“That’s not too brave,” he said.
“I never said it was.”
He considered this. Then he put a hand on my shoulder.
“Well. Two weeks,” he said.
41
She was about my age, maybe a little older. Frizzy reddish hair. Three rings in her left eyebrow and another small ring at the edge of her nose. On top she wore some white T-shirt with a jean jacket over it, no bra or anything, so you could see the exact shape and size of her breasts. She wore a short skirt that showed off her legs. She had narrow hips and wore high black boots with silver zippers that came up almost to her knees. She had a really nice body, but her entire face, forehead, and neck were covered by sores, some of which were open, with a circle of yellowish pus in the middle. She was leaning against an abandoned building in that run-down warehouse area in west Chelsea. It had been a manufacturing and freight-handling district, but the companies had all left the city, and at that time, in the early nineties, it was a vacant, squalid, run-down part of Manhattan. She was the only person on the sidewalk for blocks in either direction. A slight figure against corrugated steel, seeming very small beneath that enormous, smoke-stained building. As I passed I looked at her body and then at her face and then back at her body. I turned the corner and walked down a ways. I stopped and turned and saw she was peering around the corner at me. She pulled her head away. I waited for her to look again but she didn’t. I went back and stopped about ten feet down the wall from her. She put a foot up behind her and leaned on her shoulders, making the best of her good features.
“So what’ll it be?” she said. “You walked by twice. You want something.”
“I wanna take your picture,” I said. “A photograph.”
“No touching?”
“No.”
“Twenty bucks,” she said.
“Wow,” I said.
“Twenty bucks.”
She was pretty brazen to ask for that much. I liked her for that. I reached for my wallet and she shook her head. “Not here.” She rolled her shoulders off the wall and I followed her to an abandoned gas station. She checked the street furtively, then slipped under the grate, which was only halfway down. We walked through a dim area of rusting machinery. To the left was a burnt-out office with a sheetless mattress on the floor. Going through a back door, you entered a courtyard formed by a wing of the garage and an abandoned building. A tree grew from a first-floor window. The young woman leaned against the brick wall.
“Here,” she said.
I gave her the twenty dollars and she took the bill, held it up to her face with two hands, then shoved it inside her shirt.
“Go ahead.” I didn’t take the shot. She waited. “What?” she said after a moment. “You want to . . .” Her eyes went toward the office. I shook my head. “Well, that’s thirty if you’re wondering. Thirty for a—” She pointed toward her mouth. “I don’t do the other. I’m sick.”
I touched my own face.
“That’s Kaposi’s?” I asked, and she said it was. She put a hand behind her neck, left the foot propped up, arched her back, stuck her chest out. “Most people would just go on and do whatever. I ain’t like that. Anyway, I’m an expert at the . . .” She stuck her tongue out. “People come back for that.”
I didn’t reach for my camera.
“Now you see me up close, you don’t wanna picture,” she said.
“My girlfriend’s positive,” was all I said.
“You’re fuckin with me.”
“No. I’m not.”
“You got the virus?” she asked after a moment.
“No.”
“Cause I want a kid. I ain’t a bad person. I don’t wanna fuck no one else. But I wanna kid.” She looked toward the office. “Sometimes, if it’s someone I like, I take it outta my mouth.” She laughed. “I know how that sounds.”
I was just standing there.
“Well, go on. Take my picture. You paid for it.”
I took it without even looking through the viewfinder.
“That ain’t the real thing,” she said. “Go on. Take another.”
She put a hand up on her chest. She opened her jacket.
“Go ahead, take one of that.”
“Maybe in a minute.”
Her hand was up on her chest, moving. It went lower. Something grotesque about that. I felt a little sick.
“Is that what you wanted?” she asked.
“No.”
“Whattaya do with’m? You sell’m?”
“I look at them.”
“Like you get off on it?”
“Nah, it’s just the way I see things.”
“And you don’t want that?”
“No.”
She stopped abruptly.
“Your girlfriend—she look like me?”
“No.”
