The Mirror Thief

by Martin Seay

  Something else, Albedo says. Damon wants us to start leaning on Veronica.

  Curtis blinks. What? he says.

  Veronica, man. That skinny little bitch Stanley runs around with.

  I know who Veronica is.

  Well, Damon thinks we need to sweat her a little. The girl is weak, man. After a few days with Stanley being UA, she’s apt to be freaking out. Apply a little pressure, and she’s gonna roll.

  Curtis stares at Albedo: his beaked nose, his slit of a mouth. Yeah? he says. And what the fuck does Damon know about it? I’m not gonna go around town extorting people just because—look, this is bullshit. Damon wants to keep playing, he’s got to show some cards. There’s shit going on that he’s not telling me about.

  Albedo snickers, punches the cigarette lighter on the dash. You got that right, man, he says. And you are way better off without the details, believe me. I mean, jesus christ, Curtis, what’s with this wanting to know everything all of a sudden? I thought you were a marine, man.

  That was very different from this, Curtis says.

  Was it? Was the Desert very different from this? Isn’t it always about taking care of your buddies, and fuck the big picture? You know the answer, man.

  The lighter pops up. Curtis jumps a little, but he doesn’t think Albedo notices. Albedo pulls it out, holds the orange coil to his cigarette, and smoke swirls between the half-open windows. Curtis turns away, looks outside. They’re at the light at Koval, on the edge of McCarran: Boeings and Airbuses are queuing up for takeoff, the heat from their engines bending the light, deforming the air.

  You been checking out NA meetings? Albedo says.

  Say again?

  NA meetings, man. Miss Veronica used to have herself a little coke problem back before Stanley straightened her out. If he’s not around, she might start going to meetings. It’s worth a shot. But, hey, you know what? Let me handle that angle. I’m connected pretty good with that crowd. You just keep doing what you’re doing. And if she turns up again, you call me. I’ll take care of it.

  Albedo makes a sharp left, heading north. The decorations hanging from his rearview mirror jangle and sway, and Curtis turns to get a better look: a strand of green Mardi Gras beads from the Orleans, a mini-discoball, a set of dogtags on a beaded steel chain. Curtis reaches up to look at the tags, thinking he’ll get the proper spelling of Albedo, but they’re made out for a marine named L. ALLODOLA, O-positive, who wears a medium gasmask and has no religious preference. Curtis lets them drop.

  Hey, you wanna see something real cool? Albedo’s saying. Pick up that case there at your feet. Pop that sucker open.

  Curtis picks it up. From the weight he can guess what’s going to be inside, but he opens it anyway, just enough to see. A submachinegun, nine-millimeter, about a foot and a half long, nested in a foam lining. It’s supposed to look slick, very James Bond, but the case’s shell is cracked, duct-taped in a couple of places, and the foam lining is yellow and uneven, like it was ripped out of an old couch. The gun looks like all guns look: scary and stupid, like a wasp trapped in a room. A suppressor and a couple of extra clips sit next to it, and they slide around whenever Albedo jostles the steering wheel, which is often. The suppressor looks like it could have been some junior-high-school kid’s shop class project. Curtis shuts the case.

  Sweet, huh? Albedo says. Bet that brings back some memories.

  Not for me.

  No? Oh, wait—it was Damon who worked embassy security, right? Not you. I get y’all mixed up. I tell you, though, that little darlin’ sure brings back the old Force-Recon days for me. I know this dude who’s got a little shooting range set up outside of Searchlight. Sub rosa. Strictly off the books. I’m gonna take it down there in a couple of weeks, tear shit up a little. You ought to tag along if you’re still in town.

  I’m not gonna be, Curtis says. He steals a glance over at Albedo. Sure, he thinks. This guy was Force-Recon. Just like I was Secret Service.

  So what you got under that jacket, man? Albedo asks. Curtis doesn’t answer. What’s the matter, you shy? C’mon, what’re you carrying?

  .357 snub, Curtis says.

  Magnum? Holy shit, man. You came out here to do business.

  I’m using hot thirtyeights, Curtis says. You get better control.

  Albedo looks over at him, eyebrows arched behind his shades, and then laughs. That is exactly like you, my brother, he says. If I may say so. Little dude, big gun, medium-size bang. That’s real cute. Yeah, man, I got your number.

