When
I ignored him, he began to paw through the photographs again.
"How
many pictures we got here?" he asked no one in particular.
He
counted up one row and across, then multiplied.
"Fifty-six,"
he said, answering his own question. "You remember back to those
thrilling days of yore, before no-fault divorce, when I had the
little shop down on Michigan and you used to bring me all those
motel-room specials you used to take?"
I
admitted I remembered.
"Even
under those circumstances, you bein' the worst photographer on the
planet, bad light, people diving under beds, you still used to get
usable shots of them, didn't you?"
I
nodded.
"Why?"
he asked.
"I
always figured it was by virtue of my great cunning and dare."
"No,
Shamus, it's just a numbers game. That's why I sold you that
autowinder. If you take enough shots, something will come out. Watch
the pros. They'd never admit it, but half the time they just keep
burning film until luck takes over. They know that if they get enough
prints, they'll stumble on something good when they get in the
darkroom."
"So
what do we do?" I asked.
"We?"
he chucked. "Okay, you."
"Well,
Leo, I'll tell you. You're a lucky bastard on two counts. First off,
there's your timing. Just a few years ago, this would have been a
first-class pain in the ass. Woulda cost you a fortune. Now"—he
snapped his fingers—"it's a piece of cake. Actually," he
chuckled, "it's a piece of software. Adobe Photoshop. Hell
of a fuckin' program. Do everything except milk your lizard for you."
I
poked him back on track.
"So
the computer will do it?"
"Only
in the hands of a master, my friend, which is where you get lucky on
the second count. You have me," he said expansively. "For"—he
waggled a thick finger—"a nominal price, of course."
"Of
course," I agreed. "What needs to be done?"
"First,
we pick out the best of this crap."
He
took his time as he poked through the collage of prints covering his
worktable, eventually selecting six, piling the rest.
"Then?"
"In
the old days, I'd have had to take the negatives into the darkroom,
adjust the focus and the distance from the camera so they more or
less matched each other, cut the damn negatives by hand, and then
patch them back together. The twist would have come out looking like
Marge Schott that time of the month."
"But
with this software—"
"Now,
I'll just scan the pictures into the hard-drive memory and do all the
editing right on screen."
"And
then we'll have a picture of the girl?"
"No,
then we'll have a composite of the girl."
"But
it will be a likeness."
"All
composites look like Karl Maiden," Carl corrected.
He
sensed I was losing my patience and moved along.
"Then
we run it through the digital enhancer, which smooths out the rough
edges and gives us more or less a finished product."
"More
or less?"
"More
like"—he waggled a hand—"an average of a good likeness.
You've got to understand, Leo, when you digitize something, you tend
to lose the character along with the rough edges. The same process
that keeps everything from looking like Leona Helmsley also takes
some of the human element out of it. My assistant, Mark, says it
makes everybody look retarded. It ain't real nice, but the kid
has a point. What you get is a homogenized version of the image."
Before
I could ask another question, he continued.
"But
we can adjust the picture, pixel by pixel, until we get it right."
"Really?"
"You
just have Warheads tell me what needs to be fixed. More chin, higher
cheekbones, anything. We'll eventually get it right."
Confidentiality
being the cornerstone of my business, I felt a need to put an
immediate stop to Carl's assumptions regarding Marge Sundstrom.
"For
your information, Carl, the woman in those pictures isn't—"
He
cut me off.
"Forget
it, huh, Shamus," he snapped. "It's in the pictures, just
like it was in your face when I started talkin' about her tits. I
just hope you're gettin' some of that, Leo. Be a terrible waste
otherwise."
Before
I could deny all, he began to laugh at me. His laugh, created on the
inhale, honked like a wedge of Canada geese as he reveled in my
discomfort.
"You
better stay the fuck out of poker games, Leo. Just have her make
corrections, and we'll come up with a workable image."
"Like
one of those Identikit pictures the cops use?"
"Better.
Way better. Those Identikit drawings are more like caricatures. The
cops have to show those things to a shitload of people before they
get somebody to make an ID. Lots of the citizens just can't make
the mental leap from the drawing to a real face. We won't have that
problem. We'll end up with a photo, instead of just a fuckin'
drawing."
"How
long and how much?"
"I'll
need the weekend and two hundred."
"Now
and two and a half," I countered. "I want to be up and
running on this by Monday morning," I said.
"Three,"
he shot back. "Don't forget my fifty." "That includes
all the changes we might have to make?" "Fuckin A."
"Deal."
H.R.
McColl did a hell of an impression of cheerful. Thirty-five years of
kissing well-heeled asses had provided the senior partner with an
impenetrable veneer of unctuous affability as slick and stout as any
Willapa Bay oyster.
Just
this side of sixty, he was a tall man. His sharp cheekbones were
framed by a shock of thick white hair, shaved nearly bald on the
sides, worn in a short Marine brush cut on top—all bones and angles
in a dark gray wool suit. The deep purple tie and matching pocket
hankie added a slight contemporary touch to his otherwise
conservative attire.
