Through this weekend, I’m running a Decisive Moment promo. To give you a taste for this quirky, fast-paced story, I will post samples of the first few chapters as part of my usual #SaturdayScenes weekly sharing. Let me know what you think!

Chapter 6

Jimmy’s ranting dies down on its own, a good thing because I’m in no shape to placate him. I’ve heard that sometimes you just let a baby cry himself to sleep because picking him up will do no good. That certainly is the way it usually works out with Jimmy.

“So how did the meetings go?” he asks.

“You interrupted the second one.”

“So how did it go, man?”

“OK, I guess.”

“Just OK?”

I don’t want to tell him much more than that for fear he’ll call Nicko and promise him God knows what, so I say, “Yeah. It’s my first time with this kind of deal. Hard to read these guys.”

“So how did you leave it?”

“They’ll get back to me. Have to run it through legal and such.”

“Yeah, man. The anonymity part, that’s going to be a tough nut, you know?”

“They can do it.”

“We’re going to have to go on the lam, aren’t we, Rog?”

I close my eyes. The thought of Jimmy and I playing fugitive seems untenable enough, even when ignoring the logistics of carting someone with a full leg cast. “If it comes to that, it’s all on me, Jimmy.”

“Nah, man. We’re in this together.”

“No, we’re not. You didn’t take the shots, and you don’t have them.” I look around to make sure no one’s close enough to hear. “I’m the only one that witnessed a criminal act. Once we pay off Nicko and settle your hospital bills, all you have to worry about is physical therapy.”

“So you’re just going to disappear on me?”

“If it comes to that. And I don’t think it has to. I could stick around, and if it comes to it, cooperate with the cops.”

“But you know that means witness protection, which puts you back in the disappeared column.”

Jimmy leads such a chaotic life moved along by a string of stupid decisions, I forget he’s actually pretty smart. He’s got all this figured out. With enough time on a hospital bed to look a few steps ahead, he’s contemplated the key and most likely turns in the road. He’s probably also thought about me bouncing with the lion share of the payout to finance a life in obscurity. I’m guessing that has him as nervous as anything else.

“Whatever way this ends, I’m going to make sure you’re taken care of, Jimmy.”

“Sure, bro. I get that, but—”

“But let’s see how this plays. A million things could change between now and dinner time. You focus on healing up. I got this.”

For once—a rare occurrence—he seems to accept what I’m saying and stays quiet. “Hey, bro,” he says finally.

“Yeah?”

“I appreciate what you’re doing.”

“No sweat.” My smartphone is ringing. “Gotta get my other line.” We say our goodbyes, and I hang up. It’s Lucia calling.

“Up for lunch?” she says.

Yeah, actually I am. Starving, in fact, since I haven’t eaten anything except the banana I washed down with water while sitting on a pickup truck bed with a sawhorse before me and a sniper rifle at my side.

“What’s the special occasion?” I ask.

“Remember that guy from National Geographic I told you about? Stuart? He’s up for lunch, says he can’t wait to meet you.”

This is coming out of left field. It’s now just south of 11 AM, and I need some time to collect my thoughts and decide what the heck I’m doing. I’m not ready for this interview that Lucia’s setup for me. A few weeks ago she told me about this guy, how he’s looking for someone with outdoor, survival skills for offshore assignments. She has this notion I can become the next, well, you name him—the successful National Geographic photographer that comes back and parleys all those exotic shots he takes in faraway lands into a successful fine art photography gig. Maybe I can open my own solo gallery, she suggested two weeks ago.

“My treat,” she’s saying. “At the Palm. Great eats. You know how much I like to eat there, right?”

I do know. More than once she’s told about the great wine list they have. Since I’m a beer guy, she’s also mentioned that list. What I don’t know is how to tell her no, so I accept.

A few minutes after noon, I’m sitting at the Palm Restaurant’s bar, nursing a Belgian beer, getting no more clarity on what to do than I had after I talked to prospect #2. By now I’ve sent the same text to prospect #1, knowing that dealing with him or her won’t improve my situation in any way other than financially, which I’ve decided isn’t the issue once I cross the 150K threshold. No, it’s my life, as in the ability to breathe and eat and perform all those little and big bodily functions we take for granted—that’s what matters. Prospect #2 noted there’s no scenario where I can come out anonymous, but what I’m really looking for is a scenario where I come out alive.

