by Steve Amick
13
Walking her back from the Berghoff where he'd gotten off cheap—she'd been merciful and simply split a corned beef with him—he stopped at the front window of the camera shop as she unlocked the front door. He hadn't noticed it earlier, but she had a sign up that read APARTMENT FOR RENT.
“You're not moving out?” he asked.
“No, no. The little one in back. My pop's. Things are really—”
He was going to touch his hat brim and say good night as soon as she had the door unlocked and got safely inside, but as she stepped in and pressed the light switch, she took only a step or two before stopping suddenly. He half expected to see someone there, staring back at them—her husband, Chesty; a burglar; an overanxious potential renter—or maybe a rat scurrying across the floor. Or maybe she'd just remembered she'd left something back in the chaos of the Berghoff.
She started to head back into the rear of the shop, turning on more lights as she went. There was apprehension in her posture. He decided he was watching woman's intuition at work: she was sensing there was something wrong.
“Mr. Dutton ….,” she called, and since she'd already gotten the hang of Wink, he knew she was addressing him this way for some reason, some effect. He followed her in, all the way to the rear entrance, by the little staircase that led up to the second-floor living quarters.
Someone had been there. Or tried to be there. The glass was smashed in one of the little panes in the door. Fortunately, there was a steel grid bolted over the glass panes and the intruder had failed to reach the handle inside.
His first thought was kids. Hoodlum youths, up to no good, doing stuff just to be doing stuff. A practical-minded, professional burglar would know, even from the outside, reaching the lock that way was a long shot. Pointless mischief, but all the same, it had to be scary for a good-looking woman living alone.
Unlocking it now and opening it, trying the bolt and the handle on the outside, he determined they hadn't done any damage to anything but that one little pane. “The lock's fine,” he said. “It'll still lock up tight, no problem.”
He asked for some heavy cardboard, just to fix it temporarily, keep the wind out. She stepped back toward the darkroom and slipped past the dark purple curtain, returning with a scrap of heavy mat board and a mat cutter.
He almost chuckled: in the last two days of this new job, he'd been more involved with various mat boards and craft knives than ever before and now this, even after hours … But he could see she wasn't taking it lightly, and so he told her she was going to be fine, that the worst of it was over, that no one was going to hurt her.
“They already have,” she said. “Things are already so tight, and now I have to get that repaired!” She looked tough about it, mad and scowling, and he almost feared for the confused drunk or dimwitted teens who did this, imagining what they might face if she caught them. But the sound of her voice told something different. It was anguish, the sound of a frail, exhausted woman, one step from tears. “We can't afford any of this anymore and now—”
Dropping the mat board, he took her by the shoulders and squeezed, not feeling a hug was exactly appropriate. She remained a few inches from him, but he could feel her breath against his shirt, coming in hard little huffs. He waited for it to calm and he told her he'd put this mat board in, then he'd come back tomorrow and fix the window himself. It was mostly grunt work, no great art to it. He'd done it before for whole sash windows, and this was just a tiny little pane—easy! All he had to do was pry off the molding, pick out the broken shards, set it in, caulk it if he wanted to get fancy about it, and tack the molding back in place. The piece of glass, maybe five inches square, would cost maybe two bits—that would be his treat. The expense was in the glaziers' labor—and his labor would be free. “So stop worrying about that little pane.”
She smiled up at him now, weakly, and he released his grip on her and asked her to get a broom and take care of the broken shards while he cut the cardboard to size. Before patching it, he first measured the small frame and scribbled the dimensions on a scrap of mat board he tucked into his wallet. She was done sweeping and sat down on the bottom of the stairs that led up to the apartments, her chin on her hands, still looking a little weary and worrisome, like a kid with a busted skate. But he wasn't done yet, so he ignored this for now. “Need some tape,” he announced, and before she could direct him, he ducked into the darkroom and, sure enough, spotted a roll of black gallery tape.
