Martin Seay - The Mirror Thief

When he’s done he flushes, removes his jacket and his shirts, and washes his face and neck and arms and chest in the bathroom sink. The mirror on the medicine-cabinet is streaked; he’s about to wipe it with a towel when he sees that the streaks are letters, written in grease-pencil, now almost erased. He lifts the candle, looks closer. The hasty serrated writing is distinctive, familiar: a match with the slogans he read last night on the coffeehouse walls. THIS IS THE FACE OF GOD YOU SEE, it says.

Stanley dries himself and dresses, then waits till the typewriter is going at a good clip again before blowing out the candle and opening the door. In the rectangle of light that leads to the bedroom he can see Lyn’s pale feet, their toes angled down at the edge of the mattress. The right foot is still; the left rises and falls, like the pumpjacks by the canals. Alex doesn’t look up at Stanley, not even when he stops typing. The forgotten Lucky Strike droops between his lips, burnt gray to its filter. Before the ash falls, Stanley shows himself out.

On his way back to Horizon Court Stanley passes a small department store as it opens for the day: the manager props the door, then walks to the back and steps into the stockroom to retrieve merchandise. The woman at the register flips through a catalogue. Stanley crouches between racks and tables; no one sees him come in or go out. He leaves with a new pair of bluejeans, a new shirt, some brown gabardine slacks that caught his eye. Two doors down he steals a bottle of rubbing alcohol from a druggist who’s on the phone with his bookie. Why does anybody ever pay for anything? Stanley wonders.

He raps on the door of the squat in the pattern that he and Claudio rehearsed — the kid had better not still be asleep — then walks to the corner. When he’s sure the street is clear he walks back, taps twice, and the door swings open.

Claudio hides behind the doorframe, still in his jockeyshorts. Where have you been? he says. I have been very concerned.

You coulda asked me where I was going.

I was asleep.

Stanley sets his bundle of clothes on the glass-topped counter. You weren’t that asleep, he says. Hey, take a look at this stuff I picked up. You like these pants?

This is where you have been for these hours? Finding pants?

Cool it a minute, kid. I was doing some business. We got money coming tonight.

Money? What money?

Big money. A hundred and fifty clams.

Claudio’s eyes widen; his mouth forms an O. What? he says. Is this true? From where will this money come?

From that guy Alex. Remember him? He was at the joint last night. From England or someplace. Great big nose.

Yes, Claudio says, knitting his brow. I do remember. I talked to him. I thought something was not right about him and his wife. They seemed strange.

They seem like a couple of junkies and grifters, which is what they are. That’s what makes ’em good for a touch. They’re giving us cash for junk.

Stanley removes his shoes, then unzips his dirty jeans and pulls them off. He puts them on the counter and unrolls the gabardine slacks.

Sorry, Claudio says. They will give us cash for what? Junk?

Junk, Stanley says, pulling on the trousers. Hop. Shit. Dope. Get with the program, kid.

Narcotics?

What, are you the Kefauver Commission all of a sudden? What do you think of these pants? Pretty swank, huh? Do they go with the shirt?

Stanley, Claudio says, what are you talking about? Where will you get this junk?

Goddammit, would you relax? I got it already. I took it off a dead guy last night.

A dead guy? Where is this dead guy? Where is your junk? Is it here? If the police—

Shhhh , Stanley says, putting his hands on Claudio’s jaw, his thumbs on his lips. Just listen, he says. The junk I found, I already sold it to Alex. That’s the grift. I sold him a few buck’s worth, and I told him I’d get some more. He’s giving me the cash for it tonight. He’s leaving town in a week.

We will keep his money, Claudio says, and give him no junk. That is your plan? This will not cause problems for us?

I been thinking about that, Stanley says, and at first that’s how I had it figured. Now I got a better idea. If we rip him off the way you’re saying, we get the hundred-fifty, and maybe some bad feelings. But if we deliver the goods, we could net at least that much, or more. I think it’s worth looking into.

But how? Where will you get such a quantity of narcotics? We know no one here whom this Alex does not know also.

The hell we don’t, kid, Stanley says. What about the Shoreline Dogs?

Claudio’s eyes narrow; he takes Stanley’s arms by the wrists, gently removes them from his face. What in hell are you talking about? he murmurs.

This is genius, kid, Stanley says. It solves all our problems. We get a nice chunk of cash, and we get those clowns off our backs. We’ll have ourselves a little powwow, pass the peace pipe around, and we’ll make a deal. Everybody’ll go home happy.

But the Dogs hate us. They want to kill us. We humiliated them.

Stanley steps back, unbuttons his shirt. You don’t understand these chumps like I do, he says. All hoods are the same, the whole world over. They’re all looking for the big score, but they got no imagination. I guarantee you they know somebody who’ll get us what we need, and they’ll be happy with whatever cut we give ’em. I’ll talk to that guy, I’ll set this thing up, and bygones’ll be bygones. Him and me’ll be pals for life.

What guy is this you will talk to?

You know, Stanley says. The guy. The boss. That greaser I kicked in the nuts. The rest of that crew I wouldn’t trust to make me a sandwich, but that guy I can work with. He’s smart enough to know he’s dumb.

Stanley slides into the new shirt, tucks in the tail: a cream-yellow rayon blend, ochre inset stripes running alongside its shiny shell buttons. It’s fancy — just the thing for the next time he sees Welles — but he’ll have to be careful about wearing it on the street. Any smart cop will know at a glance how he came by it.

Claudio stands aside, his arms crossed, his thumb across his lips. Is there another way? he says. Another way to get money?

Whaddya mean? There’s lots of other ways. But this is what came along, so this is what we’re doing. It’s a fast pitch, sure, but it’s in the strike zone. So we gotta take a swing. How do I look?

Stanley smoothes the shirt’s fabric, holds out his arms, pivots. Claudio gives him a quick worried glance. You look nice, he says.

If you like these duds, I can get you some, too. Those jokers in the shop—

Your idea, Claudio says. It has many dangers. The hoods. The police. We do not know if this Alex is to be trusted. It is a serious crime we will do, Stanley.

Would you quit bellyaching? Look, it’s no different from crossing a city street. Maybe a runaway cement truck’ll smash you dead. It could happen to anybody. But you cross anyway, right? It’s just like that. Kid, you have got to get tougher if you’re gonna make the grade out here. You can’t go around scared all the time.

What about your man? Claudio says. Your poet?

What about him?

Can your man help us get what we want? In a way that does not break any law?

Stanley thinks about that. Then he steps forward, pinches the elastic of Claudio’s shorts, and gives it a gentle snap. No dice, he says. From that guy, there’s something else I want.

Later, when Stanley’s new clothes are draped on the clothesline, when he’s watching the shallow curves of Claudio’s back sway beneath the pencils of light, he remembers something.

I changed my name again last night, he says.

Claudio makes a soft quizzical sound, his voice sleepy and thick.