PAPARAZZO
BY ELAINE TOGNERI
Here they come,” I muttered, one of a swarm of photographers loitering on the Arrivals Level of Terminal Four at LAX. My height allowed me to see the crush of passengers heading our way before everyone else. I scratched my beard, hoisted the portable recording camera to my shoulder, and peered in the viewfinder for the shot.
We all waited for Monday’s American Airlines flight from JFK anticipated to arrive at 8:40 p.m. Rumor had it movie star Galazy Reinhardt would show her hot body in LA for the first time since her celebrated split with Sean Penn. I focused the camera, using the face of a man hurrying toward the luggage carousel. For some reason, America wants to see the rich and famous as they stroll out of the spa, rush to a restaurant, or in this case amble through the airport. I don’t understand this fascination, but I don’t complain about it, either. The candid video clips I take don’t earn me much, but I have something to prove.
Passengers massed around the brushed-steel luggage return. I saw a leggy, long-haired blonde and started filming until I focused in on the face. Permanent frown lines pegged her as older than Galazy. I scanned the crowd huddling around the conveyor belt. Two husky men, a brunette in distressed jeans, and a short, older woman cast curious glances our way. My fellow paparazzi grumbled and spread out. I turned off the camera. Bags lurched round and round on the belt. Men and women retrieved their luggage and hurried off.
The flood of passengers slowed to a trickle and stopped. I’d stared at the revolving carousel for so long I had sea legs. Only one worn black suitcase with a yellow tie on the handle remained. I doubted it belonged to Galazy. Finally, an attendant collected it. Anyone who was somebody had come and gone, and Galazy wasn’t among them.
The swarm left LAX in search of a new queen. Some to catch celebrities leaving a movie premiere. Others headed to the nightclubs to photograph the rich at play. I didn’t have gas money after paying the rent and had bummed a ride to the airport with Harry, the owner of NewsUrWay, a website with high hopes he’d talked his rolling-in-bucks father into funding.
“Hey, Skip,” Harry called. “Want to grab a beer?”
That sounded great, except for my empty wallet. “Only if you’re buying.”
“Sure, business expense.” Harry matched my long stride as we headed for the parking lot. At five foot eleven, he’s five inches shorter but all leg. He’s what I call a friend, if it’s possible to have one in this business. It doesn’t matter that we’ve known each other since high school. If we saw a celebrity, we’d ditch each other in the second it took to get into position for the camera shot. Neither of us mentioned Galazy’s not showing. We’re used to leads fizzling out.
My car’s a used Dodge Caravan with a hundred thousand miles. It doubles as my studio on the road and a place to sleep when necessary. Harry drives a black BMW Z4, another gift from Daddy. We slid into the roadster’s leather seats, both ratcheted all the way back with the hopeless idea of accommodating our legs. Still a ride was a ride, and Harry was buying.
“Which bar?” I asked as he drove north on the Pacific Coast Highway.
“I’ve got this thing I promised my dad I’d show up for. At Marina del Rey.”
“So much for a beer. I’ll stay in the car.” Probably wouldn’t be allowed in anyway with my faded jeans and T-shirt, not to mention the facial hair. I brushed a hand over the beard my mother hated.
“You can’t dislike free. All you can eat and drink. Come on.”
“Which restaurant?”
“It’s casual. A private party at the Californian.” Harry shrugged. “No big deal. We’re almost there.”
“Even worse.”
Harry pulled in the drive, laughed, and pointed. “Read the sign and weep. Valet parking and no cameras. Do you even remember how to talk without that thing in front of your face?”
I growled as I grabbed my camera bag. “Does this piece of junk have a trunk?”
Harry popped it open, and we both stowed our gear. Harry handed the valet his ignition key.
We approached the hostess, a blonde with a sprayed-on tan and lots of cleavage. She said, “Welcome, gentlemen. The bar’s on the patio, and the buffet’s inside. May I check you in?”
“Arkling Junior and guest,” Harry said, breezing by.
When I followed him, he said, “Got to show my face. How about you score us some beers?”
The patio bar overlooked the marina and had lights shining on all those pretty sailboats. A light breeze trickled the ocean’s tang into the night air. I ordered two drafts, grabbed the chilled mugs, and found a spot at the rail. The first beer went down quickly. Since Harry wasn’t in view, I started on the second. Sipping this time, I studied the crowd. It’s a built-in phenomenon when you have my job. Mostly California surfer girl types and guys equally tan but older. A broad-chested man dressed in a business suit walked among them, nodding at all. He stopped to talk to a well-preserved brunette who looked like Sophia Loren. Her laughter at whatever he said confirmed the identification. I reached for my camera and cursed.
The car. I needed Harry to open the trunk. Where was he? Wait, the sign said no cameras. But I had my cell phone with its built-in shooter. My hand closed around it in my pocket. Oh, yeah! This was going to be an exclusive. Harry didn’t need to know. Sophia sauntered inside and I followed, waiting for the shot with the best lighting. She disappeared into the ladies’.
