Black Cat Weekly #21

A PHOTO’S WORTH, by David Hagerty

A PHOTO’S WORTH,

by David HagertyThe Barb Goffman Presents series showcases

the best in modern mystery and crime stories,

personally selected by one of the most acclaimed

short stories authors and editors in the mystery

field, Barb Goffman, for Black Cat Weekly.

As usual, I get my first shot at Cuppa Joe on Powell Street. It’s actually not my type of place, all froufrou milkshakes masquerading as coffee. Mostly, it serves moms with baby strollers on their way to the yoga studio. They’re plentiful in San Francisco, especially on sNob Hill, but Joe does make a good espresso, and it’s a convenient spot for me to catch up.

Sitting outside on my Honda 250 Nighthawk, with my camera gear stashed in the saddlebags, I start calling my sources. See who’s seeing who. The Dodgers are in town, and I’ve heard a rumor that their shortstop is dating Lyla, my favorite actress, who lives in town. My goal for the day is a picture of the two of them together. First I check with the maître d’ at Rubicon.

“Hey, it’s Mitch. You got any reservations for Dodger players today?”

“I got Robin Williams coming in for lunch,” he says.

“That’s not news. He owns the frigging place, but call me back if you hear from DeNiro. I need a shot of his new facial hair.”

The doorman at the Clift Hotel tells me the Dodgers are staying there (as usual), but the shortstop went straight to his room after check-in and hasn’t been seen since.

“Find out when they leave for the game and call me back,” I say.

Last, I check in with Lyla’s hairdresser.

“We haven’t got her on the calendar today, but I hear she needs a new dress for the opening next week. You might want to cruise the Marina, see if you can pick her up there.”

The odds of spotting her on the streets are pretty low, so I wait where I am. Being a nondescript guy helps in this line of work. I’m medium height, medium build, medium-brown hair, and medium skin tone. People have said I look like everything from Arab to Mexican to Italian (actually, I’m Portuguese, but nobody ever guesses that). Usually I can stand outside a coffee shop or a restaurant without attracting attention, which to me is the worst thing that can happen. Then you got security guys, handlers, and hangers-on getting in the way of your photo.

Five minutes later my patience is rewarded when Lyla walks into the coffee shop. She’s trying to go incognito in a black wool overcoat and bug eye sunglasses, her dark hair twisted in a spiral on top of her head, but I can spot her walk from a half mile away.

Even though I’m wearing my helmet and a black leather jacket, Lyla sees me as she’s walking out. We make eye contact briefly, and she turns away like we’ve never met, but she knows I’m on her. I put in a quick call to Sandra, her publicist.

“Nothing today. You’re wasting your time.” Sandra always sounds put upon, even though she makes over a hundred grand for taking Lyla’s messages.

“No day with Lyla is a waste.”

“Listen, if you’re going to follow her, do me a favor, will you? There’s some creepy fan who’s stalking her. Keep an eye out for him?”

“I’ll make sure to get a photo.”

“Thanks. So far it’s just been letters, but if we can show that he’s threatening, we can file for a restraining order.”

“You got it, as long as I get the exclusive for next week’s softball tournament.”

“Like anybody else wants it.”

We hang up, and Lyla’s green Prius rolls past. Check the license plate, and it’s confirmed. I pull out three cars behind and follow but not too close. I’ve always believed that being polite gets better results. No starting fights or car accidents. Guys who do that stuff ruin it for the rest of us. People call us the paparazzi, which means “buzzing insects,” but I think the term is all wrong. Acting the fool, I’d never be able to focus on a few celebrities the way I do.

I started tracking Lyla’s career about two years ago, but not for the usual reasons. Sure, she’s good looking, but in Hollywood pretty actresses are more common than nail salons. What makes her different is, as far as I can tell, her looks are natural (no obvious plastic surgery, and brunette hair highlighted only by the sun). Plus, she’s an up-and-comer. My first shot of her sold for only $50, but since then the price has increased tenfold. The TV show she’s on has got a following now, and if she really does have a thing going with the shortstop, it’ll promote her to A-list in the tabloids.

