Is that so.
And the thing is, these beancounting cocksuckers don’t much like getting shot at. So they’re looking for guys like us to provide security, run counterinsurgency ops, shit like that. And they’re really writing the checks, man. Huge money. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I didn’t enjoy the fucking shit out of the Corps or anything—I left for a reason—but it would’ve been a hell of a lot more tolerable if they’d been paying me a hundred-fifty grand a year to do it. See what I’m saying? Plus with these guys there ain’t all the hierarchical, shit-floats-to-the-top, byzantine-ass bureaucracy we had in the USMC. Not much in the way of government oversight, neither. Yeah, sure, you gotta put up with a bunch of fat guys from Halliburton, but fuck it, man. Just keep those checks coming.
They’re pulling into the porte-cochère now. The valets crane their necks to get a good look at the ugly gleaming ride. I can absolutely put you in touch with these fellas, Albedo says. You got just the stuff they’re looking for. You say the word, man. Pronounce the syllables.
Thanks for the ride, Curtis says, and pops the door. An empty Styrofoam cup and a battered and accordion-folded color brochure drop onto the pavement.
I’m serious, man. The next couple years are gonna be for private paramilitaries what the day after Thanksgiving is for Wal-Mart. You mark my fucking words.
Curtis lets the big door slam, picks up the cup and the brochure, and starts toward the hotel entrance. Hey, Curtis! Albedo shouts.
What?
This thing you got going? With Damon, with the Spectacular? It’s maybe not gonna work out the way you’re hoping it’s gonna, partner. I’m real sorry to tell you. It’s gonna turn out bad, or it’s not gonna turn out at all. You know it, and I know it, and baby makes three. You might oughta start making other plans. Okay? Peace.
Albedo flashes two fingers, pushes his shades up the bridge of his nose, and puts the Mercury in gear. Curtis stands there with Albedo’s trash in his hand, watching him roll away. The brochure is sticky. Looking down, Curtis sees the words SIN CITY ESCORTS, a pair of lipsticked mouths pouting beneath them.
He finds a trashbin near the automatic doors, then walks into the lobby. His fingers stick to the button when he summons the elevator, cling again to his thumb when he tries to wipe them off. He struggles for a minute in front of his room, fishing out his wallet, removing the keycard, and opening the door without touching anything with his right hand. In the midst of his contortions, a white guy about his own age passes in the hall. Fat, balding, sunburnt, in baggy swimtrunks. He’s carrying goggles and a tiny underwater digital camera. He and Curtis eye each other uneasily. What happens here stays here, Curtis thinks.
By the time he gets inside, his skin is crawling. He shrugs out of his clothes and climbs into the shower, turning it up as hot as he can stand, then hotter once his skin gets used to it. He scrubs fiercely, systematically—scalp and face, rinse, left arm, rinse, right arm, rinse, just like they taught in boot camp—until he reaches the soles of his feet. Then he starts over. By the time he’s done, the room is thick with swirling mist. Little drops bead the marble tiles, inch down the mirrors.
He puts on a robe and steps into the entryway, and steam spills around him like aspic from a mold. A slim white envelope is at his feet, an inch inside the door, and he stoops to pick it up. CURTIS is printed on it in a familiar spiky hand. Inside is a ticket to the museum down below—ART THROUGH THE AGES, it says: Masterpieces of Painting from Titian to Picasso—and a note written on Quicksilver hotel stationery.
Meet here @ 3
Keep it quiet
V