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."
9
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
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."
9
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
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