The Mirror Thief

by Martin Seay

  In the morning the fog is thick but burns off quickly, sliding off the city like a drape. While he waits for Claudio to wake, Stanley shakes out his stiff legs and walks among the graves: low rectangles flush with the trimmed grass, angels and obelisks and boxy sepulchers among them, poking between dark trunks of cedars and palms. He has never imagined a place like this. Crossing his arms, rubbing his shivering elbows, he thinks of dead people he’s known and wonders what happened to them, where they went.

  In the combat pack he locates the canteen and a mostly clean rag, and he washes and bandages his wound. The rip in his jeans is already fraying, brown with crusted blood; he’ll need to steal a new pair soon. Once he’s tied the rag he digs out some crackers and a tin of sardines and The Mirror Thief, and he sits and eats and reads and listens to the drone of cars on the boulevard, the bawling of gulls lost in the clouds: the sounds of the city waking up.

  Crivano hides among

  the bones and serpents.

  On the wings of Argeiphontes

  he passes the White Rock,

  the shadow-land of dreams.

  There, Okeanos, where Arian drowned!

  No such martyrdom for Crivano.

  Brave traitor!

  His flute conjures a harvest of sleep

  from the little fields of the dead.

  When he finally emerges from the tomb, Claudio seems glum, preoccupied, uncha​racter​istic​ally reserved, but Stanley shakes him from his funk by enlisting him in the problem of returning to base. A few blocks into the neighborhood they spot two bags of empty soda bottles on the doorstep of a duplex, and they lift them gingerly, wincing at the clatter of glass as they hotfoot to the boulevard. It’s nearly a mile before they find an open drugstore, but the deposits are enough to cover their fares back to the beach and a proper breakfast besides.

  They find a bustling roadhouse, Barney’s Beanery, at the spot where Santa Monica ends its east-west run and tacks toward the coast, and they stop in to get coffee and split a plate of bacon and hotcakes. It’s mostly suits and hats inside: movie execs on the way to Paramount or Goldwyn, Jewish doctors bound for Mount Sinai. A pack of bleary-eyed hipsters still up from last night sprawls in a corner booth, smoking slowly and intently. At the bar, the proprietor chats with a pair of slender men in matching ricky jackets, obvious queens, standing inches from a black-on-pink sign that reads FAGOTS – STAY OUT. Stanley and Claudio trade puzzled looks. Is it a joke? Does he know?

  As the westbound 75 is rolling to the curb, Claudio glances back at the restaurant and pulls a doubletake. Ramon Novarro, he whispers.

  Who?

  Ramon Novarro! There, entering the beanery!

  Claudio does an about-face; Stanley plants a hand on his breastbone and shoves him into the coach before he can bolt. C’mon, kid, he says. Let’s move it along.

  Claudio’s craning his neck, pressing his nose to the grimy glass as they settle into their seats. I can’t believe this, he says. Ramon Novarro eats his breakfast at this same restaurant. We should have spoken to him.

  What the hell are you on about?

  Ramon Novarro! Star of Ben-Hur! Star of The Arab, and The Prisoner of Zenda! These are films of great importance.

  As the bus rolls past the fountains and the arbors of Beverly Gardens, Claudio summarizes the career of Ramon Novarro and recounts the plots of his many movies, proceeding with such abandon that they all blend into a single swashbuckling epic of hysterical complexity. Stanley only half-listens. He’s hunched in his seat with his eyes closed, letting the engine’s rumble massage him toward sleep. He pictures Claudio as a lonely boy in Hermosillo, his small fingers flipping through faded American screen magazines, his black eyes going wide as the lights of the cinema darken.

  It’s nearly noon before they see the ocean. On the way through Santa Monica they hit a couple of grocers’ shops: Claudio pesters the proprietors while Stanley picks through the shelves—spic doesn’t understand a word of English—and soon they’ve replenished their supply of fruit and crackers and potted meat. Stanley even comes away with a quart of milk and a couple of Heath bars, but Claudio is unimpressed. He’s growing weary, short-tempered. The fog is gone. The day is warming up.

  Claudio washes down the chocolate with a swig from the bottle and passes it back to Stanley. Now what will we do? he asks.

  I don’t know. Lie on the beach, maybe. Get some shuteye. What do you mean?

  I mean, now what will we do for money?

