Part 5 (2/2)

I laugh. She doesn't.

She says, ”Is it because the woman in the pictures you showed to my father looks like me?”

The questions are piling up fast, adding up, stressing my system again. Not sure if I can keep up. I can keep telling myself I'm in control of this particular situation, but I know better. Luckily, the waiter picks the perfect time to return with my coffee. It's hot enough to melt skin. My belly fills with lava. Perfect.

I say, ”So, your father told you about the pictures, I a.s.sume. It's nice that you guys can share like that.”

She nods. ”Did you bring them?”

I don't say anything right away because I don't know what I should say. Experience offers me nothing here because I have none. ”I think I have those Kodak moments on me, yeah.” The pictures never leave me now. They've taken root inside my coat.

”Will you show them to me?”

I say, ”I don't think so. You're not my client.” I say that, but I'm going to show them to her. Just want to know how much she'll push.

”I think you owe me. Don't you?” It's the first appearance of that privileged att.i.tude I saw on TV. Can't say I like it. She says it with a face as straight as her spine, which is still as straight as a telephone pole. See, everything is connected.

I say, ”No. I don't owe you anything other than a sorry-for-the-inconvenience.” My coffee mug is empty despite my explicit instructions. That's inconvenient.

She says, ”I want to see her. It's why I called you and it's why I'm here, Mr. Genevich. Nothing else. This is it. Our paths will never cross again after this.” Jennifer takes off her gla.s.ses and wipes the lenses with her napkin, then puts them back on. Disguise intact. ”I would like to see her. Please.”

I know the DA put her up to this. It's too obvious. Now I just have to figure out the potential risk/reward of showing her the photos. I smile instead of yawning. It probably comes out all lopsided and crooked, a crack in a gla.s.s. I say, ”Am I supposed to just pull out the photos here, in the middle of a restaurant?”

She says, ”Yeah, why not? There's n.o.body over here. You're practically sitting in my lap, so it's not like anyone could see.”

Hard to argue with that. I open my coat and produce the envelope, which has taken quite a beating. The manila is going all flaky on me, its structural integrity close to being compromised. Nothing lasts forever. I take out the pictures and hand the first one to her, the one with clothes.

Jennifer says, ”Wow. She does look like me. Not exactly, but enough to be weird. Aren't there more?” She holds out a hand.

”I'll trade you. New for old.”

She rolls her eyes but I don't care. Now I'm the spoiled brat who won't share. I make the international gimme-gimme-gimme sign with my hand and fingers. She gimmes. I put the second picture in her hand.

She says, ”What did my father say when he saw these?”

”He said it wasn't you. I asked for proof. He said no mole. Hair and teeth were wrong.” I leave out the part where he asked me if anyone else had seen the photos. I'm saving that for myself until I figure out what to do with it.

She says, ”She's too skinny to be me. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s are smaller too.” Jennifer gives back the photo.

”My girlfriend used to say that all the time.” I try to sound nonchalant but come off desperate instead. I rub my beard. It sounds awful loud. Awful and loud.

Jennifer says, ”Your girlfriend sounds like a keeper,” and gives me a pity smile. Thanks, but no thanks.

I say, ”Nah, not really. Barely remember her.” I reach for my cigarettes, but then I remember I can't smoke in here. Memory slower than the hand. Back to the beard.

Jennifer says, ”But you remember she talked about her small b.r.e.a.s.t.s?”

I can't tell how much fun she's having at my expense. Doesn't matter, I suppose. I can pretend I'm out having a harmless conversation. Pretend that I didn't lose my face and then the last eight years of my life to little sleeps. I say, ”Yeah. That, and I liked how she read books.”

I'm sure Jennifer isn't expecting me to go here, a tangent running wildly into my personal territory, but she plays along. She says, ”Should I be afraid to ask?”

”She wrote all over her books. She circled and highlighted words and phrases, drew pictures between the lines, and wrote down descriptions of the emotions she experienced in the margins. So when she went back to reread the book, she only looked at the pictures and the notes.”

”That's odd. And certainly memorable.”

I say, ”I remember it because it's where I live now. In the margins.” I don't think Jennifer realizes how honest I am being here. Maybe she does and finds it embarra.s.sing. I'm like a friend admitting some reprehensible bit of behavior that forever warps and taints the relations.h.i.+p. Only I'm not a friend. I think I understand her obvious discomfort. Strangers are supposed to lie.

She steers the conversation back to her turf. ”Do you swear no one is trying to use those to blackmail me? If those pictures end up on the Internet somehow, you'll have one p.i.s.sed-off DA knocking on your door.”

I tell her, ”You're in the clear,” though I don't really believe it. There's some connection. I mean, she's here, in front of me right now. That's more than I can say for any other aspect, potential or otherwise, of this case. An awkward silence has its way.

I say, ”Glad we settled that. I can sleep now.” I laugh at my own joke. I laugh too hard. It shakes our table. It's a laugh a prisoner might direct at the warden who just made a meal out of the cell key.

”Who do you think it is?” she says.

I stop myself from saying If I knew, I wouldn't be here with you, but I don't want her to take it personally. Yeah, that's a bad joke. I know this case is a lot more serious than blackmail and nudie pics, and it scares the h.e.l.l out of me. I tell her, ”Don't know yet.”

”So you don't know who's in the pictures and you didn't know who sent the pictures?”

I say, ”I know who sent them to me now.”

”That's right. The convenient phone call.”

”There was nothing convenient about the phone call.”

”Still sounds like a tough case.”

”Nothing's ever easy. But I'll figure it all out.”

”Will you?”

”Yes.”

The verbal volley is fast and everything gets returned. I manage to push out every one of my lead-heavy words.

She leans back in her chair, crosses her arms over her chest. ”Those pictures felt old to me, like they were taken a long time ago.”

”Probably just the black-and-white.” She's right, but I don't want to admit it.

Our food arrives. My shepherd's pie is molten. We eat. Our silence becomes a part of the meal, a gla.s.s of wine that doesn't add any flavor but doesn't get in the way either.

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