"Come on," Lloyd says. "Let's get that pretty waitress over here." He raises his arm for her attention. "She's cute, no? Let me get you her number," he says. "You want it?"
Jerome pulls his father's arm down. "It's fine," he says, hurriedly rolling a cigarette.
It has been months since their last meeting, and the reason is soon clear: they are fond of each other, but there is little to say. What does Lloyd know of Jerome? Most of his knowledge derives from the boy's first few years-that he was timid, always reading Lucky Luke comic books, wanted to be a cartoonist. Lloyd told him to be a journalist. Best job in the world, he said.
"So," Lloyd asks, "you still drawing?"
"Drawing?"
"Your cartoons."
"Haven't done that for years."
"Sketch me now. On a napkin."
Jerome, looking down, shakes his head.
This lunch will end soon. Lloyd must ask the question for which he arranged the encounter. He snatches the bill, rebuffing his son's outstretched hand. "Absolutely not. This is mine."
Outside the cafe, he could still ask Jerome the question. The last moment arrives. Instead, he says, "Where are you living now?"
"I'm moving to a new place. I'll give you the details then."
"Care to walk for a bit?"
"I'm headed the other way."
They shake hands.
"Thank you," Lloyd says, "for meeting me."
All the way home, he curses himself. Around Les Halles, he stops on the sidewalk to count the money in his wallet. A teenager on a motor scooter drives down the sidewalk toward him, beeping maniacally.
"Where am I supposed to go?" Lloyd shouts. "Where do you want me to go?"
The boy slows, swearing, his machine scraping Lloyd's leg.
"Fucking prick," Lloyd says. He never asked Jerome the question.
At the apartment, Eileen says, "I wish you'd bring him by. I'd love to cook him a meal. Wouldn't it be lovely if he just dropped in sometimes?"
"He has his own things going on."
"At the ministry?"
"I imagine. I don't know. I ask him questions and I get these vague-" Lloyd opens his hand searchingly, looks into his palm, unable to find the word. "I don't know what. You ask him."
"Okay, but you have to get him over here first. Does he have a girlfriend?"
"I don't know."
"No need to snap at me."
"I'm not. But how am I supposed to know, Eileen?"
"Must be interesting working at the ministry."
"He might be making photocopies, for all I know."
"No, I'm sure not."
"But I have to say, I find it pretty odd."
"Find what odd?"
He hesitates. "Just that he-knowing what I do for a living, what helped bring him up, what paid for his childhood-he knows that I'm a reporter, yet he's never once given me any sort of tidbit, any scrap from the ministry. It's no big tragedy. Just, you'd think he would have."
"Maybe he doesn't have anything to give you."
"I'm aware of how those places work. He has stuff I could use."
"He's probably not allowed to talk to reporters."
"Nobody is. But they do. It's called leaking."
"I know what it's called."
"I don't mean it that way. Sorry." He touches her arm. "It's okay," he says. "I'm okay now."
The next morning, he wakes up furious. Something in his sleep enraged him, but he can't recall what. When Eileen comes over for breakfast, he tells her to go back and eat at Didier's. She leaves, and he wishes she had not, that she'd slept there last night. He opens his wallet. He knows how much is there but checks anyway. If he doesn't earn something soon, he can't stay in this apartment. If he moves out, Eileen won't come with him.
Without her, where does he go? He needs money; he needs a story.
"I'm waking you for the second day running. What time do you normally get up?" he asks Jerome over the phone. "Listen, I need to meet again."
Jerome arrives at the cafe and shakes his father's hand. As rehearsed, Lloyd says, "I'm sorry to bother you again. But there's something important I need to check for work."
"With me?"
"A small thing. I'm doing a piece relating to French foreign policy. It's urgent. Deadline's today. This afternoon."
Jerome leans back in his chair. "I don't know anything useful."
"You haven't even heard my question yet."
"I really don't know anything."
"What do you do there?" Lloyd says, then reels in his temper. "I mean, you haven't even heard what I'm asking. You must have been there three years now. You won't let me visit, you won't tell me about it. So are you a janitor and you're afraid to admit it?" He laughs. "They do give you a desk, right?"
"Yes."
"All right, a guessing game. You keep giving me one-word answers. I'll get there eventually. Is your desk close to where the minister sits? Or far?"
Jerome shifts uncomfortably. "I don't know. A medium distance."
"Medium is close."
"Not that close."
"For God's sake, this is like pulling teeth. Listen, I need a story. Just let me pick your brains for a minute."
"I thought you had a specific question."
"But do you have any ideas? I did buy you lunch yesterday." He adds, "I'm kidding."
"I can't."
"I'm not going to cite you. And I'm not asking you to go in there and steal documents or anything."
"What sort of thing do you want?"
"Not sure. Something terrorism-related maybe. Or to do with Iraq. Or Israel."
"I don't know," Jerome says softly to his knees.
Lloyd's other children would have dismissed him by now. Only Jerome is loyal. All three daughters are like Lloyd-always striving, always driving at something. Jerome, though, doesn't push back. He alone is loyal. He proves it by saying, "If anything, it'd be this thing about a Gaza force."
"What Gaza force?" Lloyd perks up.
"I don't know all the details."
"But wait, hang on. The ministry is talking about a force in Gaza?"
"I think I heard that."
"You think?"
"I think so."
Lloyd gleams. "We might have something here. We might, we might." He pulls out a notebook and jots this down. He teases out the nugget, tugs, tweaks, yanks at it. A shiver passes through Lloyd: this is what he's good at. But Jerome is clamming up. Too late-he's been opened. Out it comes. Come on.
"You can't use any of that."
"You're not going to get in trouble."
"It's my information," Jerome says.
"It's not yours. It's just information. Doesn't belong to anybody. It exists independent of you. I can't not know it now. You want me to grovel? I asked for a bit of help. I don't see what's so difficult. I'm sorry," Lloyd concludes, "but you gave it to me."
He rushes home-he might still make deadline. He phones Menzies. Ha-goddamn-ha, Lloyd thinks, as he is transferred. "Well, my friend," he says, "I've got you a story."
Menzies hears him out. "But wait- France proposing a U.N. peacekeeping force in Gaza? Israel would never go for that. It's a nonstarter."
"Do you know that for a fact? Anyhow, I'm reporting that the French are floating the idea. What happens next is another matter."
"We'd need this firmed up."
"I can do that."
"You've got four hours till cutoff. Look, report the hell out of it and check back in ninety minutes."
Lloyd puts down the phone. He glances at his contact numbers. He doesn't even have up-to-date background on Gaza. He dials Jerome's cellphone, but it rings and rings. He finds a number for the foreign ministry. Maybe he can get details without revealing Jerome as his source. Of course he can. He has done this sort of thing a million times. He phones the ministry press office, thankful for the first time that crazy Francoise changed their son's last name to hers-no one will tie the name Lloyd Burko to Jerome.