“Do you know if he and Nina ever—”
“If it ain’t the devil himself,” the woman interrupted, looking over my shoulder with a forced smile that bared a picket fence of rotted teeth and gave me a spray of beer breath. “Now don’t he look like something the cat coughed up?”
The description was apt, even though it was uttered with something close to affection. Dale Crowder was as scruffy a human being as I had ever seen. His face was puffy and devoid of color but for the veins that laced his cheeks and nose. His eyes were bleary and languid smudges of soil. His lips were slack sacks sent occasionally atremble by the exhaust of his heaving chest. His clothing was a stained and torn ensemble of T-shirt and overalls and underwear; his posture was tilted and untenable.
He was drunk but not drunk enough to be oblivious—the conclave on his stoop disturbed him. “I told you not to let no one in here, woman. What you telling him about my business?”
“You got no business, you stinking old fart. The only business you got comes in the bottom of a bottle.”
The insult didn’t faze him. “I told you not to let no more people in here.”
“He ain’t in, is he? And he ain’t been in. So take a poke at someone else ’fore I knock you down and sit on you. You ain’t so drunk you can’t remember last time I did it, either.”
The purity of her riposte seemed to deflate him. “What’s he want?” Crowder said as he shifted to retain his balance. I might as well have been in Cleveland.
“Don’t know,” she said with unconcern.
“Is he gummit?”
“Says not. Says he’s looking for your dumpling.”
“Nina?”
“That’s right,” I interjected heartily. “I wonder if you could tell me where she is.”
His eyes wandered my way, though not in a straight line. “Why should I?”
“Because she might be in trouble and I might be able to get her out of it.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Police trouble.”
“I knowed there was something wrong. She’s in jail, right? That’s where she went. What was it, drugs?”
“It’s not that kind of trouble,” I said.
“What kind is it?”
“Worse.”
“What’s worse than drugs?” he asked with odd sincerity. I think he really wanted to know.
As I was considering another line of questions, my silence made him nervous, the way men like him are always nervous when confronted by real or specious authority. “Who are you, the new stud?” he asked, his demeanor halfway between a bully and a sidekick.
“What stud are you referring to?”
“The one with the fancy car.”
“I’m not him. What else do you know about him?”
“Nothing.”
“She tell you his name?”
He shook his head and lost his balance again. “She don’t talk to me. Don’t even know me,” he added mournfully. His sadness was so engulfing that I almost felt sorry for him, until I remembered the look on his ex-wife’s face as she defined the contours of their marriage.
The orientation toward the past took the final puffs of wind from his bluster and without that ballast he drifted off center. He seemed to shrink in size and strength by half; the woman went to his side and held him upright by placing a beefy arm around his narrow waist. They looked like Ma and Pa Kettle.
Suddenly Crowder reached in his overalls and pulled out a picture and handed it to me. It was wrinkled and stained and smudged, but it was undoubtedly Nina Evans, nearly naked in front of a gray backdrop, wearing a silk scarf and a string of pearls and little else, as sensuous as a spread for Vogue by Avedon or Penn.
Crowder was grinning like a papa. “They don’t believe she’s mine,” he said. “The boys at the Juneau think I got this out of some fuck book. But this ain’t porn, is it, mister? This is art. Ain’t it?”
I told him I thought it was.
“I’ll be in the shed,” Crowder tacked suddenly, and started down a path toward the rear of the house.
“Stay out there till you don’t stink no more,” the woman ordered heavily.
Crowder waved his fist and kept going. I started to follow but Mabel grabbed my arm. “He don’t let no one back there.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t know.”
“What’s he do back there?”
“Mostly he thinks about what he used to have before he drank it all away.” She looked down toward the steel mill, then at a ferry floating off in the distance. “Now all he’s got is me. It ain’t been enough to sober him up.”
CHAPTER 16
For the longest time she doesn’t know what she is seeing. The screen is a blur of color and texture—shadow, then bright light; monochrome, then multicolored; flat, then puckered and creased and carved and twisted. Nothing registers and everything does. For an instant, she thinks she sees her subliminal self, there and gone in a flash, but decides she must be mistaken.
“How did you get it to go that fast?” she asks when the segment is finished.
“Get what?”
“The camera.”
“The camera didn’t move.”
“Then you must be running the tape at fast-forward.”
He looks at her triumphantly, as though it is the mistake he has predicted she would make. “There is no tape.”
“Sure there is. There has to be. Videotape or film; that’s all there is.”
“Not anymore.”
“What else?”
“When you were at the studio, did you notice the thing draped in white pima sitting on the tripod?”
“Yeah. So?”
“It’s one of only four of its kind in the world.”
“What is it?”
“A digital video camera. No film; no tape—the image goes straight to disk. You will be part of the first real-time, full-motion, binary imaging system in the history of the world. We’ve finally got the chips and accelerators and CPUs and MPEG compression technology and quad-speed CD-ROMs and the high-resolution display devices to do fully digital, 30 fps full-motion video. If this works anywhere near the way we envision, you’re going to be a legend in your own time.”
