Blind Side

by William Bayer

  "they didn't have no bank account,"

  "How do you know that?"

  "they told me. When I asked why they always paid the rent in cash.

  "See-you do know something." He didn't reply.

  "When I was here the other day, you told me you cleaned out the apartment."

  "Garbage-that's all there was."

  "No papers, letters?" He shook his head.

  "No clothes? Books? Records? Not even an envelope?" I stared at him.

  "What was there to clean?"

  "Few empty bottles. Carry-out containers from the Chink joint down the block."

  "I don't believe that," I said.

  "I don't believe Kim Yates could pack up everything she owned in just a couple hours."

  He glared at me.

  "You saying I stole something?"

  "I'm saying there was a lot more than empty bottles and Chinese food containers that you 'cleaned up."

  "Suit yourself," he said, showing me his best thousandyard stare.

  "Now, get lost. I got work to do."

  I placed my card on top of the twenty-dollar bill.

  "Change your mind, comandante, I'll make it worth your while." He didn't look up, just grunted and turned back to his magazine.

  On my way home I stopped at the lab to pick up my blowups. My plan had been to circulate them, leave them at Lil's and the other clubs, at the modeling agencies, acting schools, any place she might have frequented or been known. But when I got home, I started dealing them out on the floor like giant playing cards. Then, staring at this huge rectangle composed of my images of her, I grew dizzy and crawled into bed.

  I got up in the middle of the night, thinking I'd go out with my camera and work the streets. But as I stepped gently on my carpet of photographs I was seized by a different idea.

  I got out my paper cutter and a pot of paste, and set to work. I mounted one of the portraits in the left upper corner of a big piece of mat board, then began to slice up other blowups of the same shot. Soon I had a serialized image of her, one frame of her full face, then a row of strips of varying thicknesses showing her eyes, lips, ears and cheeks. I used the second photograph for the second row, the third for the third, then started again with the first. By dawn I'd constructed a mural-sized montage, the face of the woman I knew as Kimberly Yates fractured into a thousand pieces and then recomposed. Standing back from it, I saw forms and rivers shaped by the ebb and flow of tones. The piece was a portrait and a construct, both real and abstract. I liked it so much that, first thing in the morning, I went to the lab with twenty more negatives to be blown up. Then I went to an art store, bought a stack of mat boards and a gallon of paste. Then for three days I worked with slivers of my portraits, constructing more mu.rals. Finally I set upon the nudes, cutting them up and serializing them too.

  It was exciting work and I was possessed by it, the same way I'd been possessed during those first nonstop days when I'd tried to take her portrait. But, strangely, there were times when I didn't think about her at all, when I forgot whose face and body had provided my raw material. Taking her apart, cutting her up, turning her into something new-as I worked with pieces of her the patterns became ends in themselves. The huge murals composed of fractured and reconstructed images suggested a whole new direction for my photography.

  But still there were times when I paused, gazed at my montage-constructs, and tried to puzzle them out. Knowing that these images had been stenciled off her filled me with a fierce yearning. No matter that she had lied,

  played false, made me feel the fool, I wanted her desperately, and prayed that she'd come back.

  I'm not sure when I first noticed him. I probably saw him several times before it re istered that I'd seen him before. It was only then that I realized that there was indeed a secret hidden in my photographs.

  The first place I became consciously aware of him was in the background of a casual shot I'd taken of Kim at the South Street Seaport. I couldn't see him very well; he was slightly out of focus. His face was half concealed by a camera too, and it was that camera that caught my interest. It was a Pentax 6 x 7, a heavy medium-format professional instrument, not the kind of equipment the average person carries around.

  The camera registered on me, and then I forgot about it, until, a few minutes later, looking at other frames from the series, I found him in the background again, and then again. I began to feel uneasy. This man with the camera-what was he doing there? For a while I couldn't put my finger on what was wrong. Then I grew excited.

