“Walther knew about your dad?” Reuben asked.
“He does now.”
I told it all, except how I watched the final drama from the floor, my body pinned like Reuben’s body ten years earlier. I’d no more embarrass my friend than ask an old lady to model her new incontinence diaper.
The incident happened at Queen City High after gym class. I heard a shriek followed by group laughter. I ran into the boy’s locker room. Reuben lay on his back in a puddle dripped by adolescent boys fresh from showering. One boy knelt at Reuben’s feet and pressed his ankles together, pinning them to the wet floor. Another boy crouched near Reuben’s head, immobilizing him by his upstretched arms. A dozen boys in various stages of undress had formed a circle, watching the show.
Reuben was naked, his new pubic fur strange on an otherwise hairless torso. Eyes closed but puddled with tears, he whipped his face from side to side, as if avoiding sight would transport him home and make him safe again.
“We got us a science experiment. Action reaction, stimulus response.” The voice came from Tony Drax, dressed for advantage in Adidas gym shorts the rest of us could only dream of owning.
He squatted next to Reuben and gripped a janitor’s broom just above the bristles. He poked at Reuben’s genitals with the wood handle, flipping his penis up and down like a light switch.
“We oughta be seeing this little Heeb nozzle do something, but it stays limp.” Tony scanned the faces of his audience for reactions. “Whaddaya know, Ruby Jew, you got yourself a defective dick.”
Most of the boys laughed while a few glanced nervously around the crowd. Reuben now lay motionless, his face turned away, eyes pinched shut, mouth a straight line between thin white lips.
“Go play with your own, Tony,” I said.
But he ignored me, pleased with himself. That was when he gave that wicked smile, all teeth, his icy eyes radiating supremacy, the same expression he flashed a decade later at Drax Headquarters after crushing my film canister.
I tossed the medicine ball to Reuben. “So Hard Ass and the big guy… kicked us out,” I said, breathless. I dropped one hand to a knee and held the other hand aloft, pleading for a break. We mopped our faces with towels and sat side by side on the bleachers.
I braced myself, expecting Reuben to lay into me and tell me how focus on the mission had become fuck up the mission.
But he didn’t. Instead, he got quiet, as if he pitied me, and that made everything worse. He kneaded his hands together, pondering, the muscles pulsing under the skin of his forearms like busy snakes. Strength plus endurance in a five-foot-four-inch package. I wondered how his past encounters with Tony Drax might’ve ended had he realized his physical potential back in high school.
He dropped the medicine ball to the floor with a dead-end thud. “What did Tony say during all this?”
“Not much. Walther keeps Puppy on a short leash.”
He seemed satisfied by my telling. “So what’re you going to do?”
I shrugged. “There’s nothing left to do. The shoot’s ruined.”
Reuben frowned. “I don’t get why he showed you the newspaper clipping.”
“I figure Alfred was trying to look sympathetic, get on Walther’s good side to rescue the camera.”
“Maybe, but why bother telling you?”
“So I’d back up his little scheme, I suppose.”
Reuben shook his head. “He didn’t have to tell you. Why would he care if you came across looking clueless?”
“You’re taking his side.”
“No, you’re missing something.”
“It isn’t complicated. He screwed me over.” Elbows on my knees, I gazed at the scuffed floor, but felt Reuben staring at the side of my face. A few moments passed, the bounces and shouts of the basketball game filling the air space.
Reuben cleared his throat. “I think you need to talk to Alfred.”
“Give me one good reason.” I scooped up the medicine ball and held it out on my palm. The twenty pounds of downward force began a slow, blossoming burn in my arm muscles.
A renegade basketball bounced within Reuben’s reach. “Does he still owe you a paycheck?” He snatched the ball and tossed it to center court.
“Yeah, a couple hundred bucks. And I owe him five thousand for bail money—”
“Which he could yank back and land you in jail, so don’t piss him off.”
“Too late for that.”
Reuben stared at me, getting on my nerves. Then he said, “Imagine applying for a job, an assault conviction on your record for cold-cocking city royalty, and your only real employer refuses to be a reference because he thinks you’re a dickhead. You ready to panhandle for your mom’s recovery?”
I let my jaw go slack. “Jesus, you lay it on thick.” Arm on fire, I flipped the medicine ball at him.
He caught it and pretended to nervously sweep the gymnasium with his eyes. “I shouldn’t be seen in public with a felon.”
“Alfred handed over the film without a peep. It was never more than a bargaining chip to get his camera—”
“Which you stole.”
“Borrowed.”
“Without asking.”
“Whatever.” I stood. “He knew how much I wanted that shot, even helped me get the lighting perfect.”
“Make things right with Alfred.”
I peered down at him. “Apologize? Like hell.”
“Make things right before he makes things worse.”
CHAPTER 8
When I entered the retail section of Alfred’s business, it seemed abandoned. But no, Tricia wouldn’t do that. Whenever she had to pee, she’d always grab someone from the lab to handle customers until she’d returned.