As she turns onto California Street, a cable car gets in between us. It’s packed with tourists hanging out the windows trying to get a photo of the Transamerica Pyramid building. People say the paparazzi take risks, but I’d never try to shoot from a herky-jerky trolley.

I swing around the tram and pull in behind her again. Which way is she turning? If it’s left, she’s headed to Golden Gate Park for a jog or brunch in Noe Valley at Firefly. If it’s right, then she’s going to the Marina for shopping. I know her patterns better than I know my own wife’s (which, I admit, causes some friction between us).

Today she’s not even trying to lose me. Most people think celebrities hate the entertainment press, but it’s not true. Sure, they all complain relentlessly about harassment, but they need us. If they only get their picture in the papers at movie openings and press junkets, their box office will be dead. Nobody wants to read canned quotes about how great the director is, but give them a photo of two celebrities on a date and you’ve got an extra half million in sales for both the movie and the magazine.

Don’t think all those upskirt and nip-slip photos are accidents. Ever notice that stars hit the beach topless when they have a new movie opening? It’s a show, and they’re all complicit. I once photographed a guy from one of those boy bands on dates with five different women in a week, even though everybody knew he was sleeping with his homeboy and “personal assistant.”

Her next move surprises me. Instead of turning, she continues straight until she runs into the Legion of Honor. In the two years I’ve been covering her, I’ve never known her to go to a museum, but I’m intrigued. Maybe she’s working on her image.

There are two great things about riding a motorcycle in San Francisco. One is that it’s easy to maneuver through traffic. The other is you can get parking anywhere. While she drives around looking for a space, I pull into one of a dozen spots set aside for bikes, get out my camera, and snap on a portrait lens before she reaches the museum entrance.

“You mind?” I ask.

“Would it matter if I did?”

She poses for me anyway, stripping off her overcoat, hands on hips, shoulders turned, a classy look that’s vintage Hollywood. Her black velvet dress really shows off her fair skin and muscular arms. Good thing it’s sunny today—a rarity in this city.

“What are you seeing?” I ask.

“Pictures.”

While she’s posing, several teenage girls come up seeking autographs and getting in the way of my shot. Lyla is polite as ever, signing for them and even posing for a grip-and-grin shot with two cute blondes. I take a couple shots myself of the scene but mostly try to stay out of the way.

As I’m waiting, I notice one guy standing to the side who doesn’t fit with the other fans. He’s in his forties, I’d guess, with curly red hair and a thin beard. He’s dressed respectably in jeans and a polo shirt but doesn’t seem to have a reason for being here. In one hand he’s got a point-and-shoot camera, but he’s not taking any photos. Instead he’s just staring at her.

After Lyla walks away, he approaches me.

“Get any good shots?”

“A couple.”

“You ever sell them?”

“No,” I say and walk away.

I make a mental note to keep an eye on him, then rebuke myself for not getting his mug shot earlier. It’s probably not worth anything, but I did promise Lyla’s publicist I would. Looking around, I can’t find him again and decide to let it go. He’s probably no one.

The museum doesn’t allow photography, so I wait outside. Looking at that white marble facade, which mimics an ancient Greek theater, I can’t help but think about the scene in Vertigo where Kim Novak’s character is in there staring at the painting of Carlotta. That was me as a kid at the Ansel Adams museum. I couldn’t get enough of those black-and-white landscapes, which are the only art I ever really appreciated.

After years as an amateur shutterbug, I started out as a stringer for the local papers, taking pictures of Giant games, car crashes, fires—your basic ambulance chaser. At the time I was making a marginal living, sharing a two-bedroom apartment with three other people (and that was before the dot-com boom made this place totally unaffordable). Then one day I caught Julia Roberts and Ben Bratt driving a red convertible through the Mission before anybody knew they were dating. That shot sold for $50,000, which was twice what I made for the entire year before. Since you can’t live in the city on $100 a day, I switched to entertainment reporting. It’s not that different, really. You still have to cultivate sources, rush around a lot, document what’s happening. The major difference is the pay. While most journalists take a slow path to poverty, I’ve got a flat in the Sunset and a wife who can afford to stay home and raise our two daughters. If that makes me a bad guy, I guess I am.