I check my watch and start resenting how Lucia and Stuart are late. Right now I could use some conversation about photography in Tasmania or Borneo to take my mind off things. I really need that to avoid ridiculous what-if scenarios like, what-if I sell the photos to Ernesto Carmillo and Vivian Matisse, or how much money do you think Nicko and his associates might cobble up together for those photos? Or maybe just hand over the photos to Nicko in exchange for clearing Jimmy’s marker? These are all stupid ideas, I tell myself, because in any case I remain the loose end that needs extinguishing.

But I know better than to claim those are all my options. In all courses of action you always start with the baseline: do nothing. That leads to the most troubling question of all: why don’t I just bury the photos? Why don’t I just go on living—yes, living—as if I had never taken the photos?

Because I need the money to get Jimmy in the clear, that’s why.

But why not find money elsewhere? It’s harder, sure, but surely one can find money elsewhere? But not with the possibility of having a nice surplus, maybe setting up myself, and, OK, Jimmy with a nice, stable situation.

Which means I’m not going to bury the photos because I’m greedy.

I take one long swig from my beer to finish it off and order another.

Yeah, that’s it. Greed. And what’s wrong with it? I got those pics fair and square. Even had to sweat a little to climb up to that nasty chaparral infested lookout. And I haven’t done anything illegal.

Well, other than shoot up a couple of windows.

This is a nice break, after a lot of hard and frustrating work, and after life’s handed me a few sharp, lousy cards. Why not enjoy the windfall? I deserve it, don’t I?

Maybe a little more beer will convince me I’ve earned the money, the right to it, even, so I drink up.

The buzz is beginning to kick in when I see Lucia and her companion come into the restaurant’s foyer. I wave to them, leave enough cash to cover my tab, grab my beer glass and head over to greet them. Lucia’s made reservations, and we’re seated straight away. We go through introductions, order up a couple of appetizers and a wine bottle of Lucia’s choosing. Then it’s down to business we go.

“Lucia tells me you have military experience?” Stuart asks.

“Army. Two tours in Iraq, one in Afghanistan.”

“Special Forces?”

“Mm-hmm. Not that special, though.” I wink at him. “Just a lowly sniper.”

“I bet you’ve seen some interesting action.”

“You could say that.” Normally I would leave it at that, but the beer buzz has loosened me up enough, and what the heck, this guy seems nice enough. “One time I held and entire village crawling with Taliban in check from sun-up to sundown until reinforcements arrived. I had a nice perch from which I controlled the only road out. Anything that moved was mine.” I pause because my stomach is turning a little now as I recall each body I shot down.

“You know,” I go on. “They may be terrorists, but a well-placed sniper is all about the intimidation and fear that having precise shots rain down on the enemy evokes. Looking through my scope I could see it in their faces. The terror.”

He nods. A twinkle in his eye tells me he understands.

“Stuart has covered war zones,” Lucia puts in.

“Any similarities between being a sniper and photography?” Stuart asks.

I smile. “A few.”

“Like?”

“Like you have to be ready for the one and only moment. Like you get only one shot.”

His eyes twinkle again, and he smiles. “Few photographers appreciate what it’s like to get that one shot while getting shot at.”

“I’m not one of them. When getting shot at, I’ve always been able to return the favor.” I say that while internally I weigh where this conversation is most likely to end, namely with an offer for me to drop into some God-forsaken war zone with nothing but sturdy camera equipment, a bullet proof vest and an Elmer Fudd helmet. Two days ago I would have said no, thanks, and I would have done so with a good measure of righteous indignation.

Now, I’m seeing possibilities. Maybe this is my off ramp, how I disappear after those Vivian-Ernesto shots go live.

The rest of lunch happens pleasantly enough. Stuart spends most of the time sharing his own experiences with National Geographic and pitching me on the type of job he has in mind with me after reviewing my resume—the one Lucia forwarded to him without me knowing. I say I’ll give it my consideration and thank him for the opportunity. Both for my benefit and to let him know I’m not just blowing him off, I ask him how soon he has in mind to start this job.

“As soon as next week if you’re up for it.”

I take that in while my prepaid phone buzzes inside my pocket. Prospect #1 is interested. Prospect #2 is reminding me of the one o’clock deadline. And prospect #3 wants to meet again to discuss terms.

As we walk out of the restaurant, Lucia reminds me about the show that evening.

“I’ll be there,” I say, and it’s the only thing I know I can more or less guarantee.

Let me know what you think. If you can’t wait until next week’s installment, you could always…

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