by Martin Seay
Argos straddles the bike, tips it, and kicks up the sidestand. Have you guys found Stanley yet? he says. No? I didn’t think so. I guess I’ll see you at the finish-line.
Nobody’s gonna find Stanley, Argos. You know that. He’s not gonna save you. You need some kind of physical evidence against Damon, and you don’t have it. You’re going up against a decorated ex-marine, and you don’t even have a real name. All you’ve got are your paranoid bullshit stories.
I got a number, Argos says.
Say again?
A number. Seventeen ninety-seven.
What the hell are you talking about?
That’s the room at the Point where I met the dealer and Damon’s triggerman. I can’t say for sure, but I got a suspicion the dealer didn’t exit that room under his own power. I just hope for Damon’s sake he didn’t leave all the cleanup to Housekeeping.
Argos turns the bike’s ignition key, shifts to neutral, squeezes the clutch, and presses the starter. The noisy little engine sputters and catches. I’ll be back in touch in a few days! Argos shouts over the buzzsaw drone. You better have some good news!
He rolls forward, angles away, and opens the bike’s throttle, skidding in a long arc along the old drowned road, scattering fine gravel and alkaline dust in a seething cloud. Before Curtis can get his hands up, the brunt of it catches him in the chest and face. It feels a little like being downwind from teargas. He spits and curses. Then he smiles. The whine of the bike’s engine pitch-shifts and fades. Room 1797, Curtis thinks. That’s good. That might do the trick.
The Styrofoam cooler still lies open on the concrete slab. Curtis stumbles to it, reaches inside. Two bottles left. He opens one, removes his glasses, fills his cupped palm, and splashes his face and scalp. He does it again, rubbing his wet hand over his neck, and drinks the rest of the water. Then he wipes his hands on his trouserlegs and puts the bullets back in his gun.
The vehicle on the dirt road must have been the park ranger. Just in case it wasn’t, he’d like to get out of here soon. He ties his jacket around his waist, puts the last waterbottle in its pocket. His left eyesocket stings and tears up: something must’ve gotten into it around the safety glasses’ lenses, or maybe while he was washing his face. He wants to rinse it again but he’s dehydrated already, and can’t spare the second bottle.
A short distance away, behind a waving screen of toothy grass, he spies the unbroken foundation of a house, well-made enough to trap and hold the most recent rains. It could almost be a rectangular pool in a Roman atrium but for the tumbleweeds clustered along its western edge. He makes his way to it in the hope of examining his reflection, but all he can see is the dark outline of his head. Then he kneels and closes his right eye tight, balancing blind as he lifts rainwater to his face.
It doesn’t help. He can’t stick around here any longer. The visitor center is ten miles back at least, part of that over rough ground. Curtis towels off with the upstretched hem of his shirt. The wind dries his scalp as he hikes the rise back to the road.
39
The clouds he saw east of town yesterday must have had rain in them, because the desert is blooming: yellow flares of sunray coreopsis, blue spires of phacelia and locoweed, pink evening-primrose and golden poppies, and some rangy ocotillo, their coral-red flowerspikes bobbing over the orange dirt like hazard-flares. Curtis trudges past them all, head down, a salty trail on his left cheek.
When he reaches the blacktop it gets warmer, then steeper. He drains the last waterbottle. Brown lizards scurry from his path. Dead animals on the road: snakes, groundsquirrels, a ringtail cat pecked over by ravens. Curtis has a long time to think. Damon’s been using him as his hunting-dog, his pointer, flushing Stanley and Argos so Albedo can shoot. Not even that. A hunting-dog at least knows what it’s doing, knows how it’s being used. Not a decoy, either. Decoys are fraudulent, innocuous. Curtis is more like one of those machines they used to use a hundred years ago to trap songbirds. A flashing whirligig. Wind him up and watch the fun.
Across the state park boundary he finds a turnoff to some campsites and detours to look for a spigot, to drink and to rinse his eyesocket again. Still no good. He finds a restroom and checks the mirror, pulling the lid back. He can’t see anything wrong. When he gets back to the hotel, he’ll have to take it out.