Since I’ve bagged my first money of the day, I allow myself an early lunch break. A hot dog cart just outside the entrance is serving them just the way I like: steamed, with fresh sauerkraut and relish. I wash it down with some vinegar-and-salt potato chips and a soda, then take a seat on a park bench to check my voice mail.

“Hey, Mitch, it’s Joe from the Clift. That ballplayer you were looking for? He just left in a burgundy nine eleven, but if you want a shot of their starting pitcher, he’s drinking in the bar.”

A burgundy 911. Didn’t I see one pulling out of the lot while I was eating? The message came in an hour ago while I was fighting traffic, more than enough time for the shortstop to drive across town.

Breaking my own rules, I pay for admission to the museum and check the galleries. Fortunately it’s small, so I can be sure. She’s gone. Must have sneaked out some side exit, but I talk to a guard just to be sure.

“Who?” he says.

“Last year’s MVP.”

“I don’t watch baseball.”

He’s a young guy with a punk haircut, which would explain his indifference to the national pastime.

“What about Lyla?”

He shrugs, totally stumped.

“A good looking brunette in a black dress?”

“We get a lot like that in here.”

Turning to go, I realize he’s tipped his hand. If he’s not a baseball fan, how does he know which sport I’m talking about? They must have told him to keep quiet.

Outside, I jump on the bike and head back toward the center of the city. The question is where? At traffic lights, I call all my usual sources but come up empty. Nobody’s seen them yet or they’re playing dumb. My only option is to try her house.

It sits in Twin Peaks, which ordinarily would be only a fifteen-minute drive, but for some reason today lunch traffic is terrible. I have to slalom through cars all the way across town and nearly get sideswiped by a bus at one intersection. By the time I reach her front gate, it’s nearly one o’clock. The shortstop has only got a few hours before first pitch. Why not wait until after the game’s over and then go out?

Lyla’s wood fence is ten-feet high (which technically is illegal, but for celebs the city will look the other way), and I have to climb up the neighbor’s steps to get a view inside the courtyard. The Porsche is parked in the driveway, but I can’t see any sign of them. I scan the house with a 500 mm telephoto. California recently outlawed using long lenses to photograph inside private property, but not to see. At least I’ll have some idea what they’re up to. Her house is one of those modern places where all the walls are solid glass, so I can see inside most of the rooms. Still no activity, which means they’re either in the game room at the back or they’re avoiding me.

“What are you doing on my steps?” says a woman nearby. A bleached-blond society maven is watching me from her window.

“Just getting a shot of the skyline,” I say.

I wave thanks and vacate her stoop before she calls the police. Just in case, I move my bike to a spot up the street where I can keep an eye on Lyla’s driveway but where I’ll be invisible from her house. In this profession I’ve learned patience waiting for hours outside restaurants and clubs. It’s a peculiar kind of patience, though, one more about anticipation than forbearance. During times like these, I check my equipment, watch the sun, observe the run of the place, and pre-visualize the pic I want. People always dismiss paparazzi photos because they’re grainy or out of focus, but really getting shots like ours requires more skill and planning than photographing wildlife or news. Celebrities are both elusive and stage-managed, so you have to be prepared to fire in a moment when their expression is unplanned or their clothing disarranged.

