Matters of Doubt Read Online Free PDF Page B

director’s chair in front of a hut with a tarpaulin roof. He had a full, black beard, muscular forearms covered with wiry hair, and intense, narrow set eyes. Picasso nodded to him. “How’s it goin’, Joey?”
    â€œEvery day’s a holiday.”
    â€œTake your meds?” Picasso asked.
    â€œUh, yep. Sure did.”
    â€œGood.”
    â€œWho’s that with you?”
    â€œThis is Cal, Joey. He’s a friend of mine. I’m showing him around.”
    â€œOh. Okay. Nice to meet you, Cal.”
    â€œSame here, Joey.”
    Picasso opened a combination lock, swung the door open, and invited me in. Light filtered in through two small windows screened with netting. The air smelled musty with notes of something pungent like a solvent. When my eyes adjusted, I saw a row of brushes soaking in jars at the back of the single room, next to a line of paint jars and a can of mineral spirits. In a lowered voice, Picasso said, “Joey’s an Iraq vet. He saw a lot of action over there. The dude has PTSD now. Can’t hold a job. His old lady left him, took the kids and the house.”
    I grimaced and shook my head. “Is he getting any help from the VA?”
    Picasso laughed at my apparent naiveté. “He’s tried, but the VA’s fucked up, man. I’ve been trying to help him, but we can’t even get his service records.” He waved a hand dismissively and added, “But don’t get me started on that.”
    The light was dim in the tent. Picasso lit a single propane lamp that hung in the middle of the room. A propane stove sat on a small, unfinished table beside a chipped porcelain pitcher standing inside a wash basin. Two folding chairs, a tiny cooler, and two wooden crates filled with books, clothes, and other items completed the furnishings. Propped on one of the crates was the framed picture of a woman I assumed to be Picasso’s mother. The plastic briefcase I’d seen in my office sat next to the crates along with a backpack, sleeping bag, and small pillow.
    Picasso watched as I took the scene in, then made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “See what happens? I get a roof over my head and right away I start accumulating shit.” He seemed genuinely embarrassed by his new found acquisitiveness.
    I shook my head. “Don’t feel bad. You should see my attic.”
    â€œYou want some tea?” he asked. I hesitated. “It’s green tea—chock full of antioxidants—and a lot better for you than the stuff you drink.” I nodded and he fired up the stove and put on a pan he’d filled with water from the pitcher. Then he picked up the briefcase. “So, you want me to take you through this stuff?”
    I was tempted to dive in, but thought better of it. I didn’t want his spin on anything. “I’d rather look at it myself first. I’ll get back to you with questions. You have a cell phone?”
    â€œNope. Those suckers will give you brain cancer, man. Besides the security, the best thing about this place is the WiFi. I bought my laptop from a tweeker—previously owned, you might say—and now I can go on line totally free.” He gave me a gmail address.
    As our tea steeped, I picked up the picture of his mother. She wore only the hint of a smile, as if to show a firm resolve. She had a thin, delicate nose, handsome cheek bones, and the same dark eyes, although they were more doe-like in her oval face and betrayed a degree of vulnerability absent in her son. “She was beautiful.”
    Picasso allowed himself a smile. “She’d bristle at that. She was first and foremost an investigative reporter.”
    â€œAn endangered species these days,” I responded. “Tell me about her.”
    He handed me a mug of tea and we sat down facing each other. “She was born and raised in upstate New York. Studied journalism at Columbia. She had a fling with some guy there, and I