“Not really. It was included in a box with fifty other documents. We paid only ten thousand dollars for the lot.”

As the photographs dropped from the dryer into a basket, Sam Jackson scooped them up and neatly jiggled their edges until they were straight and orderly. He was a tall, angular black man with braided hair, a youthful face, and long, slender hands. He passed Daggat the photos and pulled his apron off over his head.

“That’s all she wrote.”

“How many?” Daggat asked.

“About thirty that clearly show faces. I checked out the contact prints with a magnifying glass. All the rest were nothing shots.”

“A shame they aren’t in color.”

“Next time, hang something besides those blue lights,” said Jackson. “They might hype a sexy gig, but they sure ain’t got what it takes to make sharp color transparencies.”

Daggat carefully studied the eight-by-ten black-and-white prints. He went through them a second time. The third time, he sifted out ten and put them inside a briefcase. The remaining twenty he handed to Jackson.

“Put these together with the negatives and contact prints in an envelope.”

“You’re taking them with you?”

“I think it best if I alone am responsible for their safekeeping. Don’t you agree?”

It was clear Jackson did not. He threw Daggat an uneasy look. “Hey,

Salvage 153p>

man, photographers aren’t in the habit of giving up their negatives. You’re not going to produce these for sale, are you? I don’t mind shooting a private porno job for a good customer, but I’m not about to make a commercial living at it. Trouble with the fuzz I can do without.”

Daggat closed upon Jackson until their faces were only inches apart. “I am not ‘Hey, man,’ ” he said coldly. “I am United States Congressman Frederick Daggat. Do you get the message, brother?”

For a brief moment Jackson glared back. Then, slowly, he lowered his eyes and stared at the chemical stains on the linoleum floor. Daggat held all the cards, bankrolled by his congressional powers. The photographer had no choice but to fold.

“Suit yourself,” he said.

Daggat nodded, and then, as if dismissing Jackson’s objections completely, casually smiled. “I’d appreciate it if you’d hurry things up. I have a lovely but anxious lady waiting in the car outside. She’s the impatient type, if you know what I mean.”

Jackson slid the negatives, contact prints, and eight-by-ten glossies into a large manila envelope and handed it to Daggat. “About my fee.”

Daggat flipped him a hundred-dollar bill.

“But we agreed on five hundred,” Jackson said.

“Consider your labors an unselfish act on behalf of your country,” Daggat said as he walked to the door. Then he turned. “Oh, and one more thing: just so you won’t be inconvenienced by unforeseen problems in the future, it might be a good idea to forget this whole episode. It never happened.”