But I do know Stanley, Curtis says. That is not bullshit. I’ve known him my whole life. He and my dad used to run together.
She’s squinting again: Curtis can see her trying to remember.
Badrudin Hassan, Curtis says. Used to be called Donald Stone. You and I met one other time, at his wedding, couple years ago.
She nods. Okay, she says. Sure. Hey, I don’t suppose Damon Blackburn told you why he’s looking for Stanley? Did he happen to mention that?
Curtis widens his stance, settles on his feet. Yeah, he says. A couple months ago, Stanley came into the Point and took out a marker for ten grand. Damon signed off on it. Stanley hasn’t made any payments, and in four days it’s going to be delinquent. Damon doesn’t want any problems, for Stanley or for himself. He wants to get in touch so they can work something out.
Her mouth falls open, in disbelief or disgust. She’s too far into this to buy the story Damon gave him. Way farther into it than he is himself. She knows everything he knows. He’s got no leverage, nothing he can use. A delinquent marker, she says. That’s what Damon told you?
That’s what he told me.
It’s that simple.
Curtis stares at her for a second, then sighs. Well, he says, it’s a little bit more complicated than that.
Neither of them moves. Streams of people pour past them, coins rattling in their plastic pails. Soft chirps and beeps from slot machines fill the treated air like birdsongs. Tiny unblinking lenses look down from high above.
Are we finished here? she says. Damon wants Stanley to call him? That’s it?
Yeah. If you give him the message when you hear from him, I’ll be grateful.
I don’t think Stanley’s in a real big hurry to talk to Damon Blackburn right now, she says. I think he’s mostly inclined not to do that. Just to let you know.
Maybe he’ll talk to me, Curtis says. He knows me. He’s a reasonable guy.
She laughs. Reasonable! she says. That’s good. Reasonable.
Curtis reaches into his inside pocket, slowly, for Damon’s card. Holds it out to her. My cell’s on the back, he says. So’s my room number. I’m staying upstairs. Tell Stanley to call me. Maybe I can talk sense to him.
Good luck, she says. Good fucking luck on that one, pal.
She crosses her arms, looks out across the casino floor. There’s an old couple at a craps table nearby, the old man laughing hard, the old lady waving her arms and going woo woo woo, both of them drunk, both better than seventy years old.
Veronica smiles. Stanley’s totally crazy now, she says. You know that, right?
I been told that, yeah.
She keeps staring at the old couple. Now she looks tired, really fundamentally exhausted. Curtis remembers that he is, too. He keeps the card in the air, unmoving.
So, she finally asks, did Damon send anybody else out here?
Curtis thinks about that. No, he tells her. Just me.
Veronica uncrosses her arms. Then she reaches out and plucks the card from his fingers. Looks at his face, his chest, his face.
Your name’s Curtis, she says. Right?
9
His first couple of swipes miss the card-reader, and he stops for a second, fuming, before closing his eyes and using both hands, brushing the card’s edge along his left index finger, guiding it into the slot. The door unlocks with a soft interior click.
No faxes, no messages. Curtis puts away his gun, strips down to his skivvies, collapses onto the big rack. Too tired to sleep. Too keyed-up. Thinking too much. His brain revs and revs, but won’t drop into gear. The clock on the nightstand glows like a hot coal. Ninety-one hours to go. And counting.
He gets up, goes to the head, washes his face and hands. The water tastes of stone, is hard to lather. Not like home, where the soap never seems to come off. He dribbles it over his stubbly scalp, across his eyelids. Rubbing it in.
The girl—Veronica—doesn’t seem like somebody apt to spook easily. But tonight, when Curtis first called her by her name, her fear seemed out of proportion to anything Damon told him about the current circumstances. He wonders what she knows that he doesn’t. It worries him, but it excites him, too. He did right by coming out here.