The Mirror Thief Read Online Free PDF

cell.
    Curtis narrows his eyes. And how do you know Damon, again?
    What do you mean? I know him from the Desert, man. Same place you know him from. What are you talking about?
    I know Damon from Leonard Wood, Curtis says. I was in Saudi during the war. He was on float, on the
Okinawa
. I wasn’t with Damon in the Gulf.
    Albedo grinds out his cigarette, drinks from his empty glass, leans back farther into Curtis’s blind spot. Well, whatever, man, he says. That’s where
I
know him from.
    Curtis waits for him to tip forward again. He’s dropping his baffled act; there’s a challenge in his eyes. He’s not as drunk as Curtis thought. Okay, Curtis says. Where do I know
you
from?
    Albedo looks at Curtis, shrugs, and turns away. His index finger shoots up like a snail’s eye. Corona, he says across the bar.
    Do
I know you?
    Albedo turns back, an oilslick grin spreading across his face. Well, he says, you goddamn sure know me now. Don’t you? Barkeep, get this gentleman another—
    No thanks. I’m done.
    Hey now. Chill out, Curtis. Any friend of Damon’s is a friend of yours. Right?
    Curtis kills the last of his beer, pushes the bottle away, rubs the condensation into his chapped fingers. Did Damon tell you why I’m in town?
    Just that you’re doing some work for him at the Point. Looking for a guy who skipped on a marker. That’s about it.
    Did he tell you who I’m looking for?
    Albedo’s little black eyes flit in their sockets. I don’t think so, he says after a while. I don’t believe that he did. Anybody I’d know?
    No. Nobody you’d know.
    I know a lot of people, Curtis.
    I’m sure you do.
    Albedo takes his beer from the bartender, then fishes out his lighter and another cigarette. He cups his hand around the flame, and he and Curtis study each other through the curling smoke. Curtis feels his eyesocket twitch, tear up. He swivels, scoots his chair back, and moves the Cuban girl’s hand into her own lap. She jerks like she’s been asleep. Goodnight, he tells her. Good to meet you.
    Albedo’s getting up too, juggling his cigarette, coughing a little on an errant breath. Whoa now, Curtis! he says. Where’s the fire, son?
    I’m gonna hit the road.
    What are you talking about? The night is still young!
    I’ve had a long day.
    I got stuff I want to show you. Very interesting things.
    Maybe next time.
    Albedo laughs and nods—all right, all right, he’s saying—but he’s also trying to block Curtis’s exit, and Curtis shifts his weight, starts thinking about where to hit him.
    At least let me give you my cell number, man.
    I got it. It’s in my phone.
    Some of the people at the bar are looking at them now. Albedo glances around, then grins, relaxes, becoming harmless and diffuse. Okay, he says. Okay, kemosabe. You’re hurting my feelings, man. But look here. I’m gonna tell you just what I told Damon. I know this town. This town knows me. I can open up a lot of doors for you. This is not bullshit. You can ask Damon if you don’t believe me.
    I’ll do that.
    Albedo steps aside. His big right hand flutters to his mouth, leaves his cigarette there, drops and hovers in the space before him. Curtis stares it for a second, figuring distance; Albedo’s face floats above it, blank andwatchful. And now, at last, the man does seem familiar. Curtis has never met him before, but he’s met guys like him—in the Desert, in Mogadishu, at Gitmo—and he’s been sorry for it every time.
    He wants to take Albedo’s hand while looking him in the eye, but he’s tired and rattled and can’t do it: he looks at the hand. Goodnight, he says, shaking it. Thanks for the beer.
    He turns on his heel and goes. There’s a band of towering NBA types headed his way; he steps among them and lets himself drift toward the saxophone chandelier, the lobby, the marquee. Hearing Albedo’s lubricated voice somewhere behind him—
You’re never gonna find your guy if you can’t stay up past two a.m., marine!
—before it’s