The searchlight that swept his window earlier is gone now, switched off, and the suite is lit by a low steady glimmer from outside. Curtis puts on one of the hotel’s white robes and sits at the table in the sunken living area, looking out at the city. Columns of headlights glide down the Strip and the interstate farther west: swingshift traffic headed home. Beyond that, the redundant moon, dilating as it drops. Mount Charleston somewhere under it, erased by ambient glow. Curtis pictures soft light falling on the snowcap, cold wind blowing around the peak. The view of the city as it shines up from the desert. Phosphorescence in a ship’s wake. Firelight glimpsed through a copper screen, or a worn black curtain.
Bright streaks move beyond the windowglass: early flights taking off and landing at McCarran. Curtis yawns and watches their navigation lights—dim reds and greens—cross the Luxor’s beam. He closes his dry eyelids and imagines, for no good reason, the city as a living creature: the airport its mouth, sucking stars from the sky, spitting them back like husks. The roads and highways its veins and intestines. The Strip its aorta, or colon.
He wakes not much later to the sound of the fax machine and to the night outside gone blue. His uncomfortable forehead has come to rest on the cool wood of the tabletop. He stumbles as he stands, draws the curtain with a jerk, shrugs off the white robe, and falls into bed without bothering to check the fax. Recalling nothing of it when he next stirs, which is shortly before noon.
No memory of dreams, or of dreaming. He rises with a gasp, as if he’s just nodded off. Looks at the clock, curses, slides from bed. Picks up his jeans, pulls them on. Stands in the middle of the room. Breathing hard, certain that he’s late, that he’s slept through something. Gradually remembering otherwise. Remembering yesterday like he watched it happen to somebody else. He sits on the edge of the rack and pulls his trousers off again, slowly.
He draws back the curtains. Flat hazy light. Thick Saturday crowds below, thronging sidewalks and bridges, shooting photos of the belltower, the boats, the twin columns. Curtis switches on the TV: Bush and Blair meeting in the Azores, a kidnapped girl rescued, some new disease in China. No bombs dropping yet.
He’s in the shower when he hears the cellphone ring; he can’t get to it in time. Wrapped in his towel, dripping on the carpet, he’s surprised to see he’s missed three calls: Danielle, Albedo, his father.
Danielle’s voicemail is fake-cheerful, a little sheepish, scared underneath. Much as I hate to spoil a good fight, it says, I’d like it if you’d call me when you get the chance. Just so I know you’re still breathing, and not locked up. Trying to plan my week, is all. I love you, Sammy D. Don’t do anything stupid.
Curtis erases the message, and Albedo’s voice comes through the phone. Hope you got plenty of beautysleep last night, it says. My girl Espeja was real disappointed y’all didn’t get to get better acquainted. But I’m glad you and I could catch up on old times. Reminisce a bit. Hey, you find your skip yet? I think maybe I got some leads. Gimme a call.
Then his father. I hope you’re staying out of trouble, Little Man. I been thinking about what you said yesterday, and I remembered something, somebody you ought to get in touch with. Back in the old days when Stanley and I would go to Vegas, we’d meet up with this Japanese fellow Stanley knew from California, name of Walter Kagami. He was a cardsharp back in the day—professional gambler, just like Stanley—but I think he gave it up. Last I heard he’s still living out there, managing some locals joint. Place is called Quicksilver, I think. I don’t believe you ever met Walter. You’d’ve been real young. Haven’t talked to the man in years myself. But I think maybe Stanley still keeps in touch. Just a thought. Hope it helps. Anyhow. Love you, kid. Mawiyah sends her love too. You watch your back out there.
Curtis drops his towel and picks up a pen and notepad. He writes down Kagami’s name, and the name of the casino, and is going through drawers for a phonebook when he spots last night’s fax in the machine, the SPECTACULAR! logo visible upsidedown at its bottom.
Flattened on the desk, Damon’s blocky handwriting:
Albo al be
Beddow a bedo cool.
Let him help.
Proggress???????
Below the message, another cartoon Curtis, staring in bug-eyed horror at an oversize stopwatch in his left hand while frantically jerking himself off with his right. The pupil of the left eye grotesquely askew. The enormous ejaculating penis heavily shaded, minutely detailed.
Curtis flushes the bits down the toilet on his way out the door.
10
The taxi that picks him up has jazz on the radio—“Invisible,” from the first Ornette album—and this puts Curtis somewhat at ease. He stretches his legs as they turn right on the Strip; the cab’s interior smells like cigarettes and mint.
The driver is Middle Eastern, in his late fifties, with a full head of gypsum-white hair. Careful and patient behind the wheel. He has an air of certainty that Curtis envies. The ID card in the backseat gives his name as Saad; Curtis can’t make out the last name without staring, and he doesn’t want to stare.
So how are you doing? the cabbie wants to know.
Not too good, Curtis says. Can’t seem to get anything started.
The cabbie aims an accusatory finger at the Mirage on their left. You are smart to leave the Strip, he says. Very smart.