  Laugh all you want, Curtis says, scowling. You ever shoot a magnum cartridge in a closed-in space, like a hotel room? You wanna go blind and deaf in the middle of a firefight, knock yourself out. I don’t go for that Schwarzenegger shit.

  I ain’t arguing, man, I ain’t arguing. Can I take a look?

  Huh?

  Lemme see your little gun, man. C’mon.

  They’re pulling up to the stoplight at Koval and Flamingo, cattycornered from the Westin. Curtis looks hard at Albedo, trying to see his eyes through the shades. No way could he pull anything now. Not while he’s driving. And Curtis is sure he cleared the backseat before he sat down. Almost completely sure.

  He looks around sheepishly at the nearby drivers, all of whom seem to be gaping at Albedo’s car, not at its occupants. He leans forward and draws the revolver from his waist, keeping it low, near his thighs. Curtis swings open the cylinder, works the ejector rod, and dumps the five oily bullets in his right palm.

  He gives the gun to Albedo. Albedo takes it, looks it over. It all but vanishes in his big hand. Smith, right? he says. Pretty nice. That’s a Speer cartridge you’re loading? Gold Dot?

  I guess, Curtis says. It was on sale.

  The light changes. Albedo hands the revolver back, puts his palm on the wheel. So what do you think I should do with that thing on the deck, man? he asks. You think I can get two grand for it?

  I wouldn’t know, Curtis says. He’s reloading, slipping the pistol back in its holster. The convention center is coming up on the left, the rear entrance to Curtis’s hotel just beyond it.

  I’m thinking about just hanging onto it, Albedo’s saying. I know these guys in North Cackalack—buddies of mine from the Desert—who’re looking for a few good men right about now. Once boots start hitting the ground over in Iraq, and ol’ Saddam gets himself deleted, it’s gonna be the Gold Rush over there. See, Dick fucking Cheney’s privatized the whole deal. The occupation, the rebuilding, the policing, the oil-stealing: that’s all gonna be private, run by these private corporations.

  Is that so.

  And the thing is, these beancounting cocksuckers don’t much like getting shot at. So they’re looking for guys like us to provide security, run counterinsurgency ops, shit like that. And they’re really writing the checks, man. Huge money. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I didn’t enjoy the fucking shit out of the Corps or anything—I left for a reason—but it would’ve been a hell of a lot more tolerable if they’d been paying me a hundred-fifty grand a year to do it. See what I’m saying? Plus with these guys there ain’t all the hierarchical, shit-floats-to-the-top, byzantine-ass bureaucracy we had in the USMC. Not much in the way of government oversight, neither. Yeah, sure, you gotta put up with a bunch of fat guys from Halliburton, but fuck it, man. Just keep those checks coming.

  They’re pulling into the porte-cochère now. The valets crane their necks to get a good look at the ugly gleaming ride. I can absolutely put you in touch with these fellas, Albedo says. You got just the stuff they’re looking for. You say the word, man. Pronounce the syllables.

  Thanks for the ride, Curtis says, and pops the door. An empty Styrofoam cup and a battered and accordion-folded color brochure drop onto the pavement.

  I’m serious, man. The next couple years are gonna be for private paramilitaries what the day after Thanksgiving is for Wal-Mart. You mark my fucking words.

  Curtis lets the big door slam, picks up the cup and the brochure, and starts toward the hotel entrance.
Hey, Curtis! Albedo shouts.

  What?

  This thing you got going? With Damon, with the Spectacular? It’s maybe not gonna work out the way you’re hoping it’s gonna, partner. I’m real sorry to tell you. It’s gonna turn out bad, or it’s not gonna turn out at all. You know it, and I know it, and baby makes three. You might oughta start making other plans. Okay? Peace.

  Albedo flashes two fingers, pushes his shades up the bridge of his nose, and puts the Mercury in gear. Curtis stands there with Albedo’s trash in his hand, watching him roll away. The brochure is sticky. Looking down, Curtis sees the words SIN CITY ESCORTS, a pair of lipsticked mouths pouting beneath them.