“Not yet, anyway,” she said.
“No. Not yet.”
“I used to be pretty.”
“I can see that,” I said.
“Can you?”
“Yes.”
She smiled and I took a quick shot. I knew even as I took it that it was a good photograph. Despite everything, she had a really nice smile. Something gentle and almost innocent about it. Against that brick wall, dressed up like she was, with that gaunt, scarred face, some really nice, genuine smile. I was smiling, too.
“Now you’re glad you took the picture,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“Now you’re happy.”
“You have a nice smile,” I said.
I could see she appreciated the compliment.
She leaned against the wall.
“Come here,” she said.
She was leaning against the wall with her leg up.
“No. Here, right up to me.”
I walked up. I was a little afraid of what she’d do, but all she did was put the bill back in my hand. “Come back when you’re positive,” she said, and then waved a hand at me, turning away before I did.
42
Outside the double doors, Emily set her fencing bag down gently. Beyond, in the gymnasium, we could hear the squeak of rubber-soled shoes on wood, the murmur of a small crowd, the ding from the judge’s bell.
“Are you nervous?” I asked.
“No.”
She stood with her hands locked in front, almost as if she were praying.
“Can you beat her?”
“I can,” she said. “But I never have.”
In her white uniform Emily stood out very brightly in the dim hallway. We heard footsteps. Myra arrived from the locker room with her foils and glove and mask. She stepped over and said, “Good luck.”
“Yeah, good luck,” Emily said.
They shook hands shyly. Myra tapped my shin with her foil.
“Hey, Frank,” she said.
That was all she said, but she said it in a nice way. She went inside and when the doors opened we heard the sounds from the gym come out clearly. The door clacked shut.
“Are you ready?” I asked, and Emily lifted her bag. I held the door for her.
There were two strips set up for the fencing. A judge sat on the near side with a clipboard. I sat in the stands with maybe fifty other people. It was the finals of the tournament. Emily walked to the edge of the gymnasium and faced the wall. She pulled her glove on slowly. She gripped her foil and walked back to where Myra stood waiting. Myra and Emily wished each other luck again. The judge made a mark on her clipboard. They touched each other with their foils to test the Uhlmann scoring boxes, and the bout began.
The difference in styles was obvious from the beginning. Emily jumped and leapt and thrust, while Myra simply clacked here and there with calculation, precision. Myra seemed the better fencer, and I thought Emily didn’t have much chance, though she held her own through the early part of the bout. They were tied at one, two, and then at four. At five-five I saw Emily fake a thrust; Myra parried, and Emily went in behind her foil and struck her directly on the chest. It w
as a beautiful move, and I got up and cheered. Myra pulled her mask off and rolled her eyes, but I could tell that Emily liked it.
The bout went on, and it was very close. At nine-nine Emily parried and thrust at the outset, scoring a touch, but Myra was in motion herself, and instead of arresting her thrust, she accelerated it. Her foil struck Emily’s chest solidly, knocking her back. This merited a penalty against Myra. Emily had the wind knocked out of her and had to wait a moment to start up again. On the next exchange the two locked foils, their heads not more than eighteen inches apart. Slowly Myra forced Emily from her. Suddenly, with her left hand, Emily pushed her, not hard, but hard enough to knock her back. This was a penalty in return. And for a moment I saw anger in Emily’s movements. I was suspicious that Myra’s initial penalty was a purposeful attempt to rattle Emily. I wanted to go to her, to tell her to calm down. But there was nothing I could do. It was the middle of the bout. Emily stood with her back to the crowd, adjusting her glove. When she turned to face the crowd, I saw she’d regained her composure. The bout resumed.
Emily scored a touch on the next exchange, and the next, and the next. One minute later it was fourteen-eleven, Emily ahead. Myra, with a burst of strength, pushed Emily back, back, back, until only the tip of Emily’s toe remained in the strip. Then, deftly, Emily parried and went in for a touch, and it was over. Emily had won the tournament. Myra pulled her mask off, shook Emily’s hand listlessly, but then smiled, and Emily tapped Myra on the side with her glove. I was on the floor moving toward them. Emily dropped her mask to hug me with two arms and some brightness spread through me, through both of us, and was held there for a moment, like ringing is held in a bell.
