you do.”
“And they say you aren’t a gentleman.”
“They do?”
Randall looked hypnotized by his computer screen when we got back to his shop.
“I’ve got something, not sure what,” he said to us without looking up. I walked into his work area and looked over his shoulder. A vivid portrait of Iku Kinjo filled the screen.
“You got what I wanted,” I said.
He looked up at me.
“You sure? The skin tone doesn’t look right.”
“Her father was African-American. A soldier.”
“Shoulda known. I got a big dose of that myself. On my mother’s side.”
“And you’re just as pretty, Randall. Give me a half dozen copies.”
In a few minutes we were out of there with a big white envelope stuffed with pictures of Iku. The whole experience made me feel as if the world had surged abruptly into the future without me—caught unawares and preoccupied with the Little Peconic Bay, questioning the point in having any future at all.
“You didn’t actually box with that young man, I hope,” said Amanda as we walked back to the Grand Prix.
“I never fight with techs. Too good at getting even.”
The first two clubs were a bust. Nobody remembered Iku or took any interest in helping advance the cause. It wasn’t worth the effort. They wore indolence as a cloak of pride. It made Amanda a little tense, glancing sideways to gauge my reaction. But I remained circumspect and polite. Pacing myself.
By the time we hit the third place, a dance club called the Playhouse, the early autumn nightlife had gained some traction. The house system was at close-to-full roar and a quorum of happily scrubbed and perfumed young aspirants were executing arrhythmic contortions on the dance floor. The men, anyway. The women moved much more fluidly, their eyes on each other, or the ceiling, or otherwise disengaged from their partners so as not to betray their amusement or horror at the situation they’d put themselves in.
I waited until we were hard up against the bar before showing around Iku’s picture. Safe haven.
“Sorry, man. Haven’t seen her. Friend of yours?” was the usual response.
“Sister.”
After a long string of blank faces, Amanda decided to take over. As if the beauty of the investigator determined the results.
“Oh yeah. My favorite look,” said the second guy she approached. A bartender.
“But did you see her?”
“Oh, yeah. Love the multiracial thing. In a thousand years we’re all gonna look like Halle Berry and Tiger Woods. It’ll be Earth Beautiful. Until some recessive ugly gene takes over and we’ll have to mix it all up again.”
“So you know her.”
“Not really. Campari and soda is all I remember. Always came in with two other women and a guy. I see those three all the time. Live together at a share. All strictly Caucasoid.”
“When was the last time they were here?” I asked.
“Labor Day weekend, I think.”
Amanda stuck her thumb at me.
“Any chance they’ll be here tonight?” I asked.
“Anything can happen, chief,” said the bartender.
“I guess we’re forced to wait here at the bar,” I said to Amanda.
“No sacrifice too great.”
We ordered gin and tonics and took a position where we could watch people coming through the door. We filled the time talking about the houses Amanda was knocking down and rebuilding on Oak Point and around the corner on Jacob’s Neck. I worked for Frank Entwhistle, but occasionally consulted for Amanda. For no charge, unless you counted frequent use of her pickup truck and outdoor shower.
The Playhouse slowly filled to near capacity and the volume finally overwhelmed our ability to converse, neither of us inclined to shout over the noise about Sheetrock crews and building permits. So we settled on watching the pulsing throng on the dance floor and the people standing around and drinking, the couples entangled or ill at ease, the packs of men in baseball hats and baggy pants trying to look nonchalant as they surreptitiously
“And they say you aren’t a gentleman.”
“They do?”
Randall looked hypnotized by his computer screen when we got back to his shop.
“I’ve got something, not sure what,” he said to us without looking up. I walked into his work area and looked over his shoulder. A vivid portrait of Iku Kinjo filled the screen.
“You got what I wanted,” I said.
He looked up at me.
“You sure? The skin tone doesn’t look right.”
“Her father was African-American. A soldier.”
“Shoulda known. I got a big dose of that myself. On my mother’s side.”
“And you’re just as pretty, Randall. Give me a half dozen copies.”
In a few minutes we were out of there with a big white envelope stuffed with pictures of Iku. The whole experience made me feel as if the world had surged abruptly into the future without me—caught unawares and preoccupied with the Little Peconic Bay, questioning the point in having any future at all.
“You didn’t actually box with that young man, I hope,” said Amanda as we walked back to the Grand Prix.
“I never fight with techs. Too good at getting even.”
The first two clubs were a bust. Nobody remembered Iku or took any interest in helping advance the cause. It wasn’t worth the effort. They wore indolence as a cloak of pride. It made Amanda a little tense, glancing sideways to gauge my reaction. But I remained circumspect and polite. Pacing myself.
By the time we hit the third place, a dance club called the Playhouse, the early autumn nightlife had gained some traction. The house system was at close-to-full roar and a quorum of happily scrubbed and perfumed young aspirants were executing arrhythmic contortions on the dance floor. The men, anyway. The women moved much more fluidly, their eyes on each other, or the ceiling, or otherwise disengaged from their partners so as not to betray their amusement or horror at the situation they’d put themselves in.
I waited until we were hard up against the bar before showing around Iku’s picture. Safe haven.
“Sorry, man. Haven’t seen her. Friend of yours?” was the usual response.
“Sister.”
After a long string of blank faces, Amanda decided to take over. As if the beauty of the investigator determined the results.
“Oh yeah. My favorite look,” said the second guy she approached. A bartender.
“But did you see her?”
“Oh, yeah. Love the multiracial thing. In a thousand years we’re all gonna look like Halle Berry and Tiger Woods. It’ll be Earth Beautiful. Until some recessive ugly gene takes over and we’ll have to mix it all up again.”
“So you know her.”
“Not really. Campari and soda is all I remember. Always came in with two other women and a guy. I see those three all the time. Live together at a share. All strictly Caucasoid.”
“When was the last time they were here?” I asked.
“Labor Day weekend, I think.”
Amanda stuck her thumb at me.
“Any chance they’ll be here tonight?” I asked.
“Anything can happen, chief,” said the bartender.
“I guess we’re forced to wait here at the bar,” I said to Amanda.
“No sacrifice too great.”
We ordered gin and tonics and took a position where we could watch people coming through the door. We filled the time talking about the houses Amanda was knocking down and rebuilding on Oak Point and around the corner on Jacob’s Neck. I worked for Frank Entwhistle, but occasionally consulted for Amanda. For no charge, unless you counted frequent use of her pickup truck and outdoor shower.
The Playhouse slowly filled to near capacity and the volume finally overwhelmed our ability to converse, neither of us inclined to shout over the noise about Sheetrock crews and building permits. So we settled on watching the pulsing throng on the dance floor and the people standing around and drinking, the couples entangled or ill at ease, the packs of men in baseball hats and baggy pants trying to look nonchalant as they surreptitiously
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