Part 5 (1/2)

I say, ”I don't know.”

Ellen ignores my response and its implications. She adjusts her monstrous bag on her right shoulder. She usually complains about that shoulder killing her, but she won't switch the bag over to her left. I don't know anyone else who exclusively uses her right shoulder for load bearing.

She says, ”Did you get some work done? Get everything you need?”

I say, ”Some work done. Still more to do.” Still groggy. Speaking only in phrases is the ointment. For now, my words are too heavy for complex construction.

”That's good. Though you look a little empty-handed.”

I had taken out the little Osterville history book. I check and pat the bench and my coat. It's gone.

Ellen says, ”What's the matter?”

Maybe I hit the redheaded goon with the book after all, a.s.suming there were real goons in the first place. I could verify some of my previous extracurricular activities. Go inside and ask if I had checked out that book, but I won't. An answer of no would do too much damage to me. I'd rather just believe what I want to believe. It's always easier that way.

I say, ”Nothing. I think I left a book inside.” I stand up and try not to wince. I'm going to have a hard time walking to the car.

She says, ”What's wrong now, Mark?”

Everything. I need to go back to Southie, try to put distance between me, the maybe goons, and whatever happened at the Sullivan house. I also need to give Ellen an answer, an excuse, something that won't lead to a trip full of follow-up questions. ”Nothing. My body is protesting another drive in your torture chamber.”

”Want me to get your book?”

”No. It wasn't any good.”

FOURTEEN.

Back home. It's five o'clock. I've been gone for only half a day, but our little excursion to the Cape and back has left me with a weeklong family-vacation-type hangover. I just don't have a cheesy T-s.h.i.+rt, sunburn, and disposable camera full of disposable memories to show for it.

My office phone blinks. A red light. I have a voice-mail message. Let's get right to it.

”h.e.l.lo-um, Mr. Genevich? This is Jennifer Times. I got your number from your card that you left me?” Her statements are questions. She's unsure of what she's doing. That makes two of us. ”I think we need to meet and talk. Please call me back as soon as you can.” She leaves her number, and the message ends with a beep.

I won't call her right away. I need the meanings and possibilities to have their way with me for a bit. Just like I need a hot shower to untie my muscles; they're double-knotted.

First I'll check my e-mail. I turn on the computer. The hard drive makes its noises, its crude impersonation of life. The monitor glows, increasing in brightness until the desktop is visible. Same as it was yesterday and the day before. There's no e-mail. Then I do a quick search for any stories about Brendan Sullivan and Osterville and murder. Nothing comes up.

Maybe I should call Sullivan's house. Don't know if that's a good idea. Not sure if I'm ready to have my name popping up on police radar screens, if he was in fact murdered. There's still too much I don't know, too many questions I couldn't answer, but the call is the chance I probably have to take at some point. I should call. Call his house now. Might not have been him I saw being taken out of the house. What I saw might not have even happened.

Screw it. I pick up the phone and dial Jennifer Times instead. Sullivan can wait. The shower can wait. It'll be good to have things to look forward to.

One ring. ”h.e.l.lo?”

”Jennifer, it's Mark Genevich returning your call.” I'm all business, even if she's not the client and not in the photos anymore. Let her do the talking. I don't need her. She called me.

”Hi, yeah, thanks for calling me back. So, I was thinking we should meet and talk?” Still with statements that are questions. Maybe being forced from the spotlight has left her withered, without confidence. Maybe it's just my perception. For all I know she's a confident young woman, an aspiring celebrity, and she's only reflecting my constant state of insecurity because I want her to. It's what we all want from our celebrities. We want them to tell us something we don't know about ourselves when they can't.

Suddenly I'm Mr. Popular. I say, ”I can do that. You pick the place.” I a.s.sume that she doesn't want to come to my office. Otherwise, she would've offered.

”Can we meet for dinner at Amrheins later tonight? Seven P.M.?”

Of course. The DA's pet restaurant. ”I can do that too. But make it seven-thirty.” I don't need the extra half hour. Sure, it'll give me a safety net, never know when that ever-elusive thief, lost time, might strike, but I said seven-thirty because I want to exert some of my own conscious will upon the situation. For once.

She says, ”Okay.”

There's silence. It's big enough to span the unknown distance between us. I say, ”See you tonight, then, Jennifer.” I'm not going to ask why she wants to meet with me or ask her what DA Daddy told her. There'll be plenty of time for the tough questions later. I'm not going to force this. I don't need to. I'm not used to the power position. I'll try not to let it go to my head.

FIFTEEN.

