"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.
The photos; I was about to tell you about those. Patricia dropped the sealed envelope off the next morning, with an accusatory look and a cool greeting. I repaid her the money she'd given her cousin, excused myself from our shopping spree, and asked Jessica to entertain Clara in her room. Then I spent a while looking at the photos and trying to think what to do.
Franklin Mitchell had indeed taken many photos. Brand and Marilyn at a cafe in the Village. Brand buying a diamond and sapphire necklace. A close-up of his hands putting it aroun Marilyn's neck. Brand and Marilyn eating a meal at I Tre Merli's. Marilyn, laughing, wrapping a scarf about Brand's head, in Washington Square Park. And about two rolls' worth of Brand and Marilyn frolicking about in various stages of undress in a hotel room.
I had to give her credit; she had excellent taste in lingerie.
And then there were the "conspiracy photos," as I thought of them. A long shot of Brand talking to two sharply dressed men who loomed over him. Close-ups of each. A blurry shot of Brand standing alone under a street lamp. Brand talking with another man — a short, dark-complected man, perhaps an Italian, with a thin, serious face. A close-up of Brand and the other man, with the envelope exchanging hands: the clearest picture of the bunch. A blurred human-shaped form in the foreground, with Brand and a piece of the big mural in sharp focus in the background. The blur presumably being the man who had chased Mr. Mitchell.
I had the photos spread all over the kitchen table when Jessica brought Clara out for some juice and crackers. The first I realized they'd left the bedroom was when Clara touched my arm and asked if those were the photos of Papa I'd promised her.
The thought that Jessica would see the pictures of Brand and Marilyn filled me with terror and rage. I swept Clara out of harm's way, held onto her arm as I came to my feet and shrieked at Jessica. Blocking her view of the table, I ripped her to verbal shreds for bringing Clara out of the bedroom when I'd said they were to stay in there. She was disobedient, I said; slothful and incompetent. It was all in keeping with her scatter-brained, Irish nature.
She was no shrinking violet, was Jessica; she raised a few nasty welts, herself, about my brittle, supercilious nature. I'm certain she used the 'b' word at least twice, and she slammed the door on her way out.
Instantly I knew I'd been a fool. In spite of my ways, I trusted and needed Jessica. I told Clara to stay right where she was, then yanked the door open and caught Jessica before she got to the end of the hall.
She refused to be mollified. "I may not be some wealthy lady from Philadelphia, but that doesn't mean you have the right to insult me and treat me so poorly."
And when I offered excuses she said, "It's a wonder to me a girl like Clara could have a mother like you."
And she left.
To my relief, Clara was humming to herself in her bedroom when I returned. She was playing with her scrap book and her Barbie doll and making up stories. I suppose she'd seen me like that often enough before. She told her Barbie not to be afraid, Maman sometimes just yells a lot. That brought tears to my eyes.