by Chris Wiltz
She pushed her straight silky hair behind her ears, her bangs touching the top of her glasses. “I did what I thought Bellocq had done—asked them to pose in whatever way they saw themselves, dressed however they wanted to dress, or nude, to show off what they were proud of, in whatever environment, with whatever props. A lot of Bellocq's women posed with dogs, a lot were dressed in their Sunday best, many were nude, but not very many were dressed like prostitutes. But the women I've been photographing—they don't dress to look like prostitutes, they dress up in outlandish outfits, very tight, very bright colors, clothes that make them tough and raunchy, not at all seductive or enticing. They also like lots of black leather and chains and whips. Some of them posed with animals, too, mostly big mean dogs; one with a pit bull, another with an ocelot. And one of them posed with a gun, sweeping her hair back with it.” She stopped to show me, using her index finger, cocking her thumb.
She went on. “The photos of mine and Bellocq's that are most similar are two nudes, both girls stretched out in strange corpse-life positions, but Bellocq's girl looks mostly uncomfortable, stiff, not using the pillows behind her to get comfortable. My girl—her name is Candy Malone—just looks like she wants to be dead. There is this terrible vacancy in her eyes, her hands crossed over her breasts.” She briefly crossed her own hands. “I felt so sorry for her.”
She shook her head sharply, as if to jolt herself out of her sympathy. “Anyway, Bellocq's women are soft, feminine. Some are sad, some are haughty, but Neal, these women, except for Candy, are violent, their poses are violent, their dogs aren't cute, their dresses aren't frilly. They're hard, cold, cruel, and they're proud of it. But you know what? Underneath they're sad. Very sad. Much sadder than any of Bellocq's girls. They hide it under layers and layers of anger.”
She stopped, incredulous, wanting me to see how incredible it was, to share the surprise she felt. But I wasn't twenty-two years old and I wasn't surprised.
She put her hand flat on her chest, above her breasts, just at her neckline, a hand with short fingernails, a no-nonsense hand. “I thought at first it was because I was a woman taking their pictures,” she said, and I thought, a child-woman, “that for Bellocq they wouldn't have been so angry, but Bellocq wasn't exactly your typical man either. He was practically a dwarf, with a big, deformed head. Imagine those women letting him take their pictures, exposing themselves to him. And I don't mean just their bodies. Maybe it was easier for them because of the way he looked, so strange and deformed . . .” and she launched into more exclamations and fascinations, telling me about one poet's version of Bellocq's death, how he burned himself up, using a circle of chairs to make a ring of fire high on the wallpaper around a room, finally crashing through a wall of fire, and how that version of his self-destructive death had more truth in it than the real truth, that Bellocq simply dropped dead on Carondelet Street one day.
While Nita talked I thought about her intensity and her idealism and how all things are possible when you're young, and wondered how she'd lose that youthful exuberance. Would it be hard or would it come about naturally, part of the process of aging. I thought that with Maurice maybe she could escape doing it with too many hard knocks.
“Maurice doesn't want me to do it anymore,” she was saying.
It caught me off guard. “Your photography?”
“Oh no. This project. The prostitutes. I think that's why he took me to the coast this weekend, to talk me out of it. And because he knows I'm really upset about Jackie.” She looked depressed, but somehow, at this point in time, I thought it had less to do with Jackie.
“Did he talk you out of it?”
She flipped a hand and glanced over the bar at Grady, who was fooling around with something down at our end, his wide back to us. “I guess so,” she said to Grady's back. “I think he's being way too cautious.”
I tapped her shoulder to make her look at me. “Nita, the truth is that age and experience make people cautious. He's looking out for you.”
“I know he is,” she said, “but you have to admit that Maurice was probably a cautious two year old.” She smiled. “That's just how he is.”
“I think you have caution confused with wariness. He has some reasons.”
“What?” she wanted to know, palms and eyebrows up.
“Well, first of all, your cousin was murdered. Second, those people over at the Gemini have some connection with a man who might very well have killed her.” She started to interrupt me. “Wait,” I told her, “some of those people might even have their own motives. I haven't finished looking into it yet. I think Maurice would like you to stay away from all that till we know who killed Jackie.”
“What if you never know?”
“Hey,” I said, fingertips against my chest, injury in my voice.
She smiled, but just barely. “Who do you think killed Jackie?”
“I said ‘might have.’ Do you remember Bubba Brevna?”
“That man at the funeral.”
“Right. Well, he's the man really running the prostitutes. Do you know Rodney Nutley, known as Godzilla?”
“Godzilla—the girls call him that. He's their bodyguard.”
“That's what they told you?”
She nodded, but slowly, as if she wasn't so sure. “They make jokes about him because he's so big and ugly and he never talks. Sometimes they call him their ‘money-guard.’”
“That's what he does, he makes sure they turn all the money over to him. Then he gives it to Brevna.”
“Oh.”
“Have you ever seen him hit one of the girls or do anything violent to any of them?”
“No!” Quite horrified.
“And none of them have ever told you about him doing anything like that?”
“No! They tease him, to his face. Not mean, good-naturedly. It's not like what you're saying.”