  Yes, it actually seemed that this man, who for some reason I'd always caught holding his big Pentax to his eye, had been photographing in our direction at the very moments that I'd been photographing Kim. And that was either an extraordinary coincidence, or it meant that he had been photographing us.

  I recalled the afternoon. It had been Kim's idea to go to Seaport. As always when we worked outside, I tried to accommodate her; for me the exterior sessions were not for serious photography but an excuse to get us out of the suffocating tension of the studio. It had started out as an overcast afternoon, but then the late summer light broke through to play exquisitely on the river. There must have been ten thousand people milling around, the regular yuppie contingent from Wall Street and a vast number of summer tourists, including many foreigners. A lot of these out-of-towners had carried cameras. So why had this particular man, with his professional Pentax 6 x 7, decided to fasten upon us? And if I was right, if that was what he had been doing, had his interest been casual, or had we been under his surveillance?

  It was several hours before I found the answer, and, when I did, I stared at my evidence, hardly believing it could be true. Three facts were indisputably clear: the man with the big camera appeared in the backgrounds of shots I had taken on several different days; he nearly always appeared facing me with his camera to his eye; he only appeared at places that Kim had suggested that we go. This last fact shook me the most.

  Who was this man?

  I examined all the shots in which he appeared, searching for one that was clear. There were several in which I could make out his left eye, a couple of good views of his hair and ears, one that nicely caught his chin and nose. But no single shot gave a decent impression of his face.

  I decided to use the Identi-Kit method. I made blowups of all the best angles I had of him, then cut up the prints until I had a collection of his features. I then reassembled the clearest of these, creating a composite.

  It was a difficult task. That damn Pentax was always blocking out one of his eyes. But then it occurred to me that the camera itself could be a clue to his identity: if he was a professional photographer, a picture of him, camera up, would be characteristic and therefore, I hoped, recognizable.

  The portrait I finally created looked a little strange, assembled from pictures with different points of perspective. But strange or not, I had no doubt I had revealed him. A person who knew him should be able to identify him upon looking at my composite. I rephotographed it, then made up some 8 x 10s to show around. When I was finally finished and staring at my handiwork, I was seized by the notion that I had seen the man before.

  Had I? I wasn't sure. After all, I'd been staring at bits and pieces of him for an entire day. Familiar with the torments of puzzling over a half-forgotten face, I gave up trying to place him and took a break. But later that evening, glancing at the composite again, I was struck by the fact that I was now on the track of another photographer, a kind of double of myself, who, apparently in collusion with Kim, had engaged in movements parallel to my own.

  "All I had to go on was the cryptic name of an escortservice madam ("Mrs. Z"), and the cut-up face of a photographer. I decided to start with the photographer-I thought he might be easier to find.

  New York is full of camera stores, big, small, fancy, basic, a few where the salesmen are helpful, a great number where they're hideously rude. There're usedcamera stores where you are likely to be taken, and places, owned by Has
idim, where you get big discounts buying "gray market." But in the entire city there's only one store professionals really like. You pay full price at Aaron Greene Photographic, but you get good service and you don't get hustled.

  Aaron has sold me many cameras over the years. In my photo-journalist days, when I used them up fast, he sold me a slew of Nikons and Leicas. Later, when I went into art photography, he found me my battered Deardorff and my Sinar.

  I went to see him early in the morning, just minutes after the store opened. Already there were people inside, buying, selling, trading. Aaron was busy with a gentleman looking at old twin-lens Rolleis-there were half a dozen models lined up on the counter.

  I caught Aaron's eye, signaled that I wanted to talk, then prowled among the showcases, excited by the displays of shiny black-and-chrome equipment. If you have money in your pocket, and are aroused by the sight of beautiful machines, Aaron Greene's is a dangerous place to go.

  After a while, Aaron found me. He embraced me.

  "Hey, boychik!"

