That’s right. I am.
She closes the wallet, holds it out to him. Her eyes, dull amid the filigree, flit between his face and his left hand. No wedding ring, huh? she says. I guess what happens here stays here. Right, cowpoke?
Curtis doesn’t move, doesn’t respond.
Come on, Curtis, Veronica says. Don’t act like you’re upset. What did you expect me to do?
He steps down, retrieves the wallet. Next time you do a body-search, he says, you ought to ask your detainee if they’re carrying any needles or sharp objects.
Hey, that’s great advice. Thanks. You know, I was planning on talking to you about Stanley and Damon, but if you want to turn this into some kind of squarebadge best-practices seminar instead, then that’s just awesome. I’ll take some notes.
Curtis lowers himself into an armchair and looks at her. He sweeps a finger before his eyes like a tiny windshieldwiper. Could you take that off, please? he says.
She reaches back and unties the black ribbon knotted under her ponytail. The mask sinks to her lap. She’s wrecked. Curtis thinks of a truckload of Romany refugees he stopped one time near the Serbian border: sleepless for weeks, shot at by everyone, they’d been stealing gas when they could, hiding in barns, traveling by night, with no notion at all where they were going. Veronica’s not that bad yet, but she’s on her way.
Stanley bought this for me in New Orleans last week, she says. It’s a gatto. A carnival mask. We were there for Mardi Gras.
I heard you were in Atlantic City for Mardi Gras.
She gives him a cool glare. We were in AC on Vendredi and Samedi, she says. We were in New Orleans for Lundi Gras and Mardi Gras. Stanley was pissed we didn’t get to see the Krewe of Thoth march. But what can you do? Gotta earn a living.
Veronica winds the ribbon around the mask, blindfolding it. She shifts it to her left hand, keeping her right hand near the gun, and sets in on the table. Curtis’s vision has grown accustomed to the dim light, and he notices two more objects there: a glass tumbler, mostly empty, and a slender brown chapbook. The book seems familiar. He tries to remember where he’s seen it before.
Here’s a suggestion, Veronica says. Why don’t we quit fucking around? Tell me what Damon wants.
Curtis looks up from the table. Far as I know, he says, it’s like I told you before. Damon just wants Stanley to get in touch— No. Please do not start with that skipped-on-a-marker bullshit again, Curtis. It’s insulting. Let’s do some business. What’s Damon’s offer?
Curtis shakes his head. I don’t mean to insult you, he says. But I can’t make any deals for Damon. He didn’t send me out here to negotiate. Just to deliver the message.
I don’t believe this, she says. She leans forward, furrows her brow. Stares hard at his face, like she’s about to pick an eyelash off his cheek. You’re fucking serious, she says. Stanley skipped on a marker. That’s why you’re out here. That is seriously all Damon told you.
No. He also told me about the cardcounters that hit the Point.
Did he tell you that Stanley put the counters together?
No, Curtis says. He didn’t tell me that. Did Stanley put the counters together?
Veronica ignores the question, sinks back into the couch. Are you absolutely sure, she says, that you’re the only one Damon sent out here?
I can’t be sure of that, no. I’m the only one I know about.
Curtis looks down at the table, at the dull rectangle of the book on the glossy wood. Somebody else is looking for you, he says. But Damon didn’t send him.
Veronica has grown very still. Really, she says. Do tell.
I ran into him about an hour ago. Little guy. Gap between his front teeth.
White guy?
I’m not sure. I didn’t get a good look.
You don’t know if he’s white, but he’s got a gap between his front teeth?
He called me on my cell. He whistles when he talks.
Wow, she says, raising an eyebrow. That’s good. I am very impressed.
I was downstairs in the casino when he called me. He was, too. He could see me, but I couldn’t see him. Not at first. When I spotted him, he cleared out in a hurry.
How fucking adorable. How delightfully Foucauldian.
You feel like telling me who he is?
Foucault? He was a French philosopher. Looked like Telly Savalas.
She lifts the tumbler from the table and drains it. Using her right hand this time. Curtis relaxes a little. He can tell she’s thinking hard, and he lets her think. His eyes keep drifting back to the book. It’s bothering him like a song he can almost remember the words to.
He’s nobody, Veronica says after a while. Nobody I’m worried about.
You sure about that? He knew to look for you in the casino.
Well, he didn’t find me, did he? she says. Neither did you.