Blood Relations by Barbara Parker

it. We’re still friends. In fact, you should meet her.” Just in time, Sullivan stopped himself from mentioning Claudia’s party at La Voile Rouge on Friday. He wouldn’t mind taking this kid to La Voile Rouge, but not without a haircut and some manners.
    “Tell you what. Come over to the Colony Hotel tonight.
    My agency is throwing a party. Free champagne. Meet the folks.”
    He could see the emotions flitting across the kid’s face.
    “I don’t know these people. I can’t, like, just walk in.”
    “You know me.” Sullivan spoke softly into his ear.
    “Listen, Tommy. It doesn’t matter who you are if you know the right people. Yes, it’s a spurious sort of existence, I grant you, but what other kind is there, when you really think about it?”
    “I guess.” Tommy was a little dazed. The cream of American youth. At that moment Sullivan wanted to backhand him.
    Then he played with the idea of suggesting that Tommy come by his flat first. They could go to the hotel together, wouldn’t that be easier? Of course he would say yes. The kid was smiling already, thinking of how to impress all those cool people.
    A chill passed over Sullivan’s neck as if a blast of air conditioning had rolled out the door of the restaurant onto the sidewalk. He pulled away from Tommy and crossed his arms. The melancholy was settling down like a cold, wet dog on his chest.
    Tommy said, “What am I supposed to do? Like, wait for you outside the bar, or what? Hey, are they going to card me? I could get a fake ID.”
    For several seconds, Sullivan looked at him, unbearably weary. “You know, you really should clean yourself up.
    It’s disgusting. You chew with your mouth open and you have the vocabulary of a twelve-year-old.”
    Confused, Tommy said, “Hey.”
    “Yeah. Hey. Like, why don’t you shove off? Go play with your Kodak.”
    After a second, the kid pushed away from the table.
    “Fuck you, man. You’re crazy.”
    Sullivan watched him through the crowd of pedestrians on the sidewalk, his long, black hair gleaming on his bare shoulders, bouncing with each step. Nice shoulders.
    Too bad.
    He noticed a man at the next table looking at him from behind sunglasses with shiny silver lenses.
    Sullivan stared coldly into them for a minute, then turned his chair, closed his eyes, and let the sun pour down on his face.

CHAPTER six
    Leaning back with his cowboy boots propped on the edge of the table, Frank Tolin heard the elevator whine to a stop. Then a muffled ding. He went back to the peach yogurt he’d found in Caitlin’s refrigerator.
    It was quiet here, five floors above the traffic on Collins Avenue. The studio was on the southeast corner of what used to be a stockbroker’s office. Light streamed in through the blinds onto an empty expanse of concrete where the carpet had been peeled up. There were lamps on tripods, props and colored backdrops, and a wall of shelves filled with photographic equipment and storage boxes. She had a small darkroom, a kitchenette, and a daybed. Frank’s money had paid for it. Caidin tended to forget that fact.
    Taking another spoonful of yogurt, he kept his eyes on the door. A few minutes ago, he’d been gazing out the window to pass the time and had noticed Caitlin talking to Marty Cassie down on Lincoln Road. Twenty years as a trial attorney had taught Frank about body language.
    Now he was wondering whether it had been wise of him to ask Marty to give Caitlin that job. Marty was probably trying to stiff her. He was getting to be a pain in the ass.
    Keys jangled at the lock. Frank blotted his mustache on a napkin and set the yogurt aside.
    She came in and turned to fasten the deadbolt. A camera swung from her shoulder. She was wearing shorts, and her legs were tanned from the sun. Her streaky blond hair was under a cap, a ponytail sticking out the back.
    When she turned around she saw him and jumped.
    He smiled at her over the tooled leather toes of his boots. “Boo!”
    “Daminit,