Truer words were never spoke, my man. You are putting that shit mildly.
A pack of cigarettes and a silver Binion’s lighter appear on the bar, and Albedo lights up with a flourish. He’s leaning way back in his chair, balancing it on two legs; Curtis has to crane his neck to keep him in sight. The blond girl to Albedo’s left is looking back and forth between them, her brow wrinkled, like she’s trying hard to understand. Something about her reminds Curtis of the Balkans, almost but not quite, and he figures her for Ukrainian, or maybe Slovak. He’s calming down now, assessing. His beer is still three-quarters full.
So how’s civilian life treating you, Albedo?
Real good, man. Real good. I am every day relishing my freedom. And I’m telling you, this is the place. Shit is happening out here. Lots of opportunities for guys like us. I oughta make a few calls while you’re in town. Introduce you to some people. Would you be into that?
Sure, maybe. How long you been out here?
Albedo flashes a sharky grin. Long enough to get the lay of the land, my friend. To learn the ins and the outs. This town is all about the juice, man.
So’s everywhere else.
Well, okay, sure, man. Touché. But here especially. And it’s different here. It’s wide-open, entry-level. There ain’t the antidemocratic bullshit you get most other places. No country-club secret-handshake jive. No artificial barriers to trade. Everything just is what it is.
What are you doing now?
What? For dollars, you mean? Albedo smirks, shaking his head, like this is a dumb question. I’m doing lots of shit, man. I’m just taking it as it comes. And lately it’s been coming faster than I can reach out and grab it. I got action to give away.
Anything steady?
Some of it is. A couple nights a week I been chauffeuring these lovely ladies around town. To their various assignations. Them and a number of their professional cohorts. And that earns me enough to live on: two nights a week, eight or ten hours a night, chauffeur and security. Shit, the fucking valets out here pull down six figures per annum. It’s a boomtown, baby. For the right kind of guy. Boom boom boom.
Curtis gives Albedo a thin smile. This is a bunch of static, and it’s good to see him dishing it out, overplaying his hand. The guy’s dumping a lot of chum, but he can’t seem to figure out how to get any hooks baited, and Curtis starts to think that maybe he’s not in trouble here after all. Unless Albedo’s just stalling, lining him up for the blindside. Curtis turns away, scans the screaming crowd. Somewhere behind him a slot machine is playing a tinny rendition of “Tequila”; the familiar melody emerges from the surrounding noise like light coming through a pinhole. His beer is half-empty now.
The Hispanic girl is smiling, watching him, and he gives her a polite nod. He wonders what she and the other girl are doing here with Albedo when they could be out earning, and then he thinks maybe they’re earning right now. She’s leaning close to him. I like your glasses, she says. With each syllable Curtis feels a tiny puff of air on his neck.
Her accent isn’t bad; she’s been in the States awhile. I wear contacts, she says. Her irises are the color of Windex, so Curtis isn’t surprised to hear this. She reaches for his face. Can I try?
Curtis lets her. They are not so strong, she says, handing them back.
They’re nonprescription.
So are my contacts, she confides. Also nonprescription. She sleepily bats her mascaraed lashes.
¿De dónde eres? Curtis asks.
I am from Cuba.
He wouldn’t have guessed, but it’s there in her voice, in her stretched vowels and dropped s’s and nonprescrikshun. He wonders how she ended up here instead of Miami or Tampa or NYC but has neither the vocabulary nor the inclination to pursue the topic. ¿De qué región?
Santiago de las Vegas. You know where is Santiago de las Vegas?
Está cerca de la Habana, ¿verdad?
Yes. You have been to Cuba?
Sí, Curtis says, he estado en Cuba, but he doesn’t say where, or why. If he hadn’t taken his retirement he might be there right now, and he thinks about that for a second. Recalling a bright morning last April in the hills above Granadillo Bay. Looking down at the camp. All the orange jumpsuits like cactus-flowers caught in the wire.
You speak good Spanish, the girl says. She’s not very convincing; her smile has started to wilt. She has fingers on his thigh now, a foot brushing his ankle. Moving automatically, like this is something she learned from an instructional video, which for all Curtis knows maybe she did.
He pats her roaming hand and turns back to Albedo, who’s trying to explain to the blond girl who Condoleezza Rice is. Taps him on the shoulder.
What’s up, my man? Albedo says. You need another beer?
How’d you find out I’m in town?
Albedo looks surprised, nonplussed; he sputters theatrically for a second. It ain’t exactly a secret, he says.
No. It’s not. But how did you find out?
They stare at each other. Albedo’s face is empty, frozen between expressions. A big vein flutters on his throat; Curtis half-consciously counts the throb: one-two, three-four, five-six.
Damon, Albedo says. He told me. Called me up last night. Gave me your cell.
Curtis narrows his eyes. And how do you know Damon, again?
What do you mean? I know him from the Desert, man. Same place you know him from. What are you talking about?
I know Damon from Leonard Wood, Curtis says. I was in Saudi during the war. He was on float, on the Okinawa. I wasn’t with Damon in the Gulf.
Albedo grinds out his cigarette, drinks from his empty glass, leans back farther into Curtis’s blind spot. Well, whatever, man, he says. That’s where I know him from.
Curtis waits for him to tip forward again. He’s dropping his baffled act; there’s a challenge in his eyes. He’s not as drunk as Curtis thought. Okay, Curtis says. Where do I know you from?
Albedo looks at Curtis, shrugs, and turns away. His index finger shoots up like a snail’s eye. Corona, he says across the bar.
Do I know you?
Albedo turns back, an oilslick grin spreading across his face. Well, he says, you goddamn sure know me now. Don’t you? Barkeep, get this gentleman another—
No thanks. I’m done.
Hey now. Chill out, Curtis. Any friend of Damon’s is a friend of yours. Right?
Curtis kills the last of his beer, pushes the bottle away, rubs the condensation into his chapped fingers. Did Damon tell you why I’m in town?
Just that you’re doing some work for him at the Point. Looking for a guy who skipped on a marker. That’s about it.
Did he tell you who I’m looking for?
Albedo’s little black eyes flit in their sockets. I don’t think so, he says after a while. I don’t believe that he did. Anybody I’d know?
No. Nobody you’d know.
I know a lot of people, Curtis.
I’m sure you do.
Albedo takes his beer from the bartender, then fishes out his lighter and another cigarette. He cups his hand around the flame, and he and Curtis study each other through the curling smoke. Curtis feels his eyesocket twitch, tear up. He swivels, scoots his chair back, and moves the Cuban girl’s hand into her own lap. She jerks like she’s been asleep. Goodnight, he tells her. Good to meet you.