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.