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then slide the loupe to the next. I do this quickly, anxiously, over and over. Study . . .
slide
. . . study . . .
slide.
    Finally, I think I see what’s happening. Or at least
where
it’s happening.
    It’s the four body bags.
    They look almost . . .
transparent.
Is that possible? It’s like I can both see the bags and almost see through them — not to what’s inside, but to what’s beyond.
    Of course, the film itself is transparent, but this is different. Each body bag has this kind of lucent quality, not quite see-through while at the same time not entirely filled in.
    Somewhere in between.
    Weird.
    Though explainable, right? My mind spins with the possible causes. Double exposure, sun glare off the metal frames of the gurneys, the body bag material itself. Within seconds, I have a host of somewhat logical explanations for what I see.
    But no definitive answer, nothing that makes me feel the least bit better.
    So, when in doubt, go big. That’s what I’m thinking as I dispense with a contact sheet and delve right into making an enlargement.
    Scanning the shots again, I pull the one with the tightest angle for the most detail.
    It takes a few seconds before I realize which one I’ve chosen. Figures!
    It’s the last body bag that was wheeled out of the hotel, the one with the moving zipper and the — I don’t even want to think about it.
    Besides, that was only in the dream. This is real. This is happening right now, before my eyes.
    I fumble with the negative carrier before putting it in the enlarger. I make sure the emulsion side is facing down so as not to get a mirror image. The last thing I need is
another
glitch!
    I work fast. Impatience is such a great motivator. So is fear. Before long I’m staring at an eight-by-ten enlargement of that last body bag. Everything’s bigger, all right.
    The problem is, I’m no closer to figuring out what in God’s name is happening. The effect — the transparency — is unlike anything I’ve seen, and I’ve developed a whole lot of photographs in my life.
    From the moment I awoke this morning until now, it’s been one big weirdness-palooza. And I hate paloozas!
    I glance at my watch. Almost 7:30.
Where did the time go?
    I decide to make more enlargements. Maybe another shot will reveal something. What I’m really doing, though, is trying to keep my mind off, well, everything that’s happened so far today.
    For a while it works. Then, after another hour, it gets the better of me. I leave the darkroom and begin pacing in my living room.
    It’s too early for bed. Besides, I’m too wired to sleep.
I need to get out of here!
    And I know just where to go.

Chapter 14
    I STEP OUT of THE CAB in front of the Old Homestead Steak House in the heart of the meatpacking district. As if the location alone isn’t enough to scare off vegetarians, there’s a humongous cow over the entrance. Very subtle.
    Who am I to talk?
    If there’s a list of what never to do when you’re having an affair, I’m pretty sure crashing your lover’s business dinner is right up there at the top.
    I walk into the restaurant and breeze by the maître d’ as if I know where I’m going. I don’t.
    In front me there’s a crowded bar and an equally crowded lounge area, beyond which begins the crowded dining room. The way it’s laid out, I can see only the first few tables.
    As I make my way to a better view, one thing becomes clear. With its dark wood paneling, leather club chairs, and portions that could choke the Lincoln Tunnel, this is definitely a place for
guys.
In fact, there are very few gals to be seen.
    “May I help you?”
    The voice startles me. I turn around to see the maître d’. So much for blowing right by him.
    “I’m just looking for someone,” I say.
    “Perhaps I can help you.”
    “No, that’s okay.”
    He glances down at what I’m wearing — a black Elie Tahari waistcoat over jeans and an Armani Exchange sweater. Stylish, perhaps, but not exactly “female