by Tom Benson
“Go on,” Kimberley said, her brow furrowing slightly.
“I hate to see those women in the movies. You know ... they are usually secret agents or women with a new identity, who cut and color their hair. They do it all in a hotel room in about 15 minutes, and it looks as if they’re using garden shears.” She looked up in thought before continuing.
“The camera pans back and there are massive clumps of hair everywhere. In the next scene, a woman has the most incredible new style and amazing color.” She shook her head.
Kimberley couldn’t prevent a brief smile. She lifted her purse and peeled off many more bills than required. She held the cash out to Kathy, who accepted it and looked her client in the eye.
“That’s way too much-,”
“Nonsense,” Kimberley said, cutting her short. “Consider part of it a tip for your discretion and for helping a stranger in town. I’ve had my hair styled, and now I know about a car dealer and a good photographer in the city.”
“The car dealer is a nice enough guy, but I don’t know him all that well, so don’t say too much to him. Mike is the photographer and you can trust him. He’s just as discreet as me. We never make direct contact, mainly for the personal security of our clients. Tell him I recommended his special portrait service.”
“I will,” Kimberley said, “and thanks again for a great job.”
“Now remember before you go outside, a little eyeliner and a touch of mascara.” She glanced at the coat hooks behind the door and smiled before adding. “And don’t you dare put a baseball cap on that head-,” Kathy was taken aback when her client stepped forward and embraced her.
“Go carefully,” Kimberley said as she hugged the girl. She released her and stepped back. “Maybe one day I’ll come back this way and check out that salon of yours.”
“I’d like that,” Kathy said. “I’d like that very much. Goodbye anonymous lady.”
“Goodbye,” Kimberley said and closed the door behind her single-use hairdresser. She watched the girl take a circuitous route around the walkway to reach her car. Kimberley watched as Kathy checked herself out in the rear-view before she pulled out of the lot and eased onto the highway.
Kimberley stepped back to look in the mirror once again. She had considered the issue of a name for her new identity but had spent little time on the solution. She regretted the idea of completely losing her connection to the family name and wondered if she could come up with something that had even a tenuous link.
It was with those thoughts in mind that she applied the suggested makeup and a little lipstick. She looked at her reflection for a moment, and as she admired her new hairstyle, an idea came to mind.
“Honey,” she said aloud, trying the name on for size. She watched her expression as she said it again. “Honey,” she repeated. “Hi, my name is Honey, Honey ... Woods.” She nodded to her reflection. “Goodbye, Kimberley Forest. Hello, Honey Woods.”
She set about checking the room to ensure nothing belonging to her remained. The discarded dark hair was brushed neatly into a small pile and left behind as she had requested. She located the plain brown carrier that had held her late night shopping. Into the bag went the hair cuttings, her old underwear, T-shirt and blood-stained jeans. The bag would go into a dumpster far away.
The newly created blonde spread some of her personal effects out on top of the bed. There was her recently acquired cell, a lighter, new canvas money-belt, minimal cosmetics, purse, shoulder bag, new baseball cap, and her loaded automatic.
She had purchased a nondescript black backpack from the store to replace the one she had been using. Into the backpack went her leather jacket, shoulder holster and Harriet’s journal. She was wearing everything else she owned.
Kimberly dispersed cash into the money-belt, her purse, backpack and the remainder about her person. She raised her new sweatshirt and fastened the money-belt around her waist. The loose fitting sweatshirt covered it well. She slipped the cell into the pocket of her jeans and then along with everything else in the backpack went the carrier for dumping. As she looked at herself and considered her circumstances, she realized that she had never traveled so light.
At 12 noon, Honey Woods sat in a diner waiting for the next bus for downtown Indianapolis. The attractive blonde opened her freshly purchased map and traced the route from the bus terminal to the street where she would locate Photo-Grafix; and Mike. She was pleased to know that the place would be open on a Sunday.
*
When Honey arrived in Indianapolis, she fixed herself a hotel room and left her minimal baggage there before making a shopping trip. She still intended to travel light, but knew it would be both necessary and practical to have a range of outfits. It took her a little under two hours to select a variety of garments, footwear, and a canvas hold-all. The backpack would continue to be useful and would supplement the larger bag when moving between locations.
As Honey made the purchases, she continually imagined how her choices might work together. When she arrived back at the hotel, she laid out her new wardrobe on the bed and could see that interchanging what she’d bought would provide a good variety of outfits.
Before setting off to have photographs taken, Honey traded her casual look for a blouse, mini-skirt, and black stilettos. A retouch of make-up, light brushing of her hair and she was good to go.
She carried a black summer jacket over her right arm. Over her left shoulder, she slung her new shoulder bag. The bag was a little heavier than most, but that had a lot to do with a loaded automatic being among the contents. She had decided on a policy of never venturing anywhere unarmed, at least for the foreseeable future.
It was late in the afternoon when Honey found herself strolling along the busy sidewalk towards Photo-Grafix. On more than one occasion she was aware of men and sometimes teenage boys checking her out. Although it registered, it meant nothing.
