Free The Mirror Thief by Martin Seay

table, the sun is doubled in the lenses of Kagami’s spectacles; Curtis can’t see his eyes at all.
    Kagami waits for the waiter to go before he speaks again. How long ago were you there? he asks.
    I got TDY’d to Gitmo about a year ago. I was there for six months.
    Because of the prisoners?
    The detainees, yeah. They were moving them to the new facility.
    Camp Delta.
    That’s right.
    Kagami cuts himself a slice of pumpkin, takes a piece of frybread. So what’s it like? he asks. The facility? He says
facility
like he’s handling something dead.
    Curtis lifts his glass, takes a sip of wine, then another sip of water. Steel mesh enclosures, he says. Eight by eight by six-and-a-half. They have flush toilets, bedframes, sinks. An exercise area.
    Pretty luxurious.
    At Camp X-Ray they were using Port-A-Cans and sleeping on the deck, so it’s a step up. These are bad dudes, Walter. Really evil guys.
    I hear they got kids locked up there. Twelve, thirteen years old.
    Juveniles are in a separate facility, Curtis says.
    One of the ravens arcs past them, lands with a thump in the middle of a table a few yards away. The waiter calmly shoos it off with a dishrag, and it hops onto the rock wall at the terrace’s edge. Up close, it’s much bigger than Curtis had realized. He and Kagami watch it awhile.
    Look, Curtis says. I don’t think anybody’s happy with the way things are. I don’t like it myself. It’s one reason I decided to retire.
    Curtis has never told anyone this before; he’s surprised now to hear himself say it. He pops a stuffed pepper in his mouth, feels the sting on his palate and in his sinuses.
    I’m not trying to cross-examine you, kid, Kagami says.
    I don’t know all that much about it, Curtis says. To tell you the truth. Gitmo’s a Navy base, but the Army’s responsible for security inside the camp. I was just there to handle the logistics of the transfer. I never had a lot of contact with the detainees.
    Well. It’s somebody else’s problem now, right? You’re joining us in the gaming industry.
    Yeah. Honest work at last.
    Kagami laughs. I see a lot of you ex-military guys in security, he says. Lots of former MPs. Your buddy at the Spectacular—Damon, right? Was he an MP, too?
    An MP, then later an MSG. An embassy marine, in Bolivia and Pakistan.
    Sounds like serious business.
    Damon’s a sharp guy. I’m looking forward to working with him.
    That’s good to hear. You know, Kagami says, I don’t think you told me
why
your friend is trying to get in touch with Stanley Glass.
    Kagami is smiling, slowly tearing his frybread; it falls to his plate in nickel-size chunks. His eyes are still hidden by the reflected sunset, but Curtis can tell from the tone of his voice that he already knows the answer to his question, has heard the news from somebody in Atlantic City and figured it out. He’s probably known since they walked into the restaurant. All that stuff about Gitmo was designed to rattle Curtis, to make him sweat a little. A soft spot Kagami knows about somehow. How?
    The waiter comes with their entrées, unfolds a stand, sets his tray down. Kagami has ordered braised duck with blackberry sauce; Curtis’s steak is served with a tiny bowl of steaming posole. Everything is very good.
    They eat in silence for a moment. Curtis chews slowly, sets his fork on the edge of his plate, looks down into the valley. He opts to stick to the script, see how far it gets him. Damon’s trying to clear up a misunderstanding, he says. Two months ago he wrote Stanley a marker for ten grand, and Stanley hasn’t made any payments on it. On Tuesday night—midnight Eastern—it’s going to be delinquent. That’d be bad for Damon and for Stanley both. Damon just wants to work something out.
    And that’s why he asked you to come out here.
    Yes sir.
    Kagami takes off his glasses, polishes them on the edge of the tablecloth. Curtis, he says, you and I both know that doesn’t make a goddamn bit of sense. Ten grand