The little sleep: a novel Read online

  First I’ll check my e-mail. I turn on the computer. The hard drive makes its noises, its crude impersonation of life. The monitor glows, increasing in brightness until the desktop is visible. Same as it was yesterday and the day before. There’s no e-mail. Then I do a quick search for any stories about Brendan Sullivan and Osterville and murder. Nothing comes up.

  Maybe I should call Sullivan’s house. Don’t know if that’s a good idea. Not sure if I’m ready to have my name popping up on police radar screens, if he was in fact murdered. There’s still too much I don’t know, too many questions I couldn’t answer, but the call is the chance I probably have to take at some point. I should call. Call his house now. Might not have been him I saw being taken out of the house. What I saw might not have even happened.

  Screw it. I pick up the phone and dial Jennifer Times instead. Sullivan can wait. The shower can wait. It’ll be good to have things to look forward to.

  One ring. “Hello?”

  “Jennifer, it’s Mark Genevich returning your call.” I’m all business, even if she’s not the client and not in the photos anymore. Let her do the talking. I don’t need her. She called me.

  “Hi, yeah, thanks for calling me back. So, I was thinking we should meet and talk?” Still with statements that are questions. Maybe being forced from the spotlight has left her withered, without confidence. Maybe it’s just my perception. For all I know she’s a confident young woman, an aspiring celebrity, and she’s only reflecting my constant state of insecurity because I want her to. It’s what we all want from our celebrities. We want them to tell us something we don’t know about ourselves when they can’t.

  Suddenly I’m Mr. Popular. I say, “I can do that. You pick the place.” I assume that she doesn’t want to come to my office. Otherwise, she would’ve offered.

  “Can we meet for dinner at Amrheins later tonight? Seven P.M.?”

  Of course. The DA’s pet restaurant. “I can do that too. But make it seven-thirty.” I don’t need the extra half hour. Sure, it’ll give me a safety net, never know when that ever-elusive thief, lost time, might strike, but I said seven-thirty because I want to exert some of my own conscious will upon the situation. For once.

  She says, “Okay.”

  There’s silence. It’s big enough to span the unknown distance between us. I say, “See you tonight, then, Jennifer.” I’m not going to ask why she wants to meet with me or ask her what DA Daddy told her. There’ll be plenty of time for the tough questions later. I’m not going to force this. I don’t need to. I’m not used to the power position. I’ll try not to let it go to my head.

  FIFTEEN

  A constant stream of traffic passes by like schools of fish, the sheer number of vehicles relentless and numbing. I’m standing on East Broadway, only a block from the Broadway Red Line T stop. Seven-thirty has become seven-forty-five. It’s all right. My cigarette is finished. Society always arrives late.

  Amrheins is an Irish restaurant. Has its own parking lot, big enough for fifty-plus cars. The lot itself has to be worth a small fortune in real estate. The restaurant is big. It has three sections. Bar section is the middle, dining areas on the left and right. The right side of the restaurant is elevated. Everything is kept suitably dark for the patrons.

  I check in with the maître d’. He’s a short young guy in a white dress shirt and black pants. The bright ink from his sleeve tattoos is visible through the shirt’s thin cloth, their stories hinted at but hidden. He doesn’t talk, only motions at the elevated section with his head.

  Jennifer is alone, sitting at a table for two tucked away in a corner, as far from the entrance as possible. She sees me and nods. It takes me a dragonfly’s life to limp across the restaurant to our table. She has on a jean jacket, open and rolled up to the elbows. Light blue shirt. Her hair is tied up, off her face, and she wears glasses. The glasses are enough to turn her into Clark Kent and successfully disguise her Superman, but I know it’s her.

  I say, “Sorry I’m late, Jennifer.” I try to think of something witty to explain my lateness, but I figure my hangdog reappearance is enough. My clothes look slept in because they are. I never did take that hot shower. I can’t even keep appointments with myself.

  She says, “That’s okay.” The tablecloth is green. An unlit tea-light candle floats in a glass bowl. The melted wax makes tentacles. It’s a floating inkblot I can’t read, a portent for the evening. Maybe I should just sit my ass down. Jennifer sips from a glass of sparkling water, or maybe soda. A person can get lost trying to figure out all the details.

  The place is half full, or half empty, the point of view hinging on how our meeting fares. I do sit. My back is turned to the rest of the restaurant. I’m not comfortable with my seating. Don’t want my back to Southie because the place is full of goons. One such goon might have red hair, freckles, and a phone in his ear, and he might have a bald buddy. Yeah, it has occurred to me that this dinner could be a setup. I slide my heavy wooden chair loudly toward Jennifer’s side of the table.

  I say, “I like being able to see what I want to see, which is everything.” I’m still fiddling with my chair and position. Jennifer makes a hand gesture and a waiter materializes instantly.

  Jennifer orders mango turkey tips with pineapple salsa, then turns to me and says, “Sorry, but I can’t stay long. He’ll wait while you look at the menu, all right?”

  The waiter nods at me. That’s all I get from the staff. Head movements.

  I suppose I deserve being put on the food spot for being late. I make it easy on everyone and order without looking at the menu. “Shepherd’s pie and a coffee, and make sure my mug is always full.”

