The Fall

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  “Whatcha got there?” Coming in without knocking, Haskel startled him.

  Minorini shoved the parade site pictures back in the envelope. He handed the rest to Haskel, who looked at them and asked, “You planning a career change?”

  “No, why?”

  “These look like the things actors hand around. Why are they all black and white?”

  Minorini had wondered that himself.

  Haskel returned the pictures. “You got a great second career in front of you.”

  The guy in the photography section who’d put him onto Lessing’s magazine spread had a number of things to say about the photos, mostly technical, in a tone that sounded envious. The first was “Joanne Lessing,” even before he turned the pictures over to read the copyright notice on the backs.

  “How the hell do you rate?”

  Thirteen

  Stalking the wild judge, Joanne thought. It sounded like Stalking the Wild Asparagus, whose odd title stuck in her head though she’d never read the book. She gathered that his honor had agreed to an interview for political reasons and couldn’t refuse to sit for a portrait to accompany it, but he wasn’t really cooperating. Rick had made the appointment with the judge for Tuesday, but he told Joanne to take as long as she needed. “If you can get a decent shot,” he told her, “we can get more of these assignments.” Accordingly, Joanne had asked the reporter who’d done the interview for background information, and was at the Daley Center at 8:30 Monday morning.

  They wouldn’t let her in with her cameras. When she protested that she had an appointment, the cop on metal-detector duty called upstairs to confirm it and told her, “Tomorrow, lady. Your appointment’s tomorrow.” When it was obvious he wasn’t going to budge, she took the cameras back to her car and locked them in the trunk. On her way back, she stopped in a drugstore and bought a FunSaver. By three P.M., Joanne had a roll of underexposed shots of the judge and his court, and an idea of the man and his schedule.

  Tuesday morning, she had her camera set up on a tripod in the Daley Center Plaza to catch the judge as he passed the Picasso on his way to work. A strategically thrown donut got the resident pigeons aloft at the precise moment his honor passed, Starbucks coffee in hand. The sudden flight startled him, and Joanne caught her elusive quarry looking interested. If he realized he was the object of a photographer, he gave no sign. Once he was safely inside the center, Joanne packed up her equipment and followed.

  This time the cops let her in, and she went directly to the judge’s court room. Instead of her Canon, she’d brought the Hasselblad, though she hadn’t used it enough lately to be entirely comfortable with it. But she knew the best pictures would be candids. After loading her Nikon with fast film, she checked the light level. Cameras were forbidden in court, so she set it carefully atop the rail separating the court from spectators and attached the remote. After focusing on the bench with a depth of field wide enough to catch whatever the judge did there, she camouflaged the camera with her coat and waited for the court to come to order.

  By the time the judge announced recess for lunch, she had exposed almost the whole roll of film.

  The appointment for the judge’s portrait was from 1.00 to 1:30 P.M. in his chambers. It took five minutes to set up the Hasselblad and lights, during which time the judge drummed on his desk with the eraser end of an unsharpened pencil. “Could I have a smile, your honor?” she asked, when she was ready.

  He made a face suggestive of intestinal discomfort. Joanne snapped the picture, then captured his satisfied smile as he thought he’d sabotaged her shot. A third shot caught his surprise at being caught smiling. Before he had a chance to think about her tactics, she handed him the 4x6 prints of yesterday’s shoot and caught his initial reaction to them.

  “How…?”

  “They’re just test shots,” she reassured him. “So I wouldn’t waste any time today.” He seemed mollified when she added, “None of them turned out well enough for the feature.” She asked him to look left and right and recorded his unenthusiastic compliance. She asked him about the family pictures on his desk, and about his feeling for the law, and recorded pride, affection and respect. At 1:28, she folded up the tripods, dropped her flash into the camera case, and offered her hand to the judge. “Thank you for your time and cooperation, your honor.” He hesitated briefly, then shook with her. “I’d like to take a few more shots around the building,” she added. “I should have the proofs for you by the end of the week.”

  Out in the hall, she reloaded the Nikon with fast black-and-white film and changed to the 200-mm lens. She wasn’t sure what made her look out the window at the street below—maybe her hunter’s instincts—but when she did, she instantly recognized the older of the two men strolling across the Daley Center Plaza to a waiting limousine. It was the hit-and-run driver; she was sure—dark eyes under saturnine brows, prominent nose, and thin-lipped mouth set in an angry line. He appeared to be about sixty, but he held himself erect and looked fit. Neither age nor easy living had softened him or diminished his vigilance as he scanned the surrounding street and sidewalks.

  But he never looked up.

  Fourteen

  Joanne found Paul Minorini waiting in front of the Goss building. He followed her inside and up in the Gothic elevator. In the office, she felt the familiar sensation of home that made even the deserted entryway seem comforting. She hung her coat on one of the pegs along the left wall and stopped at May’s counter to sort through her exposed film. She held up two rolls. “This,” she said of the first, “you’ll probably want your lab to develop. Color.” She handed it to him and held the other up. “I could develop this now, if you’ve got time. I’d prefer to, so I can see how I did. I assume once you take possession, I won’t see the pictures unless it goes to court.”

