hope of ever having again.
I wanted the money.
The next evening Amanda and I hit the nightclubs.
It was more like late afternoon, since I wanted to talk to the bartenders and waitresses before things heated up. Not long ago all the clubs would have been closed by mid-September, but seasonal boundaries in the Hamptons were steadily blurring. There was still a big drop in population after Labor Day, but not like the old days when everyone from the City and beyond—renters and owners alike—would suddenly vanish and the locals would have the South Fork to themselves again. The socioeconomic Left Behind, and happy for it.
On the way to the first club on our list we stopped at the small shop off the main parking lot in Southampton recommended to me by Jackie Swaitkowski. It was called Good to the Last Byte and its purpose was akin to that of the auto repair shops I used to work for as a kid: basic computer maintenance and repair. It was cleaner and smelled better, but looked as if somebody’d set a bomb off inside a bank of mainframes—wire racks crammed with cartons, boxes and devices with faceplates splattered with tiny LEDs, heaps of printed circuits, loose CDs, stacks of packaged software, monitors of every vintage and size, plastic crates disgorging tangles of cables and surge protectors, pizza boxes and a full-size trash barrel filled with empty Mountain Dew cans.
“No wonder Jackie likes this guy,” I said to Amanda as we picked our way to a rolling wire rack recruited as a service counter by the owner of the place.
“Randall Dodge,” I said.
“That’s me, Sam. Nice to see you again,” he said, unfolding his full six-foot-eight frame and putting out his hand to shake.
Randall lived on the Shinnecock Reservation and was a racial gumbo of African, European and indigenous peoples. I knew him from Sonny’s, the boxing gym I went to north of Westhampton Beach. I met him one day when he found himself at the top of a bench press with a bit more weight then he could safely put down. His request for a little help was remarkably calm and polite, given the circumstances. From then on we spotted for each other, and I had a chance to show him some things, like how to hit the speed bag and how to stay on his toes when moving around the ring. Like me, he almost never sparred, which was lucky for the rest of the kids who worked out at the gym. He was thin and slower than an earth mover, but he could reach halfway across the ring, and if he ever managed to connect with a punch it’d be good night, Irene.
“This is Amanda Anselma.”
Randall took her hand and gave a little bow.
“My pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”
“This your place?” I asked.
“For certain. Used to be my uncle’s, but the technology got a little ahead of him. I was sorry to see him go. He didn’t talk much, but you get used to the company.”
Randall’s head was big even for his beanstalk body. Or maybe it just looked big because of his broad face and high cheekbones, framed by a pair of slender, tightly woven braids. I never saw him form a smile, but his eyes were perpetually alight.
“I thought you were going to Hofstra,” I said.
“I dropped out after taking all the computer science courses they had. After four years in the Navy I’m too old to be sitting through lectures on poetry and poli-sci. Got to get down and dirty with the circuits, you know?”
“Yeah, I do. What do you know about digital photography?” I handed him the disk.
“I’m a warrior of the Photoshop,” he said, studying the disk as if the silvery surface could reveal its inner mysteries. “What are the issues?”
He slid the disk into an aquamarine Macintosh and brought the picture up on a big flat-screen monitor. I explained how we’d pulled the shot off a website, but needed a clearer image.
“The first thing you have to deal with is the low resolution,” he said. “The original photo was probably high- res, but you can’t have that on the Web. Slows everything down.”
I reached over his shoulder and pointed at Iku.
“That’s the girl. I’d love a good-sized printout. Clear enough to make an ID.”
“Hard to do, boss,” said Randall.
“Not for a Photoshop warrior,” said Amanda.
Randall’s sparkly eyes looked at me.
“Did you tell her pretty women drive me to impossible feats?” he asked.
“Why do you think I brought her along?”
“Go buy her a cup of coffee. I need a few minutes. The impossible could take a little longer.”
We got drinks instead, at the big restaurant on Main Street. Seemed an appropriate way to ramp up to the evening. I had vodka. Amanda sipped red wine and filled the joint with radiant beauty. I never tired of looking at her. It was one of the few failings I allowed myself without reproach. When I wasn’t feeling charmed by her smile I was lost in her pale green eyes. Or distracted by an ankle or the shape of her neck. I used to like looking at Abby, my ex-wife, but that was different. More an objective admiration of elegant, comely form. There was nothing objective in my appraisal of Amanda. Quite the contrary. The longer I lingered, the weaker my judgment.
“You’re staring,” she said.
“I am.”
“Shouldn’t we see how Mr. Dodge is fairing? While we can still see?”
“I’m clear as a bell.”
“Of course you are. It’s so irritating.”
We paid the bill and walked back to Randall’s shop. It wasn’t a long walk, but I enjoyed every step. It was times like these, random events, that reminded me I’d given a lot of my life to misplaced ambitions and faulty desire. Not to dwell on regret, but to better appreciate the moment.
I watched Amanda as we walked, at once a presence so close at hand the barest twitch would alert her attention, yet as distant as the moon. This was something I’d learned about Amanda. She was there, and then not. And that was okay, now that I knew her better. I’d been through a lot of trial and error, sorting it out. But as long as she was there, walking next to me, I assumed she was willing to press on, even without a confirmed destination.
“You’re staring at me again,” she said.
“I am?”
“I don’t mind as long as I haven’t done something ridiculous.”
“I’ll tell you when you do.”
“And they say you aren’t a gentleman.”
“They do?”
Randall looked hypnotized by his computer screen when we got back to his shop.
“I’ve got something, not sure what,” he said to us without looking up. I walked into his work area and looked over his shoulder. A vivid portrait of Iku Kinjo filled the screen.
“You got what I wanted,” I said.
He looked up at me.
“You sure? The skin tone doesn’t look right.”
“Her father was African-American. A soldier.”
“Shoulda known. I got a big dose of that myself. On my mother’s side.”
“And you’re just as pretty, Randall. Give me a half dozen copies.”
In a few minutes we were out of there with a big white envelope stuffed with pictures of Iku. The whole experience made me feel as if the world had surged abruptly into the future without me—caught unawares and preoccupied with the Little Peconic Bay, questioning the point in having any future at all.
“You didn’t actually box with that young man, I hope,” said Amanda as we walked back to the Grand Prix.
“I never fight with techs. Too good at getting even.”
The first two clubs were a bust. Nobody remembered Iku or took any interest in helping advance the cause. It wasn’t worth the effort. They wore indolence as a cloak of pride. It made Amanda a little tense, glancing sideways to gauge my reaction. But I remained circumspect and polite. Pacing myself.