“You shouldn't go in there,” she said as he tore off some good lengths. “There might—”
“I know,” he said, finishing up the patch. “I know that much about darkrooms. But you just went in there, so I figured I wouldn't be exposing anything.” He got a good look at her now, trying to assess how she was doing there on the stairs. Not well. She was hugging herself, rubbing the length of her arms, either nervous or cold.
“Now,” he told her, clapping his hands together, playing the know-it-all handyman, “we need just one other thing …”
14
The “good stiff belt apiece” that Wink had prescribed—and she had provided, shuffling up to Pop's old room and removing the bottle of bathtub gin, circa Capone, she'd found in a dusty hat-box under his bed after he'd died—had led to two more, and the two more had led to the darkroom. She kept only the safelight on, and she'd only finished the contact sheet, with its tiny frames, but she figured he could sort of make out the pictures. Well enough at least. Well enough to form an opinion.
“Come on,” she said. “Tell me what you think.”
She hadn't told him what they were for or where they'd come from—or that she'd taken them or that it was her in that black wig. She'd just said she had something she wanted to show him.
“Well,” he said, squinting at the sheet in the dim red light, “it's a little confusing. Contradictory, I guess is a better word … See, the crisp focus, nice contrast, all that—that's all very professional. But still … the composition says another thing. A lot of these, if it were me, I'd ‘kindergarten' the stove and the table— move the view to the side more, so the secondary objects are turned more dead-on. That way, the lines of the stove become simplified so they no longer draw focus away from your subject. See how the angle of perspective is giving the stove all these acute angles which make that part of the composition busier? They don't want all this busyness. For what this is, this kind of subject matter, there's just too much going on. Ideally, if I were painting this, say, for a calendar, I might just rough in the stove— barely sketch it, just give an idea she's in a kitchen—so we concentrate instead on the girl … Or in a photo, not a painting—a lot of these girlie photos, the furniture and stuff, they're all just props. Painted cardboard boxes or canvas flats. Backdrops—like an old vaudeville skit or a stage play. Same deal.”
It was frustrating. These were not the kind of answers she was looking for exactly. But she wasn't sure she should give him more information than she had. “So is it professional or—”
“Amateur maybe … ?” He still didn't sound too sure. “If you're asking should you go to the cops or write the postmaster general, no, it's not raunchy enough to qualify for the smut laws. She's not even naked, really. But could someone make some money with these, if they wanted? Sure. Like I say, they're not smoldering hot, and they're not the most artful compositions, but sure, they probably could. But if it bothers you at all, I say just don't make them any prints. You have a right to turn away customers, certainly. And if this kind of thing bothers you—”
“Ha!” She tore the contact sheet away. “You think I'm in any position to turn anything away at this point? I'm just trying to make ends meet.” She wished now she hadn't had seconds of the questionable Prohibition-era rotgut. It was hard not showing she'd flared. She didn't mean to be short with him. He was just trying to help. Heck, he was helping. Some of what he said were actual artistic tips. But for the most part, he seemed to be very focused on whether they were professional girlie shots, for the
public, or just some private people, horsing around. She knew it was just the booze, but for a second, he struck her as being sort of above it all, and it was hard not to come right out and admit what she was up to and show him the new tax letter she'd received from the city and the other back-payment-due notices and dare him to condemn her for trying this.
But, she reminded herself, she didn't need his approval, so he didn't really need to know.
She pulled the chain on the safelight and threw open the curtain, leading him out. Somewhere between the first belt and the second, they'd settled on the plan that he would stay in Pop's apartment tonight, just in case whoever broke the window in back returned, and now she still had to make up his room and scrounge up a few toiletries Chesty had left behind.
She needed his help reaching Pop's blanket and the twin-sized sheets, tucked away up on the top shelf of the hall linen closet, and as he took the other end and helped with the military-style bed making, she told him he might as well check out of the hotel tomorrow, if he was comfortable enough tonight. He could stay until she found a renter—if he wanted. “I know I'd feel safer and you'd save your money.” She was thinking privately, as she had been earlier at dinner, offering to split the corned beef on rye, that he probably hadn't even been paid yet at his new job and, employed or not, was probably cutting it pretty close.