  Claudio sounds detached, automatic, like he’s starting up an old fight again out of habit, or just to keep from thinking about something else. Stanley shoots him a look. Money? he says, and gives the combat pack a shake to rattle the tins inside. We got three days’ worth of food here. I can hardly carry this thing. What do we need money for?

  Claudio’s face pinches in consternation, but his eyes are steady. We need money for a place to stay, he says. A proper place. So that we can become established.

  Established? Stanley says. What’s this established? Do you even know what that word means?

  I know what it means. I know we cannot keep on like this.

  Stanley glares at him, hitches up the pack on his shoulder. Yeah? he says. Speak for yourself, chum. I been keeping on like this since I was twelve years old. If you don’t like it, that’s too bad. You fucking pansy.

  Claudio blanches, but doesn’t take the bait, and Stanley feels a little sick for having said it. I helped you, Claudio says. I helped you look for your man. Now you help me.

  Sure, you helped. You had no desire at all to see Hollywood. Right? What a terrific sacrifice you made. How can I ever repay you?

  Silent gulls bank overhead in the clear air; their perfect shadows drift across the pavement with motionless wings, like outlines hung from a child’s mobile. Stanley steps off the boardwalk, onto the sand. Claudio follows him. The wind is cool by the water, the beach all but deserted. Two old ladies pass with bundles of polished driftwood. Farther up the beach, a thin and shirtless man in a black beret stands before an easel, daubing at a canvas. A crowd of sandpipers runs ahead of Stanley and Claudio, then stops until they close the distance, then runs ahead again.

  The beach widens as they walk south, and when they’re far enough from the boardwalk—too far to be worth a vag bust for a cop—Stanley sits down. The tide is in: there’s a towering surf, and waves are erasing the domed temples and square towers of an elaborate city built in the sand. A piece of blackened wood is trapped in what’s left of its central plaza, and Claudio stoops to pick it up. It looks like a burnt plank from an old ship, heavily encrusted with dogwinkles and goose barnacles, afloat maybe for years. Claudio lets it drop into the next big wave and it glides away. In the distance, beyond the line of breakers, the sea is featureless, a shimmering silver band.

  After a while Claudio sits down next to Stanley. Stanley brushes the sand from his palm and slips it under Claudio’s shirt, against his narrow back. Claudio flinches, then relaxes. You will help me get money, he says.

  Stanley studies the horizon, the pattern of flashes there. His eyes are tired. You want to go back to the three-card routine? he says. That made some good money.

  Those hoods will bother us again.

  We could take the game into town. Back into Hollywood.

  No. Hoods are everywhere.

  Claudio slides up the cuff of Stanley’s jeans to expose the bandaged cut. He looks at it without comment, then covers it again. Moves his hand to Stanley’s knee. Runs it slowly up his thigh.

  Stanley’s leaning toward him when he spots something in the waves off to the right. Did you see that? he says.

  What?

  Look, Stanley says, pointing.

  Three black spheres are floating in the smooth sea halfway to the breakers, appearing and disappearing between the swells. They look like the heads of frogmen, surfacing for a moment to spy on the land.

  I don’t see.

  Look! There’s three of ’em.

  Stanley
scrambles to his knees, kneels behind Claudio, rests an outstretched arm on his shoulder, sighting down the length of it. Look, he says. Right there.

  They sit like that for a moment. Stanley’s arm rises and falls with Claudio’s breath. One of the spheres vanishes, followed by the second, and the third.

  There they go. See?

  Claudio is quiet for a moment. There is nothing there, he says.

  Stanley slumps backwards, flat on the sand. Closes his eyes. Goddamn, he says. I need some sleep.

  The sun is warm on his face, his eyelids. He feels Claudio’s hand on his bare stomach. How did you get money in New York? Claudio asks.

  He can feel the crash of the surf through the sand beneath him, rocking him like the engine of the bus. Lots of ways, he says.

  What ways?

  Ways you need a gang to make work. Ways that ain’t gonna help us here.

  No ways that can work with two people? You are certain of this?

  Stanley takes a deep breath, lets it out. The seashell hiss of sleep fills his ears. Maybe we can roll lushes, he mutters.

  What does this mean?

  Lushes. Drunks. You find ’em, and you take their wallets. Simple.

  Do you hurt them?