"Let
me set your concerns to rest, Marge." The resonant basso
profundo held a nearly incantatory assuredness. For punctuation, he
leaned back in the chair, crossing his ankle over his knee, exposing
a well-controlled two inches of light gray sock. Smooth—the patient
parent assuring the frightened child that the bedroom closet was free
of ghosts.
"I
can assure you that we are doing everything humanly possible. I'm
sure you understand. This is not nearly as simple a matter as it
might seem."
"I
don't see why not," Marge shot back. "We are the next of
kin. There's no question about that. At the moment, there's no money
involved. All we want is an accounting for the funds."
I
wondered how long it had been since the senior partner of the august
firm of McColl, Moody and Cole had been called to a meeting at a
client's office on a Saturday afternoon. His easy grace suggested
that this was a service that he regularly provided to his corporate
clients. I knew better. McColl, Moody and Cole specialized in asset
retention. They had so perfected the mechanics of the international
banking system as to make it nearly impossible for any governmental
body to keep track of the considerable sums with which they were
routinely entrusted. They didn't launder money; they had it
dry-cleaned.
From
Carl's, I'd headed home for a shower and a change of clothes. My
appointment to meet Marge at the Sundstrom office wasn't until one
o'clock. After steaming the nicotine out of my skin for a half hour
or so, I dressed in a pair of clean jeans, a burgundy chamois shirt,
and my dress Nikes. I made myself a couple of grilled cheese
sandwiches, washing them down with a Barq's root beer, and was in the
process of rounding up some random clothes to accompany my
Sunday-go-to-meeting outfit to the cleaners when the phone rang. It
was Marge.
"Finally,"
she huffed.
She
seemed to be waiting for either an apology or an explanation. "Are
you there?" she asked finally. "I'm here."
"I've
been trying to get a hold of you since yesterday evening."
"Here I am."
Her
dissatisfaction was palpable.
"We're
still on for this afternoon?" she said finally.
"One
o'clock," I confirmed.
"Howard
McColl will be there."
"The
great man himself?"
"In
the flesh."
"I
figured for sure he'd send a junior partner."
"Don't
think that worm didn't try," she said with obvious satisfaction.
"First he wanted to do lunch. Just the two of us of course.
Then, as soon as he realized that wasn't going to happen, he offered
to send everyone in the firm except the cleaning lady— and himself
of course—until we finally had a little chat regarding retainers.
Speaking of which, I've decided that I'd feel better about our
relationship if I gave you a retainer. How much would—"
"No
thanks," I interrupted quickly.
"If
we're going to have a business relationship—"
I
nipped this one in the bud.
"Because
then, sooner or later, you and I would be having our own little chat
about retainers, and I don't work well that way."
The
phone company was right; you could hear a pin drop.
"One
o'clock, then," she said after another strained silence. "See
you there."
I
dropped the bundle of clothes at the cleaners and tooled down over
the hill, arriving at the Sea Sundstrom offices on Western
Avenue about five minutes early. McColl was already ensconced in the
red leather chair closest to the desk, somehow managing to look
like he'd been born to occupy that particular seat. Patrician
presence, I supposed.
Marge
handled the introductions without rising. McColl stood reluctantly,
brushing my outstretched palm with a limp, dry hand. I dragged a
flowered wing chair across the room, settling for a spot on the other
end of the low polished table that served as a desk. This was the
president's office; the sign on the door said so. It was a woman's
room. Vaguely floral. Decorated with flair and care, functional but
flat-
"Your
rights are not in question, my dear," McColl said. "The
problem lies in the next of kin named by your—"
Something
in Marge's expression produced an instant edit.
"—in
Ms. Stark's next of kin."
"She
named some aunt in Wisconsin," Marge said.
"Who
does not and, as nearly as we are able to ascertain, has never lived
at the address of record. For that matter, we have thus far been
unable to procure even a single document confirming the existence of
this Miss Audrey Danielson, let alone secure a release."
"So
what's the problem then?" I interjected. "No aunt. No
money. No problem."
"Would
that it were that simple, Mr. Waterman."
McColl
pinned me with a pitying glance that suggested that although the
problem was manifestly not simple, I most certainly was.
"I
don't want to hear it, Howard," Marge said. "I don't care
what it takes. Get it done. I want whatever paperwork is necessary to
grant us access to that account ready by Friday."
"I
don't know what this person"—he cast me a disgusted look—"has
been telling you, but it can't possibly be—'"
"Do
it, Howard. If your firm can't manage it, I'll find one who can."
"Marge,"
he started. The concerned parent again.
"Mrs.
Sundstrom," she corrected quickly.
"Of
course. Of course. I forget myself. Excuse me. Believe me, I'm every
bit as upset about our lack of progress as are you."
"Somehow
I don't think so," Marge snapped.
"Listen
to me, please. This is a bureaucratic nightmare. Death
certificates haven't even been issued yet in this county. We'll need
a certificate of qualification, letters testamentary. These things
take time."