Curtis steps into the high-limit area, clears it in a couple of seconds—there aren’t many people—and moves back to the casino floor, watching for eye contact or unusual movement, heading toward the food court. His vision scrapes away layers of detail as they emerge from the roiling background.
That is not how it works, Curtis, the guy says. You don’t get to see me. Not yet. Besides, we’re talking now, aren’t we? Is this not good enough for you?
Through the whistle at the end of this, Curtis hears it: a canned recording of a crowd shouting in unison WHEEL! OF! FORTUNE! The sound fades toward the end. The guy’s in the slots, and he’s in motion.
Curtis hangs a sharp left into the path of a cocktail waitress who’s approaching in his blindspot; she slams on the brakes, his extended elbow misses her nose by inches, and three of her drinks—two strawberry daiquiris and a screwdriver—slide from her tray and land on his shoes. She swallows a curse, screws her smile back into place, and starts spitting apologies through clenched teeth. Another waitress and a couple of janitors are already moving in. My fault, my fault, Curtis says, and sidesteps them.
His phone snickers at him. Better watch your step there, it says.
Curtis hoped his sudden turn would spook the guy, make him change position, but nobody’s moving in the slots that he can see. A casino suit is hustling over, concerned and irritated, and Curtis cuts him off before he starts talking. I’m fine, Curtis says. It was my fault. I’m sorry, but I have to take this call.
Listen, the voice on the phone is saying, I’ve obviously caught you at a bad time. I’m going to let you go. But first I’m going to ask a favor. Would you give Damon a message for me? Curtis? Hello?
Curtis puts a hand up in the suit’s face, turns back to the slots. Yeah, he says. Yeah, I’m here.
Would you tell Damon—are you getting this?—would you please tell Damon that I know what happened in Atlantic City? I know what happened, I know why it happened, and I have kept my mouth shut about it. Please tell your boss that I am a professional, that I am willing to deal, but only on my own terms, and only with a reasonable guarantee of my safety. Can you remember all that?
What movie’d you get that from, man? Curtis says. I think I saw that movie.
He’s among the machines now, eyeing the crowd. Three Japanese ladies playing Beverly Hillbillies. A fat guy yelling at his wife, mouth half-full of burrito. A pregnant girl in an Eisenhower Lions T-shirt, sitting alone at a 24 Karat machine. Nobody’s lips sync with the voice he’s hearing. Every sound is swaddled in inane electronic chatter.
On the phone, the guy’s coming unglued. I will contact you soon, he says. I will let you know what my terms are. Until I do that, you lay the fuck off of me. Just stay the fuck away. You may have Stanley and Veronica and Walter Kagami duped, but I know what your game really is, and I am not gonna go quietly. You tell Damon—
At the edge of the machines, about a hundred feet away, there’s a blond kid, a pudgy fratboy type, leaning against an ATM. He’s wearing a ballcap and a Mirage T-shirt; he’s turned away from Curtis, reading a travel guide. And inside the travel guide is a mirror: about four inches by six, catching a little light from the chandelier over Curtis’s head. Curtis freezes, lowers his phone from his ear, takes a couple of quick steps, and the guy’s gone.
The gaming floor is crowded, Curtis is out of shape, and getting there seems to take forever. He’s got the guy in a corner, but it’s a big corner: Curtis hasn’t seen him pop up at the escalators, or at the Noodle Asia, so he figures he must’ve ducked into the sports book area. After quick glances left and right, that’s where he follows him.
It’s darker inside than on the casino floor: most of the light comes from dozens of flickering TVs, and Curtis’s vision takes a moment to adjust. A few Australians are glued to a soccer match; most other screens are recapping NCAA basketball. In a far corner, Curtis can make out a single luminous map of Iraq.
He looks around for a baseball cap, then for blond hair, then for a Mirage T-shirt, but strikes out across the board. Moving into the room, he spots the brim of the guy’s cap sticking out of a wastebasket. He picks it up, and finds the guy’s blond hair sewn neatly inside. As Curtis lifts it to his face, there’s movement somewhere to his left: someone making for the exit.