SIX.

Tim was a landscaper, caretaker, winterizer of summer cottages, and a handyman, and he died on the job. He was in the bas.e.m.e.nt of someone else's summer home, fighting through cobwebs and checking fuses and the sump pump, when he had an explosion in his brain, an aneurysm. I guess us Genevich boys don't have a lot of luck in the brain department.

Three days pa.s.sed and no one found him. He didn't keep an appointment book or anything like that, and he left his car at our house and rode his bike to work that morning, so Ellen had no idea where he was. He was an official missing person. Got his name in the paper, and for a few days everyone knew who Tim Genevich was.

The owners of the cottage found him when they came down to the Cape for Memorial Day weekend. The bas.e.m.e.nt bulkhead was open. Tim was lying facedown on the dirt floor. He had a fuse in his hand. I was five years old, and while I'm told I was at the funeral and wake, I don't remember any of it.

I don't remember much of Tim. Memories of him have faded to the edges, where recollection and wish fulfillment blur, or they have been replaced, co-opted by images from pictures. I hate pictures.

Too much time has pa.s.sed since my own brain-related accident, too many sleeps between. Every time I sleep-doesn't matter how long I'm out-puts more unconscious s.p.a.ce between myself and the events I experienced, because every time I wake up it's a new day. Those fraudulent extra days, weeks, years add up. So while my everyday time shrinks, it also gets longer. I'm Billy Pilgrim and Rip Van Winkle at the same time, and Tim died one hundred years ago.

That said, I do have a recurring dream of my father. He's in our backyard in Osterville. He puts tools back in the shed, then emerges with a hand trowel. Tim was shorter than Ellen, a little bent, and he loved flannel. At least, that's what he looks like in my dreams.

Tim won't let me go in the shed. I'm too young. There are too many tools, too many ways to hurt myself. I need to be protected. He gives me a brown paper bag, grocery-sized, and a pat on the head. He encourages me to sing songs while we walk around the yard picking up dog s.h.i.t. We don't have a dog, but all the neighborhood dogs congregate here. Tim guesses a dog's name every time he picks up some s.h.i.t. The biggest p.o.o.ps apparently come from a dog named Cleo.

The song I always sing, in my dreams and my memories, is "Take Me Out to the Ball Game." Tim then sings it back to me with different lyrics, mixing in his dog names and p.o.o.p and words that rhyme with p.o.o.p. He doesn't say s.h.i.t around the five-year-old me, at least not on purpose. The dream me, the memory me-that kid is the same even if he never really existed, and that kid laughs at the silly improvised song but then sings "Ball Game" correctly, restoring balance and harmony to the universe.

Our two-bedroom bungalow is on a hill and the front yard has a noticeable slant, so we have to stand lopsided to keep from falling. We clean the yard, then we walk behind the shed to the cyclone-fenced area of weeds, tall gra.s.s, and p.r.i.c.ker bushes that gives way to a grove of trees between our property and the next summer home about half a block away. Tim takes the paper bag from me, it's heavy with s.h.i.t, and he dumps it out, same spot every time. He says "Bombs away" or "Natural fertilizer" or something else that's supposed to make a five-year-old boy laugh.

Then we walk to the shed. Tim opens the doors. Inside are the shiny and sharp tools and machines, teeth everywhere, and I want to touch it all, want to feel the bite. He hangs up the trowel and folds the paper bag. We'll reuse both again, next weekend and in the next dream. Tim stands in the doorway and says, "So, kid, whaddaya think?"

Sometimes I ask for a lemonade or ice cream or soda. Sometimes, if I'm aware I'm in the dream again, I ask him questions. He always answers, and I remember the brief conversation after waking up, but that memory lasts only for a little while, an ice cube melting in a drink. Then it's utterly forgotten, crushed under the weight of all those little sleeps to come.

SEVEN.

