Part 3 (2/2)

Maybe I'm dreaming and I'll wake up on my couch or reawake with my face in Chinese food to start it all over again. Maybe this is my old buddy Juan-Miguel putting me on, playing a joke. When we lived together he'd call in s.h.i.+t like this. I decide to play along with the caller a bit longer, gather more information before I make a hasty conclusion; it's how I have to live my everyday life. That said, this guy's voice has a kernel of sincerity that's undeniable.

I say, ”Relax. Calm down. Red cars won't bother you if you don't bother them.”

”There're two people in that red car. They know. They know about the pictures somehow. s.h.i.+t! They're driving by again, and they slow down in front of my house every time. You didn't show anyone those pictures yet, did you? You can't until you find-”

I drop the phone, of course. It slides out of my greasy hands and bounces off my foot. G.o.dd.a.m.n it! At least I know I'm awake. I'm awake because I'm usually competent in my dreams and hallucinations.

I pick up the phone. ”Sorry, dropped you for a second. I'm still here.” I stand up, walk across the room, and shut the door to my office. No one's in the hallway, of course, but Ellen could walk in unannounced at any time. ”No. I didn't show anyone anything.” It's easier to lie because I don't know who I'm talking to.

He says, ”I shouldn't have given you those pictures. I don't know what I think I was doing, who I'd be helping. It was dumb. Now we're both f.u.c.ked. Should've just kept sitting on it like the old hen that I am. This is so screwed up. Shouldn't have done anything. . . .” His words fall into odd rhythms, stops and starts mixed with letters that he holds too long. He slurs his s's. He's been drinking. It's not helping his paranoia-or mine. His voice fades out as he's talking to either himself or someone else in the room with him; the phone must be dropping away from his mouth. I'm losing him. I have to keep him talking, even if it isn't to me.

I say, ”Hey, pull it together. It'll be all right once I find”-yeah, find what?-”it.” So I'm not so smooth on my end. I pace around my office and look for something that'll help me. Nothing's here. Hopefully he doesn't process my hesitation.

He says, ”You need to hurry up. I don't want to say anything more. If they're driving around my house, it probably means they're listening in too, the f.u.c.kers.”

He and I have seen too many of the same movies. I'm ready to agree with him. I have so many questions to ask this guy, starting with the introductory-level Who are you? but I have to pretend I know what's going on.

I say, ”All right, all right. But before you hang up, I think we need to talk again. Face-to-face. It'll help us sort all this out, trust me. We'll both feel better about it.”

”Not your office. I can't come to Southie again. I'm not going anywhere, not right now. I'm staying here, with my doors locked.”

An espresso-like jolt rushes through my system. He's been here before. I say, ”Okay, I'll come to you. Give me your address.”

He does, but he doesn't give me his name. No matter. Address only. I write it down. G.o.dd.a.m.n, he lives on the Cape, in Osterville, not far from where Ellen lives and where my childhood homestead still stands. Now pieces are fitting together where they shouldn't, square pegs in round holes.

I tell him I'll be there tomorrow. He hangs up, and that's it. The office and phone are quiet again. More old fried rice, looking like mouse t.u.r.ds, is on the desk and on the floor. I'm breathing heavy. I pull out a cigarette and start a fire.

I unlock my drawer and take out the photos. I try on a new set of eyes and look at the girl in the photos. Maybe she's not Times. And the photos: the matte and shading is faded and yellowing in spots. The photos are old, but how old?

Okay, slow down. I know now that Jennifer was never in my office. Even her presence was part and parcel of the whole hypnogogic hallucination. But why would I dream her into my office while asleep during phone guy's little visit? Did I conjure her solely because of the resemblance in the photos? Did her name come up in our initial meeting? Is he just some crazed fan of American Star? Maybe he's a would-be blackmailer, but that doesn't feel right. Is he telling the truth about being watched?

He didn't want me to show the pictures to anyone until I found something, and I already showed them to the DA. Oops. Why did phone guy, presumably from Osterville, choose me? Does he know me or Ellen? What am I supposed to find? My note about South Sh.o.r.e Plaza. Red car, Osterville, and a drunk on the Cape.