It’s past one o’clock when he comes to the visitor center, a red-brown box skirted by a white sunshade, U.S. and NV flags flapping lazily in the traffic circle out front. The building almost disappears against the smooth elusive shapes in the ruddy sandstone: domes, columns, balanced rocks. Curtis looks up at them while double-checking that his jacket hides his gun. The formations look organic, alive somehow. Curtis sees things in them. Ghost faces. Cloacal openings. Spineless marine creatures. A human figure with a bird’s beaked head. He’s glad Argos wanted to meet early; he wouldn’t want to be out here at night.
He drinks from the waterfountain until he’s afraid he’ll get sick, then refills his bottle. Inside, he bypasses the video monitors and the glass cases of samples and artifacts and heads straight for the payphone. He digs into his wallet—old prepaid calling cards he hasn’t used in months, the name and number of that cabbie who drove him to meet Kagami—and he starts dialing.
Nobody picks up at the cabbie’s number. A brief vague greeting—English, then Arabic, then French—followed by a beep. Hello, Saad, Curtis says. You probably don’t remember me, but my name is Curtis Stone, and a couple of days ago you gave me a ride to the Quicksilver. We talked about jazz a little bit. Listen, I don’t know if you’re working today, but I need your help. I managed to get myself stranded out here at Valley of Fire State Park, and I could use a ride back to the Strip. I know that’s probably not on your regular route, but I can make it worth your time. My phone’s not getting a signal, so I guess I’ll just call you back in a little while. I’m at the park visitor center. Thanks.
Curtis dials again, selects Directory Assistance, and asks for the number for Sin City Escorts in Las Vegas. He listens to sleazy music and breathy boilerplate for a minute. Then the phone rings and a woman answers. Sin City Escorts, she says. How can we make you happy today?
I’m looking for a guy who drives for you, Curtis says. A guy named Albedo. He drives—
Hold please, the woman says.
Curtis holds for a while. Wiping his cheek with some toilet paper he took from the campsite restroom. A man’s voice answers. Who’s it you’re looking for? it says.
A guy named Albedo. He drives for you sometimes. He drives a big black car, an old car. I’m trying to get in touch—
I know the guy, yeah. But I can’t put you in touch. We don’t give out that kind of information. You leave me your name and number, and maybe next time I see him I’ll give it to him, if I think about it.
You don’t have to do that, man, Curtis says. I’ve got his number. I’m just trying to figure out if he’s back from Atlantic City yet.
Atlantic City? the guy says. Yeah, he’s back from Atlantic City. He’s been back for like a week and a half. Did he go out there again?
Thanks, Curtis says, and ends the call.
He wipes his cheek and leans against the wall and thinks for a minute.
Then he calls the switchboard at the Spectacular in AC and asks for lost-and-found. Hi, he says. I was in your hotel a couple of weeks ago, and I think I might have left something in my room.
Young female voice on the line. Sure, it says. We’ll check. What did you lose?
I lost a cufflink, Curtis says. Gold, with a black gemstone.
And do you remember what room you were in, and the dates of your visit?
I was in Room 1797, Curtis says. I was there for one night, on—when was it? It was over Mardi Gras weekend, I remember that.
Okay, the voice chirps. If you’ll hold for a minute, we’ll see what we can do.
A click. An Eagles song comes on. After a verse and a chorus, another click. I’m sorry, the same voice says. What was your name?
/>
My name is Albedo, Curtis says. But I don’t know if the reservation was made under my name. I was there with a group.
Well, I may have some good news, Mister Albedo. We did have a lost cufflink logged on March Second. I’m going to check with Risk Management now.
The Eagles come back on. Then they fade into Fleetwood Mac, and Fleetwood Mac fades into Norah Jones. Curtis is leaning his head on the wall with his eyes closed when a voice comes from behind him. Hey, it says. Are you Curtis Stone?
Curtis spins, blinks. Yeah, he says.
It’s a park ranger, looking irritated. Your taxi just called, she says. He’s coming. He says it’ll probably be two hours before he gets here.
Okay, Curtis says. Thanks.
Do you want to talk to him?
I can’t right now. Sorry. Thanks.
The ranger rolls her eyes and walks away. Curtis wipes his cheek and rests his forehead on the wall again. Thinking of Damon in the Penrose Diner. Look, this is not dangerous. Nobody’s breaking any laws. Curtis grimaces. Norah Jones rolls over into Elton John. Then a click. Mister Albedo?
