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whatever’s fair, I suppose. But that’s not why I want to be involved. It’s so exciting—shipwrecks and treasure. I want to be part of it. Show me what you’ve found; what you find. Stories to take back to New York—that’s what I’ll get in return. I want to finance stories that will keep me warm all winter.”

Theatrical. Yes, that described her.

I said slowly, as a statement: “You don’t want anything in return? No matter what we find, it’s ours?”

“Well,” she said, turning away, “I would expect to at least see what you brought up. There might be one or two small items that I’d want to keep…as mementos.”

“The diamond war medal, for instance?”

“No,” she replied immediately. “Not that. You and your team can sell it, split the money, I don’t care. One or two small things…” Her voice drifted for a moment before she caught herself, and smiled. “I wouldn’t take anything of value. Just mementos. And the fun of it!”

Theatrical—my impression hadn’t changed. I placed my glass on a table, looked at her, and said, “Really.” Using the same word, the same tone that she had before, to let her know I thought she was lying.

I checked my watch: 11:25 P.M. I told her I had to leave.

12

It was nearly midnight. Bern Heller could still hear the bulldozer as he sat in his condo. He was going through his grandfather’s papers, taking a few at a time from the briefcase, then moving them to a file, or the trash.

The photo of the unidentified woman, though, remained on the table. The woman with her film-star face, full lips, hair brushed glossy onto her shoulder, dark eyes smoldering through cigarette smoke.

Idiotic, to keep the picture out. The woman had to be—what?—in her late sixties. Maybe seventies. An old hag, if she wasn’t already dead.

Even so…

Her eyes. Mostly, it was her face and eyes. Beautiful, that wasn’t the word. Sexy—she was, but that didn’t say it, either. Looking at her gave Bern a strange feeling. It was a swelling sort of feeling, but an emptiness, too. Like there were things he could want and work for all his life, it didn’t matter because they would never, ever be his.

This woman—just another example.

It created an emptiness. Anger, too.

He left her photo at his elbow, and turned his attention to the briefcase.

There were three passports—not one—he’d discovered. One German, one U.S., both issued to Bern’s grandfather, the same young man in the photos with Henry Ford and Charles Lindbergh.

The third was also U.S. but newer, issued July 1956. The photo was nearly twenty years older, and it at least resembled the old man. The blond hair almost gone, but the vicious smile unmistakable.

Bern had the passports on the table, comparing them, the woman’s photo nearby, Moe and the bulldozer still out there rumbling and beeping, forward and reverse.

His grandfather’s German passport had a green cover. Bern took it into his hand. There was a Nazi eagle embossed on the front, the eagle holding a swastika in its talons.

It was the same eagle he’d seen on the medal that Moe had handed over to the cops.

Bern wiggled in his chair. He opened the passport, finally getting somewhere.

The inside pages were yellowish. His grandfather’s photo—in his late teens—was on the right, his signature beneath, written with an old-timey flourish.

On the left was the Nazi eagle again, and REISPASS printed in bold script. Next to the eagle, but twice its size, was a faded red J. The J had been stamped over words in German, a language that Bern never bothered to learn because so many people in his family spoke it it was the best way to ignore their constant bickering.

What did the J mean?

He leafed through the passport, seeing that the old man had done some traveling. France, Switzerland, Denmark, some other countries with names that Bern didn’t recognize. Probably places that no longer existed. The Nazi swastika was stamped in black upon each return.

The last stamp, though, was U.S. customs, New York. It was dated February 1939.

The pages were empty after that.

Bern opened his grandfather’s first U.S. passport. It had a blue cover, and had been issued five years later, 1944—his grandfather a citizen by then, already a nickel-dime hoarder, and owner of several thousand acres of Florida land that was supposedly worthless, sometimes a buck an acre.

Not a customs stamp in the book.

Hmmm…

Bern opened the third passport, also U.S., issued in ’56, Miami. There were trips to South America, Europe, Africa documented, the late 1950s being a fun time to travel, apparently. Or maybe it was a way for the old man to avoid his daughter, and the oversized baby she never stopped bitching about—Bern. Even in his teens, she’d say to him, “I’ve never been the same, you tore up my insides so bad.” Or: “You know why you hate Grandy so much? ’Cause you two’re alike. You even look alike.”

The thought of that made Bern want to spew.

Was it true?

He opened the German passport, then the newest American passport. Bern held the photos side by side, trying to imagine himself at similar ages. Studied his grandfather’s nose, the eyes, the shape of the jaw and head… then stopped, puzzled, as he compared one photo with the other.

There were similarities: the hair, the prominent nose, the light colored eyes. But could age change a jawline? The width of a forehead?

These are photos of the same person?

In a little more than a decade, the old man had changed from a decent-looking guy into a pig.

Was that possible?

Bern imagined himself as a football player, five years college, two and a half in the NFL. They’d taken tons of pictures. He’d never been great looking, but, yeah, his face had changed over the years. Maybe a lot.

It scared him. One day, he’d be as nasty looking as his grandfather?

The photo of the woman was at his elbow.

Hard to believe, a girl this pretty. She’d let the old pig touch her?

Bern touched his huge index finger to the woman’s photo. He looked into her face, feeling her eyes.

In the photo, there were details he’d missed. Each time he looked, he noticed something different. It was fun.

The lighting was fancy. It took awhile to figure it out. The photographer had set up the shot so that the woman’s eyes were shaded, staring through smoke from shadows, but her hair was glossy blond. There had to be lights to her left, but also behind her because the smoke from her cigarette was backlit, a translucent curling haze.

Bern smiled. There was more.

In the sequined dress, the woman’s hip was canted because she was leaning against a grand piano, a black one. There was a silver cigarette case in her left hand. The silver case was partially hidden because the hand was on her hip. Her right hand was at ear level, cigarette between her fingers, nails polished but clear.

The cigarette case, that was interesting.

Were those engraved initials showing above her fingers?

He wished he had a magnifying glass; decided he’d get one. Maybe take this picture to one of those camera places, and have it blown up. Why not?

Had he had even touched a woman as beautiful as this? Or seen a woman who came close? In movies, sure. A few. But not in person. Not where he could reach out and put his fingers on her flesh.

The woman’s face. She had the fullest, most sensual lips. Those eyes…

Bern stared until he began to experience the strange swelling sort of feeling that had become familiar over