  He nodded. “Go ahead—I’ve got all night.” He took off his coat and hung it next to hers. When he put the color roll in an inside suit pocket, she got a glimpse of steel and leather. His gun.

  He was a Federal agent. Of course he carried a gun.

  She said, “Make yourself at home.”

  She sorted through the film of the judge, scribbling “J” and the roll and job numbers for each before dropping it in an envelope for developing. Minorini—Paul, as she was starting to think of him—watched without showing impatience.

  When she’d put the negatives in the dryer, she wandered out to report that they looked good. “As soon as they’re dry I’ll print up a proof sheet, and we can see for sure.”

  “How long’ll that take?”

  “Twenty minutes.”

  “I took the liberty of making a reservation for dinner. I owe you that much at least.”

  A reservation!

  “I’ll have to let my son know.”

  He wandered through Hancock’s open office door while she was dialing. Sean wasn’t home, so she left a message on the machine, then went after Paul.

  “Hancock’s office,” she told him.

  “The Hancock?”

  “Yes.”

  Suddenly he said, “Jesus!” He was staring at the poster-sized blowup of an internationally famous face, hideous in its absolute rage.

  “Hancock calls it ‘Kabuki,’” she said dryly. “I think ‘Hancock as Kali’ would be more appropriate.”

  He nodded. Either he was familiar with the goddess of destruction or he was good at covering his ignorance. How odd to think of an FBI agent familiar with Hindu mythology. He said, “He ever sell these?”

  “Sometimes. When he can get his subject to sign a release.”

  “Did she?”

  Joanne grinned. “What do you think?”

  “Doesn’t like women much, does he?”

  “Not that woman.” She closed the door and pointed to another portrait behind it, a loving, very flattering portrait of herself.

  Fifteen

  As Minorini looked over the glossy black-and-white prints, the adrenaline high made him dizzy.

  Joanne pointed
to one of the head shots. “That’s him,” she said. No question about who she meant, and there was absolute certainty in her voice.

  He didn’t recognize the man she pointed out. He hated that he’d have to wait until morning to follow through on an ID, but he had promised her dinner. And he was reluctant to part company, though proximity—considering his growing attraction—crackled with danger.

  Except for a bit of fuzz here and there—from dirt on the Daley Center windows—the photos were clear enough to show the license-plate numbers on the two cars. They were amazing, and he said so. The compliment made her blush, and he had to squelch his own arousal.

  “Can you blow up some of these?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  He pointed out which details he wanted, then grabbed the phone to call and have the plates run while she worked. He had names by the time she came out to say the enlargements were in the dryer. One of the cars belonged to a small time member of the Chicago outfit. The other owner, Maria Dossi, was a cipher. No matter. They’d get to the bottom of things eventually.

  And in the meantime, he deserved the rest of the evening off.

  Sixteen

  The restaurant had a real maître d’, who greeted the FBI agent by name and seated them at a good table. When he’d gone away with their wine order, Joanne resisted the urge to ask Minorini about his more interesting cases and said, instead, “How did your family react to your becoming a G-man?”

  “I was born to be either a cop or a mobster.” She raised her eyebrows. “I grew up in a very tough neighborhood. It’s probably just luck I’m not Paul ‘the Minnow’ Minorini.”

  “Was that your nickname in school?”

  “Grade school.” She waited. “In high school, they called me ‘Barracuda.’”

  “Why?”

  “Because I devoured the first guy who called me ‘Minnow.’”

  She couldn’t help the smile. Whatever he’d been in high school, he seemed to have become a nice man. And well educated. He’d said “devoured,” not demolished.

  He smiled slightly, sending a pleasant shiver through her. “What did they call you in high school?”

  She wasn’t imagining it. He was interested. “Jo,” she said. “I’ve always been Jo.”

  “Where did you learn to use a camera?” he asked.

  “From a very nice man in California.”

  “A lover?”

  “No. I was too burned, and he was too eager. He scared me, he was so eager. I wasn’t ready.”

  “What happened?”

  “I didn’t know how to break it off but I couldn’t…Eventually, he got frustrated and stopped calling.”

  He pointed at the menu. “Have anything you like—it’s on the Fed. Escargot?”

  “Thanks, but I don’t eat anything I can’t spell.”

  “Lobster?”

  “Is that spelled c-r-u-e-l?”

  He shook his head and said, “No veal.” He didn’t seem offended. She shrugged apologetically, lifting her eyebrows. “You’re a vegetarian.” He wasn’t asking, not after the corned beef last time.

  “Nothing so radical.”

  The waiter came with a bottle and Joanne watched him and Paul perform the opening ritual. The wine was excellent. Her surprise must have showed because Paul looked amused but pleased.

  “Do they teach you to be wine connoisseurs at FBI school?”

  “Also not to wipe our noses on our sleeves.” He pointed to the array of silver flanking their plates. “And which fork to use. How did you get into photography?”

  “‘I started out as a child,’” she said, quoting Bill Cosby. He ignored her attempt at humor, or he wasn’t familiar with the reference. He waited. She wondered if this was how he got his suspects to confess. She started again, filling the silence.