When she is sure he isn’t kidding, she pulls the sheaf of paper toward her and begins to read the contract.
On the way out of Youngstown I found a phone near the freeway and called the number Fiona had given me. She answered on the second ring.
“I’d like to talk to you about a few things,” I said after she came on the line and I’d reminded her who I was.
Her voice was airy and abstract. “Have you found her yet?”
“No. That’s what I want to talk to you about.” I waited for her to say something about Richter’s murder and was surprised when it didn’t come up.
“I’m off to the gym in a few minutes,” she said after a pause to consider my bona fides. “I could meet you there after my workout, it’s on top of Queen Anne Hill. There’s a little park nearby, we could go there afterward and chat. I’ll bring coffee in a Thermos,” she added, as though conversation without caffeine was unthinkable. We agreed to meet in an hour at Pro Robics.
I got there a little early, after some corn chowder and green salad at a café called the 5-Spot, which was better than its name implied. The gym occupied part of a larger building that housed everything from commercial offices to an Italian restaurant. The woman at the desk was young and cute and as tanned as a pomegranate. She was also friendly in the way that’s depressing when you get to be my age, because it means they don’t regard you as a conceivable complication should you misinterpret their kindness for chemistry.
I told her I was meeting Fiona. The woman told me the class had just finished and Fiona was probably in the shower. With a sparkle in her eye, she warned me that I’d have to take her word for it. Then she exactly estimated the state of my physical fitness by pointing to the couch by the TV as the place where I should park myself.
For the next five minutes a succession of sweaty bodies flowed past my post, coming from the StairMaster machines in the room to the left or the aerobics room to the right. Most of them were female, wearing Lycra shorts under jersey tops that were anchored to their torsos by thongs that would have been banned in Boston during most of my lifetime. I felt like a rake when I wasn’t feeling as out of place as monk at a Pentecostal meeting.
A short time later, Fiona emerged from behind a swinging door, gym bag over her shoulder, wearing short shorts and heavy socks and a tank top that would have shown an extra ounce of fat if there had been one under there to show. She smiled and waved and went to the desk to retrieve her card from the clerk, then beckoned me to follow her outside—I hadn’t been as relieved since the last time I got out of jail.
“Are you driving?” Fiona asked as she waited on the sidewalk outside.
I nodded. “That’s the first black mark against your city, by the way. The stoplights.”
“I know, I know; they last forever, even when there isn’t any traffic, and they aren’t coordinated. It takes hours to drive ten blocks.”
“The lights are bad and the drivers are worse. Why did they make turn signals illegal up here?”
Fiona laughed. “At least they’ve stopped arresting people for jaywalking.” She pointed. “There’s a funny little place down that way called Bhy Kracke Park.”
“Buy Crack Park? Anywhere near Random Shooting Plaza?”
“It’s just pronounced that way; it’s spelled differently.” She patted her bag. “I’ve got some nice Kenyan,” she said, and directed me to the park, which turned out to be a steeply terraced corner on the southeast edge of Queen Anne Hill with a panoramic view of the city. Mount Rainier looked on like a proud parent from beyond the spike of downtown, Lake Union and its floating homes lay low to the left, and the Northern Cascades were hints of winter in the distance.
We sat on a bench and sipped coffee. I told her the Kenyan was great without really meaning it, the way I say sourdough bread is great without really meaning it, either.
After some simultaneous sips, Fiona regarded me with a frown. “You’re not really worried about her, are you? Nina’s a cool head. She wouldn’t do anything dumb.”
“It doesn’t take dumb to get in trouble these days. All it takes is a wrong turn.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “In addition to those kind of hazards, once guys find out you take off your clothes for a living, they figure you’ll be happy to do it for any gutbucket with the price of a beer.” She took another hit of caffeine. “So what can I do for you, Mr. Tanner?”
“I wanted to ask some questions about the modeling business.”
“What kind, figure or fashion?”
“Figure.”
“What do you want to know about it?”
“For starters, how do you get into the field in the first place?”
“Lots of ways. You know a friend who knows an artist who needs a model who’ll work cheap. You see a sign on the bulletin board at the local college that says the art department is looking for a subject for Life Drawing 101. Or you answer an ad in the paper for models, which can turn out to be anything from a rock video to a porn shoot.”
“Are there agencies that handle that kind of thing?”
“Not figure work. Fashion, yes, but there’s no money in figure work, so the agencies don’t bother with it. Fashion work is pretty much limited to anorexics with attitude—five ten and size six—but figure models come in all types. I know one guy who refuses to use women who weigh less than two hundred pounds. Says he likes the volume.”
“How much can someone earn at it?”
“Not much, even someone like Nina who works a lot.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not full-time, first of all. No matter how good you are, no one spends forty hours a week with their clothes off. Plus, at best it pays ten bucks an hour and usually not that unless it’s for someone who’s extremely successful or has a commission, and even then they can always get someone for less, so they figure why pay more. Most photographers think models are fungible. They’re wrong, but they don’t know it till the reviews come out, sometimes.”
