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“Sometimes.”
“You signed the nondisclosure agreement, right?”
“Of course.”
Jack thought about it. “Yeah. I’m still not talking about it.”
“Your call,” I said. I’d been so flustered the first time we met that I’d forgotten to run through the Very Personal Questionnaire, and now seemed like as good a time as any. I pulled my “J.S.” file out of my bag. “Let’s do some other questions, though.” We still had thirty minutes on the freeway.
Jack didn’t agree to answer, but he didn’t refuse, either.
I pulled out a ballpoint pen. “Are you on any drugs that we need to be aware of?”
“Nope.”
“Any vices? Gambling? Hookers? Shoplifting?”
“Nope.”
“Obsessions? Secret lovers?”
“Not at the moment.”
“You sound awfully monkish for a world-famous actor.”
“I’m taking a break.”
Noted. I went on. “Anger management problems? Deep dark secrets?”
“No more than anybody else.”
Mental note: a tad evasive there.
I turned back to the list. “Medical concerns?”
“Picture of health.”
“Markings?”
He frowned. “Markings?”
“On your body,” I clarified. “Tattoos. Birthmarks. Moles—remarkable or otherwise.”
“I have a freckle shaped like Australia,” he said, pulling to untuck his shirt.
“Stop!” I said. “I know what Australia looks like.” I wrote down “Australia freckle” and then went on. “Scars?”
“A few. Nothing to write home about.”
“At some point, I’ll need to get pictures of everything.”
“Why?”
I refused to hesitate. “In case we need to identify your body.”
“My dead body?”
“Your live body. Like in a ransom photo. Not that it would ever come to that.”
