Curtis laughs too. I went to college, he says. For about a minute. Then I went into the Marine Corps.
They’re quiet for a while. She looks to the right, past the fa?ade of the Ca’ d’Oro, toward the clocktower—twenty-four-hour dial, gold zodiac loop—and the pulsing readerboard above it. She shifts her weight as she turns. Her hip comes to rest against Curtis’s leg: scrawny and sharp, fever-warm. He looks down. There’s the tattoo again, more of it this time. The two figures under the tree are a bearded old man and a young man with a sword. Two triangles are superimposed over the scene: one pointed up, one pointed down. Veronica’s skin is dark, tanning-bed tan.
You ever think about going back to school, Curtis?
That’s pretty much what my wife wants me to do.
I’ll bet she’s real excited about you being out here, isn’t she?
Yeah. We weren’t exactly on speaking terms when I left. She’s pretty upset.
Veronica’s hair is sliding off her back, across her left shoulder. She drops her head forward and the rest of it comes down. Behind her, the hotel readerboard is playing video of a juggler next to flashing blue text: A PEACOCK WITH A THOUSAND EYES!
Curtis, she says, how come you’re not wearing a wedding ring?
He takes a long breath, moves away a little.
Is that a bad question?
No, he says. It’s a good question. I’ll give you an honest answer.
She straightens up, looks at him.
When I was stationed overseas, he says, every so often I would run into these intelligence guys. Interrogators. Sometimes military, sometimes not. I never got to know any of them personally. But a few I met, they liked to talk about their work. What they did. And what I found out was, there’s a certain kind of person who’s good at that job. I got a sense of how these guys operate, how they see the world. Now, to people like you and me, a ring on my finger just says I love my wife. But to these guys, a ring on my finger says this is how you can hurt me. I always liked to think these guys were few and far between. But once you learn to spot them, what to look for, then you start seeing them all the time. Anyway, coming out here, not knowing what I was getting into, I figured that’s something I better not broadcast. That’s all.
She nods. I understand, she says. You’re smart to be careful.
Curtis smiles, shrugs.
Well, she says. I should go. I’m getting light on walking-around money.
You headed back inside?
No, she says, I can’t win here. If you win big or lose big, people start to notice. They’re paid to pay attention. I don’t want anybody to ever remember seeing me here.
Present company excluded, of course.
Of course. Anyway, the fucking smell in this joint is killing me.
Smell? Curtis says. I guess I stopped noticing it.
They pipe it through the vents. All the Strip joints do it, but this one is by far the worst. It’s like ferrets fucking in a potpourri bowl.
Curtis laughs. Veronica smiles, looks away.
Hey, Curtis says. Thanks for talking to me. Seriously. Thank you.
No sweat, she says. It was my pleasure. I hope all this shit works out.
She offers her hand, and he takes it. Then she steps behind him and heads toward the bridge to the Boulevard.
Hey, Veronica?
She stops, half-turned.
Is Stanley gonna talk to me?
Veronica looks at him for a second, squinting against the sun. Then she opens her mouth to speak.
I know you talked to him last night, Curtis says. You don’t have to tell me where he is. I’m not even gonna ask. Do you think he’ll talk to me?
A challenge appears in her eyes, then fades, replaced by something closer to pity. I think so, she says. But not now. He’s not ready yet.
She turns again to walk away, then turns back. You shouldn’t wait around for him, Curtis, she says. You should just go home.
Her long shadow slices between the balusters on the bridge, a moving beam of dark. Curtis watches her go. He could head over to McCarran first thing in the morning. Get on standby. He ought to call Danielle, let her know.
He hears a rush of wings: a flock of snow-white pigeons billows from the parking garage, pouring around the belltower in a formless spume. The shimmering cloud thins out over the city, banking across the sun; the white wings go black in silhouette. Curtis looks for Mount Charleston in the distance, but with the sun behind them the mountains are indistinguishable, shrunken, and he can’t make out its shape.
On his way topside Curtis digs out his cell to call his wife, but he winds up phoning Walter Kagami instead.
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