  Not unless they make a fuss. Even then they usually fall down on their own. Most times they don’t even know what’s going on.

  I don’t think this is a good idea.

  Fine. Let me know when you got a better one.

  I have ideas, Claudio says.

  Stanley thinks he’s only been asleep for a second, but when he jerks awake with the sensation of falling his throat is sore, his lips speckled with sand, and everything is glowing orange. The sun is enormous in front of him, its cool disk split across the bottom by the horizon, and Claudio is gone.

  He staggers to his feet, heart thrashing. The tide is going out. Big waves are still breaking a few yards away, and Stanley sees a dark shape—a log, or the trunk of a washed-out palmtree—just beyond the spot where they crest. As he watches, a pair of bright black eyes appears; then the shape jerks, arcs into a bow, and rockets into the depths. A little farther out are two more, rolling and swimming in the black water. Seals. Sea lions. Stanley’s frogmen come to shore. He laughs at himself, shaken.

  The streetlamps are coming on along the boardwalk, and knots of people are milling around in front of the arcades, laughing, shouting, huddling close. A sinister few stand in the shadows, nursing bottles, surveying the crowd. Stanley spots a couple of Shoreline Dogs loitering by the Bridgo parlor: young kids, new recruits, not faces he knows. He stops to rest the combat pack on a bench and shuffle through its contents. Coiled at the bottom among the tinned meats is his blackjack, two tapered strips of leather stitched into a long pouch and filled with a halfpound of double-ought buck, something he fashioned in his spare hours a few months ago while working on a ranch in Colorado, or maybe New Mexico. He tucks it into his bluejeans at the small of his back and buckles the pack again.

  As he strolls the boardwalk, Stanley scans the crowd, concentrating on groups; he has a feeling Claudio won’t be alone. The kid’s nowhere to be seen under the arcades or on the benches, so Stanley turns around at the Ocean Park pier and heads south again, checking the sidestreets as he goes. The roar and sputter of motorcycles echoes from a few blocks away: a gang of bikers passing through. This will bring the Dogs closer to the water tonight, looking for fights they can win. He quickens his step.

  A pack of shaggy hipsters is coming up the boardwalk: two bearded men in sandals, a dirty-blond girl in a black leotard, a white guy with a saxophone case, a Negro with a trumpet. Just before Stanley meets them, they make a right on Dudley. The blonde turns and gives him a weird knowing look as he crosses the street. He walks on, the hipsters’ rough voices ricocheting in the shadows behind him. This bunch reminds him of the menthol-and-turtleneck crowd he used to see in the Village, but wilder, more sunburnt and desperate. The sight and sound and smell of them trouble him for blocks, though he’s not sure why.

  He’s so distracted that he nearly misses Claudio, seated on a bench off Wave Crest Ave, next to a lean and handsome man. The man is dressed in a wrinkled Bali Cay shirt and what was once a nice pair of trousers; he’s speaking Spanish with a flat American accent. The man laughs as he talks, gesturing with his left hand, which alights now and then on Claudio’s lithe shoulder. Stanley steps to the corner and stands there until he’s certain that Claudio sees him. Then he crosses to the opposite side of the street. Claudio doesn’t meet his gaze. He’s leaning in close, flashing his eyes, beaming into the handsome man’s face.

  A shiny black and silver Montclair squeals through a stopsign on the Speedway, Chuck Rio’s saxophone blaring through its open windows, and now the handsome man is dancing in his seat, singing along, screaming Tequila! into the seething night. Claudio laughs and pats his leg. The man reaches for a bag-sheathed bottle at his feet, and his long fingers miss the neck by a full inch. Stanley crosses his arms, leans against a column, breathing steadily. His pulse throbs in his injured calf, pressing against the knots of the bandage. The blackjack is heavy at the base of his spine.

  Claudio is looking up, beckoning with a curled finger. Stanley crosses the street again and saunters over. He pastes on a smile, narrows his eyes.

  Charlie, Claudio says to the handsome man, please meet my good friend Stanley. Stanley, this is Charlie.

  Encantado de conocerle, Señor, the man says, and extends an unsteady hand. His grip is damp, pickled. Claudio laughs.

  Pleasure, Stanley says.

  Charlie works in advertising, Claudio says. He is an ad man.

