The Strip gets shabbier north of the New Frontier, but Curtis opts to walk it anyway, to give himself time and space to think.
The block ahead is Old Vegas: the neon clowns of Circus Circus, the Stardust’s psychedelic mushroom cloud, the flashing incandescent egg-beaters of the Westward Ho. Jarhead joints: places Curtis knows. Half the properties are boarded up, waiting for the wreckingball. The equilateral A-frame of the Guardian Angel Cathedral overlooks the droning gorge of the superarterial, the blue mosaic on its western face lit weakly from below, its sleek freestanding spire echoing the distant tower of the Stratosphere.
The night is cool, maybe fifty degrees, and ambivalent breezes rustle palmfronds, spread exhaust. Curtis sticks close to the curb on the boulevard’s east side, nothing to his left but eight lanes of traffic. He walks quickly, although he’s not in any hurry: Kagami won’t be able to meet until late. He pushes forward, lengthening his stride. As if trying to gain ground on a thought he should be having. He’s pissed off, mostly at himself, and ready to be gone.
What little Curtis knows about playing blackjack he learned in joints like these—Slots A Fun, the Riv, the Ho—after years of fruitless lessons from Stanley and his father. Pit bosses don’t believe black folks can count, so they’ll never catch you. I’m giving you the keys to the kingdom, Little Man. You won’t have to work a day in your life. But blackjack with his dad was like driver’s ed with Richard Petty: Curtis had no point of entry. And even back then Stanley was playing an entirely different game.
It was Damon who finally taught him basic strategy: mornings spent sobering up at the two-buck tables at Slots. By the time Curtis rotated back to Lejeune, he’d worked his way through all the North Strip casinos, figured out how to stay afloat for hours of free drinks. He even grossed a little, although his take came out way under minimum wage. Still, he went back to North Carolina with a new understanding of what his dad and Stanley actually did, even if he was still foggy on exactly how they did it. He owes Damon for that, at least. Doesn’t he?
It was two weeks ago today that the call came. As Curtis rode the Broad Street Line south to Marconi Plaza, as he walked the half-mile past the bocce courts and the Quartermaster Depot to the Penrose Diner, his head was buzzing with questions he’d been afraid to ask himself, questions he knew Damon would understand, would maybe even have some answers to. What should he be doing? Should he go back to school? With Curtis’s employment handicap and thirty-percent disability, Voc Rehab would pay tuition, would maybe even offer subsistence allowance, but is it worth the trouble? Was it dumb for him to get married so soon after getting hurt? With marines mounting up for the Desert again, would it be crazy to think about reenlisting?
Curtis never got to ask Damon those questions. It’s starting to look like he never will. At no point did he believe the story Damon told him, not for a second. But he didn’t exactly disbelieve it, either. Damon has talked him into plenty of questionable shit over the years, but Curtis has never felt suckered or used. Not till now.