Read Online Cheating at Solitaire by Jane Haddam - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jane Haddam
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good pictures, the kind of pictures the tabloid press really loved. It bothered him that he would never be able to use them. Las Vegas was a tabloid dream. It was a place where nothing was really real. It was supposed to be that kind of place. It was on purpose. What he felt he himself was by accident,or bad luck, or karma: a facade without anything to back it up. That wasnât exactly accurate. Las Vegas was a facade, but he wasnât even that. He wasâsomething.
Heâd been too cold before. Now he was too hot. There was sweat trickling down the back of his neck. The Las Vegas photographs were fanned out in front of him, and they looked like a movie set. All the people in them were too pretty. He thought he should be happy about his anonymity, at least for the moment. Without it, he would never have been asked to go on that trip, and he would never have gotten those photographs, and he would never have been able to sell that one of the whole group of them together to the Star for $7,500. It was the most money he had ever made for one photograph, and it had ruined his life.
I have not ruined my life, he told himself. Then he got up and went back to the kitchen window. He had a very clear memory of his first day at Colgate, his fatherâs old station wagon pulled up as close as it could get to the door to his dorm, his stuff coming out of the back in boxes. He was not hopeless. He knew enough, just from living on Margaretâs Harbor, to have come in chinos and a polo shirt, and good ones, too. There was still no way to mistake the difference, and not only the difference in cars (that old Ford of his fatherâs, next to the new Volvos everywhere) or in the way the other fathers looked. It was Jack himself who was insuffcient, and he knew it. He lacked that thing these people had, the ability to be really real all the time, to anybody who saw them. It was the same thing people like Marcey Mandret and Arrow Normand had, although they did not have anything else: the ability to be visible. They would not have it for very long, but as long as they had it they would be worth taking pictures of. They were careful, though. Visible people never took up with other visible people if they could help it. It worked out badly.
Jack went back to the table and began to pick up the pictures, one after another, very carefully. In some of them, everyone was smiling. In others, it was obvious that Arrow and Marcey were drunk beyond belief, and so were Steveand Mark. Kendra Rhode always looked upright and cool. All the interiors were too shiny and garishly colored, as if heâd used cheap film, which he never did. He went back to the first picture and looked at it again. There they were, standing in a semicircle, Kendra in the middle, the men on other side of her, Arrow and Marcey on either side of them. Kendra had told him, that night, that none of the women were wearing underwear. Jack had no idea why she would think this was something he would want to know.
He put the pictures back in their envelope. He put the envelope back in the filing cabinet. He closed the cabinet drawer and listened to the click as the lock snapped into place. It wasnât much of a lock. Anybody who was determined could destroy it in a second. It was a good thing that nobody he knew would care enough about anything he had to try to steal it.
He went back to the window one more time. He pressed his forehead against the glass. There really were people out there, more than one, but they must have come on foot. There was no car parked on the road that he could see, and he would have been able to see the headlights. The lights were coming from the beach, and some of them were moving around, like flashlights. He felt so enormously sick he wanted to throw up right there, but he knew he wouldnât. It was part of his pact with the house never to get it certain kinds of dirty. It was part of his pact with life never to ask it for more than simple
Heâd been too cold before. Now he was too hot. There was sweat trickling down the back of his neck. The Las Vegas photographs were fanned out in front of him, and they looked like a movie set. All the people in them were too pretty. He thought he should be happy about his anonymity, at least for the moment. Without it, he would never have been asked to go on that trip, and he would never have gotten those photographs, and he would never have been able to sell that one of the whole group of them together to the Star for $7,500. It was the most money he had ever made for one photograph, and it had ruined his life.
I have not ruined my life, he told himself. Then he got up and went back to the kitchen window. He had a very clear memory of his first day at Colgate, his fatherâs old station wagon pulled up as close as it could get to the door to his dorm, his stuff coming out of the back in boxes. He was not hopeless. He knew enough, just from living on Margaretâs Harbor, to have come in chinos and a polo shirt, and good ones, too. There was still no way to mistake the difference, and not only the difference in cars (that old Ford of his fatherâs, next to the new Volvos everywhere) or in the way the other fathers looked. It was Jack himself who was insuffcient, and he knew it. He lacked that thing these people had, the ability to be really real all the time, to anybody who saw them. It was the same thing people like Marcey Mandret and Arrow Normand had, although they did not have anything else: the ability to be visible. They would not have it for very long, but as long as they had it they would be worth taking pictures of. They were careful, though. Visible people never took up with other visible people if they could help it. It worked out badly.
Jack went back to the table and began to pick up the pictures, one after another, very carefully. In some of them, everyone was smiling. In others, it was obvious that Arrow and Marcey were drunk beyond belief, and so were Steveand Mark. Kendra Rhode always looked upright and cool. All the interiors were too shiny and garishly colored, as if heâd used cheap film, which he never did. He went back to the first picture and looked at it again. There they were, standing in a semicircle, Kendra in the middle, the men on other side of her, Arrow and Marcey on either side of them. Kendra had told him, that night, that none of the women were wearing underwear. Jack had no idea why she would think this was something he would want to know.
He put the pictures back in their envelope. He put the envelope back in the filing cabinet. He closed the cabinet drawer and listened to the click as the lock snapped into place. It wasnât much of a lock. Anybody who was determined could destroy it in a second. It was a good thing that nobody he knew would care enough about anything he had to try to steal it.
He went back to the window one more time. He pressed his forehead against the glass. There really were people out there, more than one, but they must have come on foot. There was no car parked on the road that he could see, and he would have been able to see the headlights. The lights were coming from the beach, and some of them were moving around, like flashlights. He felt so enormously sick he wanted to throw up right there, but he knew he wouldnât. It was part of his pact with the house never to get it certain kinds of dirty. It was part of his pact with life never to ask it for more than simple
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