only posed pictures we’ll take. Of the bride and groom. This is your story, the bride’s and groom’s. That’s why I don’t want any posed shots of the best man or the maid of honor. Who needs them? This is your story. That’s what it’ll say on the cover of the album. ‘Our Wedding Day.’ Not the best man’s wedding day, but the groom’s. Not the maid of honor’s, but the bride’s. And all I want here in the studio with the good lights is one perfect picture of the lovely bride, God bless her, and one perfect picture of the handsome groom, and one of you together. And that’s all. And then we go off to the reception. But is that the end of Jody Lewis? Not by a long shot. Not by a closeup, either. I’ll be with you every minute of the way, taking pictures of you when you least expect it. Click, click, click goes my shutter. A candid record of your wedding day. Right to the hotel, right to a shot of Tommy carrying you over the threshold, and you putting your shoes in the hallway. And then back to develop and print, so that when you return from your lovely honeymoon, you’ll have this candid album titled ‘Our Wedding Day’ as a keepsake forever, as a memento of events you might otherwise forget. Who can remember all the little things that have happened or are going to happen today? Nobody has a memory like that except a camera. And I am a camera! Me, Jody Lewis, from the play and movie of the same name. Now sit right here, little ones. The two of you together. That’s it. Look as if you love each other, I’m joking, God only knows you’re crazy in love with each other, that’s it, smile a little, Tommy, my God, don’t look so serious, the girl loves you. That’s better. Take his hand, Angela. That’s the girl, now look over there, not at the camera, over there where the picture’s hanging on the wall, that’s it, hold it, click! That’s going to be beautiful Now turn a little on the seat, Tommy, that’s it, and put your arms around her waist, oh she’s nice to hold, my friend, that’s it, don’t blush, you’re married now, that’s it, now hold it, hold it…”
“How do you feel, Teddy?” Carella asked.
Gently, Teddy touched the mound that began just below her breasts. Then she rolled her eyes heavenward and pulled a weary face.
“It’ll be over soon,” he said. “Is there anything you want? A glass of water or something?”
Teddy shook her head.
“Massage your back?”
She shook her head again.
“Know I love you?”
Teddy grinned and squeezed his hand.
The woman who answered the door at the private house in Riverhead was in her late fifties and didn’t care. She wore a wrinkled housedress and scuffed house-slippers. Her hair hung limply on her head, as if it had followed its owner’s directive and given up the struggle.
“What do you want?” she said. She pierced Meyer and O’Brien with eyes chipped from green agate.
“We’re looking for a man named Marty Sokolin,” Meyer said patiently. “Does he live here?”
“Yes, and who the hell are you?”
Patiently, Meyer took out his wallet and opened it to where his shield was pinned to the leather. “Police department,” he said.
The woman looked at the shield. “All right, Mr. Detective,” she said. “What did Sokolin do?”
“Nothing. We just want to ask him a few questions.”
“What about?”
“About what he might be planning to do.”
“He ain’t here,” the woman said.
“And what is your name, madam?” Meyer asked patiently. If there was one attribute Meyer possessed, it was extreme patience. An Orthodox Jew born in a predominantly Gentile neighborhood, he’d been further handicapped by the vagaries of a whimsical father who thought it would be a good joke to give his son a double-barreled moniker. The family surname was Meyer. And old Max Meyer decided to name his change-of-life offspring Meyer Meyer, just to get even with the powers that dictated offseason births. The joke was played. It
“How do you feel, Teddy?” Carella asked.
Gently, Teddy touched the mound that began just below her breasts. Then she rolled her eyes heavenward and pulled a weary face.
“It’ll be over soon,” he said. “Is there anything you want? A glass of water or something?”
Teddy shook her head.
“Massage your back?”
She shook her head again.
“Know I love you?”
Teddy grinned and squeezed his hand.
The woman who answered the door at the private house in Riverhead was in her late fifties and didn’t care. She wore a wrinkled housedress and scuffed house-slippers. Her hair hung limply on her head, as if it had followed its owner’s directive and given up the struggle.
“What do you want?” she said. She pierced Meyer and O’Brien with eyes chipped from green agate.
“We’re looking for a man named Marty Sokolin,” Meyer said patiently. “Does he live here?”
“Yes, and who the hell are you?”
Patiently, Meyer took out his wallet and opened it to where his shield was pinned to the leather. “Police department,” he said.
The woman looked at the shield. “All right, Mr. Detective,” she said. “What did Sokolin do?”
“Nothing. We just want to ask him a few questions.”
“What about?”
“About what he might be planning to do.”
“He ain’t here,” the woman said.
“And what is your name, madam?” Meyer asked patiently. If there was one attribute Meyer possessed, it was extreme patience. An Orthodox Jew born in a predominantly Gentile neighborhood, he’d been further handicapped by the vagaries of a whimsical father who thought it would be a good joke to give his son a double-barreled moniker. The family surname was Meyer. And old Max Meyer decided to name his change-of-life offspring Meyer Meyer, just to get even with the powers that dictated offseason births. The joke was played. It
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