“Lots of times it gets personal, right? Artists and models have affairs all the time, don’t they?”
“Sure. The environment sort of encourages it. Some of the relationships go on for years and sometimes the guy uses the girl till she lets him fuck her, then she’s back on the street with a tin cup and he’s out in the clubs recruiting a new one.”
“I’ve been wondering if Nina hooked up with someone and the attraction was mutual and they pulled a Gauguin and ran off to Tahiti to make pictures together.”
“It could happen. But not with Gary Richter. Everyone but everyone thought he was bile.”
“How often did you work with Richter yourself?”
“Just once or twice a year. I didn’t meet his requirements.”
“In what way?”
“My daddy wasn’t rich.”
“What does that have to do with figure photography?”
“I’m not sure, but Gary liked to work with rich kids. He grew up in a rough patch in the Central District. I think he just liked knowing he could get debutantes to take off their clothes for him.”
“Could he have been blackmailing the daddies to keep the pictures of their darlings private?”
She frowned. “I don’t know. I never thought about it. Jesus.”
“Do you know anyone besides Richter who Nina worked with to the extent of developing a romantic relationship?”
“No one on that scale. But I didn’t know her all that well, so I’m not saying it didn’t happen.”
“So how about the steamy side of the business?” I asked when I’d drained my cup.
“You mean porn?”
I nodded.
“It’s out there. I mean, if that’s what you want, you can get it. Easy. Good money, too.”
“How good?”
“Hundreds for still photos. More for work in the titty bars—tips are great if you give them what they want.”
“Which is?”
“You touch them and they touch you. Couch dancing, they call it.”
“I thought touching was illegal.”
“Only if someone’s watching.”
“If you wanted to do porn work, how would you make the connection?”
“Just look for a job in the clubs. If you make a reputation dancing, sooner or later someone will come around and ask if you’re interested in more rewarding forms of entertainment.”
“By which they mean what?”
“Hard-core video; call girl work; you name it. Some of the so-called fine arts photographers peddle stuff to the smut rags when times get tough, too. That’s the way most of us first get into print, unfortunately.”
I raised a brow. “You?”
“Gent magazine, October ’89, thanks to an asshole named Jamison. Quite a layout—lots of positive reader response. My mother was so very proud. I’m kidding,” she added when she saw my face turn cockeyed.
“What dance clubs are the best?”
“The Lusty Lady downtown is run by a woman, so it’s the cleanest—no grab ass or hustling drinks or anything. Look but don’t touch—the girls are all behind glass. And then there’s Victor Krakov.”
“Who?”
“Victor Krakov. Runs a chain of dance clubs around the Sound, three of them here in the city. He owns half the bare tits in the state.”
“Where can I find him?”
“Got an office out on Aurora—Aureole Entertainment Enterprises. Victor’s always sniffing around for new women. No doubt he hit on Nina at some time or other.”
“Does he have a reputation for violence?”
“There are rumors, but there always are in that business. Not murder, though; just batting the girls around a little when they ask for more money. But I don’t know much about it.”
“You ne
ver worked for him?”
She looked away. “No.”
“Not even once?”
“Okay. Once. When I first came to town. I was broke and lonely so I danced at the Blitz Club for two weeks. Then I found a regular job and quit.”
“Have any dealings with Krakov?”
“I just let him look at me to audition. Which was bad enough.” She snapped her fingers. “I just remembered. A couple of months ago I heard some other guy was going around, fronting for a high-class operation and offering big money for girls to work nude. I never met him, but he was definitely making a pitch; at least two of my friends told me about it. I figure he was fronting for one of those executive titty bars that are all the rage now—you know, sex for suits.”
“Is there one here in town?”
“Not that I know of, but I’m sure there will be.”
“What was the guy’s name?”
“Chris something.”
“What was the club called?”
“Don’t remember. Sorry. But if you’re asking if Nina was hooked up with any of the slimeballs, I’d have to say no. She was serious about her work. She saw herself as every inch the artist that Cindy Sherman or Sally Mann is. Plus her old man had money, so she’d never be hard up enough to go slumming.”
I shifted gears. “Did Nina talk about her father much?”
“Some. I saw them at Ponti’s one night, dressed to the nines. A bit of a Butterfield 8–type thing, actually.”
“Really?”
She shrugged. “It just looked funny.”
Without really wanting to, I kept adding to my store of anecdotes about Ted Evans and his lovely daughter. “I take it you haven’t heard anything about Gary Richter lately.”
She blinked. “No. Why should I?”
“Because he’s dead.”
She flinched as though I’d pinched her. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Murdered. It’s in the papers. They found him floating in the Ship Canal, near someplace called the Chittenden Locks.”
“Jesus. Who said he was murdered?”
“The cops.”
“You talked to them?”
“They talked to me. You looked like something came to mind when I said murder. Something or someone.”
Her look became taut and distraught. “I was just thinking how many women I’ve heard say that they wished Gary Richter were dead.”
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