“Maybe not. Maybe you just haven't seen it.”
“I think one of them would have told me by now.”
“I'm not so sure they'd talk to you about those things, Nita.”
“I think they would.”
There was no point in arguing. “What about the Impastato twins, the owners of the Gemini. Do you know them?”
“I know who they are. I didn't know they owned the Gemini.”
“Who did you think owned it, Mave?”
“No . . .” She drew the word out. “I guess I never thought about it.”
“You've never seen the Impastatos work in there?”
“No. I've only seen them in there a couple of times.” You'd think they'd try to put on a better front.
“Nita, where do you take the pictures?”
“Mostly in a back room at the Gemini, an office. Mave lets us use it. Sometimes I take the pictures at their apartments.”
“Does Godzilla know you're taking the pictures?”
“Yes. Sometimes he's at the Gemini, but he waits outside with Mave.”
“Did you know that Mave is a bookie?”
“No . . .”
“Look, I think it would be best if you stopped working on this for a while, until I find out what it is Bubba Brevna is up to, what all these people are up to—”
“But I'm almost finished! Just a few more sessions—”
“Why don't you give Diana what you have?”
“It's not enough. I only need a few more.”
“Nita,” I held her arm at the elbow, stopping her mid-gesture, “can I ask you something? I'm not trying to make you angry or anything, but why did you agree to do this show, let Diana goad you like she did, when you'd already decided you didn't need to do shows and all the stuff other photographers do to do your work. Why?”
Her eyes bored into me. I thought she was going to unleash a stream of vitriol, but she said in a most controlled, steady voice, “I know I said I didn't want to be like all those stupid, self-important people, and I know Diana goaded me, as you say, but none of that matters. It's the girls. That's what you and Maurice, nobody
understands. It's those women themselves. They have something important to say, not me, them. I'm just a means for them to say it. They deserve to have their say.”
All the serious, high-minded idealism of youth. So appealing, so full of contradiction. What could I say to her—who was going to see the pictures? And the miniscule number of people who would see them, would they know what the prostitutes had to say? Would they see all the violence in the pictures that Nita saw, or would they just see a bunch of flagrant whores and be fascinated or disgusted or titillated?
I put my hand on her neck, feeling great affection for her. “Nita,” I said, “I wish you'd just concentrate on Maurice.”
“I am,” she assured me. “I love Maurice, and I have to make him understand. I've got to do this. I want to. All that other stuff, Bubba whatever-his-name-is—”
“Brevna.”
“Brevna. I don't know about all that. I'm not involved in any of it. I'll take the pictures only at the girls’ apartments if that will make you feel better . . . Neal"—she stood up abruptly—"will you take me home now? I've got to talk to Maurice.”
I took her home.
28
A Few Words with Maurice
Nita wasn't the only one who wanted to talk to Maurice; I did, too, but I had to wait until five-thirty the following afternoon.
Maurice had had a long day in court. I'd had a long day on the tail of a malingerer. We were both too tired to see trouble coming.
I met him at his office. He had on a light brown suit with a white shirt and his blue striped tie was loose around the unbuttoned neck of the shirt. So normal was this attire on other people that it seemed completely foreign on Maurice, much more so than the casual clothes I'd seen him in lately. Never had the black string tie he wore with his Western suit hung loose or the top button of his shirt been unbuttoned. Maybe talking to this new Maurice contributed to the problem, too.
The office, however, seemed the same as it had been on Friday evening. Pinkie's desk was neat, her chair tucked under it. One thing was different, though. LOW-LIFE ABOUT TOWN had been affixed to a piece of white cardboard and was propped up on a cabinet behind the desk, leaning against the wall. I liked that.
I followed Maurice into his office. He didn't sling his feet up on the desk. Neither did I.
“Your boy has been moved over to Gretna,” he informed me. “I talked to the D.A. I think the charge will be dropped to second degree.”
“Good. Thanks.” He acknowledged my thanks with a curt nod. I said, “I don't think Nita should be hanging around the Gemini and those prostitutes right now. Were you able to talk her out of it?”
He fixed me with eyes too stony to be boyish. “I had talked her out of it until she went out with you last night. She's over there now—for the evening.”
“And you're blaming me for that?” I asked him, my voice rising as much in irritation as disbelief.
There was a long heavy pause before he said, “No.” Another half beat, then, “Sorry.”
“Look, Maurice, why don't you just tell her she can't do it anymore, period.”
Now he was impatient. “Why don't you tell Diana to tell her the show is off?”
I picked up his desk phone and punched in Diana's number.
“Hello, darling,” she said. “Are you on your way?”
“No.” I was looking at Maurice. “As of right now Nita's show is off,” I said to Diana. “As far as she knows, you called it off.”
“I can't,” she said. “It's too late to call it off.”
“It's off,” I repeated. “Canceled, got it? Find another photographer.”
“Okay, Neal,” she answered, resigned. “You certainly do make life difficult, darling. When will you be here?”
“Maybe not tonight. I'll call you.” I hung up. “Done,” I said to Maurice. “Tell Nita Diana called and said it's off.”