Yeah. I’m here.
The girl’s voice is tense now, and Curtis knows he’s getting close. I’m really sorry for the delay, she says. I’ve got Security Officer Ramirez on the phone now. He’ll explain the situation regarding your cufflink. Okay? Officer Ramirez?
Another voice: Hello? Mister Albedo?
That’s right.
I’ve been, ah, investigating the matter of your cufflink, and what I have basically discovered is that we do have a record of such an item being found in Room 1797 on March Second, but the item is no longer in our lost-and-found. Do you know anybody else who was in the room that night who might have claimed it?
You know, Curtis says. I just might. I’ll have to check. Don’t you guys keep a record of what gets claimed?
We do, the guy says, but, y’know, sometimes paperwork doesn’t get done. I’m really sorry about this. Um—while I’ve got you on the phone, Mister Albedo, do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions about some damage that was done to that room?
Curtis ends the call. He stands there holding the dead phone until it starts to buzz. Then he puts it back in the cradle. Running different formulas in his head. Weighing things against each other that he’d never really appreciated as separate before. Coming up with the same result every time.
In the end he thinks: this is how I help Stanley. This is what it comes down to.
He lifts the receiver, dials again. A few rings. His dad’s voice on the answering machine. Curtis talks over it. Pop, he says. I know you’re there. It’s Curtis. Pick up.
A click, and his father’s voice again, louder and clearer. What’s up, Curtis? it says. What’s wrong? You in trouble?
A tear falls from Curtis’s face and makes a dark spot on his foot. His black shoes are pinkish-gray with mud and dust. Their laces are snarled with burrs. They look like some foul echinoderms that might slither along a reef. It’s okay, Curtis says. I’m okay.
I didn’t ask if you’re okay, Little Man. I asked what’s wrong.
Curtis laughs quietly. Well, he says, a lot’s wrong. Nothing that can’t be fixed, though. I’m sorry to put this on you, Pop, but I’m in a tricky spot out here. I can’t really explain specifics right now, but I need you to do something for me that’s gonna cause you some aggravation and take up a little of your time.
In the silence that follows, Curtis senses a great gathering of judgment, like the rise of water behind a dam. When his father speaks again, Curtis can hear strain in his voice from the effort of holding it back. He loves the old man for that.
Okay, his father says. What do you need?
You got something at hand to write with?
Yeah.
Okay, Curtis says. I need you to call the Jersey State Police.
40
When Saad appears—dressed in sandals, a workshirt with rolled sleeves, and khakis stained dark brown at the knees—Curtis is taken by surprise: he hasn’t see a cab pull into the visitor center lot. I am not working today, my friend, Saad says. I am in my personal vehicle. I was at home when you called, working on the roof of my house. What is wrong with your eye? Do you need Visine? I have Visine.
Saad shows Curtis to a white Honda and opens the back door for him. There is no meter, of course, he says. For the distances I looked at MapQuest. It will be one hundred fifty dollars. Okay? I hope you will give me a good tip.
Sure I will. You’re making me feel bad for messing up your day off.
Saad shuts Curtis’s door with an indifferent wave. Bah! he says. Why do you feel bad? I told you, I was working on my roof. Now what am I doing? I am driving in the beautiful mountains. Maybe you will give me a nice tip, and then I can pay some men to fix my roof, which is what my wife always has been telling me to do. You see? I am happy you called. And soon we will be gone from the mountains, and I will find some nice jazz on the radio. Yes?
The Honda turns left on the Valley of Fire Highway, and soon crosses the park’s western boundary. The radio starts to flicker and the scenery calms down. You are tired of the casinos, I see, Saad says. Your luck did not improve.
Curtis slumps in his seat. He’s worn out. He doesn’t want to think anymore. The early morning excitement and the long dry hike and the irritation in his eyesocket have ground him down to a nub. No, he says. It sure didn’t.
So you left the city, Saad says, and came to the desert. Just like Jesus. Yes?
Exactly like Jesus, Curtis says. Or Muhammad. Muhammad went to the desert too, didn’t he? After things got nasty for him in Mecca.