I stood close by. The picture would be even better after she freshened up. I pulled out the phone and flipped through the options, setting the highest resolution possible. Anybody would think I was checking my messages instead of getting ready to take a photo. Five minutes later, she still hadn’t come out. I pointed the phone lens at the door across the hall to take a practice shot. The doorway opened, revealing a conference room with two men huddled over a laptop. They looked up as I snapped the picture, a terrible shot as the reflection from the computer screen lighted the window, casting their faces into shadow except for a glint from the guy with the glasses. A waiter appeared in the doorway, carrying an empty water pitcher.
“Shut the door,” a gruff, accented voice called.
I turned away, slipping my phone in my pocket. Still no Sophia, but Harry walked right toward me.
“I couldn’t find you on the patio. Where’s my beer?”
“Sorry, dude. Got to let some out,” I said, pointing at the bathroom. “I’ll meet you at the bar.” I pressed on the door.
“Right behind you,” he said, following me in.
Crap! I would probably miss Sophia, or he’d see her and there would go my exclusive. I couldn’t leave without explaining, so I hurried.
“Dad’s dating one of those chick-lets,” he said. “Introduced me to her. Looks younger than Susie.”
Susie was Harry’s last girlfriend. If I remembered right, his dad hired a detective to see if she was after his money. She got so mad when the guy broke into her Facebook account and questioned all her friends and family, she had tossed all Harry’s stuff from her apartment’s bedroom window.
“Bummer!” I said, thinking more about missing Sophia. I stopped outside the ladies’. “You waiting for someone?” he asked.
“No, well, I did want a phone number.” I grabbed my phone and positioned it just in case of a miracle.
The door across the hall opened again, and one of the men came out. He had a dark mustache and olive skin that reminded me of an actor who did character parts. I pressed a button to snap his picture. The man at the laptop glared. “Are you taking pictures?” he yelled, standing and slipping off his glasses. His skin was pale, but his muscles bulged under the white tailored shirt. Again I noted a slight accent.
“No, no, just checking messages,” I said, striding away. “Harry, ready to go?”
Harry’s face hardened, and he whispered, “You lying SOB. Don’t get me in trouble with my dad.” He grabbed my arm and waved at the guys. “No worries. We’re just leaving.” We rushed to the door. Ha
rry handed the valet a twenty for quick service, and in short order, we roared away. I saw the pale guy staring after us. He reached for his wallet. The valet was making a killing tonight. He didn’t know me, but for another tip would blab all he knew about Harry.
“What the hell were you thinking taking pictures?” Harry asked.
“That’s my job. It’s how I relate to the world at large.”
“Bullshit! I’m tired of your little act. Who did you think you found?”
“I don’t have a clue.”
Harry shook his head. “Don’t call me for a ride again. In fact, I’ll drop you at the Metro. Get home on your own.”
ONCE I FINISHED the long trek to my apartment, I chugged a beer before going on the computer. I Bluetoothed the pictures into a folder on my laptop and duplicated them on the USB drive I kept on my key chain. I’d learned the hard way not to let pictures sit in the camera and to always make multiple copies. While I checked e-mail, I drank a few more brews. My eyes kept closing, or I would have finished the six-pack.
I tossed my keys on the kitchen counter next to the coffee machine, set the cell phone on the small table by my bed, and undressed. Too tired for anything but sleep, I dropped on top of the covers. I floated in a beer buzz until my bladder complained. That’s the major drawback of beer. What goes in must come out, usually at inopportune times. As I debated ignoring nature’s call and sleeping some more, I heard a click, like a door had eased shut. I reached for my cell. I didn’t know if I was going to call 911 or just see what the hell time it was. Couldn’t do either. The phone had disappeared.
I slid off the bed and snapped on the overhead light to verify what my hand had discovered. No cell phone. Not on the table, not on the floor. Had I left it in the other room? No way. I remembered the noise that woke me. My pulse quickened. Was someone in my apartment? I crept to the door and put my ear to the flimsy panel. A quick glance at the floor showed my bare feet cast a shadow. If anyone was in the living room, they’d see me behind the door. I flipped off the light, feeling like a horror flick victim who’d descended the basement stairs with a faulty flashlight. Too damn stupid to live.
I stood listening. My pulse thumped over the stillness. A car door closed. I raced to the bedroom window. Nothing in the rear parking lot. I ran to the door. I threw it open, and the knob crashed into the wall. That repair would bankrupt my security deposit, but I had bigger problems. Nothing moved in the living room or mini kitchen. I sped to the front window. A motor started. Grabbing a night-vision zoom lens and screwing it on my camera, I focused on a moving vehicle and kept snapping until the car vanished into the dark.