  He finds a trashbin near the automatic doors, then walks into the lobby. His fingers stick to the button when he summons the elevator, cling again to his thumb when he tries to wipe them off. He struggles for a minute in front of his room, fishing out his wallet, removing the keycard, and opening the door without touching anything with his right hand. In the midst of his contortions, a white guy about his own age passes in the hall. Fat, balding, sunburnt, in baggy swimtrunks. He’s carrying goggles and a tiny underwater digital camera. He and Curtis eye each other uneasily. What happens here stays here, Curtis thinks.

  By the time he gets inside, his skin is crawling. He shrugs out of his clothes and climbs into the shower, turning it up as hot as he can stand, then hotter once his skin gets used to it. He scrubs fiercely, systematically—scalp and face, rinse, left arm, rinse, right arm, rinse, just like they taught in boot camp—until he reaches the soles of his feet. Then he starts over. By the time he’s done, the room is thick with swirling mist. Little drops bead the marble tiles, inch down the mirrors.

  He puts on a robe and steps into the entryway, and steam spills around him like aspic from a mold. A slim white envelope is at his feet, an inch inside the door, and he stoops to pick it up. CURTIS is printed on it in a familiar spiky hand. Inside is a ticket to the museum down below—ART THROUGH THE AGES, it says: Masterpieces of Painting from Titian to Picasso—and a note written on Quicksilver hotel stationery.

  Meet here @ 3

  Keep it quiet

  V

  Curtis has walked by the museum at least twice a day since he checked in; he’s never really paid it any mind. It seemed to have nothing to do with Stanley—to be the kind of thing he’d write off as theme-park bullshit, a waste of floorspace, a consolation prize for uptight spouses of gamblers and conventioneers—but maybe Curtis has missed something. Didn’t Veronica say that Stanley had gotten interested in art? Maybe it was history; Curtis can’t remember. It may not matter anyway. Veronica doesn’t seem to understand Stanley a whole lot better than he does himself.

  The book is on the nightstand where Curtis left it this morning. He picks it up, carries it to the table by the window. He was half asleep when he read through it last night, still a little buzzed from Veronica’s bourbon, and not much stayed with him. He thinks he remembers a poem about a painter, or about art—at least he thought that’s what it was about—but flipping around now, he can’t find it. It seems unlikely that he could miss it in a book with under eighty pages, and he wonders if it was in his head: if a line he read just reminded him of something that Veronica told him, or that Stanley said long ago, or even something he saw himself in some museum while he was on leave in Europe. He can’t be sure.

  The maid of Corinth runs

  her knife across the bricks,

  fixing the shadow

  of her errant love.

  If a mirror should possess a soul

  it would perceive the image it holds.

  As songbirds fly

  at Zeuxis’ grapes

  Parrhasius gestures

  toward the curtain.

  If a mirror should possess a soul

  it would perceive the image it holds.

  In Murano’s furnaces

  glass-workers drizzle

  liquid mercury

  on quickened tin.

  If a mirror should possess a soul

  it would perceive the image it holds.

  Here is true alchemy: the curtain

  conceals only itself

  and the maid loves the shadow

  more than the soldier.

  Soon Curtis isn’t reading anymore, just thinking, staring at the framed print over the couch: the tiny masts of tall ships poking from a yellow-brown chaos of sky and sea. Something scary about that painting. He hasn’t really noticed that before.

  He checks his cell display: 2:15. Plenty of time to scope the museum in advance. He shuts the book, stands up, and is turning toward the steps when he notices a fax in the machine.

  Damon, from four hours ago. A full-page sketch of a giant phallus bent into a graceful question mark. A pair of shaggy testes dangling where the point should be. WHUT DA FUUUK??? written in heavy letters inside its interior curve.

  Curtis flattens the fax on the desk. He shreds it into neat ribbons across the diagonal, making straight tears with the sharp beveled edge of the desk. Then he stacks the ribbons and tears them again, making a palmful of black-and-white confetti. Each tear makes a good sound, a certain sound. It’s nice to feel certain about something.

  On his way out the door, he scatters the confetti in the toilet, pisses on it, and flushes it down.

