Stephen Leigh - Card Sharks

"She's what?" I asked.

"Hip, Maman . In the groove."

I gaped at her, flabbergasted.

"That sort of slang may be all right for some people but it's not appropriate language for you, little lady," Brand said. To me he said, "You'd better have a talk with Jessica. And I'd better talk to Henry."

I might have felt the same way myself, if Brand hadn't suggested it first. But the slang did sound kind of cute, coming from her. "It's just a word, for heaven's sake. It's not an obscenity."

"Can we go shopping Saturday, Maman ?"

"Well see," I said, and smiled at her.

Brandon's and my eyes met over the top of her head.

"I'll be working late," he said. It occurred to me that I might as well have had Jessica set a place for Marilyn. She was right there at breakfast with us.

"Of course you will," I replied, and sipped coffee.

"I'm a friend of Patricia Wright's," I said into the phone. "Joan Moresworth van Renssaeler. We met last year at her Christmas party."

"Oh — yeah, yeah. I dig." Franklin Mitchell sounded as if he didn't have a clue what I was talking about. He also sounded like a flake. Not a good phone personality; he'd made a better impression in person. "How's Patsy doing these days? Has she, you know, like, dropped the kid?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Has she had the baby?"

"Oh. No. Not for several months yet. Listen." Through the open bedroom door, I saw Jessica and Clara playing with Clara's Barbie Dolls on the living room carpet.

Jessica had been helping me care for Clara since she'd been born. She was a strawberry blond, at least forty pounds overweight, and had the most beautiful, freckled face. She was also Irish, but I didn't mind the Irish so much. At least they were Protestants, some of them.

I dried my palms on my skirt, lowered my voice.

"This may not be your usual type of job, but I need someone I can trust and you come highly recommended. I need you to follow someone and take some photographs. This afternoon. And possibly — well, the job may take a few days, before you get the chance to catch — exactly what I'm looking for — on film."

"Yeah? And what's that?"

My voice failed me for a moment. "Does it matter?"

"Well — yeah. Of course it does. How'm I gonna, like, know if I got what you needed, if you don t tell me what you need?"

"Oh. Well." I cleared my throat.

" Maman, Maman , look!" Clara came running in, holding up her Ken doll. She'd put a dress on him and was giggling. "He dresses funny."

"Amusing, dear," I said to Clara, and glared at Jessica, who entered behind her. "This is an important call; do you mind?"

A sullen look crossed Jessica's face. She scooped Clara up and carried her back out.

"Hello?" he said. "Hello?"

"My husband is cheating on me."

"Ah."

"I want you to get pictures of them together. Lots of them. In bed, if possible. I'll pay you well."

"I charge a hundred fifty a day, plus expenses. I'll get you all the pictures you need. Since you're a friend of Patsy's, you can pay on delivery."

"Don't be surprised when you see whom it is."

He chuckled. "Man, nothing gets to me any more. Not in this business."

Over the next few days life carried on in a travesty of its old routine: Brand ate breakfast with us, went to work, stayed late or didn't come home at all. Clara seemed to sense that something was wrong; she needed a lot more attention and reassurance than usual. Jessica and I had difficulty controlling her.

On Sunday after services, Brand stayed home all day. He paced the house like a caged wildcat. When I asked what was going on he told me to mind my own business. I grew afraid that he'd invited her over — that they were going to announce their intention to run away together.

That afternoon he surprised me by keeping his promise to take Clara and Frou Frou to the park. Afterwards, while Jessica and I helped Clara press the flowers and leaves she had picked in the park between sheaves of waxed paper and then glue them into her scrap book, he spent a good deal of time in his office on the phone. I couldn't listen in because Jessica was around, and in the evening after she'd left he didn't make any calls. After we put Clara to bed he went out again, and didn't come back.

Franklin Mitchell called on Monday rnoming. "We'd better talk. Right away."

"I can't, not today. It's the babysitter's day off."

"I'll come there, then."

"You certainly will not! What's the urgency? Did you get the photos?"

"I got more pictures than I know what to do with, man. Something weird is going down."

"What are you talking about?"

"Listen," he said. His voice was strained. "Your old man is into some heavy shit. I don't know what it is, but this is more than I bargained for."

I closed my eyes, strove for calm. "Did you get photographs of him with Marilyn, or not?"

"I did. It was hot stuff, too. She's one sexy lady." He whistled.

"It'd be nice if you'd leave off with the commentary."

"Uh, right. Anyhow, you were right about them. It took till last night for me to get everything you wanted. You know," he cleared his throat. "Them together in bed."

I couldn't bring myself to respond.

"They spent the evening in a room at the St. Moritz," he went on. "I got some great shots from the fire escape. And then he left. I was going to split but then the chick started tailing him."

His slang confused me. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about Marilyn , man. She tailed him. You know — followed him. So I tailed her . We all took cabs to a deserted parking lot in Newark, where I lost her. But not your old man."

"Oh?" This didn't sound like Brand at all. He hated New Jersey.

"Yeah. He met a couple of dudes there. Heavy dudes, man. They went off and hid behind a wall, and then your old man stood around for a while under a street lamp near this big graffiti wall mural. Then a fourth dude arrived and your old man gave him a big envelope.

"And While I was taking pictures, one of the other dudes spotted me. He tried to kill me. He shot at me and chased me for several blocks." He sounded indignant. "I think your old man is messing with the Mob, or something."

"Preposterous." But I thought about the odd conversations Brand had been having with Dr. Rudo. Card Sharks? A Mafia connection?

Brand's recent court case, the one that had earned him a big promotion, had been a Fourth Amendment case, and the newspaper involved had reputedly had connections with the Mafia. But Dr. Rudo had been so nice. And so — so Germanic. It didn't seem possible he was Italian.

"Look." No offense," Mitchell said, "but I want to unload these pictures, get my money, and say good-bye. You'll have to take them now, or I destroy them. I don't want any trouble with the Mob."

I looked down at Clara, lying atop big sheets of yellow, green, and red construction paper with her crayons scattered about her and her tongue poking out.

I didn't want her involved in this, in any way, no matter how urgent Mitchell felt matters were.

"Patricia will hold them for me. You have her address?"

"Of course."

"I'll call her now and tell her what to expect. Seal the photos and the negatives in an envelope with my name on it and drop it off at her place. She can pay you. I'll get the photos from her and reimburse her tomorrow."

Look at the hour. And I have to be at the Clinic at eight in the morning. I wonder if we could continue this some other time?

No, no. I understand. There's not much more to tell, actually. It's just, this is all rather painful to recount.

I'll make some sandwiches and coffee for you, then. I have a frozen pie in the freezer, too. And we'll get this over with.