Curtis nods, sips silently.
I was just now trying to articulate to my two young companions, Albedo says, neither of whom has the good fortune to be a citizen of this great nation of ours, the magnitude of the fucked-up-ness going down in the Middle East tonight. Because, see, the first war—our war?—that was total bullshit. No doubt about that. But this just takes the proverbial cake. Am I right, Curtis?
Curtis picks up his beer, then rotates the cardboard coaster under it, aligning the text with the edge of the counter. He sets the beer down again. He doesn’t want to talk about this, or think about it. It’s a messed-up situation, he says.
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?