The Little Sleep (6 page)

We cross the divide of his office and finally shake hands. His grip is a carnival strength test and he rings the bell. He says, “Please, call me Billy, and have a seat.”

“Thanks.” I don’t take off my hat or coat, but I do pull out the manila envelope. I sit. The chair is a soft leather bog, and I sink to a full eye level below the DA and his island-nation desk. I wait as he positions himself. He might need a compass.

He says, “So, how’s Ellen doing?”

He’s not going to ask about my face, about what happened to me. He’s polite and well mannered and makes me feel even more broken. We can play at the small talk, though. That’s fine. Maybe
it’ll help me get a good foothold before we climb into the uncomfortable stuff. Daddy and his daughter.

I say, “Ellen’s fine. She has a good time.”

“Do you guys live in Southie again? She still owns that building on the corner of Dorchester and Broadway, right?”

I say, “Yeah, she owns it. I live there, but Ellen part-times Southie now.”

“God, I haven’t talked to her in years. I have to have you guys down at the next Sunday brunch. I’d love to chat with her.”

I’m not quite sure what to say. I come up with, “That’d be just fine, Billy,” real slow, and it sounds as awkward as I feel. I’m flummoxed. I was expecting anger on the DA’s part, that he’d go all Hulk, you-wouldn’t-like-me-when-I’m-angry, yell-scream-bite-scratch and bring in the goons because I wasn’t doing my job, wasn’t keeping things quiet by showing up at Jennifer’s public appearance and now at his office.

He says, “So what can I help you with, Mark?”

Our meeting is young, the conversation still in we’re-all-friends-here mode, but I already know he did not contact me. He did not suggest his daughter contact me. He has no idea why I’m here.

Need to play this straight, no funny stuff, no winks and nods. My winks tend to turn into fully shut eyes. “Not sure if you’re aware, Billy, but I’m a private investigator.”

The DA is still smiling. “Oh, yeah? How long have you been doing that?”

“Eight years, give or take.” I pause because I don’t know what to say next.

He jumps right in. “No kidding. I probably have a copy of your license somewhere in this building.” He laughs. Is that a threat? A harmless attempt at humor? Humor is never harmless.

Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I’m not ready for this and should’ve stayed in my apartment behind my desk and forgotten about everything. I’m getting a bad feeling. Not the gut this time. It’s more tangible, physical. There’s a small hum, a vibration building up, my hands tremble on the envelope a little bit. My system needle is twitching into the red. Danger Will Robinson. It’s the same feeling I get before cataplectic attacks.

Cataplexy, like other narcolepsy symptoms, is REM sleep bullying its way into the awake state. Cataplexy is complete and total loss of bodily control. Muscles stop working, I can’t even talk, and I melt to the floor, down for the count but not out. I’m not asleep. I’m conscious but can’t move and can’t speak, paralyzed. Cataplexy is the worst part of my nightmare.

I don’t have cataplexy often; the most recent event was that time after Ellen found me asleep in front of a porno. She walked into the apartment and I woke up with my pants around my ankles. She wasn’t upset or hiding her face or anything like that, she was laughing. She could’ve walked in and found me playing with the world’s cutest kitten and had the same response, which made it worse, made it seem like she was expecting to find me like that. I was so overwhelmingly embarrassed and ashamed, the emotions were a Category-5 hurricane on my system, and cataplexy hit while I was quickly trying to pull up my pants and put everything away. My strings cut and I dropped to the floor, heavier than a dead body, landing on
my cheap came-in-a-box coffee table and smashing it, all my stuff still out and about. Ellen shut off the television without commenting upon a scene involving Edward Penishands and three of his most acrobatic female neighbors. She pulled up my underwear and pants, buttoned my fly, and prepared dinner in the kitchen while I recovered from the attack. Took about twenty minutes to come back completely, to be able to walk into the kitchen under my own power. We ate stir-fry. A little salty but decent, otherwise.

Too much time has passed since the DA last spoke, because his vote-for-me smile is gone and he’s leaning on his desk. He says, “Did you bring me something? What’s in the envelope, Mark?”

