All That I Have by Castle Freeman

citizenship, Czech. First arrested, Moscow, 1993. Arrested Vienna, Austria, 1996; again 1998. Grand theft. Arrested Rome, Italy, 2000. Arrested Mexico City, 2002. Fellow’s practically the whole damn UN, ain’t he? Decided to try his luck in the land of opportunity, it looks like. Arrested Dallas, 2002. Narcotics trafficking. Made bail. Took off. Can you believe it? The man jumped his bail. He absconded. Who’d have predicted that, Lucian? I’ll bet that surprised the hell out of them down in Dallas. Be that as it may, Ivan’s now a federal fugitive. Came in here last winter from Montreal on a US passport issued to Oswaldo de Gomez of Los Angeles.”
    “You ran his prints for all that?”
    “We did,” said Dwight. “Didn’t have much else to run, did we, seeing the condition of total, extreme buck nakedness in which the subject was received from your jurisdiction. Ran his prints. Got a hit via FBI. From Interpol. Get that, Lucian? Interpol. Pretty fancy stuff.”
    “What happened to him?”
    “Ivan? Oh, we kicked him right up to Immigration on the border. Fired him right up there, I can tell you. We want nothing to do with fellows like Ivan. You know that. By now he’s on his way back to Moscow.”
    “Okay. I’m much obliged to you, Lieutenant.”
    “What have you got going up there that brings in this kind of critter, Lucian?”
    “I ain’t got nothing going,” I said. “I got to wondering about him, is all. Like you said, it’s quiet up here.”
    “Sure, it is. Sure, you did,” said Dwight. “Is there anything else you need me to tell you, Lucian?”
    “I don’t guess so, Lieutenant,” I said.
    “Is there anything I need you to tell me?”
    “I don’t guess so, Lieutenant.”
    “Alright, then.”

    Clemmie looked at me over the top of the magazine she was reading. “Sean?” she said. “Why do you ask?”
    “This photographer lady thinks he’s beautiful,” I told her. “ ‘Sean’s beautiful,’ she said. You think Sean’s beautiful?”
    “Sean?” said Clemmie. “No. I don’t know. No. He’s . . . I don’t know. He’s kind of cute, I guess. He’s got a nice mouth.”
    “A nice mouth?”
    “Well, yes,” said Clemmie. “Or, no. I don’t know. Why ask me? What’s Sean done now?”
    “I think he broke into a vacation place up in Grenada,” I said. “I don’t know that, but I think he did. Lyle Keen sure thinks he did. Then he — Sean — had a run-in with some fellow who nobody can figure out but who might be connected to the house Sean broke into.”
    “A run-in?” asked Clemmie. “You mean a fight?”
    “Call it that, I guess,” I said. “Kind of one-sided, maybe. Call it half a fight.”
    “Was he hurt?”
    “Not too bad. A little knocked around. Might have had his shoulder dislocated, it looked like. Hard to say; he couldn’t speak English.”
    “Who couldn’t?”
    “The fellow. Russian fellow, he was.”
    “No,” said Clemmie. “Not him. Sean. I meant Sean. Was Sean hurt?”
    “Oh. No. Not Sean. Sean knows how to fight.”
    “He does?”
    “If he don’t, he should. He’s done enough of it, here and there.”
    “I always think of him at the funeral,” said Clemmie. “That sad, sad little boy.”
    “He ain’t a little boy any more.”
    “No,” said Clemmie. “He isn’t. You said a photographic lady. What photographic lady?”
    “Lady up in Mount Zion,” I said. “She’s a photographer. She takes photos. Takes photos of men. Get it? She thinks Sean’s beautiful. He’s her model, or something, it looks like.”
    “What does that mean, her model?”
    “What do you think it means?” I said. “I asked you, though: is she right? Is Sean beautiful?”
    “I couldn’t tell you,” said Clemmie. “He’s not my type.”

7
    THE ISSUE
     
    Right at quitting time Thursday we’d had a call from Emory O’Connor, the real estate fellow in Manchester whose company managed the Russians’ house. One of the owners, or somebody working for the