Dominoes in Time

by Matthew Warner

  Marmaduke watched her run on the treadmill while Jimmy Stewart and Margaret Sullavan bickered in “The Shop Around the Corner.” Neither of them realized the pen pals they were in love with were actually each other. Saps. They were overlooking the obvious—just as Chrissy suspected she was overlooking something.

  She stepped off the treadmill and leaned over to pet Marmaduke. The dog sniffed the bump on her face, growled, and walked off.

  This better clear up by tomorrow, she thought.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Except it didn’t clear up by tomorrow, and not by the next day nor the day after that. It grew bigger and redder and uglier, and Monica still told her she couldn’t work until it was gone. “I hope you’re waitressing or something.”

  Yeah, like a restaurant would hire a waitress who looked diseased.

  Chrissy watched it in the mirror, squeezed it, poked it. It didn’t hurt and instead was a bit numb. That alarmed her as much as the appearance; it was like that part of her face wasn’t even there.

  The dermatologist wouldn’t return her call. The receptionist always said, “The doctor’s in with a patient right now.”

  So she made an appointment with another doctor who couldn’t see her until the end of the week. Fine. She’d go to the emergency room by then if she had to. Make them get out the frigging blowtorch and burn this thing off her face. How Raquel must be loving this.

  Oh, who am I kidding? Maybe this is a wake-up call to get out of the business.

  Chrissy sat on her couch and peered at her dark TV set. Lightning had fried it last night.

  Maybe I should just move back home. Become a telemarketer. I won’t have a soul, but at least I’ll have money.

  Not cut out to be a model. Didn’t even talk like one—neither airheaded like Ms. Monte Carlo nor all high society like Raquel. She talked like a truck driver—damns, chrissakes, frigging. It came from growing up in a redneck Virginia town where fine dining was going to Ruby Tuesday. Her only assets were her brains and her looks, and she had used them to pull her ass out of the holler her extended family remained stuck in. But now she felt the call of home, like a lone wolf in the Appalachian woods.

  You’re ugly now. Come back and wash dishes and apply for Medicaid. Wear those threadbare dresses from Goodwill and grow scabs around your ankles from bad shoes while Marmaduke slobbers crud out of the corners of your muddy kitchen. Hear your ignorant, crosseyed children crash in through the door and yap about the man who sells meth down the road. Get on a first-name basis with the cops again and nod and smile your gaptoothed grin when they ask for a blowjob in exchange for leniency after they pull you over for your duct-taped tail light and expired tags. And all the while that thing on your face grows hair.

  God al-fricking-mighty.

  Setting aside her glass of water—she was too poor to afford booze now—she lurched into the bathroom to consult her reflection.

  Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the most pathetic of all?

  The phone rang.

  “What.” She couldn’t summon the energy to be nice.

  “Is that how you answer the phone?”

  “Sorry, Linda. I just thought you were a bill collector.”

  “Already? You’ve only been out for a week.”

  “When you live hand-to-mouth, every day counts.”

  “But I thought Desmond’s paid well. Have you got a check for that yet?”

  She hadn’t, but that was none of Linda’s business. “What do you want? I’m expecting a call.”

  She wasn’t, but what the hell.

  “I got some news for you. I do makeup for the Hamilton and Yoshida agencies? And two of my other girls have developed weird bumps on their bodies.”

  Chrissy fisted the telephone cord. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but is it something you’re doing?”

  “What? Absolutely not.”

  “Where do you get your makeup?”

  “Each agency has its own stock. They all use different brands. It’s not my fault.”

  “Okay. I’m sorry.”

  There was a long pause before Linda spoke again. When she did, she was crying. “It’s not my fault! I’m good at what I do.”

  “I’m sorry, Linda. I’m so sorry. I’ve just been down in the dumps lately.” And she really was sorry. Linda was one of the few friends she had in this town.

  “I didn’t have to call you with this, you know.”

  “I’m sorry.” This time, her voice broke.

  “Well. Okay. I’m sorry, too.”