“Nita will call her. What will Diana say to her?” The impatient tone was gone. He was thinking, covering all the bases.
“I don't know, Maurice. She'll probably say I told her to do it.”
“If she says that Nita will blame me as much as you.”
“Think of a reason and call Diana.” I jotted her number down on his desk pad.
“It might just make her more determined,” he said.
“You know, you said it yourself,” I told him. “You told me you and Nita are exactly alike. You know why you love her? Because she's just as driven and strong-willed and determined as you are.”
“That's true, but if Diana hadn't dared her to do this show, she never would have pursued it this way. Not now, at least.”
For some reason this made me feel a bit testy. “It's not like you to be blaming everyone in sight,” I said.
He matched my tone. “I'm not blaming anyone. It's a statement of fact. It's why Nita is across the river and not at home tonight.”
“Nita's doing exactly what she wants to do.”
“I'm saying she didn't want to do this before Diana's offer.”
Even though what he was saying was true, his blaming Diana for what Nita was doing made me mad. “And when you moved her into your house,” I said, “you gave her everything she needed to make Diana's offer unrefusable.”
This was as close as Maurice and I had ever come to having an argument. I stood up. “Call Diana,” I said, starting out.
“Where are you going?”
“Across the river.”
To fucking China.
29
Straw Men
“Don't Mess With My Toot Toot” was playing to a practically empty Gemini when I walked—no, make that strode—into the lounge. Mave was behind the bar, two West Bank business types with their sprayed hair, gold chains and bracelets, and Sears Roebuck suits were at a table off to the side, and the Impastato twins were perched high on bar stools, drinking beer.
I was glad to see the Imps. Most likely, since I assumed they'd been out fishing with him, it meant Bubba Brevna was back, and the person I was most interested in seeing after the conversation with Maurice was Bubba Brevna. The first order of the evening was to check on Nita, however. I had to admit that on the drive to Marrero she had been reduced in my mind from strong-willed and determined to simply stubborn.
Mave, hair piled high and arms akimbo, watched as I strode up to the bar. On her face was a we-don't-want-any-trouble-in-here-Rafferty look. Or maybe it was just that silly song blaring out of the jukebox, but I imagined her saying that to me and, weight equally balanced on suddenly bowed legs, me drawling, “Trouble is my middle name, Mave.” I was already irritated, and this piece of ridiculousness coming unbeckoned into my brain made me feel more irritated.
“Where is Nita Greene?” I demanded, too loud and belligerent.
“I really couldn't tell you,” Mave said, her tone even, in control of herself.
“Couldn't, wouldn't, or better not?” I tromped over to a door at the side of the bar and flung it open.
The lights were off. Nita obviously wasn't taking any pictures back here, but I felt along the inside wall for the lights and switched them on. A sheet was loosely draped across a wall; in front of it was an old over stuffed sofa with mauve cabbage roses all over it.
I turned off the lights, thumped the door shut hostilely and returned to a face-off with Mave.
“If you know where Nita Greene is, you better tell me because if anything happens to her, I'll hold you personally responsible.”
Mave's reply was equable and easy. “Rafferty, you can hold me responsible till the cows come home, but if there aren't any cows, what good will it do?”
Well, that statement both confused and defused me. I sat on a bar stool. “Do you know where she is, Mave?”
“No.” She gestured toward the back room. “She isn't here, as you can see, and she hasn't been here.”
“If she's with one of the girls, would you have any idea which one or where?”
“No idea at all.”
I turned to the
Impastato twins. With no expressions on their faces, I couldn't tell them apart, but the talkative one had trouble keeping the smile off the corners of his mouth. I directed the question at him.
“Is Brevna back?”
“Oh yeah, he's back.” He shifted his smile to the side, to his brother, who acknowledged him with a sidelong glance, a quick cut of the eyes.
The next question I directed to all of them, Mave included: “Does anyone know where Rodney Nutley is?”
“Oh sure,” said the talkative twin, “he's unloading all those beautiful shrimp for the boss. Right, Vinnie?” This got a split-second smile out of Vincent.
Given the interplay between the twins, this statement was not a hundred percent reassuring, and I wanted to be reassured about Nita's safety.
“Well, Vinnie,” I said, and he looked at me from half closed but not sleepy eyes, “and Frankie, how about if I buy the owners of the Gemini a drink?”
Frankie flicked Vinnie with the back of his hand. “Sure. Why not?”
I told Mave more of the same for the twins and a Scotch and water for me. I suggested we move to a table. Frankie jerked his head at Vinnie and the two stood up together and moved over to the table, where I put my drink down.
“You sure that goon Nutley is occupied for a while?” I asked the twins.
“Oh sure,” Frankie said, tossing a grin in Vinnie's direction. “Lots of shrimp for him to pack.”
“How come he gets to pack the shrimp but he doesn't get to go catch them?”
This was a tough question. Frankie shrugged, but not at me, at Vinnie. Then he turned suddenly, a big smile on his face, and said, “He's too big. Takes up too much space on the boat.” I wondered if Vinnie was sending him psychic messages.