William "Billy" Times has been the Suffolk County DA for ten years. He's a wildly popular and visible favorite son. All the local news shows are doing spots featuring Billy and his American Star daughter. He hosts now-legendary bimonthly Sunday brunch fund-raisers-the proceeds going to homeless shelters-at a restaurant called Amrheins in South Boston. All the local celebs and politicians show their faces at least once a year at the brunches.

Although I am Tim Genevich's kid, I haven't been on the brunch guest list yet. That said, Tim's name did manage to get me a one-on-one audience with DA Times at his office today. What a pal, that Tim.

I fell asleep in the cab. It cost me an extra twenty bucks in drive-around time. I stayed awake long enough to be eventually dumped at 1 Bulfinch Place. Nice government digs for the DA. Location, location, location. It's between the ugly concrete slabs of Government Center and Haymarket T stop, but a short walk from cobblestones, Faneuil Hall Marketplace, and the two-story granite columns and copper dome of Quincy Market, where you can eat at one of its seventeen overpriced restaurants. It's all very colonial.

Despite naptime, I'm here early when I can't ever be early. Early means being trapped in a waiting room, sitting in plush chairs or couches, anesthetizing Muzak tones washing over me, fluffing my pillow. An embarra.s.singly large selection of inane and soulless entertainment magazines, magazines filled with fraudulent and beautiful people, is the only proffered stimulus. That environment is enough to put a non-narcoleptic in a coma, so I don't stand a chance. I won't be early.

I stalk around the sidewalk and the pigeons hate me. I don't take it personally, thick skin and all that. I dump some more nicotine and caffeine into my bloodstream. The hope is that filling up with leaded will keep all my pistons firing while in the DA's office. Hope is a desperate man's currency.

I call the DA's secretary and tell her I'm outside the building, enjoying a rare March sunlight appearance, and I ask when the DA will be ready for me. Polite as pudding, she says he's ready for me now. Well, all right. A small victory. A coping adjustment actually working is enough to buoy my spirits. I am doing this. This is going to work, and I will solve this case.

But . . .

There's a swarm of ifs, peskier than a cloud of gnats. The ifs: If, as I'm a.s.suming, the DA sent me his daughter and her case, why wouldn't he contact me directly? Again, am I dealing with the ultimate closed-lips case that can't have any of his involvement? If that's right, and I'm supposed to be Mr. Hush Hush, Mr. Not Seen and Not Heard, why am I so easily granted counsel with the public counsel? He certainly seemed eager to meet with me when I called, booking a next-day face-to-face appointment.

There are more ifs, and they're stressing my system. Stress, like time, is a mortal enemy. Stress can be one of my triggers, the grease in the wheel of my more disruptive narcoleptic symptoms. I could use another cigarette or three to choke myself awake, freshen up in the smoke.

I step out of the elevator and walk toward the DA's office. Bright hallways filled with suits of two types: bureaucrats and people carrying guns. The bullets and briefcases in the hallway make me a little edgy.

The DA's waiting area is stark and bright. Modern. Antiseptic. Very we-get-s.h.i.t-done in its decor. Wooden chairs and gla.s.s-topped tables framed in silver metal, and all the window shades are up. No shadows here.

There are two men waiting in the room and they are linebacker big. They wear dark suits and talk on cell phones, the kind that sit inside the cup of your ear. The receiver is literally surrounded by the wearer's flesh; it's almost penetrative. The phones look like blood-swollen robot ticks.

The men are actively not looking at me. Sure, I'm paranoid, but when I enter a room people always look at me. They map out my lopsided features and bushy beard and anachronistic attire. Everyone is my cartographer. I'm not making this up. Even when I display narcoleptic symptoms in public and the cartographers are now truly frightened of me and try not to look, they still look. Furtive glances, stealing and storing final images, completing the map, fodder for their brush-with-unwashed-humanity dinner-party anecdotes. I'm always the punch line.

Instead of the direct path to the secretary's desk, I take the long cut, eyeing the framed citations on the walls, walking past the windows pretending to crane my neck for a better view of Haymarket. Those two guys won't look at me, which means they're here to watch me. I'm already sick of irony.