As I’m taking in the view of the city below, watching fog rolling in toward the Golden Gate, her gate rolls open to reveal the Porsche. I raise the camera and zoom in tight. Exhaust comes out of the tailpipe, but the car idles. Because of the angle, I can’t tell who’s in it. Then she emerges from the house and walks to the driver’s window, only now she’s wearing cutoff jeans, pump sandals, and a bikini top. In a moment, he leans out and kisses her on the lips. My finger pulls the trigger like a machine gunner, firing off a dozen frames a second until he backs out and leaves. When the gate closes, I check the viewer and there it is: a perfect shot of the kiss with both their faces visible. Worth twenty grand at least.

Packing up my gear, I imagine a bidding war between magazines. How many should I call to maximize the price? I’ve narrowed the list to ten when a single man walks up the hill and stops in front of Lyla’s gate. He pulls on the handle to check that it’s locked. Reflexively, I grab my camera for a closer view. It looks like the guy from the museum—same red hair, same scraggly beard, same slim build, though now he’s wearing a gray jumpsuit like the utility workers. He looks around to see if anyone is watching, and I snap a couple frames. My instincts tell me he’s up to something, and sure enough, a moment later he pulls himself up and over the gate with a dexterity I haven’t seen since middle school.

The words of Lyla’s publicist come back to me. “There’s some creepy fan who’s been threatening her.” Could he have followed me to her house? The prospect that I’m responsible for exposing her sickens me. I scan the property with my zoom lens. In the kitchen, a figure is moving around, but I’m too far away to make out who it is. I snap a couple frames (since I can enlarge them later on) and watch as the figure reaches out and grabs the arms of someone hidden behind the refrigerator. Suddenly, the two of them swing around, and I can see Lyla clearly. Her heavy brunette waves hide her face, but her body language is clear: she’s afraid.

With one hand I call the police on my cell phone while keeping an eye on the camera lens. I give the dispatcher a quick rundown of what’s happening but refuse to give my name since I don’t want anyone to know that I’m looking inside her place. Then Lyla falls away, literally, disappearing from view. Crap, what am I supposed to do?

I’ve always preferred to act as an observer, to record what other people are doing rather than making news myself, but I can’t help it. Before I even know what’s happening, I’m clambering over the wall, despite two cameras dangling around my neck.

Inside the courtyard, I see a body sprawled out on the kitchen floor. As I walk closer, I recognize the redhead, whose hair is now stained much darker with blood. He’s not moving, and from the looks of it he won’t be again. A wood baseball bat lies next to him. Lyla is nowhere in sight. My relief that she got away is quickly replaced by a practical thought. This is the shot of a lifetime. A dead man in a celebrity’s house? No one gets a chance like that twice.

I slide open the glass door and step around the spreading pool of blood. One of my mentors told me “get something, then worry about making it good.” I take his advice, firing off a quick dozen frames, then pausing to work on the composition. Ideally I’ll get one with both his face and a framed portrait of her in the background, but the angles are all wrong. Though it’s a violation of all my journalistic ethics, I rearrange the scene by moving her photo to the countertop. After two snaps I reach for my wide angle lens only to hear another click behind me—Lyla with a cell phone camera aimed back at me.

“Gotcha,” she says.

The police sirens follow immediately after, and pretty soon I find myself sitting on the living room floor with my hands cuffed behind my back. In the other room, I hear her talking to a police officer.

“They’ve both been stalking me,” she says. “I heard them fighting in the kitchen, and when I came downstairs that poor man was bleeding to death.”

Her voice rises and falters with emotion, cracking at just the right moment. It’s the best performance she’s ever given.

“I got a picture of the photographer standing over the body,” she says.

As I’m listening, it occurs to me that I have no photos of the two of them together and none that will exonerate me in the least. At the critical moment, my worst instincts failed me. What’s a photo worth if it can’t even save me from myself?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

David Hagerty is the author of the Duncan Cochrane mystery series, which chronicles crime and dirty politics in Chicago during his childhood. In addition to these novels, he has published more than two dozen short stories online and in print. Read more about him at davidhagerty.net or on f*******:: https://w**************m/pages/category/Writer/David-Hagerty-Author-1517793858476289/

THE ALMOST PERFECT MURDER,

by Hulbert Footner