Page 119 of Two Marlboros

“Well,” he replied, “you’ll have to have one goal in mind: to prove to Church that you’re not an idiot. Is that enough?”

I laughed with gusto, and it was enough to reduce the tension I felt in my body.

“It can be a start.”

We stopped at a traffic light, and I continued scrolling through the file I held on to my lap.

“Does it say anything interesting in there?”

“William Clide...” I began to read, jumping here and there, “native of Maine, rising star at seventeen...revelation of the year 1991, a dog named Arrow...and clean criminal record.”

“It won’t be long before the first scandal, then.”

We set off again and I felt the anxiety gradually descend. Ash’s advice had been helpful: just thinking about how Church would insult us was enough to get me into a mode that would not make mistakes for anything in the world.

The journey took another twenty minutes or so, until we came to a single-floor house, the entrance to which was reached by walking down a cobbled driveway, surrounded by a garden with freshly cut grass. The front door was mahogany-colored, nice and sturdy, and suddenly it opened. Ash parked almost in front of it, but across the street. Out of the dwelling came a tall, muscled boy, who began to walk down the driveway, heading in our direction. I looked up to scan his face, and almost missed a beat or two.

“Shit,” I exclaimed, drawing Ash’s attention. “It’s Harvey!”

My colleague suddenly approached the window. “Nathan’s boyfriend? Are you sure?”

I scrutinized him a little better. He had stopped at the end of the driveway, cell phone in hand, intent on writing who knows what. I called to mind images of the party, the image of Harvey, or even just his figure. I sensed a dissonance, a mental discomfort that was revealed a moment later with a bitter realization.

“No,” I whispered disappointedly. “Harvey is thinner, or at any rate not as rugged. There’s a certain resemblance, but it’s not him.”

I sighed and shook my head. “This thing about not wanting to look like an idiot with Church isn’t paying off much,” I added.

“You’re really going for it, I see,” he replied. “It even made you say ‘fuck’.”

I tried to retort, but my mouth remained half open as I watched his amused look.

“Let’s go ask Clide two questions, come on,” I urged him.

“You got it,boss.”

The problem with famous people was the discrepancy between the photos on the covers and reality. For the past few days, whenever I had passed a newsstand, I had been unable to help but dwell on the magazines that portrayed William, usually in his most dazzling form: lustrous, vigorous hair, blemish-free skin, and other features that categorized him as a god come down to earth. The one who opened the door for us, on the other hand, was a human being like any other, with two dark circles for a few nights of music and a frantic gaze because of anxiety.

“Officers,” he greeted us, with a smile that held onto life with his teeth, “how can I help you?”

“We’d like to ask you a couple of questions about a friend of yours,” Ash replied, flashing his badge. “Michael Cossner, I think you know him.”

William paused to read Ash’s name, and so he did with me when I also displayed my own badge. That astonished expression on his face lasted less than a second, immediately replaced again by an affable but false smile.

“Sure. Be my guest. And excuse the mess.”

We entered the foyer of his dwelling, which instinct suggested not to call it “home.” The décor was confusing and non-functional - there was not even a tidy drawer, or a mirror, or enclosed furniture that should have contained the physiological accumulation of objects that characterized one’s life. Instead, there were boxes, but also minimalist paintings hanging on the walls and, in the corner to our left, a sofa placed in front of a withered plant that had seen better days.

In the silence of the house, I heard barking, and soon after an adult Labrador ran toward Ashton and me. At first, I thought he considered us a threat, but all it took was a couple of pats for him to start wagging his tail.

“This is Arrow, my dog.”

I lowered myself to his height and cuddled him some more. His fur was soft, though I could tell he was no longer young.

“How old is he?”, I asked.

“Ten. My parents gave him to me when I moved from Maine.”

I gave Arrow a few more pets, then stood back up and tried to ignore his eager looks of affection. I wouldn’t have minded getting a dog, but in the apartment, I feared it might suffer. William walked away and disappeared around a corner, to return with a glass of water in his hand.

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