The Photograph
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Who am I?

Every morning, just as I get out of bed, I look in the mirror and I ask
myself that same question.  Every morning I hope it's the same answer.

Armando Langustini.

My life depends on it.

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I've been undercover now for two months.  Undercover in the mob, that's
a dangerous place to be.  I can't afford to make mistakes like being
the wrong person, like being caught off-guard.  I had to leave myself
behind completely.  My friends, my family, are nothing but memories.
My life now is just the contents of a file, a blue file somewhere with
my name on it: Langustini A. 

Was this how it felt to be alone?  How my best friend in the whole world
felt two years ago, coming to Chicago?  I realise now how much he needed
me then, just like I need him now.  All I could bring with me are my
memories, anything else was too dangerous.  No evidence, no reminders,
just me and my memories. 

It was just after we first met, our first photograph together.  This
tourist couple were hanging around outside the consulate, and Fraser
was doing his wooden Indian thing.  I had to admit, he looked good doing
it.  If anybody was gonna be chosen to stand out front and be Canadian,
I would've chosen Fraser.  He didn't move a muscle the whole time he
was stood there.  He'd come thousands of miles to catch his father's
killer, and he never even blinked when I was telling him the progress
on the case I'd been making.  I couldn't believe anybody could take their
job so seriously.  Fraser always was pretty hard to believe. 

It's out there somewhere, in somebody's album, or on a slide somewhere.
They've probably used it to bore the ass off of their friends and family.
"We went to Chicago," they'd say, "and we saw a Mountie."  And they'd
be looking at me, with one of my best photogenic smiles and my arm around
Benny.  Me and Benny, together.  I've been imagining that picture right
there on the wall.  I can stare at that wall and that picture for hours,
me and Benny.  Together.  If I can keep that; if I can keep us, our friendship;
I can keep myself together. 

Some people might have said it's driving me crazy.  I say it's all that's
keeping me sane. 

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Who am I?

Every night, just before I go to sleep, I stare at the wall and I ask
myself that same question.  Every night I hope it's the same answer.

Raymond Vecchio.

My life depends on it.