  Linda took a deep breath and let it out, slobbering into phone. Chrissy tried not to picture her pudgy lips flapping horse-like on the receiver. At least Linda could still go out in public.

  “Sometimes I forget that Raquel’s the queen bitch,” Linda said. “You’re just the resident hardass.”

  They chuckled and apologized to each other again. When they finally moved on, Linda told her more about the other models with bumps. One had a spot in the middle of her back the size of a baseball. “It’s right on her tramp stamp, so she’s pretty pissed off.”

  “Are you talking about Anna Verdon, the one with the dragonfly tattoo?”

  “That’s the one. And the other girl, Gloria Montana. She has a bump on her boob, right in her cleavage.”

  “Holy Christ. Do they know what it is?”

  “No. I called them each this afternoon. The dermatologists are doing biopsies but haven’t told them anything.”

  They continued to hash over the situation for the next half hour. Chrissy made herself a dinner of ramen noodles as they talked. It was all she could afford these days. Marmaduke walked into the kitchen to sniff his food bowl. It was empty.

  They strayed into other topics. Raquel was making hay at Desmond’s, Linda said. The other day she’d had a lingerie shoot that swear to God gave the hairy photographer a woodie. It was funny as hell because Raquel couldn’t stand him.

  “Gee, way to make me feel better,” Chrissy said. “He didn’t get a woodie for me.”

  “Hey, wait a…” Linda paused. “Do you think… ?”

  “What.”

  “Anna Verdon and Gloria Montana.”

  “Yeah? I can hear your gears spinning.”

  “Sweetie, I worked on both of them at Desmond’s within the past couple weeks. Same as you.”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  The coincidence probably didn’t mean anything, but it was all Chrissy had to go on. Everyone who’d come down with the uglies might have contracted them at Desmond’s. Again, Chrissy interrogated Linda about the makeups that she used, but Linda assured her they were all different brands. The models’ only commonality was that they’d been photographed in that same room and worn the same line of underwear.

  Oh, and Linda had worked on all of them, of course. Chrissy still couldn’t rule that out. But if Linda was responsible, Chrissy didn’t believe it was intentional.

  “Maybe it’s something in the fabric they use,” Linda said.

  “Oh yeah? Then how did I get it on my face?”

  “All right—then maybe mold in the air vents? Asbestos?”

  They would work together to find out. The next morning, Linda was accompanying Raquel Domina to another photo shoot at Desmond’s. Chrissy was coming with her.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Raquel struck pose after pose for the hairy potato of a photographer. She flashed fake smiles that never reached her eyes. Potatohead just stood there, as dynamic as the vegetable he resembled, and languidly snapped away.

  It was great to see Raquel looking so uncomfortable.

  “How else do you want me?” She unnecessarily repositioned her bikini bottom for the third time.

  Potatohead just shrugged.

  In the back of the room, Linda nudged Chrissy with her elbow and snorted. Chrissy tried to smile, but it was difficult to be here. The first thing Raquel had said when she saw her was, “She has to leave. I might catch something.”

  “I’m Linda’s assistant,�
�� Chrissy said.

  “What? You don’t know the first thing about makeup.”

  “And you don’t know the first thing about modeling, so what’s the difference?”

  Raquel had huffed and rotated away in her chair. Her eye rolled back at an unnatural angle as Linda applied eyeliner, hands steady as steel.

  Chrissy now watched Raquel and thought, I should be up there.

  Raquel was right, after all. Chrissy didn’t have any business being here. If Monica found out, Chrissy knew she could kiss away any chance of ever returning to work—that is, if her face ever got better. At least no one else had recognized her through her baggy clothes and the bandage on her cheek.

  Chrissy tried to put these thoughts out of her mind. Remember why you’re here.

  She stood up, feigning a stretch, and checked out the room. She scanned the ceilings, the walls, the windows, searching for flaking paint or moldy air vents. Was that a cobweb on the recessed light? Or maybe the suspended ceiling was disintegrating over their heads. Nope. Aside from the photographic equipment and Linda’s makeup station, the place looked as sterile as a jail.