43
Burnett lifted the last box and set it inside the back of the truck. He balanced himself by gripping onto the roof, then slipped inside. By the jerky way he moved, by his wide eyes, I could see he was frightened. I walked to the back of the truck and stood at the door. Hock was about thirty yards away, at the mouth of the bays.
“Get in,” Burnett hissed from inside the truck.
“Yeah, I’m coming,” I said, but I did not get in.
I walked between the two trucks.
“Frank!” Burnett said, but I’d already left him.
Jones was standing at the driver’s-side door. He had a gun inside his jacket, pointing at the driver, who was a white guy, about forty years old, with straight blond hair, a blond mustache, and pockmarked skin. There was a crumpled pack of cigarettes on the dashboard. Rivera sat in the passenger seat, a baseball cap pulled over his eyes. He also had a gun, held low. As I neared the open door, I took my camera from my pocket. The guy glanced up fearfully, and before he realized what I was doing, I shot, blinding him— a startled, fearful expression in the photograph. Hock saw the flash and turned. I took another shot of the driver as he held his lips close together, looking away. Through the windshield I saw Hock coming toward me. I felt Jones’s hand on my elbow. He tried to draw me away. One more shot with Rivera, out of focus in the background. I leaned in and spoke to the driver: “Now we know who you are. We know you.”
I felt Jones’s hand loosen. Rivera watched, his eyes sparkling, holding laughter. I stepped between the two trucks and jumped in the back, where Burnett whacked me with a rolled invoice from the shipment. Hock appeared a moment later. He shut the one door and hopped inside. He shut the other door and it was dark. I felt the engine start up, the door up front slam, and we were moving. Hock, Burnett, and I sat among boxes of Dilaudid, liquid morphine, fentanyl, and Valium. Thousands of dollars’ worth of class-one narcotics. We were quiet. Burnett pushed his boot against my thigh, but he said nothing. I felt us accelerating on a turn; the light from the tinted windows grew brighter. We were on the Harlem River Drive. I lay against the curved metal of the wheel hub. There were no sirens. Burnett was peering out the little window fearfully. Hock was looking at the boxes, reading the labels, counting them. We were turning onto the bridge, steel supports flickering by the window. Turning off the bridge, we were in New Jersey, driving slowly through Fort Lee. Burnett said, “You’re a dumbfuck, Frank.” He was the first one to talk. He pushed hard with his heel on my thigh. “Dumbfuck.” I just lay back, looking at the sky outside the window. I felt calm, even peaceful. Burnett said, “He’s fuckin takin pictures. Whatta you think, Gil?”
“I think we made a lotta money,” Hock said. “That’s what I think. I think we just made a lotta fuckin money.”
Burnett hit the side of the van. He started laughing and then he swore. I could hear them laughing up front, too. The rocking motion of the van eased. The darkly tinted trees slowed outside the window. The van had stopped. The doors in the back opened and the three of us climbed out onto the parking lot near the harbor in Fort Lee. A long thin boat cut up the middle of the river, going toward Albany.
“Two days,” Hock said to Burnett. “I’ll get you in two days. You too, Frank.”
“Dumbfuck,” Burnett said to me again, backhanding me on the shoulder, then walking quickly to his car. Jones smiled at Burnett’s back.
“You did all right, Frank,” Hock said.
“Thanks.”
“I wasn’t sure you would. But you did.”
I glowed with pleasure. Jones stood in front of me, looked me up and down.
“You are one crazy motherfucker,” he said.
I could tell it was a compliment.