The secretary says, "Mr. Genevich?"

I've been identified. Tagged.

The two men still don't look up. One guy is shaved bald, though the stubble is thick enough to chew up a razor. The other guy has red hair, cut tight up against his moon-sized brain box. Freckles and craters all over his face. They talk into their phones and listen at alternating intervals like they're speaking to each other, kids with their twenty-first-century can-and-string act.

I say, "That's me." This doesn't bode well for my meeting with the DA. Why does he need Thunder and Thumper to get their eyeful of me?

The secretary says, "The DA is ready for you now." She stays seated behind her desk. She's Ellen's age and wears eye shadow the color of pool-cue chalk. I wonder if she wears clown pants too.

I say, "I guess that's what we'll find out." It feels like the thing to say, but the line lands like a dropped carton of eggs.

His secretary points me past her desk, and I head into an office with an open door. I walk in too fast.

DA William Times sits behind a buffet-style oak desk. The thing spans the width of the room. A twin-engine Cessna could land on top of it. He says, "Mark Genevich. Come on in. Wow, I can't believe it. Tim's kid all grown up. Pleasure to finally meet you." The DA walks out from behind his desk, hand thrust out like a bayonet.

I'm not quite sure of protocol here. How he's supposed to be greeted. What sort of verbal genuflection I'm supposed to give him. I try on, "Thanks for giving me the time, Mr. DA."

DA Times is as big as the two goons in the waiting room. I'm thinking he might've banged out a few hundred push-ups before I came in, just to complete his muscle-beach look. He has on gray slacks and a tight blue dress shirt; both have never seen a wrinkle. His hair is pepper-gray, cut tight and neat. White straight teeth. His whole look screams public opinion and pollsters and handlers. We have so much in common.

We cross the divide of his office and finally shake hands. His grip is a carnival strength test and he rings the bell. He says, "Please, call me Billy, and have a seat."

"Thanks." I don't take off my hat or coat, but I do pull out the manila envelope. I sit. The chair is a soft leather bog, and I sink to a full eye level below the DA and his island-nation desk. I wait as he positions himself. He might need a compa.s.s.

He says, "So, how's Ellen doing?"

He's not going to ask about my face, about what happened to me. He's polite and well mannered and makes me feel even more broken. We can play at the small talk, though. That's fine. Maybe it'll help me get a good foothold before we climb into the uncomfortable stuff. Daddy and his daughter.

I say, "Ellen's fine. She has a good time."

"Do you guys live in Southie again? She still owns that building on the corner of Dorchester and Broadway, right?"

I say, "Yeah, she owns it. I live there, but Ellen part-times Southie now."

"G.o.d, I haven't talked to her in years. I have to have you guys down at the next Sunday brunch. I'd love to chat with her."

I'm not quite sure what to say. I come up with, "That'd be just fine, Billy," real slow, and it sounds as awkward as I feel. I'm flummoxed. I was expecting anger on the DA's part, that he'd go all Hulk, you-wouldn't-like-me-when-I'm-angry, yell-scream-bite-scratch and bring in the goons because I wasn't doing my job, wasn't keeping things quiet by showing up at Jennifer's public appearance and now at his office.

He says, "So what can I help you with, Mark?"

Our meeting is young, the conversation still in we're-all-friends-here mode, but I already know he did not contact me. He did not suggest his daughter contact me. He has no idea why I'm here.

Need to play this straight, no funny stuff, no winks and nods. My winks tend to turn into fully shut eyes. "Not sure if you're aware, Billy, but I'm a private investigator."

The DA is still smiling. "Oh, yeah? How long have you been doing that?"

"Eight years, give or take." I pause because I don't know what to say next.

He jumps right in. "No kidding. I probably have a copy of your license somewhere in this building." He laughs. Is that a threat? A harmless attempt at humor? Humor is never harmless.

Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I'm not ready for this and should've stayed in my apartment behind my desk and forgotten about everything. I'm getting a bad feeling. Not the gut this time. It's more tangible, physical. There's a small hum, a vibration building up, my hands tremble on the envelope a little bit. My system needle is twitching into the red. Danger Will Robinson. It's the same feeling I get before cataplectic attacks.

Cataplexy, like other narcolepsy symptoms, is REM sleep bullying its way into the awake state. Cataplexy is complete and total loss of bodily control. Muscles stop working, I can't even talk, and I melt to the floor, down for the count but not out. I'm not asleep. I'm conscious but can't move and can't speak, paralyzed. Cataplexy is the worst part of my nightmare.

I don't have cataplexy often; the most recent event was that time after Ellen found me asleep in front of a p.o.r.no. She walked into the apartment and I woke up with my pants around my ankles. She wasn't upset or hiding her face or anything like that, she was laughing. She could've walked in and found me playing with the world's cutest kitten and had the same response, which made it worse, made it seem like she was expecting to find me like that. I was so overwhelmingly embarra.s.sed and ashamed, the emotions were a Category-5 hurricane on my system, and cataplexy hit while I was quickly trying to pull up my pants and put everything away. My strings cut and I dropped to the floor, heavier than a dead body, landing on my cheap came-in-a-box coffee table and smashing it, all my stuff still out and about. Ellen shut off the television without commenting upon a scene involving Edward p.e.n.i.shands and three of his most acrobatic female neighbors. She pulled up my underwear and pants, b.u.t.toned my fly, and prepared dinner in the kitchen while I recovered from the attack. Took about twenty minutes to come back completely, to be able to walk into the kitchen under my own power. We ate stir-fry. A little salty but decent, otherwise.

Too much time has pa.s.sed since the DA last spoke, because his vote-for-me smile is gone and he's leaning on his desk. He says, "Did you bring me something? What's in the envelope, Mark?"

Okay, another new strategy, and yeah, I'm making all this up as I go. If this is going to work, I can't let myself think too much. I'm going to read lines, play a part, and maybe it will keep the emotions from sabotage, keep those symptoms on the bench no matter how much the narcoleptic me wants in the game.

I say, "Your daughter, Jennifer, came into my office the other morning and hired me to solve a little problem." My hands sweat on the envelope, leaving wet marks.

The DA straightens and looks around the room briefly. He repeats my line back to me. "Jennifer came into your office with a problem." The line sounds good.

"Yup. Left me this package too. She didn't tell you anything about this?"

The DA holds up his hands. "You have me at a loss, Mark, because this is all news to me."

In concert with our everything-is-happy intro conversation, I think he's telling the truth, which complicates matters. Why would Jennifer not tell her DA daddy about the pictures and then come see me, of all PIs? Was it dumb blind luck that landed her in my office? I don't buy it. She and this case were dropped in my sleeping lap for a reason.

I say, "I came here because I had a.s.sumed you sent her to see me. To have me, a relation of an old family friend, deal with the situation away from prying public eyes."

"Jesus, Mark, just tell me what you're talking about. Is Jennifer in danger? What's going on?"

If he really hasn't sent Jennifer to me, then I've screwed up, big time. It's going to be very difficult to skip-to-my-Lou out of here without showing him the pictures, and I can't say too much, don't want to put any words into Jennifer's mouth. I don't want the case to be taken away from me.

I say, "I've made a mistake. If you didn't send Jennifer to me, I shouldn't be here. Client confidentiality and all that." I stand up. My legs are water-starved tree roots.

The DA stands and darts around his desk to stop me. He moves fast, and I'm no Artful Dodger. He says, "Wait! You can't come in here and drop a bomb about Jennifer and then just leave."

"Tell it to the goons you have waiting for me outside." I say it, even though I know it doesn't add up. One plus one is three.

"What?" He shakes his head, resetting. "Let's start again. Jennifer. What's wrong? You have to tell me if she's in any danger. You know, I can probably help here." He opens his arms, displaying his office, showing off his grand criminal justice empire.