  A Desmond’s sheer lace bra lay on the table beside her. She stuffed it into her purse, feeling like someone from CSI. When Linda was distracted, she stole a tube of lipstick.

  Maybe I can get it all analyzed somewhere—if I ever get any money.

  Potatohead set down his main camera in favor of a smaller handheld one. He stepped close to Raquel, who posed as he took a picture. Maybe he was too close; Chrissy couldn’t believe that it was a very good picture. He returned the smaller camera to the table beside his other equipment.

  Wait a minute.

  Didn’t he use that same camera at one point during her own shoot? Didn’t he step real close and take a picture of her face? Of her mouth?

  Chrissy whispered her observation to Linda.

  “Now that you mention it,” Linda said, “I do remember a couple strange moments during the other girls’ shoots.”

  “Did he maybe take a picture of a tramp stamp and a cleavage?”

  Linda frowned. “What do you think—he has a laser beam in that camera or something that makes people break out in hives?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Chrissy contemplated her answer as the photographer called for a break. He walked off the set, taking the smaller camera with him.

  Raquel returned to the makeup station. She thrust her abdomen at Linda. “He says my stomach looks shiny. Fix it.”

  “What do you expect?” Chrissy said. “You got the Hope Diamond hanging out of your belly button.”

  “Knock it off, dearest. At least he’s not criticizing my lip.”

  Chrissy sat back and crossed her arms. She debated whether to reply but thought better of it. Remember why you’re here.

  That’s when Raquel straightened her bikini bottom again—pulled the fabric farther down over her buttocks and let it go. If Raquel didn’t have such a perfectly smooth ass, she wouldn’t have noticed the ripple beneath the fabric.

  “What’s wrong with your butt, Raq? You got a bump there?”

  Raquel spun away from her. “That’s none of your business.”

  But now Raquel’s butt was facing Linda, who immediately reached out for it. Raquel jumped and pulled away.

  “Stop it! What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m your makeup artist.”

  “You don’t need to touch that.”

  “He’s photographing your whole body. I need to—”

  “No, you don’t! Just stay away.” Raquel kept backing up.

  “Hold on,” Chrissy said. “Just answer a question. Did that guy take a picture of your butt this week? And afterwards did you notice—”

  “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You little tramp, you’re just jealous of me.”

  “I am not, Raquel. I’m just trying to find out if—”

  “Just get away from me!” Raquel was crying now, still backing away. “I probably caught it from you. I was fine until that wart started growing on your face, and now look at me.” She whirled and pulled the fabric away from her right buttock, exposing a dark red bump. “My life is ruined!”

  She grabbed her purse and ran from the room.

  Linda and Chrissy stared at each other, openmouthed. They stared at the other set assistants who in turn stared back. A moment later, someone at the window said they spotted Raquel leaving in her car—still wearing the Desmond’s swimsuit.

  Linda grinned and flipped open her cell phone. “I’m gonna love telling Monica about this.”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  The fat photographer was packing his equipment into a rusty station wagon.

  Linda leaned against her own car and watched him. She winked at Chrissy beside her. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “Don’t worry. Thanks.”

  Chrissy crossed the parking lot as Linda drove off. She unzipped her jacket to expose her cleavage. At least that part of her wasn’t screwed-up yet.

  “Hey honey, can I help you with that?”

  The photographer stopped what he was doing. “You must be joking. No one touches my work.”

  “I’m sorry.” She bowed her head. “That’s actually why I’m here. Your work speaks to me. It’s just so…” She raised her gaze to meet his—saw him glance at her breasts. “… expertly done. Your camera made me feel like I was the only girl in the world. Like it was making love to me. Does that make any sense?”

  Potatohead licked his lips. Her bandage didn’t seem to bother him, thank God. “You’re that girl who modeled for me last week, aren’t you?”

