haft of deer antler for a handle, and took a swig directly from the bottle.
“Why did you take my picture?” Milgrim asked, unexpectedly bypassing his robot voice and sounding like a completely different person, the one you automatically and immediately arrest.
“I’m obsessive,” she said.
Milgrim blinked, shuddered.
“Basically,” she said, “I collect things. In accordion files, mostly. Pieces of paper. Photographs. Sometimes I put them on the wall, in my office. I have a booking shot of you, from a narcotics arrest in New York, 1997.”
“I wasn’t charged,” Milgrim said.
“No,” she agreed, “you weren’t.” She took a sip of Beck’s. “And I have a copy of your passport photograph, which of course is much more recent. But this morning, following you, I decided I’d be talking to you this afternoon. So I wanted to get a picture of you before I did. In situ, sort of. Actually, though, I really am obsessive about pictures. I’m not sure now whether I decided I’d talk to you this afternoon, first, or whether I just decided to take your picture, which would mean I’d be talking to you this afternoon.” She smiled. “Don’t you want your drink?”
Milgrim looked down at the small can, popped the top, and poured something yellowish and carbonated into a highball glass.
“Let’s sit down,” she said, and settled into a leather club chair. Milgrim took the one opposite her.
“What have I done?”
“I’m not psychic,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
“Well,” she said, “you haven’t filed income tax for about a decade. But maybe you haven’t been earning enough to need to file.”
“I don’t think I have,” Milgrim said.
“But you’re employed now?”
“On a sort of honorarium basis,” Milgrim said, apologetically. “Plus expenses.”
“Some serious expenses,” she said, looking around the honor bar. “By this ad agency, Blue Ant?”
“Not formally, no,” said Milgrim, not liking the way that sounded. “I work for the founder and CEO.” “CEO,” he realized, having said this, had started to sound somehow sleazy.
She nodded, making eye contact again. “You don’t seem to have left much of a trail, Mr. Milgrim. Columbia? Slavic languages? Translation? Some government work?”
“Yes.”
“Zero history, as far as ChoicePoint is concerned. Means you haven’t even had a credit card for ten years. Means no address history. If I had to guess, Mr. Milgrim, I’d say you’ve had a problem with drugs.”
“Well,” said Milgrim, “yes.”
“You don’t look to me like you’ve got a problem with drugs now,” she said.
“I don’t?”
“No. You look like you’ve got a set of reflexes left over from having had a problem with drugs. And like you may have a problem with the company you’re keeping. But that’s what I’m here to talk with you about.”
Milgrim took a sip of whatever was in his glass. Some corrosively bitter Italian lemon soda. His eyes teared.
“Why did you go to Myrtle Beach, Mr. Milgrim? Did you know the man you met with there?”
“His pants.”
“His pants?”
“I made tracings,” Milgrim said. “I photographed them. He was paid for that.”
“Do you know how much?”
“No,” said Milgrim. “Thousands.” He made a thumb-and-forefinger gesture unconsciously indicating a certain thickness of hundred-dollar bills. “Say ten, tops?”
“And were they Department of Defense property, these pants?” she asked, looking at him very directly.
“I hope not,” Milgrim said, out of a deep and sudden misery.
She took a longer swallow of her beer. Continued to look at him that way. Someone chuckled in one of the honor bar’s adjoining rooms, from behind drawn French doors of that same red mahogany. The chuckle seemed to match the decor.
“I can tell you they weren’t,” she said.
Milgrim swallowed, painfully hard. “They weren’t?”
“But they’d like to be. That could be a problem. Tell me about the man who let
“Why did you take my picture?” Milgrim asked, unexpectedly bypassing his robot voice and sounding like a completely different person, the one you automatically and immediately arrest.
“I’m obsessive,” she said.
Milgrim blinked, shuddered.
“Basically,” she said, “I collect things. In accordion files, mostly. Pieces of paper. Photographs. Sometimes I put them on the wall, in my office. I have a booking shot of you, from a narcotics arrest in New York, 1997.”
“I wasn’t charged,” Milgrim said.
“No,” she agreed, “you weren’t.” She took a sip of Beck’s. “And I have a copy of your passport photograph, which of course is much more recent. But this morning, following you, I decided I’d be talking to you this afternoon. So I wanted to get a picture of you before I did. In situ, sort of. Actually, though, I really am obsessive about pictures. I’m not sure now whether I decided I’d talk to you this afternoon, first, or whether I just decided to take your picture, which would mean I’d be talking to you this afternoon.” She smiled. “Don’t you want your drink?”
Milgrim looked down at the small can, popped the top, and poured something yellowish and carbonated into a highball glass.
“Let’s sit down,” she said, and settled into a leather club chair. Milgrim took the one opposite her.
“What have I done?”
“I’m not psychic,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
“Well,” she said, “you haven’t filed income tax for about a decade. But maybe you haven’t been earning enough to need to file.”
“I don’t think I have,” Milgrim said.
“But you’re employed now?”
“On a sort of honorarium basis,” Milgrim said, apologetically. “Plus expenses.”
“Some serious expenses,” she said, looking around the honor bar. “By this ad agency, Blue Ant?”
“Not formally, no,” said Milgrim, not liking the way that sounded. “I work for the founder and CEO.” “CEO,” he realized, having said this, had started to sound somehow sleazy.
She nodded, making eye contact again. “You don’t seem to have left much of a trail, Mr. Milgrim. Columbia? Slavic languages? Translation? Some government work?”
“Yes.”
“Zero history, as far as ChoicePoint is concerned. Means you haven’t even had a credit card for ten years. Means no address history. If I had to guess, Mr. Milgrim, I’d say you’ve had a problem with drugs.”
“Well,” said Milgrim, “yes.”
“You don’t look to me like you’ve got a problem with drugs now,” she said.
“I don’t?”
“No. You look like you’ve got a set of reflexes left over from having had a problem with drugs. And like you may have a problem with the company you’re keeping. But that’s what I’m here to talk with you about.”
Milgrim took a sip of whatever was in his glass. Some corrosively bitter Italian lemon soda. His eyes teared.
“Why did you go to Myrtle Beach, Mr. Milgrim? Did you know the man you met with there?”
“His pants.”
“His pants?”
“I made tracings,” Milgrim said. “I photographed them. He was paid for that.”
“Do you know how much?”
“No,” said Milgrim. “Thousands.” He made a thumb-and-forefinger gesture unconsciously indicating a certain thickness of hundred-dollar bills. “Say ten, tops?”
“And were they Department of Defense property, these pants?” she asked, looking at him very directly.
“I hope not,” Milgrim said, out of a deep and sudden misery.
She took a longer swallow of her beer. Continued to look at him that way. Someone chuckled in one of the honor bar’s adjoining rooms, from behind drawn French doors of that same red mahogany. The chuckle seemed to match the decor.
“I can tell you they weren’t,” she said.
Milgrim swallowed, painfully hard. “They weren’t?”
“But they’d like to be. That could be a problem. Tell me about the man who let
Similar Books
