William Bayer - Blind Side

Aaron has sold me many cameras over the years. In my photo-journalist days, when I used them up fast, he sold me a slew of Nikons and Leicas. Later, when I went into art photography, he found me my battered Deardorff and my Sinar.

I went to see him early in the morning, just minutes after the store opened. Already there were people inside, buying, selling, trading. Aaron was busy with a gentleman looking at old twin-lens Rolleis-there were half a dozen models lined up on the counter.

I caught Aaron's eye, signaled that I wanted to talk, then prowled among the showcases, excited by the displays of shiny black-and-chrome equipment. If you have money in your pocket, and are aroused by the sight of beautiful machines, Aaron Greene's is a dangerous place to go.

After a while, Aaron found me. He embraced me.

"Hey, boychik!"

He's a stocky man in his mid-fifties, calm, goodhumored, with a kind of permanent half smile that turns his lips. Practically nothing fazes him, which is why, he says, he'll never be better than a middling photographer. But he doesn't care, he loves fine cameras, loves the look and feel of them, the precise craftsmanship with which they're made. As he told me once, he's found himself a perfect job: he gets to handle cameras all day long, open them up, demonstrate them, turn people on to them.

"I'd pay to do it," he told me. "But miracle of miraclesdoing it has made me rich."

Now he was staring at me.

"You don't look too good. What's amatter, Geoffrey?"

"How bad do I look?';

He appraised me.

"Like a guy who's broken up with his girl."

"That's pretty close."

His smile turned compassionate.

"What can I do for you? What do you need?"

I showed him my composite.

"Ever seen this guy before?"

He looked at my picture, then handed it back.

"You doing surrealism these days, Geoffrey? Hub?"

"Please, Aaron, look at the picture. Have you ever seen him?"

"Not that I can think of. Who is he?"

"A photographer."

"I see the monster Pentax. So?"

"So I need to know his name."

He stood back, then peered at me quizzically.

"Last I heard, there were six hundred thousand of you guys going around calling yourselves 'photographers."

"Has he been in here?"

He examined the portrait again.

"If he has, I didn't wait on him."

"What about the other guys? Could you ask them, please?"

"Sure, Geoffrey. Later, though. We're kind of busy here just now."

"thanks, Aaron. By the way, who repairs the Pentax?"

"There's Sid Walzer in the West Forties, and there's this Japanese kid around the corner. Lot of district people use him. they like the monster. Ever hear the damn thing go off?"

He edged me down to the Pentax case, pulled out a used 6 x 7 with pentaprism, set the shutter speed to one second, then cocked and tripped the release. There was a loud clunk as the mirror flipped up, then crashed back down.

"Crash like that, I wouldn't take this jobbo mountain climbing. Might start a little avalanche."

"Who likes these things?"

"Advertising photographers. Centerfold shooters. You name it, they use it. It's a terrific device."

"What's so terrific?"

"The six-by-seven image, and still you can handle it like a thirty-five."

"I need a favor, Aaron." I handed him my composite.

"Check around for me. The repairmen too. See if anyone knows this guy."

"This is important, Geoffrey?"

I nodded.

"Okay. Call me in a couple days."

On my way home I stopped at the big newsstand at the City Hall subway station, As usual, the tabloid headlines were screaming murder. When no one was watching, I bought a copy of Screw, "New York's premier sexually oriented newspaper." I folded it under my arm, exited the subway, then walked home down Nassau Street. I knew Screw contained ads for escort services. My plan was to call them all and ask for "Mrs. Z."

Stepping off the elevator, I heard voices in the hall. When I turned the corner in the corridor, I saw two men standing by my door. they turned to me. Both were in their mid-thirties. One was heavyset, with a drooping mustache and greased-up wavy hair. The other, Italian and cadaverous, seemed more of a friendly type.

"What's going on?"

"Who are you?" the fat one asked.

"This is my loft."

"Barnett?"

"That's right."

"We want to talk to you." The thin Italian guy smiled at me then, a sick-sweet kind of smile.

"Good timing, Geoffrey. We were about to leave you a note."

"About what? Who are you guys?"

But even before they showed me their badges, it occurred to me that they were cops. The fat one was named Ramos, the thin one Scotto. It wasn't hard to discern their roles: Ramos was the tough guy who called me "Barnett"; Scotto was the nice one-he called me "Geoffrey."

"Always leave your door unlocked?" Ramos was playing with my doorknob.

"It's locked," I said.

"No it isn't. We already tried it," Scotto said.

they stood aside while-I tried the door. It was open. I was shocked.

Scotto examined the lock.

"Wasn't tampered with. Maybe you forgot to lock up when you went out."

::I never forget. I've got cameras inside."

Better see if they're still there."

"And if they aren't, we are." Ramos snickered.

"Always around when you need us, right?"

Scotto turned to me and rolled his eyes, his way of saying: I can't help it if my partner's a schmuck.

I pushed my door open, caught sight of my Sinar and started to relax. At least they hadn't taken that. But then when I looked around and saw the damage, I started feeling sick.

Someone had attacked my wall. The glass over the framed print of my PietA was smashed and the rint had p been torn to pieces. But worse was the damage to my big montage murals of Kim. they were still on the walls where I'd tacked them, but the vandal had slashed them and worked them over with spray paint. The word CUNT" had been scrawled across them several times in an angry graffiti writer's script.

"What's the matter? Ripped off? The big camera's here."

I pointed at my murals. Ramos shrugged.

"Who do you think did this, Barnett?"

"How the hell should I know?" I was angry now, enraged by the vandalism, pissed off too at the cops for their lousy dumbbell attitude.

"Take it easy, Geoffrey," Scotto said.

"Dave just asked a question, that's all."

I turned away, and then, worried about what else might have been done, began methodically to check around my loft.

"You're doing right," Scotto said, "Make sure nothing's missing. And if there is something, tell us now. That way we can make you out a report, and you can collect good on your insurance."

The first thing I looked for was the negative of my 9 PietA. It was where it was supposed to be, and the rest of my negative files appeared untouched. I started to feel better then, and the further I looked the better I felt. My Deardorff and my two Leicas were safe, as were all my lenses and meters. As far as I could see, nothing was missing, and I could find no further evidence of vandalism. It seemed implausible, but, so far as I could tell, the only damage was to the PietA and the murals.

Ramos and Scotto meantime had helped themselves to seats. they sat quietly, watching me. By the time Ramos cleared his throat I'd almost forgotten they were there.

"Not too bad, huh?" I turned on him.

"Think it feels good to find your place broken in?"

"Damage is what Dave meant," Scotto said.

"There is damage! Plenty of damage!" I pointed at the murals.

"Just doesn't seem likely-" Scotto said, as if speaking to himself.

"What's that, Sal?" Ramos asked.

Scotto nodded toward my murals.

"Go to so much trouble just for that."

"What do you mean?"