  He's a stocky man in his mid-fifties, calm, goodhumored, with a kind of permanent half smile that turns his lips. Practically nothing fazes him, which is why, he says, he'll never be better than a middling photographer. But he doesn't care, he loves fine cameras, loves the look and feel of them, the precise craftsmanship with which they're made. As he told me once, he's found himself a perfect job: he gets to handle cameras all day long, open them up, demonstrate them, turn people on to them.

  "I'd pay to do it," he told me. "But miracle of miraclesdoing it has made me rich."

  Now he was staring at me.

  "You don't look too good. What's amatter, Geoffrey?"

  "How bad do I look?';

  He appraised me.

  "Like a guy who's broken up with his girl."

  "That's pretty close."

  His smile turned compassionate.

  "What can I do for you? What do you need?"

  I showed him my composite.

  "Ever seen this guy before?"

  He looked at my picture, then handed it back.

  "You doing surrealism these days, Geoffrey? Hub?"

  "Please, Aaron, look at the picture. Have you ever seen him?"

  "Not that I can think of. Who is he?"

  "A photographer."

  "I see the monster Pentax. So?"

  "So I need to know his name."

  He stood back, then peered at me quizzically.

  "Last I heard, there were six hundred thousand of you guys going around calling yourselves 'photographers."

  "Has he been in here?"

  He examined the portrait again.

  "If he has, I didn't wait on him."

  "What about the other guys? Could you ask them, please?"

  "Sure, Geoffrey. Later, though. We're kind of busy here just now."

  "thanks, Aaron. By the way, who repairs the Pentax?"

  "There's Sid Walzer in the West Forties, and there's this Japanese kid around the corner. Lot of district people use him. they like the monster. Ever hear the damn thing go off?"

  He edged me down to the Pentax case, pulled out a used 6 x 7 with pentaprism, set the shutter speed to one second, then cocked and tripped the release. There was a loud clunk as the mirror flipped up, then crashed back down.

  "Crash like that, I wouldn't take this jobbo mountain climbing. Might start a little avalanche."

  "Who likes these things?"

  "Advertising photographers. Centerfold shooters. You name it, they use it. It's a terrific device."

  "What's so terrific?"

  "The six-by-seven image, and still you can handle it like a thirty-five."

  "I need a favor, Aaron." I handed him my composite.

  "Check around for me. The repairmen too. See if anyone knows this guy."

  "This is important, Geoffrey?"

  I nodded.

  "Okay. Call me in a couple days."

  On my way home I stopped at the big newsstand at the City Hall subway station, As usual, the tabloid headlines were screaming murder. When no one was watching, I bought a copy of Screw, "New York's premier sexually oriented newspaper." I folded it under my arm, exited the subway, then walked home down Nassau Street. I knew Screw contained ads for escort services. My plan was to call them all and ask for "Mrs. Z."

  Stepping off the elevator, I heard voices in the hall. When I turned the corner in the corridor, I saw two men standing by my door. they turned to me. Both were in their mid-thirties. One was heavyset, with a drooping mustache and greased-up wavy hair. The other, Italian and cadaverous, seemed more of a friendly type.

  "What's going on?"

  "Who are you?" the fat one asked.

  "This is my loft."

  "Barnett?"

  "That's right."

  "We want to talk to you." The thin Italian guy smiled at me then, a sick-sweet kind of smile.

  "Good timing, Geoffrey. We were about to leave you a note."

  "About what? Who are you guys?"

  But even before they showed me their badges, it occurred to me that they were cops. The fat one was named Ramos, the thin one Scotto. It wasn't hard to discern their roles: Ramos was the tough guy who called me "Barnett"; Scotto was the nice one-he called me "Geoffrey."

  "Always leave your door unlocked?" Ramos was playing with my doorknob.

  "It's locked," I said.

  "No it isn't. We already tried it," Scotto said.

  they stood aside while-I tried the door. It was open. I was shocked.

  Scotto examined the lock.

  "Wasn't tampered with. Maybe you forgot to lock up when you went out."

  ::I never forget. I've got cameras inside."

  Better see if they're still there."

  "And if they aren't, we are." Ramos snickered.

