Michael McGarrity - The big gamble

"That would be super," Ramona said, flashing a big smile. "Thank you, thank you."

Bedlow laughed. "We'll talk again soon, later in the day."

Left outside Bedlow's closed office door, Ramona sat on the edge of a carpeted raised platform and looked through the application forms and tuition loan contract. The contract had a clause that required the immediate full repayment of the tuition loan with interest if the student refused to accept any assignment arranged or sponsored by the agency.

It seemed straightforward enough, but Ramona wondered why the clause didn't specify modeling assignments, given the detailed legalese of the rest of the document.

As she was filling out the application a car pulled to the curb and a young blond woman got out. Dressed in tight jeans and a bulky sweater, the blonde was thin and leggy. She took two last puffs on a cigarette, ground it under the toe of a spiked-heel red boot, and pushed her way inside. There was a welt under her eye, a bruise on the chin, and one cheek was puffy and swollen.

The blonde glanced at Ramona and started pacing back and forth. "Is she in?" she asked, her words slightly slurred.

Ramona nodded. "On the phone."

"Shit."

"What happened to you?" Ramona asked, oozing sympathy.

"Boyfriend," the blonde replied after a slight hesitation. "He's history."

"That sucks."

"Tell me about it," the blonde answered, agitated.

"Did he hurt you bad?"

The blonde laughed harshly and pushed up the sleeve of her sweater. There were bruises on her forearm.

"How did it happen?" Ramona asked.

Nervously eying the office door, the blonde shook her head. "I don't want to talk about it," she said, pointing to her face. "It hurts too much."

"Sorry." Ramona returned her attention to the application. The blonde sat on a leather ottoman that had been used as a prop in some of the photographs on Bedlow's wall.

"I'm Ramona," she said when the blonde looked at her.

"Sally."

"Are you a model?"

"Yeah. You gonna take the course?"

Before Ramona could answer, Bedlow appeared, and Sally stood up.

"I gotta see you now," Sally said.

Bedlow's voice dripped honey. "Of course, dear girl. Come in."

Sally flew by Bedlow into the office.

Bedlow smiled sweetly at Ramona. "My photographer can take you right away. Will that do?"

"Oh, yes," Ramona replied. She dropped her voice to a whisper and glanced at Bedlow's office. "That poor girl."

"It's very unfortunate," Bedlow replied. "Come back with the proof sheets after lunch."

"I haven't finished the application," Ramona said, hoping she could stick around and do some eavesdropping.

"Don't worry about it now," Bedlow replied rather shortly, holding open the front door.

"Okay," Ramona said cheerily. "See you in a little while."

She made her exit and memorized the license plate on Sally's car as she passed behind the vehicle.

Raised in Albuquerque, Ramona knew the city well. Bedlow's photographer, Thomas Deacon, worked out of his home in an older neighborhood of postwar Southwestern-style cottages near Carlisle Boulevard. The house stood out as the only one on the street with a neglected front yard. A converted garage with a private side entrance served as the studio.

Deacon met Ramona at the door and gave her the once-over. She did the same to him, keeping an eager smile plastered on her face. He was in his forties, tall, with a straight, narrow nose, a long chin, and wide, down-turned lips. He had long hair pulled back in a ponytail and wore jeans and a lightweight cotton sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

He was hard looking in a way that some women found exciting. To Pino he seemed like a middle-aged white guy who needed to be seen as hip, cool, and on the fringe. In Pino's experience, the kind of man who usually turned out to be an emotional adolescent.

"Yeah, come on in," Deacon said.

Ramona caught a whiff of marijuana as she stepped inside the studio. She checked his pupils; they were slightly dilated.

"Proof sheets only, right?" Deacon said.

"Yes," Ramona said brightly. "That's what Ms. Bedlow wants."

Deacon grabbed a camera from a table, turned on some stand lights, and pointed at a white screen at the back of the studio. "Go over there and try to do what I tell you."

He adjusted the lights, circled around her, gave directions, and took a bunch of head shots.

"Do you just do studio work?" Ramona asked, tilting her chin up.

"Hold still," Deacon said, clicking the shutter. "No, I do a lot of location work."

"That must be fun."

Deacon gave her a sarcastic look. "It's work. Loosen up, will you?"

"Sorry," Ramona said. "I bet you get to see a lot of exotic places."

Deacon snorted as he backed away. "Oh, yeah, lots of exotic places. I'm gonna need to take some full-body shots. Lose the skirt and sweater."

Ramona stifled a desire to protest, pulled off her sweater and stepped quickly out of her skirt.

"Not afraid to show your body," Deacon said approvingly, reaching for another camera. "That's good. Bend over and put your hands on your knees."

"Do you do a lot of location work for Ms. Bedlow?" Ramona asked, showing her cleavage.

"All of it," Deacon replied. "Pout for me."

Ramona pouted and Deacon fired off a bunch of frames. He put a straight-back chair in front of the screen. "Sit, spread your legs, and press your arms against your breasts."

"Like this?" Ramona said, assuming the position.

"Yeah. Now, look tough. Can you do that?"

Ramona put on her cop face.

"That's good." Deacon took shots from different positions and angles, and lowered the camera. "Get dressed."

Ramona wanted to jump into her clothes, but held back. She put a hand on her hip. "We're done?"

"Yeah," Deacon said.

"How did I do?"

"Okay," Deacon replied, walking toward a darkroom in a corner of the studio. "You've got a tight little body. But you gotta learn to relax. You'll get used to it. I'll have the proof sheets ready in a few."

Ramona dressed and looked around the studio. A long table held a dozen or so neatly arranged manila folders. She flipped through them and found eight-by-ten glossies of young women, some rather so-so looking, dressed in trendy western-wear outfits-lots of fringe leather jackets, long skirts or designer jeans, Indian jewelry, and custom cowboy boots.

There was a folder featuring Sally, the girl with the bruises. Buxom, blond, tall, and unbattered, she was the most striking model in the group. Her photographs were exterior shots, taken on a patio of what appeared to be either a resort or an expensive private residence. The patio had a Santa Fe feel to it, although the pictures could've been taken at any number of locations throughout the Southwest.

She heard the darkroom door open, turned to see Deacon, and smiled charmingly at him. "These are wonderful photographs. You're very talented. I hope you don't mind my looking at them."

"That's cool," Deacon said.

"Are they recent?" Ramona asked, placing Sally's folder on the table.

"Yeah, I shot them several days ago."

"Where?"

"Down at the lodge on the Mescalero Apache Reservation."

Ramona nodded. "It's so beautiful down there."

"Yeah," Deacon said, handing her a manila envelope. "Here you go. Take these to Cassie. You owe me a hundred bucks."

Ramona paid Deacon with five twenties. "Thanks for doing this on such short notice," she said.

"Yeah," Deacon said as he stuffed the bills in his pocket and opened the studio door. "Later."

Before returning to the Bedlow Modeling and Talent Agency, Detective Pino ran the plates on Sally's car and the full-size van that had been parked in front of Deacon's house. The car was registered to Sally Greer and the van to Thomas Deacon.