My system-overload feeling is still there. My hands keep up with their tremors, twitching to some hidden beat, and my mouth is dry. This can't happen now. Not now, can't be now.

I say, "Let's sit again, and you can take a look." I have to sit. At least if I have an attack I'll be sitting.

We sit. The chair is a hug and my body reacts accordingly; the tremors cease but crushing fatigue rolls in like a tide. It's undeniable.

New plan. I don't care that I'm breaking client confidentiality. Given the clientele, I doubt word of my etiquette breach will get out and ruin my little business, taint my street cred. I want to see the DA's reaction. I want to know why she'd drop these photos on my desk and not on Daddy's.

I yawn big, showing off the fillings, sucking in all the air. The DA looks at me like I p.i.s.sed in the dinner wine. I shrug and say, "Sorry, it's not you, it's me."

I open the envelope and hand him the two photos. Definitely taking a chance on bringing him the originals. I didn't think to make copies; the negatives are in my desk. Anyway, I want to see what his reaction is to the real photos, not copies.

The DA takes the pictures, looks at them, and sinks into his chair. The pictures are a punch to his stonewall stomach. He loses all his air. I feel a little bad for him. Gotta be tough to have someone else's past walk in the door and drop nudie pictures of your kid in your lap.

He holds up both photos side by side and is careful to hold them so that they cover his face. He sees something.

The DA says, "Who gave you these pictures?"

"I told you. Jennifer. Try to stay with me, here."

"Who sent them to her?"

"I don't know yet. That's the case. I'm good, but I do need a little time to work my mojo." I meant to say magic, but it came out mojo.

He says, "Who else has seen these?"

"No idea." This is a rare occasion where telling the truth is easy as Sunday morning.

"Have you shown them to anyone?"

"No, of course not. What kind of private investigator do you think I am?"

He looks at the photos again, then me. The look is a fist cracking knuckles. He says, "I have no idea what's going on here, Mark, but the woman in these pictures is clearly not Jennifer."

Not the response I was looking for. I squirm in my seat, which is suddenly hot. I'm bacon and someone turned on the griddle. I fight off another yawn and push it down somewhere inside me, but it's still there and will find its way out eventually. I have bigger problems than a yawn. I ask, "What makes you say that?"

"It's not her, Mark." All hint of politics gone from his voice. He's accusing me of something. He's in attack mode, getting ready to lawyer me up. This isn't good.

I say, "It's her. Jennifer was the one who brought me the G.o.dd.a.m.n photos. Why would she need me if the photos aren't of her?" I'm getting mad, which is not the right response here. Shouldn't be ready to throw a tantrum because someone wants to tell me there's no Tooth Fairy.

The DA focuses. I'm his courtroom. He says, "There are physical inconsistencies. Jennifer has a mole on her collarbone, no mole here-"

I interrupt. "That's easy to Photoshop. You should know that."

He holds up a stop hand. "Her hair is all wrong. In the photo there's too much curl to it, and it doesn't look like a wig. That's not Jennifer's smile; the teeth are too big. This woman is smaller and skinnier than Jennifer. There's a resemblance, but it's clearly not Jennifer, Mark. I'm positive."

All right. What next? I say, "Can I have the photos back?" Christ, I'm asking permission. I'm a pathetic Oliver Twist, begging for table sc.r.a.ps.

The DA doesn't give them to me right away, and my insides drop into my shoes. I'm not getting the photos back-or my insides. I couldn't possibly have f.u.c.ked things up any worse if I had a manual and followed the step-by-step instructions on how to screw the pooch.

He does hand the pictures over. I take an eyeful. The hair, her smile, all of it, all wrong. He's right. It's not her. My big mistake is getting bigger. I scratch my beard, then put the photos away. I need an exit strategy.

The DA stands again, walks to his window, then turns toward me, eyebrows arched. Maybe he's really seeing me, the broken man, for the first time. He says, "What are you up to, Mark?"