"About thirty that clearly show faces. I checked out the contact prints with a magnifying g
lass. All the rest were nothing shots."
"A shame they aren't in color."
"Next time, hang something besides those blue lights," said Jackson. "They might hype a sexy gig, but they sure ain't got what it takes to make sharp color transparencies."
Daggat carefully studied the eight-by-ten black-and-white prints. He went through them a second time. The third time, he sifted out ten and put them inside a briefcase. The remaining twenty he handed to Jackson.
"Put these together with the negatives and contact prints in an envelope."
"You're taking them with you?"
"I think it best if I alone am responsible for their safekeeping. Don't you agree?"
It was clear Jackson did not. He threw Daggat an uneasy look. "Hey, man, photographers aren't in the habit of giving up their negatives. You're not going to produce these for sale, are you? I don't mind shooting a private porno job for a good customer, but I'm not about to make a commercial living at it. Trouble with the fuzz I can do without."
Daggat closed upon Jackson until their faces were only inches apart. "I am not 'Hey, man,' " he said coldly. "I am United States Congressman Frederick Daggat. Do you get the message, brother?"
For a brief moment Jackson glared back. Then, slowly, he lowered his eyes and stared at the chemical stains on the linoleum floor. Daggat held all the cards, bankrolled by his congressional powers. The photographer had no choice but to fold.
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"Suit yourself," he said.
Daggat nodded, and then, as if dismissing Jackson's objections completely, casually smiled. "I'd appreciate it if you'd hurry things up. I have a lovely but anxious lady waiting in the car outside. She's the impatient type, if you know what I mean."
Jackson slid the negatives, contact prints, and eight-by-ten glossies into a large manila envelope and handed it to Daggat. "About my fee."
Daggat flipped him a hundred-dollar bill.
"But we agreed on five hundred," Jackson said.
"Consider your labors an unselfish act on behalf of your country," Daggat said as he walked to the door. Then he turned. "Oh, and one more thing: just so you won't be inconvenienced by unforeseen problems in the future, it might be a good idea to forget this whole episode. It never happened."
Jackson gave the only possible reply. "Whatever you say, Congressman."
Daggat nodded and left, closing the door quietly behind him.
"Turkey-shit son of a bitch!" Jackson hissed through clenched teeth as he removed another set of the photographs from a cabinet drawer.
"You're gonna get yours!"
Dale Jarvis's wife was used to his habit of reading in bed. She kissed him good-night, rolled into her customary fetal position, facing away from the beam of the lamp on his night table, and soon drifted asleep.
Settling himself in, Jarvis arranged two pillows behind his back, bent the high-intensity light to the proper angle, and pulled his Ben Franklin specs low on his nose. He propped the folder lent him by John Gossard on his raised knees and began reading. As he turned the pages, he jotted notes on a small pad. At two o'clock in the morning, he closed the folder on Operation Wild Rose.
He lay back and stared into nothingness for several minutes, consider-ing whether to drop the folder back in Gossard's lap and forget about it or have the outlandish plan investigated. He decided to compromise.
Easing slowly out of bed so as not to disturb his wife, Jarvis padded to his den, where he picked up a telephone and expertly punched its touch system in the dark. His call was answered on the first ring.
"This is Jarvis. I want a rundown on the current status of all foreign and United States battleships. Yes, that's right-battleships.
On my desk sometime tomorrow. Thank you. Good night."
Then he returned to bed, kissed his wife lightly on the cheek, and turned out the lamp.
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