he says. I’m not—

You’re from back East. Atlantic City. Right?

He shakes his head. Not AC, he says. Philly.

She’s shrinking away: shifting her weight, not backing down. Quick, shallow breaths. So? she says. What do you want?

I’m looking for Stanley.

She snorts. Her eyes drop to the deck for a second, scanning the patterned carpet. Yeah? she says. Well, join the fucking club, pal.

You don’t know where he is?

I have no idea where he is. Okay? I haven’t seen him or heard from him in days. And I don’t know how to reach him. Understand? And if I did — if I did know — then you better fucking believe I wouldn’t tell you. You got it? Am I being clear?

Hey, whoa, ease up a second. I’m not—

Who sent you here?

Curtis blinks, confused. This sounds wrong, but it isn’t. Until now, he hasn’t thought of himself as sent.

Who sent you? she asks again. Who are you working for?

I–I’m not working for anybody. I came out here on my own. I’ve known Stanley for years.

Bullshit.

Okay. Look. I know Damon Blackburn at the Spectacular. He’s an old friend. And he asked me to help find Stanley.

She’s calming down now, more sarcastic than scared. Angrier. Really, she says. Damon Blackburn. Imagine that. Small fucking world.

But I do know Stanley, Curtis says. That is not bullshit. I’ve known him my whole life. He and my dad used to run together.

She’s squinting again: Curtis can see her trying to remember.

Badrudin Hassan, Curtis says. Used to be called Donald Stone. You and I met one other time, at his wedding, couple years ago.

She nods. Okay, she says. Sure. Hey, I don’t suppose Damon Blackburn told you why he’s looking for Stanley? Did he happen to mention that?

Curtis widens his stance, settles on his feet. Yeah, he says. A couple months ago, Stanley came into the Point and took out a marker for ten grand. Damon signed off on it. Stanley hasn’t made any payments, and in four days it’s going to be delinquent. Damon doesn’t want any problems, for Stanley or for himself. He wants to get in touch so they can work something out.

Her mouth falls open, in disbelief or disgust. She’s too far into this to buy the story Damon gave him. Way farther into it than he is himself. She knows everything he knows. He’s got no leverage, nothing he can use. A delinquent marker, she says. That’s what Damon told you?

That’s what he told me.

It’s that simple.

Curtis stares at her for a second, then sighs. Well, he says, it’s a little bit more complicated than that.

Neither of them moves. Streams of people pour past them, coins rattling in their plastic pails. Soft chirps and beeps from slot machines fill the treated air like birdsongs. Tiny unblinking lenses look down from high above.

Are we finished here? she says. Damon wants Stanley to call him? That’s it?

Yeah. If you give him the message when you hear from him, I’ll be grateful.

I don’t think Stanley’s in a real big hurry to talk to Damon Blackburn right now, she says. I think he’s mostly inclined not to do that. Just to let you know.

Maybe he’ll talk to me, Curtis says. He knows me. He’s a reasonable guy.

She laughs. Reasonable! she says. That’s good. Reasonable.

Curtis reaches into his inside pocket, slowly, for Damon’s card. Holds it out to her. My cell’s on the back, he says. So’s my room number. I’m staying upstairs. Tell Stanley to call me. Maybe I can talk sense to him.

Good luck, she says. Good fucking luck on that one, pal.

She crosses her arms, looks out across the casino floor. There’s an old couple at a craps table nearby, the old man laughing hard, the old lady waving her arms and going woo woo woo , both of them drunk, both better than seventy years old.

Veronica smiles. Stanley’s totally crazy now, she says. You know that, right?

I been told that, yeah.

She keeps staring at the old couple. Now she looks tired, really fundamentally exhausted. Curtis remembers that he is, too. He keeps the card in the air, unmoving.

So, she finally asks, did Damon send anybody else out here?

Curtis thinks about that. No, he tells her. Just me.

Veronica uncrosses her arms. Then she reaches out and plucks the card from his fingers. Looks at his face, his chest, his face.

Your name’s Curtis, she says. Right?

His first couple of swipes miss the card-reader, and he stops for a second, fuming, before closing his eyes and using both hands, brushing the card’s edge along his left index finger, guiding it into the slot. The door unlocks with a soft interior click.

No faxes, no messages. Curtis puts away his gun, strips down to his skivvies, collapses onto the big rack. Too tired to sleep. Too keyed-up. Thinking too much. His brain revs and revs, but won’t drop into gear. The clock on the nightstand glows like a hot coal. Ninety-one hours to go. And counting.

He gets up, goes to the head, washes his face and hands. The water tastes of stone, is hard to lather. Not like home, where the soap never seems to come off. He dribbles it over his stubbly scalp, across his eyelids. Rubbing it in.