The Mirror Thief Read Online Free Page B

the machines, the PA blend and collide into an indistinct roar, a new silence. Curtis only gradually becomes aware of someone screaming his name from a few yards away: a longhaired white guy. Ripped jeans, Guns N’ Roses T-shirt, motorcycle jacket. He’s grinning, half-silhouetted against the wavery light of a flatscreen TV, one splayfingered arm swaying over his head like a strand of kelp. Curtis is certain he’s never seen this guy before in his life.
    Up close, Albedo looks like a bad blend of Chet Baker and Jimmy Buffett. His fingers are sepia-stained; his grip is firm but clammy, tentacled, and Curtis is quick to release it. He’s tall, six-three at least, but soft in the middle. His thin brown hair is pulled back in a curly ponytail, gray at the temples. His eyeballs are rose-rimmed, watery, and he smells of whiskey and pot.
    Albedo’s sitting with two young women—one pale, blond, the other dark, probably Hispanic, both wearing sequined halters. Curtis can’t read anything in their faces aside from exhaustion and low expectations. The women move apart and leave two empty barchairs between them; Albedo claps a hand on Curtis’s back and steers him into the one on the right. As he sags into his own seat, his fingers drag drunkenly down Curtis’s blazer and brush the shape of the revolver at his waist, and Curtis knows immediately that this is wrong, that he ought to get out of here.
    Albedo’s ordering him a Corona; he introduces him to the womenas if they’re old friends. We were in the Desert together, he says. The first Iraq war. The women’s names are unusual, foreign; Curtis is thinking fast, trying to keep his shit together, not really paying attention, and he forgets them immediately.
    You been keeping up with the news from over there? Albedo asks. You believe all the bullshit that’s going down?
    What? Did it start?
    Any minute, man. Albedo nods sagely, as if privy to secret knowledge. And I tell you what, he says, raising his glass. Better them than us. Right, my brother?
    Curtis nods, sips silently.
    I was just now trying to articulate to my two young companions, Albedo says, neither of whom has the good fortune to be a citizen of this great nation of ours, the magnitude of the fucked-up-ness going down in the Middle East tonight. Because, see, the first war
—our
war?
—that
was total bullshit. No doubt about that. But
this
just takes the proverbial cake. Am I right, Curtis?
    Curtis picks up his beer, then rotates the cardboard coaster under it, aligning the text with the edge of the counter. He sets the beer down again. He doesn’t want to talk about this, or think about it. It’s a messed-up situation, he says.
    Truer words were never spoke, my man. You are putting that shit mildly.
    A pack of cigarettes and a silver Binion’s lighter appear on the bar, and Albedo lights up with a flourish. He’s leaning way back in his chair, balancing it on two legs; Curtis has to crane his neck to keep him in sight. The blond girl to Albedo’s left is looking back and forth between them, her brow wrinkled, like she’s trying hard to understand. Something about her reminds Curtis of the Balkans, almost but not quite, and he figures her for Ukrainian, or maybe Slovak. He’s calming down now, assessing. His beer is still three-quarters full.
    So how’s civilian life treating you, Albedo?
    Real good, man. Real good. I am every day relishing my freedom.And I’m telling you, this is the
place
. Shit is
happening
out here. Lots of opportunities for guys like us. I oughta make a few calls while you’re in town. Introduce you to some people. Would you be into that?
    Sure, maybe. How long you been out here?
    Albedo flashes a sharky grin. Long enough to get the lay of the land, my friend. To learn the ins and the outs. This town is all about the
juice
, man.
    So’s everywhere else.
    Well, okay, sure, man. Touché. But
here
especially. And it’s different here. It’s wide-open, entry-level. There ain’t