Okay, another new strategy, and yeah, I’m making all this up as I go. If this is going to work, I can’t let myself think too much. I’m going to read lines, play a part, and maybe it will keep the emotions from sabotage, keep those symptoms on the bench no matter how much the narcoleptic me wants in the game.

I say, “Your daughter, Jennifer, came into my office the other morning and hired me to solve a little problem.” My hands sweat on the envelope, leaving wet marks.

The DA straightens and looks around the room briefly. He repeats my line back to me. “Jennifer came into your office with a problem.” The line sounds good.

“Yup. Left me this package too. She didn’t tell you anything about this?”

The DA holds up his hands. “You have me at a loss, Mark, because this is all news to me.”

In concert with our everything-is-happy intro conversation, I
think he’s telling the truth, which complicates matters. Why would Jennifer not tell her DA daddy about the pictures and then come see me, of all PIs? Was it dumb blind luck that landed her in my office? I don’t buy it. She and this case were dropped in my sleeping lap for a reason.

I say, “I came here because I had assumed you sent her to see me. To have me, a relation of an old family friend, deal with the situation away from prying public eyes.”

“Jesus, Mark, just tell me what you’re talking about. Is Jennifer in danger? What’s going on?”

If he really hasn’t sent Jennifer to me, then I’ve screwed up, big time. It’s going to be very difficult to skip-to-my-Lou out of here without showing him the pictures, and I can’t say too much, don’t want to put any words into Jennifer’s mouth. I don’t want the case to be taken away from me.

I say, “I’ve made a mistake. If you didn’t send Jennifer to me, I shouldn’t be here. Client confidentiality and all that.” I stand up. My legs are water-starved tree roots.

The DA stands and darts around his desk to stop me. He moves fast, and I’m no Artful Dodger. He says, “Wait! You can’t come in here and drop a bomb about Jennifer and then just leave.”

“Tell it to the goons you have waiting for me outside.” I say it, even though I know it doesn’t add up. One plus one is three.

“What?” He shakes his head, resetting. “Let’s start again. Jennifer. What’s wrong? You have to tell me if she’s in any danger. You know, I can probably help here.” He opens his arms, displaying his office, showing off his grand criminal justice empire.

My system-overload feeling is still there. My hands keep up with their tremors, twitching to some hidden beat, and my mouth is dry. This can’t happen now. Not now, can’t be now.

I say, “Let’s sit again, and you can take a look.” I have to sit. At least if I have an attack I’ll be sitting.

We sit. The chair is a hug and my body reacts accordingly; the tremors cease but crushing fatigue rolls in like a tide. It’s undeniable.

New plan. I don’t care that I’m breaking client confidentiality. Given the clientele, I doubt word of my etiquette breach will get out and ruin my little business, taint my street cred. I want to see the DA’s reaction. I want to know why she’d drop these photos on my desk and not on Daddy’s.

I yawn big, showing off the fillings, sucking in all the air. The DA looks at me like I pissed in the dinner wine. I shrug and say, “Sorry, it’s not you, it’s me.”

I open the envelope and hand him the two photos. Definitely taking a chance on bringing him the originals. I didn’t think to make copies; the negatives are in my desk. Anyway, I want to see what his reaction is to the real photos, not copies.

The DA takes the pictures, looks at them, and sinks into his chair. The pictures are a punch to his stonewall stomach. He loses all his air. I feel a little bad for him. Gotta be tough to have someone else’s past walk in the door and drop nudie pictures of your kid in your lap.

He holds up both photos side by side and is careful to hold them so that they cover his face. He sees something.

The DA says, “Who gave you these pictures?”

“I told you. Jennifer. Try to stay with me, here.”

“Who sent them to her?”

“I don’t know yet. That’s the case. I’m good, but I do need a little time to work my mojo.” I meant to say magic, but it came out mojo.

He says, “Who else has seen these?”

“No idea.” This is a rare occasion where telling the truth is easy as Sunday morning.

“Have you shown them to anyone?”

“No, of course not. What kind of private investigator do you think I am?”