  The waiter has his errand, clicks his heels, and returns from whence he came. I say, “So, Ms. Times, here we are.” Not exactly the best opening line, but it’ll have to do, creepy-older-man vibe notwithstanding.

  She says, “I have some questions,” then stops. Her spine is telephone-pole straight. It makes me uncomfortable.

  I say, “I have many answers. Ask me the questions and we’ll see if any of my answers match up.”

  Her hands are on the table and folded over each other. She could be holding a firefly trapped in her hands or a coin she plans to make disappear. She has all her own fingers, no bandages or scars. Not that I expected differently, of course. She says, “I’ve never been to your office, Mr. Genevich. Why did you go to my father’s office and tell him I hired you?” Her delivery is clinical, rehearsed. She must’ve practiced her questions with a mirror or with DA Daddy.

  Doesn’t matter. I tell her. I just flat out tell her everything, the truth along with my mistakes and lies. Can’t have truth without lies. First I give an introduction to my wonderful world of narcolepsy. How it started. How it won’t stop. Then fast-forward to our supposed meeting in my office. Her missing fingers and the hypnogogic hallucination. She’s listening. I’m believing. Believing that if I open up and share my truths, maybe she’ll share hers. It’s the only chance I have of getting anything meaningful out of this meeting. I give her the highlights from the trip to the DA’s minus the photos of her stand-in. She only needs to know I thought she was being blackmailed. Not over what. Finally, I tell her that the real client called me yesterday. I leave out the Cape, red car, and goons. I’m not going to give it all away.

  She says, “Well, I’m glad you’re admitting that I was never in your office.” She unfolds her hands; the firefly is free to go. She reaches for her drink. “But do you know why you hallucinated me into your office?”

  “You and American Star were impossible to avoid around here. Believe me, I tried. The local rags and news stations pumped out daily features and updates.” I stop and Jennifer doesn’t say anything. So I add, “That, and I’m your biggest fan. I never missed a show and called in to vote every night, unless I fell asleep first.”

  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 assume. 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 attitude 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 glasses 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 glass. 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 nobody 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 breasts 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 breasts?”

  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 embarrassing. I’m like a friend admitting some reprehensible bit of behavior that forever warps and taints the relationship. 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 pissed-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 hell 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 glass of wine that doesn’t add any flavor but doesn’t get in the way either.

  Then I decide to get in the way. “Sorry you lost, Jennifer.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Lost. You know, American Star. I thought you got screwed, although you probably gave them too much attitude. Nothing wrong with attitude, but you gotta know, the peoples, they want their stars safe, smiling, and happy. At least until they get bored with them.”

  Oh, she’s angry. It’s all over her face. The emotion looks exterior, not belonging to her. It’s a mask. It’s not real. She’s giving me what she thinks I expect or want. Maybe I’m projecting again. I don’t know anything about this woman, but I did see her on TV surrounded by fans, and we’re all conditioned to believe it’s validation of her goodness, her worth, even if she was the first loser. Jennifer composes herself, takes off the anger mask.

  “Thanks. It’s been a tough few days, but I’ll be fine. My agent says offers are already coming in.”

  Sure they are. More local mall appearances to be followed by national anthems at minor league baseball parks, and it only goes downhill from there. Her brief run as a celebrity was a mask too, or a full-body costume, one she rented instead of owned.

  Seems the both of us are down, so I won’t throw any more kicks her way. Bu
t I will throw her an off-speed pitch. “Did you tell your father you’d be meeting with me tonight?”

  She says, “No.” She doesn’t use a knife, just mashes her fork into a turkey tip, splitting it in half. She’s lying. That’s my assumption until proven otherwise, private detective work as contrapositive.

  I say, “Does your father think I’m making this all up? Does he think I’m dangerous? Should I be expecting him and a warrant at my door soon?”

  Jennifer shrugs and destroys more turkey. “I don’t know. He’ll probably forget about it if he doesn’t hear from you again. He was pretty pissed about your meeting, though.”

  “I have that effect on some people.” A canned line, one that I regret instantly. “Did he tell you that he and my father were childhood friends?”

  Jennifer tilts her head. “No, he didn’t. Is that true?”

  Could be the old man was just too angry to bother with the cozy nostalgia trip. Could be he didn’t tell her for a reason. I say, “As true as eight o’clock.” Not sure what that means, but I go with it. “I don’t get into the DA’s office without the Southie and family-friend bit. They grew up in the Harbor Point projects and palled around. Ask him about it.”

  Jennifer looks at her watch. I’m the appointment that’s supposed to end soon. She says, “I will. Where is your father now?”

  “He died when I was five.”

  “I’m sorry.” She looks at me, puts me under glass, and says, “Tell me what narcolepsy is like.”

  “I can’t tell you. I’m in it all the time. No basis for comparison. I might as well ask you what not having narcolepsy is like. I certainly don’t remember what I felt like before I had it, before the accident.” I stop. She doesn’t say anything. She was supposed to. Some dance partner she is. I can’t follow if she won’t lead.

  I say, “Do you remember what you felt like eight years ago?”

  “No. I guess I don’t.”

  “Neither do I.” I’m getting mad. I shouldn’t. If I could be rational for a moment, I should appreciate her interest in the state of the narcoleptic me. Very few people share this interest.