Or Moses! Moses led his people out of Egypt, yes? Led them into the desert. I understand this, you see. I also led my people out of Egypt. Now two of my people are at the university spending my money, and the other of my people, she asks me every day why the roof is not yet fixed. Yes, my friend. It is sometimes good to go to the desert.
Curtis smiles, wipes his cheek, leans his head back. Sleep sucks at him like quicksand; his arms and legs are already numb. I guess I’m more like Jesus than those other two guys, he says. When I went into the desert, nobody followed me.
You are wrong, my friend, Saad says. I followed you. You see? I am very loyal.
The drone of the tires works its way up Curtis’s spine and expands to fill his chest, warm and liquid. He’s seeing the landscape through closed eyes now. To the north, a field of pricklypear and tree-cactus, the cyclone fence of Camp Delta, the blue Caribbean beyond it. To the south, the smoke-curtain over Al Burgan, the blackened long-legged corpses of camels, the lake of burning oil. Curtis hears the crunch of gravel under the Honda’s wheels, imagines it cast from the pavement into his eyes, and jerks awake. Hey, Saad, he says, can you tell me anything about that old town in the lake?
I don’t know what you mean, my friend.
I was just down at the lake. The water’s really low, I guess from the drought, and there’s what looks like a little town that’s come out of the water. You can see streets, chimneys, some of the old foundations.
Oh yes, Saad says. I saw this on the news. They built the Hoover Dam, and then the water came, and this town was covered up. Like Atlantis, yes? Now there is no rain, so it comes back. The people who made this town, they were—how do you call them? The ones who build the white temples.
Mormons?
Yes. Mormons. But there is a different name.
LDS, Curtis says. Latter-Day Saints.
Yes, Saad says. That’s who. I am curious about these people. I meet them sometimes in my taxicab. The young men I see sometimes on their bicycles. Are these Christian people, these Latter-Day Saints?
Depends on who you ask, I guess. My dad’s a Black Muslim and my mom was a Jehovah’s Witness, so I’m not gonna talk any trash about Mormons.
Saad leans down to mess with the radio and coaxes a melody from the speakers: Sonny Rollins, “How High the Moon,” a West Coast session with Barney Kessell and Leroy Vinnegar
. A quick regular thrum of static cuts against the swingtime, then fades. Curtis shuts his eyelids again.
These saints, Saad says. In some way, they are like the Jews, or the Muslims, yes? They have difficulties—oppression, discrimination—and they come to the desert. They say this about themselves, maybe. We are like the Jews! It is not only these saints, of course. In this country, this always is possible. Enough! we say. We will go to the desert! We will make our own city. For ourselves, for our children. It will be a holy place, and just. We will know ourselves and our God by the shape it takes. So we build it. And people come, and more people. And then one day it is strange to us. No longer what we wanted. It has become, perhaps, the very thing we fled. So we go back into the desert, and we weep and pray that God or Fortune will flood the land, will bring the sea down upon the armies of Pharaoh, will erase our mistakes from the earth. But though the waters may rise, nothing is ever erased, or ever can be. The city is everywhere.
At some point Saad’s voice becomes Stanley’s, and Curtis knows that he’s asleep again, or nearly so: one foot trailing in the current of dreams. He tries to balance as best he can, so Stanley’s words won’t fade, and then he can see them, each word independent and alive, sprouting feather-leafed branches that bear other words, spoken in other voices. He can hear the voice of the old poet, Welles, and the voice of the Mirror Thief. His own father’s voice. Walter Kagami’s. Veronica’s. Danielle’s. The voice of the magician called the Nolan. The voice of the god Hermes. The clear quiet voice of the moon itself.
Then another voice, familiar. My fellow citizens, it says, events in Iraq have now reached the final days of decision.
Curtis jerks upright, claps a hand on Saad’s headrest. Shit, he says.
Are you okay, my friend? You were sleeping. We are almost there.
Curtis shakes his head, squints out the window. They’re downtown already, passing under the spaghetti interchange for the Vegas Expressway. A green sign has Charleston Boulevard coming up in a quarter-mile. Curtis’s throat is sore; he was snoring. What’s happening? he says. Did the war start?