Breathing heavy, I stumbled to the light switch and flicked it on. The cable that chained my laptop to my desk lay on the floor cut in two pieces. An open expanse yawned on the desk, my laptop gone. I fumbled through the desk drawers and made sure my photo-editing software was still there. My camera equipment looked untouched. Thieves who ignored thousands of dollars in merchandise. They stole my cell phone and my laptop. What did those two items have in common? Still fuzzy from the beer, the only thing I could think of was the photos of the men at the Californian.
I checked the front door. Locked, but that didn’t mean much. Just turning the latch could bolt it behind you. I peeked through the peephole. No one in the hall. I opened the door. Scratches around the handle, on the doorframe, and all over the door itself with a layer of dirt covering them. They could have been there for years.
I didn’t want to call the police. No rental insurance to put a claim in on anyway. Too little in my checking account to pay for replacements. I could ask Mom for a handout, but the possibility she’d turn me down was 99 percent. The deal was I had to make it on my own. Plus, how would I make the call? I’d lost my phone.
I locked up and pulled a blanket and pillow off the bed. Settling on the floor in the living room near my remaining possessions, I tried to sleep again. Seconds later, I jerked awake. My keys? I found them in the kitchen where I’d left them. The USB drive still attached. I had a copy of those photos. I gripped the keys tightly the rest of the night.
BY MORNING, NOTHING made sense, but I had a plan. A friend worked at Loyola’s Keck Computer Lab. He could give me access to a PC. I headed to LMU intent on identifying the guy in the pictures.
Face recognition software would have helped, but you need a photo for comparison and the money to purchase the application. All I had was my picture, my brain, and Google. First task, download the pictures I’d taken of the car and save them to my USB drive. Second, save everything to a new Internet account. Third, blow up and print the pictures. Last, find the guy. After a couple of hours on the computer, I came up empty, so I broke down, begged my buddy for his cell phone, and called Harry.
When he answered, I said, “Hey, it’s Skip. Sorry about that situation last night. I wanted to try my cell phone camera.” I paced the hallway as we spoke.
“Did you get a new number?” he asked.
“No. Dead battery.” Why was I lying? Maybe because if he thought there was trouble, he might not be so forthcoming.
“Why are you calling me?” he asked.
“You’re right. I’m holding out on you. I took a picture of that guy with the mustache by the john. I thought he was a Latino character actor, but I can’t find him.”
“Wrong!” Harry sang out.
He loved besting me. “So you know who he is?” I turned toward the wall and leaned on it with a scrap of paper I’d taken from the lab.
“Of course, but he’s not a money picture.” Harry’s voice dripped disdain, like I should know better.
“Crap! Who is he?” I uncapped my pen.
“Some mucky-muck with International Accountants. They do business with my dad’s firm.”
Maybe I should have paid more attention to financial types when I had the chance. I scribbled the company name. “Listen, I’ve got a shot of the President’s dog you can use on your website if you want some filler. No charge.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that you still owe me.”
“Understood.” After we hung up, I returned to the computer and visited the International Accountants’ website. I clicked on officers. Sure enough Harry was right. I found a smiling picture of Pedro Hernandez, one of the company’s many VPs. So big deal. Why did the pale-faced nerd on the laptop care if I took Pedro’s photo?
I thanked my friend, grabbed my camera bag, and headed out for a day’s worth of stalking at one of LA’s luncheon hot spots. Lunch turned into dinner, and by the time I stopped at the library for more free PC access, I had a few clips of minor leaguers. Enough for gas money anyway. Using my e-mail and PayPal accounts, I sold the shots and then took the Metro home, my eyes closing so often I almost missed my stop. When I finally entered my apartment, I was ready for only one thing, bed.
The chunky man with a shaved head who lounged on my blue leather sofa had other ideas. When he stood, I matched his height, but every other part of him outmatched me. He smiled, his lips so large his teeth barely showed. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said. “We need to do some business.”
“This isn’t how I do business,” I said, turning to examine the shelves of camera equipment above my desk. They looked untouched. I needed a new lock. One with a dead bolt.
“You take pictures for a living, right?”
I turned to him. “You from the IRS?”
“I want to buy some of your work.” He pointed to a canvas satchel on the sofa. “For cash.”
“Not IRS then.” I shrugged. “What are you looking for?”
“The pictures you took last night. All copies.”
“Tell Sophia not to worry. Her secret’s safe. I didn’t capture her on film.”
He stepped closer. “Don’t be an idiot. Make the deal.”
“How much?”
He gave a tentative smile. “That’s better.” He looked at the sparse furnishings in my apartment. “A thousand bucks.”
A lowball of
fer because he thought I was hurting. Probably counting on telling his client it cost more and pocketing the difference. I shook my head. “Tell Pedro my laptop’s worth more than that. All I want is my phone and computer.”
Mystery Writers of America Presents the Rich and the Dead Page 31