Photo-Grafix turned out to be a well-presented store. In the window display, there were framed portrait shots, group, and individual wedding photographs, babies crawling on fluffy rugs, and a variety of pet portraits.
It was perhaps because of her requirements that Honey expected something a little seedier and located in a side street, away from the mainstream stores. The place was neither seedy nor hidden away. It was also larger than she expected and had a wide selection of photographic merchandise. She went inside and was pleased to see that the interior was as presentable as the exterior. The whole establishment was smart and clean; including the staff.
There were three doors in a row to the left, titled: Studio 1, Studio 2, and Studio 3 respectively. To the right, just inside the main door was the cash desk, attended by a young redhead in white blouse and black skirt. Around the walls were displays of photographic paper, camera film, accessories, frames and photograph albums.
Evenly spaced around the bright interior, there were six mirrored-columns rising from the floor to ceiling. The columns were four-sided and between them stood illuminated glass cabinets full of cameras, tripods, zoom lenses, and filters. Appropriately, there were security cameras, but they were discreetly positioned to prevent the sensation that every shopper was under surveillance.
A handsome African/American in his late 20’s, with neatly trimmed hair and beard approached Honey, trying unsuccessfully to hide the fact that he was checking her out. He smiled, and his teeth gleamed, contrasting with his ebony coloring. Like his male colleagues, he was wearing a crisp white open-necked shirt and black pants. Around his neck, he wore a fine gold chain. Above the left breast pocket of his shirt there was a white, pearlescent, oval name badge with his name emblazoned in black Copperplate script.
“Hello miss,” he said. “I’m Jerome. How can we help you today?”
“Hi Jerome,” Honey said and returned the smile as she looked him in the eye. “I was wondering if Mike might be available.”
“If you’d give me about ten seconds, I’ll just go and borrow his name badge,” Jerome said and raised his ey
ebrows as his smile broadened. He gave a polite nod before leaving her to go in search of Mike. Honey liked Jerome’s approach and hoped Mike was as pleasant.
Rather than look directly, Honey used one of the large mirrored columns to observe the interaction of the two men. She saw Jerome smile and slowly shake his head as he pointed her out. Mike grinned at his colleague and nodded. Before Mike walked across the store, he patted Jerome’s shoulder. On a different day, Honey would have been flattered by their expressions and interaction.
“Hello, I’m Mike,” the tall dark-haired man said as he approached. He was no more than 30, at least 6 feet tall and had a physique that filled out his monochrome uniform well. He had a deep tan and carried no excess weight. Honey thought he wore the designer stubble look perfectly, and his gray eyes sparkled.
He held out his right hand and enjoyed the sensation of the lovely client’s handshake.
“Hi,” Honey said, “My hairdresser recommended your special portrait service.”
“In that case, you must be a very special person.” The disarming smile didn’t flicker as he turned and indicated the room labeled Studio 1.
They walked toward the studio and at the door Mike allowed Honey to enter first. He caught Jerome’s eye and indicated with three fingers of his right hand and the forefinger and thumb of his left, how long he was going to be. Jerome acknowledged with a slight nod.
*
Once they were both inside Studio 1, Mike hesitated with the closing of the door.
He said: “We shouldn’t be long getting organized.” He gazed at her a moment before continuing. “Would you like coffee?”
“I would appreciate that, thanks,” Honey said. “Black, one sugar, please.”
Inside the room, against the wall to the left of the door was a small desk and chair. On the desk was a clear acrylic pen-pot that contained a few black ballpoint pens. Attached to the right side was an illuminated magnifying glass with a telescopic arm.
To the right of the door was a long counter which supported an assortment of electrical equipments, including two large printers and a confetti-cut shredder. In front of the counter was a high barstool, with black leather seat cushion and chrome legs. In the corner between the counter and the wall was a large steel cabinet with a prominent combination security lock.
Mike directed his client to the desk and chair on the left. He handed her two sheets of printed paper and then left her alone in the studio. One of the sheets held a list of prices for specific documents, and the other was a sheet of paper containing a list of questions. There were spaces allocated on the second sheet for the corresponding answers.
‘Every question is compulsory’ it stated in red print at the top of the questionnaire. The same message appeared at the bottom. Dimples appeared in Honey’s cheeks as she looked at the layout. It seemed ironic that it reminded her so much of a classified document.
Honey glanced at the questions, and then took another look at her surroundings. In the middle of the room, there was a telescopic tripod; expensive digital SLR camera already mounted. In front of the front of the tripod was a plain white wall. Situated in front and center of the wall was an adjustable stool.
Suspended from the ceiling between tripod and wall, was a long chrome bar fitted with a series of spotlights, each fitted with an assortment of colored filters. All of them were trained on the white wall. At either side of the wall on upright metal frames, were other spotlights complete with colored filters.
On the wall opposite the main door, was a black door with Dark Room emblazoned in white, at eye level. A semi-spherical red light was fitted above with a sign that requested, ‘Please do not enter when red light is ON.’
On the wall to the left of the black door was a display of the numerous official documents that would require a photograph. To the right there was a display of different types of photographs. There were: monochrome, full color, duo-color, tricolor, sepia and negative. One photo stood out from the others, catching Honey’s eye immediately.