44
I was in the hallway outside the Scala Gallery. In my backpack I had all my best photographs mounted in a portfolio. I wandered through the gallery, pretending to look at the prints on the walls, but really just trying to get enough courage to hand the portfolio in. I was very conscious of the weight on my shoulder. The Scala always had good photographs, great photographs, even. I was sure everything I’d done was an embarrassment. A sham. Grotesque and perverse. One-note—just like Norman said. I placed my backpack on the windowsill and furtively opened the portfolio. I saw the dead kid staring blankly, the old man with maggots— I shut the portfolio. I felt ashamed having it in there. I started for the door. Behind the front desk was a kind-looking woman in her sixties with white hair held back by a red shoestring. She was watching me the whole time, and as I passed she said, “Do you have something to show?”
“No,” I said.
She nodded, and said softly, “Good luck.”
I liked her for saying that, but I did not turn the prints in. I walked out quickly and went up to Central Park. It was fifty degrees out and I spent the day in the North Meadow, taking pictures, drinking coffee, and reading a paperback novel in the sunlight.
45
Burnett held a tiny baby boy wrapped in a blue blanket. He cradled the baby with one big arm and waved the other about, gesturing theatrically.
“Named him? Whattaya think? Jack. Of course he’s Jack. What a question!”
Hock looked away. He was sick of Burnett talking about his kid. He nodded toward the loading bays. Gently, Burnett placed the kid in his wife’s arms, and the three of us stepped across the street and stood behind a pillar near a parked linen truck. Even as we walked over, Burnett said, “So, you got it? Tell me you got it.” Then, “Don’t be tellin me I came for nothing.”
“Yeah, I got it,” Hock said.
Hock held two manila envelopes, folded, joined by a rubber band. He took the rubber band off, tossed it to the side, looked at the names on the front, and handed one to me. He tossed the other one to Burnett, who fumbled with the envelope, then tore it open, saying, “It’s all there, right? I don’t need to be getting pissed off?”
Hock didn’t bother answering. Burnett began counting, smiling more and more broadly as he did. I took the envelope, turned it over, then folded it along the crease and put it in my pocket.
“Aren’t you gonna count it, Frank?”
“I trust you,” I said.
“He trusts me,” Hock said to Burnett, who looked too happy to make a deprecating remark. He was practically dancing around, holdin
g the money in his fist.
“We kicked some ass, didn’t we? Kicked some fuckin ass!”
Burnett started back for the car, holding the money. Hock held me there with a look. He didn’t say anything at first. Then, after Burnett had gotten some distance away, he said, “Cops were here yesterday.”
“Did they talk to you?”
“Nah, they didn’t talk to me.”
“They have a description?”
“Are you kidding?” Hock was smiling. “The driver practically shit his pants. He’s not sayin nothin. And if he did, I got a friend at the three-two house. That’s taken care of. Don’t worry about it.”
“I wasn’t worrying,” I said.
He nodded toward the envelope.
“Jones and Rivera. They liked you.”
“Good.”
“They wanna call you again. You up for something like that?”
“Sure.”
He was turning a vial of Valium over in his hand, studying it.
“They get you to do something, it’s not gonna be like this. Not gonna be a cakewalk. They call you, it’s gonna be something they don’t wanna do themselves. Know what I mean?” he said. I didn’t say anything. “But I see the way you are. You don’t give a fuck.”
“No. I guess I don’t,” I said.
I could see Burnett across the street, talking to his wife. Down the block, Emily came out of the ER entrance. She’d been at the clinic.
“There’s Emily,” I said.
Hock watched silently.
“So that’s her,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s go meet her.”
Hock put the vial in his pocket and the two of us caught up with Emily near Burnett’s station wagon. Burnett’s wife, Evelyn, leaned against the hood of the car, holding her kid.
“Emily, this’s Evelyn. Jack’s wife.”
She held a hand out from the baby.
“This’s my partner. Jack Burnett.”
They shook hands,
“And that’s Jack junior.”
“Fuckin-a right!” Burnett bellowed.
Emily peered over the wrapped blanket and stuck a finger out. Burnett murmured something to Evelyn, and she pulled the baby away. She brought the baby to the car, which was double parked. Emily was flustered a moment and then the moment passed. Hock stepped up, holding his hand out.
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