I eased past a rack of camera bags, glanced left and there she was, crouched between two shelving units. A clipboard in one hand, she perched on her comfy-dressy rubber-soled shoes, her black skirt stretched tight across her backside.
I approached. “I’m so toxic you have to hide from me?”
She didn’t look up. “What’s that mean?”
“You always greet your customers. But you didn’t, which means you knew it was me and ducked down. You’re that disappointed?”
I’d caught her but she didn’t flinch. She stood and pivoted to face me, blinking her dark eyes slowly. “Disappointment requires high expectations, which I don’t have of you.”
I grinned, a bit relieved. The day she wouldn’t yank my chain would be sad indeed. “Alfred told you what happened?”
“Yes, but I tuned out after the part where the guards wrestled you to the ground. Stopped being interesting.”
“Too bad, because that was when Alfred let them destroy my film.”
She tipped her head slightly. Alfred hadn’t explained that condemning little tidbit. I filled in the missing pieces while Tricia listened with what barely resembled interest.
“And forget a reshoot. Guards will be all over the place.” I took a breath and waited for a sympathetic reply, something like tough break, man.
She squinted at me. “So you think my grandfather’s a pain in the ass? The line forms at the rear.” She glanced down at her clipboard. Apparently our chat had ended.
“Is he here?”
“In the darkroom. You talking to him?”
“Should I?”
She shook her head like I was a dolt. “Of course. You don’t have to like someone for them to be useful.”
I leaned in, annoyed she’d brushed off Alfred’s callousness. “Useful? You sound just like him, manipulating people to get
what you want. Whatever happened to being honest?”
She propped her free hand on a hip. “You’re so damn honest you can’t keep your mouth shut, and now you’re paying for it.” This time she locked her gaze on the clipboard and didn’t budge.
She was right, but I didn’t like hearing it from her. I’d known her before Miss Poise and Professionalism arrived from a mail-order catalog—all paid for by Alfred. In high school, she kept all the boys at a distance, playing games with their minds and testosterone, like the time she showed up in the shortest shorts and tightest top, all hips and tits, so prized yet so untouchable. But back then, as now, I wanted her to know that not all guys were the same.
I walked away, my stomach rebelling at the prospect of facing Alfred one more time.
“Hang on, Lucas,” Tricia said.
She never used my name. I looked over my shoulder. Her stance had relaxed and her eyes had cooled off a few degrees. “You know what your problem is?”
I felt the urge to say You?, but she didn’t deserve that. “I’m dying to find out.”
“You don’t listen.”
“Could you repeat that? I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Hilarious,” she said. “Now here’s a tip. When you meet with Alfred, spend more time listening than talking. You might learn something.”
I was confused. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing. I’m not involved and I don’t care what you idiots do sliming around under the city.”
“Under?” Under could only mean certain places, including the subway.
A customer bumped through the front door, looking lost. Tricia shifted her attention, ready to deliver unparalleled service.
. . . . .
As Tricia’s inventory of my flaws echoed in my ears, I made my way through the bowels of Blumenfeld Photography. According to Tricia, the building had been an ordered grid of rooms decades ago. Now it was a rat maze. With each evolution of the business, Alfred slapped up dividers, corridors, alcoves, and closets. He did things his way.
I planned to wait in Alfred’s office. He wouldn’t be long. Darkroom work was no all-day affair. The mind could only tolerate so much sensory deprivation.
I’d visited the old man’s office on a few in-and-out occasions, never lingering long enough to notice much. But with Alfred detained, I checked things out. Daylight streamed in from a rare external window. In one corner of Alfred’s big wooden desk sat the Rolodex and phone, both angled toward the desk chair. On another corner, a few 35mm film canisters aligned with soldierly discipline. Centered on the desk was a burgundy blotter, and centered on that was a blank pad of paper and a gold pen and pencil set, as parallel as highway lines. I angled the pen about twenty degrees off-center. He’d have it back in place sixty seconds after entering the room.
On the wall next to a combination safe, Alfred had hung plaques, certificates, and award photos. I eased around the desk for a closer look. Best Visual Exposition, 1934. Photographer of the Year, 1936, 1939, and 1947. Distinguished Service in Pursuit of the Truth, 1939, awarded by the American Press Photographers Association. Blue Ribbon for Feature Photography, 1947, from the Investigative Reporters and Editors Association.
I didn’t get it. Why walk away from such an impressive career to babysit brides and grooms at the narcissistic pinnacles of their lives?
My eye was drawn to a photo, now faded to sepia from the light of ten thousand afternoon suns sweeping the wall. Three men in dark suits stood beaming under a sloping banner that read Cincinnati Enquirer Shining Stars Gala. The man at center hooked his hands on the shoulders of two other men, each holding a trophy cup. One I didn’t recognize. The other was a thirtyish Alfred, eyes bright above a bushy dark mustache.