Honey turned once more to the desk and looked at the questionnaire. As she had done since her days at elementary school, she never lifted a pen until she had read an exam paper from beginning to end. There were questions here that she had pre-empted in her mind, but others that she had not considered. By the time she had read it through twice, she felt ready.
Before continuing with the questionnaire, Honey walked across to the back wall for a closer look at the photograph that had captured her interest. It was a mock-up of a Wanted poster but prepared as A4 size. She was still looking at it when the door to the studio opened.
Mike had returned and was carrying two white china mugs. He placed one on the desk and then looked from Honey to the photograph she had been inspecting. Mike didn’t say anything, either about the photo or her apparent interest in it. Honey had registered the photographer’s expression before she walked back to take her seat at the desk.
“This is a precaution,” Mike said nodding to the door, “please don’t be alarmed.” He turned and slipped the catch on the door and then stepped away from the desk to sit on the barstool a few feet away at the long counter. He spun the stool so that he faced his client, and then he lifted his mug in both hands and sipped his coffee as he looked at Honey.
He said: “If you were the type that used exam technique, you’d have read that questionnaire once or twice already.” He paused. “However, if you were the dive-in-head-first type, you would have completed it by now.”
Honey said: “I have to be careful. Changing my identity is a high price.”
“Financially, I agree,” Mike said, “but personally, I believe that the highest price being paid is the need to change your identity in the first place.”
“That’s very philosophical,” she replied. “Do you have these conversations with all your special clients?”
“No,” he said, “and not just the pretty ones. I usually only discuss such things with the clients who have sufficient brain cells.”
“So which category do I come under?”
“Beyond pretty,” he said and looked into her eyes, “and I would suggest, brain cells to burn.” He smiled and continued to look at her over the rim of his coffee mug.
“That’s very gracious of you,” Honey said. “Do you mind if I ask how you arrive at that assumption?”
Mike smiled and lowered his mug, holding it in both hands between his parted legs.
“Within three paces of walking into the store, without making it obvious you assessed the layout, the number of personnel and the locations of security cameras.” He maintained eye contact as he continued.
“You watched Jerome go to find me, but you used the mirrors so that there was no direct eye contact with me until I introduced myself.” He paused. “Finally, you told me that I was recommended to you by your hairdresser, but you didn’t name her.”
“I’m impressed,” Honey said and repaid Mike’s unwavering scrutiny with her impassive gaze. “I suppose I’d better get on with this questionnaire,” she said and enjoyed a sip of coffee before lifting a pen. She was aware of Mike watching her.
It took her less time than she thought it might. To keep her date of birth easy to remember, she simply switched around the day and month and kept the year as it should be. She knew enough about New York to use establishments there for education and suchlike. The task would not be complete she realized until she had learned all her new information.
When Honey was satisfied with her responses to the questions, she handed the sheet to Mike. He looked down the completed list and nodded. Once, he looked up at her for a moment and then continued reading.
Honey said: “What was that look all about?” Dimples appeared in her cheeks.
Mike said: “There are two main types of person that require this sort of service. One is accustomed to breaking the law and expects a free ride in life. The other, is a law-abiding citizen, who for whatever reason finds it necessary to leave their life behind and start ov
er.”
“Which type am I?”
“If I thought you were the first type we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” he said, “because I would have referred you to a sleazy joint across town near the railroad station.” He couldn’t stop himself looking into her eyes as he continued. “I believe you might be crossing the line ... Honey Woods, but that’s no concern of mine.” He wished it was his concern. He had never met anyone as beautiful.
For a moment, they appraised each other in silence and then they stood.
It took 15 minutes for Mike to deal with taking the necessary photographs.
Honey said: “Would you like payment now, or on delivery?”
“Check back in with me tomorrow morning at 10am. If you’re satisfied with what I produce, you can pay me then.” He continued to gaze at her as if searching for something behind the inscrutable facade. It would have been unsettling for a weaker client, but not for Honey.
Mike unlocked the door and said, “Until tomorrow Honey Woods.”
“Until tomorrow,” she responded and treated him to a smile, “and thank you Mike.”
Honey glanced in the mirrors as she headed to the door to leave the store. She winked to let Jerome know that he’d been caught checking her out. He grinned and shook his head.
***
Chapter 5
Here and There
.
Monday, June 16th, 2003
Indianapolis, Indiana
At 9:58am, Honey approached the glass door of Photo-Grafix and pushed. There were already four other customers in the store: two individual men being attended to, and two women browsing together. In the middle of the store, Mike and Jerome were standing discussing a display of photograph albums. Jerome smiled when he saw Honey enter, and he nodded to Mike.
“I’m good to get on with this boss,” Jerome said, and then he looked at Honey, his face glowing. “Good morning.” He nodded his approval of her outfit. She was wearing faded denim jacket and jeans complimented with a white blouse and white sneakers. Her hair was immaculately brushed and rested on her shoulders. As normal her jewelry was restricted to stud ear-rings.