She told him she was sure Chesty would appreciate his being there.
“Well …,” he said.
“But just to make sure, I've already written him to suggest such an arrangement.” It was true, but of course she'd told her husband she'd wait for his answer before speaking to Wink. Instead, she told Wink she was sure Chesty would agree that they should offer to rent to him but only at a very nominal rate, and that Chesty would probably also say she should take care not to cramp his style, et cetera—that a young bachelor like Wink probably wouldn't want to be cooped up with a boring married lady.
“I'm sure he wouldn't call you boring,” Wink said.
“No, but then he's not allowed to. I'm sure he will suggest that if we do offer to rent it to you, you'll feel obligated to do so, and he'll warn me not to make a nuisance of myself, that we should leave you alone to find something more suitable to your lifestyle.”
“Which, believe me, is a thrill a minute,” he said with a smirk.
She told him she didn't doubt that, considering the fact that in this one evening with him, she'd experienced “fine dining” at one of the city's hot spots, a crime scene, near drunkenness, lurid photographs, and two people sleeping under the same roof without benefit of marriage. “That's all since you came along, Wink Dutton. And I'm afraid life above the camera shop does not normally offer nearly that much excitement.”
It was great just having someone around to laugh with, even if it was only a chuckle and it wasn't anyone with whom she could actually share the biggest laugh of all—the truth of what she'd done, flouncing around the kitchen in nearly nothing but a wig and leg paint.
• • •
All through the night, she stirred awake. First it was recalling the jagged little broken window in back and all the scary things that might be trying to sneak in, and then she'd remember that Wink Dutton was there, on guard duty, in Pop's apartment. Anyone breaking in would have to pass his door to get to her, and knowing that, she'd feel better and doze off. Then she'd remember that he had an injured hand and wonder if he could defend her if he needed to. But then she'd remember he was a tall one— as tall as Chesty—and other than the hand, seemed fit and athletic as any boy in the service. She imagined him going through all the training—hand-to-hand combat, jabbing mattresses with bayonets, high stepping through a field of tires, right along with the soldiers who hadn't been handed typewriters and cameras and pen and ink. No, in a pinch, he'd be fine.
She'd doze off again, and then she'd think about the bills and the taxes and the lack of customers and how she was there facing it alone, but then she'd remember Wink there, just through the back wall, and think maybe he'd become a regular renter and help out around the store even, and everything would be back in the black.
And then, just about to doze off, she'd think of what the neighbors might say and the few customers she still had might say and the deliveryman and the mailman. And her relatives. And even what Chesty himself might say. But if Chesty didn't want Wink here, she wouldn't have him.
Except she could tell already that Wink was the kind of friend her husband wouldn't mind having there, in fact would prefer to be there, boarding up broken windows and looking out for her. And it made her miss Chesty like crazy—the way he smelled of darkroom chemicals; the way he never eased into bed, just flopped down like dead weight, perching on the edge of the bed first to wind his alarm clock. Even if she'd already started to nod off, he'd flop down with a groan, just as lanky and clueless as a high schooler, and he'd always whisper “Sorry” like it was a surprise every single goddamn night.
God, she missed him.
At one point, she had to clamp her pillow over her face to muffle her sobs. Having a guest there, right down the hall, made it tricky when she started to cry her eyes out. But still, she was glad he was there. It was good not to feel quite so overwhelmingly alone.
15
At the Zim Zam Coffee Shop, right around the corner from the agency, Sal's friend admitted two things: she had very little art direction experience and her last name was Rooney.
Reenie Rooney.
Her real first name was Maureen, which made marginal sense, he thought—as the youngest in a large “black Irish” brood, her siblings had called her Reenie for short. The part that struck him as screwy was the part where her siblings, whose last names, conceivably, were all also Rooney, didn't seem to fathom what hers was, in total. Maybe by the time she got to school and her name took on its full ridiculous bloom, Reenie had stuck. Still, he thought, she's trying to impress major clients with a name that sounds like a jump-rope chant?