I crossed the room to a large bookcase, the wood nearly black with time. Most volumes had something to do with photography, photojournalism, or famous photographers. The only exceptions sat on a dedicated shelf of World War II books. Some spotlighted the best photojournalists of the era, while other titles suggested closer study: the multinational politics, the arming of the Nazi regime, and America’s on-again off-again involvement in the years before Pearl Harbor.
The photography books were alphabetized by artist, from Ansel Adams in the upper left to Monte Zucker in the lower right. Zucker meant nothing to me, but I admired Adams’ work. I tipped a volume from the high shelf and thumbed through page after page: snowy peaks mirrored in still waters, the moon hanging over an adobe church, Yosemite rising through morning mist. Each black-and-white image seemed as varied and striking as Technicolor.
“You like the landscapes?” Alfred spoke from behind me, his tone surprisingly civil, given the circumstances. He walked with purpose, carrying a business-sized envelope in one hand and a manila folder in the other. In spite of the risk of splashed darkroom chemicals, he wore pleated slacks and a crisp white shirt, a dark blazer folded over one arm. He stopped in front of the wall safe. “Please look away.”
I hesitated but then obliged and faced the bookshelf. “Some say Adams is the greatest American photographer of all time.”
Alfred snorted. “Baloney.”
I turned to see the old man slide the envelope into the safe, close the door, and spin the combination. “You have someone else in mind?” I asked.
“Ever heard of Paul Schutzer?”
“No.”
“David Seymour?” Alfred walked behind the desk and twisted his pen back into perfect alignment. Less than sixty seconds. “How about Larry Burrows?”
That name was recently in the news. “English photographer. The Viet Cong shot down his helicopter.” Soldier casualties were tragic enough, but the deaths of noncombatants—like the press, only trying to share the truth—cut the deepest.
“Killing Burrows and three other photojournalists.” He dropped the folder on the blotter. “While Ansel Adams was sipping something cool and waiting for the sunlight to strike Half Dome just so, guys like Burrows had seconds between machine gun bursts to snap a Pulitzer Prize-winning photo. Calendar art sells, but—”
“Calendar art?” No greater insult for a serious artist.
“Landscapes calm the nerves in a stressed-out world. But we also need art that boils the blood. That’s the work of the photojournalist.” Alfred draped his blazer over the back of the leather desk chair. But he remained standing. So did I.
“If Adams is the worst kind of photographer, why keep this book around?”
“I never said worst. Paparazzi are the worst.” Then Alfred broke eye contact and appeared to lose himself in a thought. “That book… an ancient keepsake, really.” He spoke without the usual condescension. “A trip out west with an old pal. We visited many of the places Adams photographed.”
I flipped to the inside front cover. A handwritten inscription read Great places, great times.—R.B.
I couldn’t imagine the type of person Alfred would consider a pal. I knew little about the man’s friends and family, except for Tricia, and she didn’t seem a fair representative of the Blumenfeld gene pool.
I returned Ansel Adams to his assigned slot in the bookshelf. “So you think my pictures in the grand rotunda would’ve been calendar art? We weren’t under enemy attack.”
Alfred offered a thin smile. “You were driven by a fire in your belly, a wrong that had to be exposed. That’s the stuff of great photojournalism. That’s why I still have hope for you, even when you act like a schlemiel.”
An ember of childish pride flared. I extinguished it. “I didn’t know I’d be coming here for more lectures on my bad behavior.”
Alfred slid his hand into his pants pocket. “Then let’s get to why you did come here.”
“I take responsibility for my actions. Besides, if you knew Tony Drax, you’d know why I decked him.”
“I don’t need to know him. He’s a Drax, and they’re all the same. They live to take from others.”
“But we don’t have to give them what they want—like my film.”
The old man stuck out his chin and glared down his nose at me. “You called Walther a Nazi and assaulted his grandson. You think he would’ve handed everything over and wished us a nice day?”
Our cease-fire of civility was eroding fast. “You could’ve sacrificed the camera. It’s only a gadget.”
Alfred’s cheeks reddened. “A rare gadget, and men like Walther Drax have enough money to purchase all the rare gadgets in the world and put them in their own museum and say look how cultured and generous we are.”
I took a step forward, the desk between us. “You’re proving my point. All they care about is their precious public image. I had the advantage until you threw it away. My photos could’ve exposed them as wasters of our culture.”
Alfred studied me for an uncomfortable few seconds. Then he said, “In your estimation, what type of advantage did you have?”
I’d just explained it. “I don’t understand.”
“That’s your problem. You don’t get it.”
I dismissed him with a wave. “So now you’re calling me an idiot. I think I’m wasting my time.”
Alfred sighed to be heard. “Mr. Tremaine, you misunderstand. I was asking an important question.” He stepped out from behind his desk and came to within three feet of me, led by his sweet cologne. “What type of advantage did you have?”
I felt a dull pain behind my eyes. “You tell me.”
“A tactical advantage, not a strategic advantage. Tactically, you might preserve the old train station. But you need a strategic advantage to win the war, not just one battle.”
“I love that train station.” Like Dad loved it.
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