  “I didn’t date much in school. I was shy. Howie—my ex-husband—took advantage of that to convince me he was saving me from life as an old maid. He used to ‘let’ me type his papers and, sometimes, do his research. Before I took up photography, I didn’t appreciate my talents. I was like most people, I guess. What was easy for me seemed like no great thing. I’ve always been pretty good at spelling and grammar, but Howie used to accuse me of pretending to be better than he when I corrected his papers without being asked. That would have never occurred to me.”

  “Some guys just don’t get it.”

  “When I was a kid I used to wish I had some magic that would preserve everything—you know—special moments, favorite people I didn’t often see.” She realized how inadequate that was as an explanation and tried again. “I wanted to save the specialness or the newness—like my bike, before it was all scratched up, or tiny baby kittens—things that don’t last forever. And everyday things, like my Dad’s overalls hanging by the back door, with his gloves and all his regular tools sticking out of the pockets.”

  Paul nodded as if he understood.

  “Then I discovered photography. It was magic, an ordinary sort but, in a sense, what I’d always been looking for. Once I started peering at the world through the lens of a camera, everything looked different. Howie seemed so much smaller, I could scarcely see him sometimes. And I stopped listening to his lies.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Six years.” He waited; she went on. “I was living in California.” As she said it, it sounded to her like once upon a time, or long ago, in a galaxy far away. “I was still married. Sort of. Getting therapy—that’s what you do in California when your marriage goes sort of.”

  Paul made a gesture that reminded her of someone lighting a cigarette, and she said, “Do you smoke?”

  “I quit. Go on.”

  “Good for you. Where was I?”

  “Sort of married in California.”

  “My therapist suggested that I take up a hobby. Something I could do for me. Or something I could do not for Howie. I saw this photography course being offered—it was one of the few things Howie hadn’t gotten into—so I took it.”

  “And discovered you had talent?”

  “I was told I had talent. Even now I sometimes have to look at what I’ve done to believe it.”

  “I take it Howie wasn’t supportive?”

  “Howie’s one of those people who tries something and becomes an instant expert. He reads a book on the subject—usually by the foremost authority—then knows everything about it. While we were married he took up hang gliding, investing, scuba diving, water skiing, running and sailing and racquet ball. Oh, yeah, and wine. He must’ve spent five thousand dollars trying to become a wine snob. He still can’t tell cabernet from Chianti.

  “Anyway, after I’d been at it a while, I spent two days sneaking up on a condor, calculating the best angle and the perfect exposure. I caught it in mid-flight. Howie’s comment was ‘it isn’t centered.’” She laughed. “That was the first picture I ever sold. A conservation group bought it to put in one of their calendars.”

  “What did Howie say to that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he’s never found out. After he made that comment, I realized I’d never please him so I might as well please myself. I got a lawyer the next day.”

  “Why did you move here?”

  She shrugged. “My brothers live in Gurnee and Oak Park. Northbrook’s sort of in between. The clincher was that my best friend’s husband was transferred to Chicago, and they moved to Glenview. What about you? Do you have a family?”

  He seemed to be thinking about whether to answer that while he signaled the waiter. He let the question float between them until the man had come and gone with their orders. Then he said, “A sister who lives in New York.”

  A sister. No wife?

  He added, “No wife or kids.”

  “Ever married?”

  “Once. Once upon a time.” Joanne waited. “She made it me or the job.”

  The statement fell between them, and silence glassed over the distance it put between them.

  The waiter ended the awkw
ard pause with more wine.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked when the waiter had left with their dessert order.

  “Heart of Darkness.”

  “The Conrad story?” She thought, odd subject.

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s the perfect metaphor for certain jobs.”

  She waited. When he didn’t elaborate, she said, “Yours?”

  He took another sip of his wine and ignored the question.

  She pressed. “What made you think of it?”

  “Going after corruption can be very corrupting.” He looked at his glass, as if it represented what he meant. Then he seemed to realize how much he’d revealed of himself because he changed the subject abruptly. “I didn’t like the movie. Did you see it?”

  “Apocalypse Now?” she asked, not sure how she knew he was referring to that particular version of Conrad’s tale. He nodded. “What didn’t you like about it?”

  “I don’t think Coppola understood the purpose of the frame. If you don’t establish your witness’s credibility,” he went on, “his whole testimony becomes meaningless.”

  She wondered if he was saying something about what was going on between them, or about his job, or if he was simply expounding a favorite theory. She said, “Maybe that’s what he intended. It was a meaningless war.”

  He shrugged. “How much did the film cost to make? A pretty major expense to restate the obvious.”

  Much later, when Paul pulled his car onto her street, she was feeling aglow from the wine and the camaraderie, and his sheer, glorious masculinity.

  He put the gearshift in park and turned off the engine. He didn’t seem in any hurry to escort her to the door.

  In her earlier life, she would’ve waited for him to make a move, fearful of encroaching on his male prerogative. Tonight emboldened by the wine and lust, she shifted closer on the seat. She could tell he was aroused. His breath was faster, and when she pushed against him, he pulled back—as if he didn’t want her aware of the hard evidence. She said, “You said you weren’t married.”