A constant stream of traffic pa.s.ses by like schools of fish, the sheer number of vehicles relentless and numbing. I'm standing on East Broadway, only a block from the Broadway Red Line T stop. Seven-thirty has become seven-forty-five. It's all right. My cigarette is finished. Society always arrives late.

Amrheins is an Irish restaurant. Has its own parking lot, big enough for fifty-plus cars. The lot itself has to be worth a small fortune in real estate. The restaurant is big. It has three sections. Bar section is the middle, dining areas on the left and right. The right side of the restaurant is elevated. Everything is kept suitably dark for the patrons.

I check in with the maitre d'. He's a short young guy in a white dress s.h.i.+rt and black pants. The bright ink from his sleeve tattoos is visible through the s.h.i.+rt's thin cloth, their stories hinted at but hidden. He doesn't talk, only motions at the elevated section with his head.

Jennifer is alone, sitting at a table for two tucked away in a corner, as far from the entrance as possible. She sees me and nods. It takes me a dragonfly's life to limp across the restaurant to our table. She has on a jean jacket, open and rolled up to the elbows. Light blue s.h.i.+rt. Her hair is tied up, off her face, and she wears gla.s.ses. The gla.s.ses are enough to turn her into Clark Kent and successfully disguise her Superman, but I know it's her.

I say, ”Sorry I'm late, Jennifer.” I try to think of something witty to explain my lateness, but I figure my hangdog reappearance is enough. My clothes look slept in because they are. I never did take that hot shower. I can't even keep appointments with myself.

She says, ”That's okay.” The tablecloth is green. An unlit tea-light candle floats in a gla.s.s bowl. The melted wax makes tentacles. It's a floating inkblot I can't read, a portent for the evening. Maybe I should just sit my a.s.s down. Jennifer sips from a gla.s.s of sparkling water, or maybe soda. A person can get lost trying to figure out all the details.

The place is half full, or half empty, the point of view hinging on how our meeting fares. I do sit. My back is turned to the rest of the restaurant. I'm not comfortable with my seating. Don't want my back to Southie because the place is full of goons. One such goon might have red hair, freckles, and a phone in his ear, and he might have a bald buddy. Yeah, it has occurred to me that this dinner could be a setup. I slide my heavy wooden chair loudly toward Jennifer's side of the table.

I say, ”I like being able to see what I want to see, which is everything.” I'm still fiddling with my chair and position. Jennifer makes a hand gesture and a waiter materializes instantly.

Jennifer orders mango turkey tips with pineapple salsa, then turns to me and says, ”Sorry, but I can't stay long. He'll wait while you look at the menu, all right?”

The waiter nods at me. That's all I get from the staff. Head movements.

I suppose I deserve being put on the food spot for being late. I make it easy on everyone and order without looking at the menu. ”Shepherd's pie and a coffee, and make sure my mug is always full.”

The waiter has his errand, clicks his heels, and returns from whence he came. I say, ”So, Ms. Times, here we are.” Not exactly the best opening line, but it'll have to do, creepy-older-man vibe notwithstanding.

She says, ”I have some questions,” then stops. Her spine is telephone-pole straight. It makes me uncomfortable.

I say, ”I have many answers. Ask me the questions and we'll see if any of my answers match up.”

Her hands are on the table and folded over each other. She could be holding a firefly trapped in her hands or a coin she plans to make disappear. She has all her own fingers, no bandages or scars. Not that I expected differently, of course. She says, ”I've never been to your office, Mr. Genevich. Why did you go to my father's office and tell him I hired you?” Her delivery is clinical, rehea.r.s.ed. She must've practiced her questions with a mirror or with DA Daddy.

Doesn't matter. I tell her. I just flat out tell her everything, the truth along with my mistakes and lies. Can't have truth without lies. First I give an introduction to my wonderful world of narcolepsy. How it started. How it won't stop. Then fast-forward to our supposed meeting in my office. Her missing fingers and the hypnogogic hallucination. She's listening. I'm believing. Believing that if I open up and share my truths, maybe she'll share hers. It's the only chance I have of getting anything meaningful out of this meeting. I give her the highlights from the trip to the DA's minus the photos of her stand-in. She only needs to know I thought she was being blackmailed. Not over what. Finally, I tell her that the real client called me yesterday. I leave out the Cape, red car, and goons. I'm not going to give it all away.

She says, ”Well, I'm glad you're admitting that I was never in your office.” She unfolds her hands; the firefly is free to go. She reaches for her drink. ”But do you know why you hallucinated me into your office?”

”You and American Star were impossible to avoid around here. Believe me, I tried. The local rags and news stations pumped out daily features and updates.” I stop and Jennifer doesn't say anything. So I add, ”That, and I'm your biggest fan. I never missed a show and called in to vote every night, unless I fell asleep first.”