  Have you noticed how many of your neighbors are using Herman Miller furniture these days? Charlie says, feigning a radio voice. It’s an open secret in Detroit—the Edsel is going to be copied!

  Stanley squats on his haunches and looks Charlie in the face. The man’s eyes are bobbing, floating like June fireflies. Hey, Stanley says, what are you drinking there, Charlie?

  Buh-BAH buh-buh BAA-buh BUH-buh! Charlie sings, misting Stanley a little on his b’s. Lemon and salt in a martini? Caramba!

  But Stanley can smell the gin on his breath: it’s a bottle of Seagram’s in the bag. He gives Claudio a hard look. Claudio returns it, his eyes full and glassy. Stanley can’t guess what’s behind them. Let’s go down to the water, Charlie, he says. What do you think?

  Charlie is inviting me to go back to his pad, Claudio says.

  His what?

  Hey, you should come, too, man, Charlie says. Two’s company, three’s more company. More the merrier. Dig?

  No, Stanley says. Let’s go down to the water. The water’s nice, Charlie. It’s cold. It’ll wake you up.

  That’s good, that’s good, Charlie says. That’s a good idea. I love the water, man. I love to just get out in it and—

  He turns back to Claudio. Is that cool, man? he says. Is that okay? José? Sorry! I’m sorry. Uh—your name again? Cassius? My lean and hungry friend. No. Claudius? C-C-Claudius? No, man, wait—I got it, I got it. Bait the hook well, this fish will bite. Let’s go the water. Where deeper than did ever plummet sound I’ll drown my book.

  Stanley takes hold of Charlie’s right arm and tugs. It’s like pulling taffy: he feels like he’s making progress, but Charlie’s still on the bench, fishing for his bottle. Claudio closes his hands around Charlie’s left arm, and in a moment he’s on his feet.

  They steer him across the boardwalk, aiming him toward the sound of the surf. Their arms interlock at his waist. They don’t look at each other. Now that Stanley’s this close, he can tell Charlie’s a serious drunk, well along the skids: he’s a wisp, scarecrow-thin under his clothes, and his shaggy blond hair is brittle and dry. Stanley knows he won’t have anything but pocket change on him, if that. He wonders why he started this.

  A few yards into the sand, near the edge of the light from the boardwalk, Charlie’s feet start to drag. You okay there, buddy? Stanley asks.

  Don’t
go to the water, Charlie whines. Not ready.

  What’s that?

  I said—

  Charlie’s feet are dug in hard now, his back straight: he’s standing at parade rest. The slur has vanished from his speech, and his accent is pure Boston brahmin.

  —that I am not ready to go to the water yet. If you don’t mind.

  Stanley’s hand reaches under his shirttail, closes on the blackjack’s braided handle. As he unwraps his arm from Charlie’s waist, the man drops facefirst, pulling Claudio with him. Both of them are down before the bludgeon clears Stanley’s belt. Odors of alcohol and juniper rise to his nose, and he hears the soft gurgle of the dropped bottle emptying. Charlie’s laughter is muffled by the sand.

  Stanley looks around, then stuffs the blackjack in his pocket. Let’s be quiet now, Charlie. Okay? he says.

  Claudio is rolling Charlie over. Quiet! Charlie says, spitting sand, palming Claudio’s lean cheek. Shhh! Silence is the perfectest herald of joy. Ain’t that right, Tadzio? Speak low, man. Speak low, if you speak love.

  Stanley kneels by Charlie’s side and pats his trouser pockets, looking for a wallet, looking for anything. The sky is dark except for a blue line at the horizon. The half-built amusement park on the pier to the north makes strange silhouettes against it. Stanley tries to keep Charlie distracted while he works. So, he asks, how do you like being an ad man?

  No no no no no, Charlie says. Atman. I’m an atman, man. I’m an anima, a soul, a psyche. Like you are. Like him is. Like all of us. Dig?

  You don’t write ads?

  Not anymore, man. I absolutely do not do that anymore.

  So what do you do, then, Charlie? Aside from drinking?

  I am a poet, Charlie says.

  Stanley withdraws his hand from Charlie’s pocket, then absently smoothes the wrinkled fabric. Somewhere to the south, a foghorn sounds its two long notes. A full yellow moon has bloomed over the city; Stanley can see its reflection in front of him, scattered among the waves. Of course, he thinks. Of course it would happen like this.