  "Always around when you need us, right?"

  Scotto turned to me and rolled his eyes, his way of saying: I can't help it if my partner's a schmuck.

  I pushed my door open, caught sight of my Sinar and started to relax. At least they hadn't taken that. But then when I looked around and saw the damage, I started feeling sick.

  Someone had attacked my wall. The glass over the framed print of my PietA was smashed and the rint had p been torn to pieces. But worse was the damage to my big montage murals of Kim. they were still on the walls where I'd tacked them, but the vandal had slashed them and worked them over with spray paint. The word CUNT" had been scrawled across them several times in an angry graffiti writer's script.

  "What's the matter? Ripped off? The big camera's here."

  I pointed at my murals. Ramos shrugged.

  "Who do you think did this, Barnett?"

  "How the hell should I know?" I was angry now, enraged by the vandalism, pissed off too at the cops for their lousy dumbbell attitude.

  "Take it easy, Geoffrey," Scotto said.

  "Dave just asked a question, that's all."

  I turned away, and then, worried about what else might have been done, began methodically to check around my loft.

  "You're doing right," Scotto said, "Make sure nothing's missing. And if there is something, tell us now. That way we can make you out a report, and you can collect good on your insurance."

  The first thing I looked for was the negative of my 9 PietA. It was where it was supposed to be, and the rest of my negative files appeared untouched. I started to feel better then, and the further I looked the better I felt. My Deardorff and my two Leicas were safe, as were all my lenses and meters. As far as I could see, nothing was missing, and I could find no further evidence of vandalism. It seemed implausible, but, so far as I could tell, the only damage was to the PietA and the murals.

  Ramos and Scotto meantime had helped themselves to seats. they sat quietly, watching me. By the time Ramos cleared his throat I'd almost forgotten they were there.

  "Not too bad, huh?" I turned on him.

  "Think it feels good to find your place broken in?"

  "Damage is what Dave mean
t," Scotto said.

  "There is damage! Plenty of damage!" I pointed at the murals.

  "Just doesn't seem likely-" Scotto said, as if speaking to himself.

  "What's that, Sal?" Ramos asked.

  Scotto nodded toward my murals.

  "Go to so much trouble just for that."

  "What do you mean?"

  "His lock wasn't drilled out. Which means it was picked. Or someone had a key."

  "Nobody's got a key," I said.

  "So, like I said, someone went to a lot of trouble……

  Ramos nodded as if he understood. Then they both stared at me. There was an inference in their stare I didn't like: that there'd been no break-in, that I was the one who'd defaced the murals.

  I decided right then I didn't like them. I sat down and faced them. "What do you want with me?"

  "We're here about the Devereux homicide," Ramos said. I stared at him blankly.

  "Pretending you don't know what I'm talking about?" I shook my head.

  Scotto squinted at me.

  "You don't know Cheryl Devereux?"

  "You mean Shadow? Sure, I know her."

  Ramos glanced at Scotto with disgust.

  "So you're saying you didn't know she was killed? That it, Barnett?"

  Suddenly it hit me.

  "Oh,no!"

  Don't you read the papers, Geoffrey?" Scotto asked.

  "What happened to her?"

  "She was found the day before yesterday in the trunk of a car at Newark Airport. Car was in the long-term lot. It had been there at least a week."

  I felt a tightening in my throat.

  "What about Kim?"

  "That'd be Kimberly Yates, the roommate, right?"

  I nodded.

  "Don't know nothing about her," Ramos said. He glanced at my defaced murals.

  "Except, of course, assuming that's her-someone thinks she's a cunt."

  I stared at him.

  "You're really a piece of shit. Anyone ever tell you that?" He rose from his seat. I tightened up, certain he was going to attack me. Actually I was hoping he would. I felt like a fight. But then Scotto stood and made gentling motions with his palms.

  "Take it easy, guys! Calm yourselves!" He turned to me.

  "Dave was just talking. He didn't mean nothing by it. Don't act so touchy now.