  35

  The museum is a dark steel box that runs between the lobby and the casino floor. After a counterclockwise turn around the armillary sphere, Curtis shows his ticket at the entrance. He does a cursory walkthrough to make sure Veronica’s not already here. The place is small; it doesn’t take him long. Three bulkheads divide the gallery into four rooms, with about ten paintings in each room. The rusted-steel walls seem to float in midair, not quite touching the deck or the ceiling; Curtis sees shadows and feet pass by through the gaps at the bottom. He brushes a stealthy finger across the surface of one to see if it really is steel: it’s chocolate-brown, glazed to look moist and oily. He feels like he’s inside a fancy leather handbag, or a healthy kidney.

  Afternoon sun trickles through slots in the outer wall, augmenting tracklights hung along the maple overhead. Outside, the morning’s clear blue has gone dull and planar, a yellow pall across the sky. Only a couple of dozen people wander around; a few more are in the gift shop. None of them is Veronica. Curtis works his way back through the exhibit, dividing his attention between the art and the crowd, keeping himself alert. He’ll spot Veronica with no trouble, but he’s worried that the Whistler might be lurking somewhere. He doubts he’d recognize the kid right away, if at all.

  The exhibit is chronological, ending with a growling cartoon dog from 1965. Curtis is walking through it in reverse, moving backward in time. Barely looking at the paintings. He’s never thought much of modern art, with its drips and splats and big monochrome squares. At one piece, a plain black box on a plain white background, he has to stop and shake his head.

  Years ago, during one of his surprise reappearances in Curtis’s boyhood, Curtis’s dad spent an afternoon lecturing him about black painters—Raymond Saunders, Frank Bowling, Beauford Delaney, Alma Thomas—and about how Picasso stole his best ideas from African masks he’d seen in the Musée de l’Homme. The next Saturday Curtis rode his secondhand Schwinn the two fast downhill miles to the new MLK Library and sat and flipped through massive hardbound books for hours, befuddled by bright blotches and smears. And then months later, when his father visited again, the sermon was about how black abstractionists were just aping the white man, how they didn’t challenge the sensibilities of white culture, and how jazz was the only revolutionary Afro-American artform. Curtis smiles, wondering what his father would be saying were he here today. Probably something about how Islam forbids image-making. The Holy Prophet, peace be upon him, teaches that on the Day of Resurrection, all the artists will be commanded to give life to the stuff that they created. And when they can’t do it, they’ll be punished. Think about it, Little Man. It makes sense. Every living thing comes from God. Go
d made us all in his image. And it ain’t right to make images of God.

  When Curtis comes to a torpid bare-breasted Venus that resembles nothing so much as a Playboy centerfold from the late Fifties, he starts paying closer attention to the art. He’s in the 1700s now—older than America—and the paintings are more realistic, more precise. An angel with a flaming sword. A pale creepy infant prince. A baleful wolfhound with intelligent orange eyes. Curtis leans in to get a close look at the hound, the detail in its fur, its chain, its collar. He and Danielle always talked about getting a dog once they moved out to East Lansdowne. A big dog. They’ve been there almost four months now and still haven’t done it. Curtis would feel better about being away if he knew Danielle had a big dog around.

  As he nears the museum entrance he’s back in the Renaissance, spotting names he remembers from Mediterranean shoreleaves: Lotto, Tintoretto, Titian. One big canvas looks familiar, although the artist’s name—FRANCESCO BASSANO, 1549–1592—doesn’t ring any bells. AUTUMN, it’s called: a group of rustics harvesting apples and stomping grapes beneath the eerie green light of an overcast sky. Curtis isn’t sure what about it caught his attention, unless maybe it’s the thunderbolt-brandishing centaur bounding through the distant clouds, which reminds him a little of the bearded gods on the map in the lobby. Studying the canvas, he spends a moment trying to figure out whether he saw the real one in Italy before he remembers that this is the real one.

  He’s looking at the exhibit’s oldest piece, a portrait of an unsmiling merchant from 1436, when Veronica breezes in. Just the sight of her puts him on edge. The shuteye she caught on the couch last night hasn’t done much for her: even from across the room her eyes are hooded in blue. Her movements seem loose, marionettelike, as if she’s held up by something invisible outside herself, as if each step she takes is an arrested collapse. Her feet brush the blond parquet as she glides toward him.