  Chrissy beamed. “You remember!” She gave him a quick hug around the neck. She allowed her hands to linger on his man boobs as she drew away.

  That certainly put a sparkle in his eye. “Can I give you a ride somewhere?”

  “How about back to your place?”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  The photographer held open the door to his apartment.

  “Ooh, thanks so much, Mr. Bellagamba,” Chrissy said as she entered. “This is a real honor to see where it all happens. I mean, it’s, like, so instructional and everything.”

  Chrissy only had a moment to take in her surroundings—a large space with a spiral staircase—before the photographer started pawing at her. She allowed him to maneuver her to a black leather couch. He pulled off her top.

  She didn’t give him a chance to go any further. Instead, she opened his pants to expose tighty-whitey underwear with a yellow stain around the waist. Holding her breath, Chrissy pulled out a penis the size of her little finger. She jerked him off as fast and efficiently as possible. Mr. Bellagamba buried his face in her cleavage as he came. She made sure it all landed on his flabby belly and not on her.

  As she hoped, he soon fell asleep.

  Chrissy extracted herself from him and went to explore the apartment. It was too much trouble to retrieve her blouse, so she went topless.

  She started with the duffel bag he’d dropped by the front door, the one containing the small, silver camera that caught her eye. It turned out to be digital. She turned it on and found that it only contained one picture. It was the one he took today of Raquel’s stomach. Chrissy wouldn’t be surprised if tonight Raquel came down with a strange red bump there to match the one on her ass. The camera was otherwise unremarkable except for a tiny pentagram etched into the casing. Cute.

  Where were the rest of the pictures?

  There wasn’t much to see on this level—just a kitchen and the living room where the photographer was asleep, all as sparsely furnished as the studio at Desmond’s. A downstairs bedroom had been converted into a darkroom. She spent some time looking at his vats of chemical washes and his drying racks, but not too long. If the silver camera was digital, she wouldn’t find what she was looking for there.

  Bellagamba was still asleep on the couch, so Chrissy climbed the spiral staircase.


  It came out in a bedroom. Bellagamba had a king-sized bed in the shape of a heart. Chrissy pushed down on it and discovered that it was a waterbed. She moved on, opening every drawer. Searched the bathroom, the walk-in closet.

  Ah.

  A small work table, and a photo laser printer, and…

  “What the hell?”

  The hairy photographer had created a mosaic in the closet. It hung by pieces of scotch tape from the wall. Each tile of the mosaic was a photograph. Each photograph was of a piece of a woman’s body. There were maybe a hundred of them.

  Together, the mosaic formed the composite picture of a woman.

  Actually, it was two halves of a woman. On the left, the woman was facing the viewer. On the right, Chrissy could only see her back.

  She looked closely at the face. There, at the corner of the mouth, she was certain the square of skin pictured was her own. She’d spent enough time looking at her own reflection to recognize a piece of her face. Pre-blemish, of course.

  The photographer had stolen it.

  And down there, at the base of the spine. A picture of Anna Verdon’s dragonfly tattoo. Below that, a perfectly formed, right butt cheek. Raquel Domina’s, she presumed.

  “She’s incomplete,” the photographer said behind her.

  Chrissy spun—but she was too late to evade the black shape that crashed down on her head.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  A camera’s clicking and whirring summoned her back to consciousness.

  Bellagamba had tied her to the bed. He was standing over her and snapping away with his silver camera. It flashed with each shot.

  She tried to get up. Each movement sent bolts of pain through her head. She felt matted blood on her scalp. She was tied to the headboard—naturally. He’d used cloth handcuffs from some adult novelty shop. And Chrissy was naked.

  “We’re almost done,” Bellagamba said. His semi-erect penis poked out from under his T-shirt.

  He stepped in close for each shot, snapping different portions of her body. Heat and itchiness blossomed on her skin in the wake of each picture. She felt at least four similar patches on her back and thighs, as if he had been photographing her while she was knocked out.

  “Stop it. You’re hurting me.”