Melancholy Baby

35

Under the heading of no hard feelings, I had lunch with Lewis Karp, at a coffee shop on Washington Street in Brighton. Lewis looked around a bit nervously when he came in, and didn’t see Spike, and seemed to relax. He ordered a cheeseburger. I had tuna salad on whole wheat. We both had coffee.

“So, you talk to Ike Rosen?” Karp said.

The continuing absence of Spike seemed to make him positively expansive.

“I did.”

“He’s a great guy, isn’t he?”

“A very friendly person,” I said.

“So, did he help you out?”

“Yes. He sent me to a lawyer named Peter Franklin,” I said.

“And?”

I took an eight-by-ten blowup out of my big shoulder bag and handed it to Karp. He studied it, making a considerable show of frowning and turning the picture for a different angle.

“I think that might be him,” Karp said. “You got any other shots?”

I took several more out of my bag and placed them side by side on the table. Karp looked some more. Frowning, squinting, sitting back, cocking his head. He did everything with the pictures but taste them. I was quiet, enjoying the show.

Finally he said, “Yeah. That’s him.”

“You’re sure?” I said. “Would you like more time?”

My humor was lost on him.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m sure.”

“He’s the man who came to see you and asked that you find someone to intimidate Sarah and then me?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’m not, of course, saying any of this in court. But it’s him.”

He frowned suddenly.

“Hey,” he said. “You’re not wired, are you?”

“Now you ask,” I said. “But no. I’m not.”

“How do I know?”

“Because I just told you,” I said. “And you trust me completely.”

“Well, I... oh, fuck,” he said, and took a bite of his cheeseburger.

“Did Mr. Franklin say anything about why he wanted you to intimidate us?”

Karp chewed on his cheeseburger a minute and swallowed, and washed it down with a little coffee.

“Just showed me the cash,” he said.

“What better reason,” I said.

He nodded. His cheeseburger was gone.

“If there’s nothing else,” he said. “I gotta run.”

“There’s nothing else,” I said.

“You got the check this time?” he said.

“This time,” I said.

“Thanks, nice talking to you,” he said.

He finished his coffee in a long swallow and put the cup down. He stood.

“Thanks for lunch,” he said.

I smiled. He headed for the door. I picked up the uneaten half of my tuna sandwich and took a bite. Crime fighting was hungry business.