I think I've falsely hara.s.sed Jennifer Times and her DA father. I really don't know anything about this case, and there's still rice in my beard, but at least I have a client now. Yeah, tomorrow I'll make the little road trip to the Cape and then a house call, but I'm not getting paid enough for this.

TEN.

I'm in Ellen's little green car. It's fifteen years old. The pa.s.senger seat is no longer conducive to my very particular posture, which is somewhere between question mark and Quasimodo. Lower back and legs report extreme discomfort. It's enough to keep me awake, which is miserable because I keep nodding off but not staying asleep.

We're cruising down Route 3 south, headed toward the Cape. It's off-season and the traffic isn't bad, but Ellen maintains a running monologue about how awful the traffic always is and how n.o.body knows how to drive. Meanwhile, she's tailgating the car in front of us and we're close enough that I can see what radio station he's tuned to.

I still have a driver's license but no car. Renewing the license isn't an issue for me. Driving is. I haven't driven in six years.

Last night I told Ellen that I needed to go to the Osterville library to help with a genealogical search and was pressed for time. She didn't ask for further details. She knew I wouldn't give any. When she picked me up this morning, she didn't ask questions about why all the toilet paper was unrolled and wrapped around my kitchen table-King Tut's table now-and why the apartment door was unlocked but my bedroom door was locked. She knew the narcoleptic me went for an evening stroll with the apartment to himself.

My eyes are closed; we're somewhere between Norwell and Marshfield, I think.

Ellen says, ”Are you awake?”

I just want to sit and sleep, or think about what I'm going to say to the mystery client in Osterville. The names a.s.sociated with the address are Brendan and Janice Sullivan. I was able to ferret out that much online.

I say, ”No. I'm asleep and dreaming that you're wearing the clown pants again.”

”Stop it. I just didn't want to stuff them into my night bag and get them all wrinkly. Those wrinkles don't come out. You'd think that wouldn't happen with polyester. Anyway, they're comfy driving pants.”

I say, ”I guess I'm awake then.”

She says, ”Good. You'll never guess who called me last night.”

”You're right.”

”Guess.”

I pull my fedora farther over my eyes and grind around in my seat, trying to find an impossible position of comfort. I say, ”A state lottery commission agent. You've been winning too much on scratch tickets.”

”Hardly,” she says, and slaps my thigh. ”Your new pal Billy Times called.”

She might as well have hit me in the groin instead of my thigh. I sit up and crush my fedora between forehead and car ceiling. I resettle and try to play off my fish-caught-on-a-line spasm as a posture adjustment. I say, ”Never heard of him.”

”Come on, Mark. I know you visited him earlier in the week. He told me.”

”Since I'm awake-awake, I might as well be smoking. Mind?”

”Yes. I try not to smoke in the car.”

”Good.” I light up.

She sighs and opens her window a crack. ”I'm a little impressed you went all the way in town to the DA's office.” She says it like it was so far away I needed a pa.s.sport. A condescending cheap shot, but I probably deserve it.

I say, ”I had to hire a Sherpa, but I managed.”

”I didn't think you were serious the other day with the whole DA-as-family-friend talk.” She stops, waiting for me to fill in the blanks. I can't fill those blanks in, not even for myself. She thinks I have something going on. I do, but I'm not going to tell her about it. She wouldn't like it. She certainly wouldn't be transporting me down to the Cape to chat with Sullivan.

I say, ”I'm always serious, Ellen.” All right, I need to know it all. I need to know why the DA called my mommy. It'll hang over me the whole time I'm in Osterville if I don't ask. ”So why'd he call you?”

”Actually, he invited me to one of his Sunday brunches. Isn't that neat?”

”How nice. I'm sure your friends will be excited to hear you've become a socialite. You'll be the talk of Thursday night bingo at the Lithuanian Club.” Ellen doesn't say anything, so I add, ”Come on, Ellen, you're as bad a liar as I am. What did he want?”

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