And though she claimed to be underqualified, he was suitably impressed with her former place of employment—the StevensGross Studio, home to several top-notch commercial illustrators. Impressed, that is, until she told him she'd only really answered phones and processed invoices, ordered supplies, and performed other such clerical duties. No actual design, illustration, or art direction experience.
He told her not to worry. Though he privately suspected her new position at LD&M had a lot to do with wartime job vacancies, he assured her they must have all seen something special in her portfolio—in her spec work, that is, even if she'd done nothing that had actually been produced.
Those perfectly arched eyebrows made a dive-bombing maneuver again and she practically gnawed loose a fingernail. “I never really … put one together? Yet, I mean. A portfolio. Even with just spec work. And it wasn't any ‘all' that hired me—just Mr. Deininger. And now, lately, he's been real … well, insistent.”
As much as he loved the looks of this long, lovely gal, right about here, Wink was hoping she would say the boss was cracking down, expecting her to produce, to show something for herself, though as near as he could figure, she'd just barely started. Wink wouldn't want to see her fired, of course, but it seemed more likely that his own movement up to something more suitable, given his experience, might come all the sooner if this creative director Deininger was getting “insistent” about winning results.
But that wasn't what she meant. “He's convinced I'm easy just because I used to—well, he figured it out that I used to also sometimes pose for Mr. Elvgren. You know who I mean? At Stevens-Gross?”
Of course he knew who Gil Elvgren was. Besides having rapidly become America's most beloved and classiest painter of calendar pinups, he'd taught a couple night courses right down the street at the American Academy of Art, back in 1940, and Wink had been lucky enough to get in. He'd been in awe of Elvgren, even more so after studying with him, and he wondered if the guy ever heard that he, one of his many students, of course, had made a little splash for himse
lf in the army publications. Or if the man would even remember his name if he did happen across it.
“I wasn't nude or anything. I wasn't even wearing the dresses and undies he put me in. Later, I mean. He did all the clothes or no clothes later. What I mean is, I was in my office outfits, for Pete's sake. Dressed for work. And I was just trying to help out, you know? In between all my other work. Step on an apple crate here, lean against this stepladder there … They had professional models most of the time, but a lot of us girls on the office side, we'd help out, you know? Pitch in? Just so's he could get a snapshot, something to work from. So now Mr. D. keeps coming around, thinking … Well, is what I did really so awful? I mean, is that supposed to make me a tramp?”
Even if she were a tramp, he thought, the girl had a right to say no when she wanted and not be pestered all day.
“No,” he said. “It doesn't make you a tramp. It makes Deininger a jerk.”
She seemed to be hesitating, unsure she wanted to hear his response to something.
“He said something else,” she said finally.
“Which was what?”
“He said you're ready to take over my job if I'm going to be … ‘uncooperative.' He says you're overqualified for it, except I got one qualification you don't.”
“He said that?”
“Ain't it awful? Like he's talking about my privates or something!”
The bad coffee suddenly tasted even worse, and he wondered now if he'd been hired just to make the girl fear for her job.
Brought in as a Human Wedge so some paunchy 4-F hot-to-trot goldbrick could put the make on sweet little Reenie Rooney. Nice place, this home front …
After work and after picking up the new glass, when he stopped by the hotel to get his things and check out, he stopped at the newsstand downstairs and scanned some of the girlie mags and considered splurging. Payday would arrive soon, and some things were sort of necessities, in a way … He got as far as picking up a copy of At Ease and scanning the cover—the photo of Ann Sheridan in a red, white, and blue bathing suit, the description of articles about “the Oomph Girl” and “Manhood Misery: Tojo's Secret Shame!” and one that made him wonder how much he'd missed while away, something on how the bosom was “back in style.” Flipping through, he saw there was a photo essay on a new synthetic rubber the government was developing—they didn't seem to mean rubber as in rubbers—but the pictures showed them supposedly testing it with cheerleaders bouncing on a piece of it stretched like a trampoline. Hmm, he thought. Very informative.