He looks at the photos again, then me. The look is a fist cracking knuckles. He says, “I have no idea what’s going on here, Mark, but the woman in these pictures is clearly not Jennifer.”

Not the response I was looking for. I squirm in my seat, which is suddenly hot. I’m bacon and someone turned on the griddle. I fight off another yawn and push it down somewhere inside me, but it’s still there and will find its way out eventually. I have bigger problems than a yawn. I ask, “What makes you say that?”

“It’s not her, Mark.” All hint of politics gone from his voice. He’s accusing me of something. He’s in attack mode, getting ready to lawyer me up. This isn’t good.

I say, “It’s her. Jennifer was the one who brought me the goddamn photos. Why would she need me if the photos aren’t of her?” I’m getting mad, which is not the right response here. Shouldn’t be ready to throw a tantrum because someone wants to tell me there’s no Tooth Fairy.

The DA focuses. I’m his courtroom. He says, “There are physical inconsistencies. Jennifer has a mole on her collarbone, no mole here—”

I interrupt. “That’s easy to Photoshop. You should know that.”

He holds up a stop hand. “Her hair is all wrong. In the photo there’s too much curl to it, and it doesn’t look like a wig. That’s not Jennifer’s smile; the teeth are too big. This woman is smaller and skinnier than Jennifer. There’s a resemblance, but it’s clearly not Jennifer, Mark. I’m positive.”

All right. What next? I say, “Can I have the photos back?” Christ, I’m asking permission. I’m a pathetic Oliver Twist, begging for table scraps.

The DA doesn’t give them to me right away, and my insides drop into my shoes. I’m not getting the photos back—or my insides. I couldn’t possibly have fucked things up any worse if I had a manual and followed the step-by-step instructions on how to screw the pooch.

He does hand the pictures over. I take an eyeful. The hair, her smile, all of it, all wrong. He’s right. It’s not her. My big mistake is getting bigger. I scratch my beard, then put the photos away. I need an exit strategy.

The DA stands again, walks to his window, then turns toward me, eyebrows arched. Maybe he’s really seeing me, the broken man, for the first time. He says, “What are you up to, Mark?”

“I told you what was up, DA. Nothing funny on my end. Can’t vouch for your daughter, though.”

His hands go from inside his pockets to folded across his chest. He’s a statue made of granite. I’m an abandoned rag doll.

“Maybe we should just call Jennifer, then, to straighten everything out,” he says, pulling out his cell phone and poking at a few buttons before getting my permission.

“Let’s. A fine idea.” I yawn, my head getting murky, its natural
state. I’m afraid of this phone call. I’ll only get to hear his end of the conversation.

He says, “Hi, sweetie. It’s Dad. . . . I know, but I need a quickhonest answer to a potentially difficult question. . . . I know, great way to start a phone call. . . . So, did you hire a Mark Genevich? . . . Mark Genevich, he’s a private detective. . . . He’s here in my office, and he claims you went to his Southie office and hired him—says you gave him some photos. . . . What? . . . Oh, he did? . . . Okay, okay, no. . . . Don’t worry, Jennifer. Nothing I can’t take care of. I have to go. . . . Good luck tonight. You were great last night and I’m sure you’ll make it through to next week. . . . Love you too.”

I think I need to find my own attack mode. The problem is I’m toothless. I say, “You two have such a swell relationship and all, but if she said she’s never met me, she’s lying.”

“Jennifer said you showed up in the autograph line at Copley the other day, claimed to be working on her case, and left your card.”

“I sure did.”

“She also said she’d never seen you before Copley.”

I yawn again. The DA doesn’t like it. There’s nothing I can do about that. I say, “I have her signed contract back at my office.” Complete bluff. He knows it too.

He walks around to the front of the desk and sits on the top. One leg on the floor, one leg off. A DA flamingo. He says, “Blackmail is a felony, Mark.” He drops the hard-guy act momentarily and morphs into pity mode. He holds out his hands as if to say,
Look at you, you’re a walking shipwreck, unsalvageable
. “If you need money or help, Mark, I can help you out, but this isn’t the way to go about it.”