John Lutz - Torch

“Did Enrico have another job?”

“Not that I know of. Until he ran into problems, he got enough work to make a living. Like I said, he’s ethnic, and he’s good at what he does when he isn’t making trouble. The camera loves him.”

“Was he a favorite of any particular photographer?”

“Hold on a minute.” Walton stood up and walked to a black file cabinet and pulled open a drawer. He drew out a folder, opened it, and stood studying it for a few minutes. “Drew Kirk requested him several times. His studio’s over on Sixth Street.” He replaced the folder and slid the drawer shut on its smooth, noiseless tracks. He took a few steps toward his desk and stood still, making no move to sit back down.

Carver read the signal and stood up. He leaned on his cane and got one of his business cards from his pocket, handed it to Walton. “If Enrico gets in touch with you, I’d appreciate it if you’d call me.”

“Why should I do that?” There was no hostility in Walton’s voice. It was a simple, logical question, the “What’s in it for me?” asked by millions of businessmen every day. A guy like Walton wouldn’t dream of not asking it.

“Money,” Carver said.

Walton nodded. “Okay, I’ll call.”

Carver thanked him and started to wade through the carpet toward the door.

He stopped when he noticed the arrangement of photographs on the wall that had been behind him. They were all eight-by-ten head shots of male and female models. The second one from the left was of Maggie Rourke. She was wearing a low-cut something with puffed sleeves and smiling as if she’d just been pleasantly surprised by the photographer.

“Who’s that woman?” Carver asked, moving closer and pointing with his cane at Maggie, almost touching it to the photograph.

“Margaret Rourke,” Walton said without hesitation. “Maggie. She hasn’t worked for me for quite a while. In fact, she no longer models. I sent her out on a couple of shoots for a swim-wear catalog about ten months ago, then she quit the business and went into something else. I leave her photo up there because she looks so good.”

“That’s why she drew my eye,” Carver said. “She should be in movies.”

“Shouldn’t they all,” Walton said. “That’s what most of them think, anyway. As if looks is all it takes.”

Carver continued on toward the door.

Walking beside him, Walton said, “It’s a shame Enrico can’t get it together. He has the potential to be a top earner in this business.”

“Potential is for last-place ball clubs.”

“Yeah, I get your point,” Walton said.

Carver doubted it.

He said goodbye to Verna on the way out and she favored him with one of her sly, carnivorous smiles.

Drew Kirk’s studio was on a residential block of Sixth Street and looked like a house. It was, in fact, a large house, white stucco with a red tile roof and enameled red iron balconies and shutters. It was old like the rest of the houses on the block, but unlike many of them it was well maintained and the lawn was green and had been recently mowed. Kirk probably lived upstairs, where lace curtains showed at the windows.

The only indication that the ground floor was a studio was a small black and white sign that read DREW KIRK, INC at the bottom of one of the beveled windows that flanked the front door. A smaller sign said ENTER, so Carver did.

He found himself in a large, cool foyer that held the faint chemical scent of developer. A wide blue-carpeted staircase curved to the second floor, but there was a blue velvet rope strung across it. An arrow on a sheet of thin white cardboard pointed to the left, where a door was lettered DREW KIRK, INC in the same bold black print as the sign in the window. To the right were two closed doors, richly grained wood with white porcelain knobs.

Carver pushed open the DREW KIRK door and found himself in a reception room with a polished hardwood floor, black file cabinets, a long red sofa and matching chair, and a large desk that held an Apple computer. The computer’s screen was blank. There was no one behind the desk. The window looked out on the street; Carver could see the Olds squatting in the shade of a palm tree. The rust was barely evident from this distance.

Behind the desk was another door, and above it a green light and a red one, side by side like mismatched eyes. The green one was glowing, so Carver assumed it was okay to enter what must be the studio proper.

No one paid any attention to him when he opened the door and stepped into a surprisingly spacious studio littered with sets and equipment. The entire first floor of the house beyond the reception area had been made into one vast room broken only by supporting pillars and a walled-off corner that was probably the darkroom. At the far end of the room, a blond woman in a one-piece red swimming suit was standing in front of a pull-down backdrop of a beach with blue ocean and breeze-bent palm trees. A thin, intense-looking man wearing dark slacks and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up above the elbows was standing beside a tripod-mounted camera, saying something to the model and signaling her with short, choppy hand motions to move this way and that. A younger man with shoulder-length brown hair was standing off to the side, near one of several brilliant lights also mounted on tripods. He had on a gray tee shirt and wide red suspenders that weren’t necessary to hold up his tight, faded Levi’s. There were two large white umbrellas situated on each side of the set, carefully angled to reflect softened light onto the subject, who was holding a wine bottle.

The suspendered assistant stared at Carver, making the intense-looking guy aware of his presence. He turned around, waved Carver over toward him, then went back to instructing the model, who fluffed her hair and glanced at Carver with disinterest.

“. . . can’t just look surprised, gotta put a little fear into your expression, Jane. Shock. And remember, there’s just been an explosion.”

Jane said, “Look at me! I’m all fucking wet.”

“You’re at the beach, baby,” the intense guy said. He had to be Kirk. He was skinny enough to look unhealthy and resembled a young Sinatra except his face was badly pockmarked from long-ago acne.

The assistant grinned at Carver. He was in his twenties and already had terrible teeth. Carver saw now that he wore a silver skull-and-crossbones earring in his left ear. That and the long hair and the yellowed stump-toothed grin made him look like a pirate.

Carver leaned on his cane and watched. He noticed that the bottle in the model’s hand had a champagne label, and a cork stuck on a thin wire that extended straight up from it was bouncing around about two feet above the neck. A clear plastic hose ran from the side of the bottle over to near the assistant with the earring. Carver noticed the model was standing in a shallow metal tray about five feet square. A hose ran from the tray over to a drain. Carver was spellbound.

The pirate switched on a large floor fan and the model’s blond hair took on the desired windblown look, a strand of it trailing seductively across her face.

“Good. Just that way,” Drew Kirk said. “Drop your arm a little more so it hides the hose. Okay, good. Perfect. Remember-shock, fear, all the while smiling.”

The woman glanced at him curiously.

Kirk flitted around with a light meter, then crouched behind the camera. “Hit it, Wilbur!”

Wilbur the pirate turned a handle over at the sink and water rushed through the clear plastic hose. A little compressor kicked in and churned it up with air. Wilbur ran to the compressor and punched a button.

Air-foamed water burst from the neck of the bottle in a mini-geyser that made the cork on the end of the wire dance. It was impossible to see the wire in the rush of water. Water kept fizzing out of the bottle to meet the bobbing, suspended cork. The model kept smiling. The camera kept clicking and whirring. In the photo, it would appear that the woman had just popped the cork on the bottle and foaming champagne was gushing out, propelling the cork before it.