William Bayer - Blind Side

The bus driver honked, I leaped, then was nearly run over by a taxi. Plunging forward to avoid it, I tripped and skinned my knees on the curb. When I recovered and looked up, I found myself not three feet from Arnold Darling, under inspection by his penetrating eyes.

Even as I knew I had bungled my entrance, some old instinct from my photojournalist days took over. I had stumbled up to subjects before, had many times assumed awkward positions to obtain a vital shot. So by sheer rote I raised my camera and started firing away, and the moment I did that I regained my poise: my camera, analogous to his fencing mask, protected me from his scrutiny, and my big Leitz lens had a power his naked eyes did not-it could eat him up alive. Whap! whap! whap! Whap-whap! Whap-whap! The whir of my motor-drive drove him back. Take that! And that!

And that! it seemed to say, and even as it did his cheeks began to flush.

I moved closer, thrust my camera at him, shot him five more times. When he continued to back off, I pressed my advantage, and the feel of my gun-camera swinging back and forth against my chest didn't harm my confidence.

"My name's Barnett," I said, "I'm a photographer. You tried to have me blinded. I'm here to show you I still can see." ,,Get away from me! Get away!"

"Fuck you, Darling. I've got you cold. I didn't take those nasty pictures of you, but I've got them now, and you're going to buy them back."

Whap! whap! whap! whap! I hit him four times hard, noting he had no eyebrows, Then I lowered my camera and smiled at him over its top.

"You're dead meat, sucker. Because before I take those nasty pictures to the cops I'm shopping them around to the press. Star. National Enquirer. Whoever'll pay the most. Imagine the headlines: 'Famous Architect Likes to Make Girls Scream." 'SM Sex Parties at Mrs. Z's.' 'Sonya and Shadow Slain by Prominent Architect." 'Architect in Deep Shit!'

All the time I was speaking he'd been looking around, meantime using his hands to protect his face. I liked that. It told me I was getting to him. I pressed on. Whap, whap, whap, whap, whap, whap!

And then, as he was staggering backward, I saw my opportunity. The dog walker was approaching fast, her nine dogs fanned out in front. A perfect trap: he was caught between my relentless camera and that ninesome of frothing beasts. Push him forward, my best instinct told me. And so I did, thrusting my camera at him, not even looking through it, just shoving it into his face as I pressed the shutter to make the film whir through.

Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap!

He panicked, stumbled, lost his balance and fell. The timing couldn't have been better-the dogs were just behind. As he dropped they parted into two groups, and, when he was down, closed in. He was flat on his back, his head at the feet of the dog walker. She, meantime, had yanked back on her leashes, bringing her dogs to a chaotic halt.

A moment later they were all stepping over Darling, sniffing at him, pressing at him with their snouts. they panted and drooled on his pin-striped suit. It was a very pretty sight.

I knelt and continued to shoot, finishin2 out my roll. I got several great shots of him iithering-up against the dog walker's knees, writhing to escape the muzzles of her dogs. He had by then lost all his dignity. And I had the shots to go with the ominous ones taken by Rakoubian.

"Call Mrs. Z," I told him.

"From now on we'll be dealing through her." My last memory of the scene was of the tall girl in the backwards baseball cap trying to help him to his feet, while her barking wards, all high-strung and overbred, tangled their leashes into a Gordian knot.

It was 2:00 that afternoon when Kim and I hit the Duquaynes. Kim had their private number-the three of them had had, after all, a very private relationship-and so we stopped at a phone booth on the corner of West Broadway and Prince so she could call and make sure that they were home.

As soon as Amanda Duquayne answered, Kim hung UP.

"I know Harold's there. He always paints in the afternoons," Kim said.

We walked down to Spring Street, found their building. Kim pushed the buzzer.

"Yes? Who's there?" I had no trouble recognizing Amanda's fancy whine.

Kim grinned at me, then brought her mouth to the intercom.

"Hi, Mandy. It's me-Kim."

There was a pause and then an intake of breath.

"Oh, dear!" Amanda moaned.

"Buzz me in, Mandy. It's important."

"I don't know. This is so … unexpected.

"Mandy! Push the goddamn buzzer!" Kim spoke as if she expected to be obeyed. And sure enough, after an involuntary sigh of resignation over the intercom, the buzzer gave a long and splendid sigh of its own.

Harold, unshaven, in his paint-flecked sweatshirt, was standing beside Amanda when we walked-in. She, in her at-home equestrian outfit, looked the perfect spoiled little wife.

"You didn't say he was with you." Amanda glared at me. Again I noticed her freckled chest. :'Geof and I are partners now, Mandy."

'I think you'd both better leave," Harold said.

Kim didn't bother to look at him.

"Pretty hard to take you seriously, Harold, considering I've had you licking the bottoms of my shoes." Harold recoiled like a man who'd been slapped, while Amanda tried valiantly to regain control.

"You can't just burst in on us like this!" she sputtered.

"You have no right! And to come with him!" She moe tioned toward in . "He insulted Harold. Said awful things to both of us."

"Oh, can it, Mandy!" Kim used the dominant tone again.

"Stop playing the offended party."

"But we are offended," Amanda whined.

"We're old friends. Don't be silly." Kim turned to me.

"Did I tell you Harold likes to play doggie?. And little Mandy here has drunk deeply of my-how do you call them, Mandy?-'vital juices'?"

Even as I felt for them in their moment of humiliation, I couldn't help admiring Kim for the way she'd taken command. Suddenly both Duquaynes were docile. Harold hung his head, and Amanda, who'd played proud princess last time I'd seen her, wore an expression of deeply injured pride.

"We didn't come here to insult you, Mandy." Kim's tone was soothing again.

"We came to give you some advice. There's bad stuff going down, and the two of you may be involved. We wanted to talk to you before the police. But if having us here upsets you so much-"

"they already called," Amanda said.

"they didn't say what it was about. Just that they wanted to come over here and talk."

While Harold showed a pained half smile, Kim gave me an emphatic look.

"I know what it's about," she said. We all moved to the couches and sat down.

"It has to do with Mrs. Z. One of her clients killed an actress." The Duquaynes recoiled.

"Remember Sonya?" they nodded.

"It was her. When I threatened to expose this client-it's safer for you if I don't mention his name-they kidnapped Shadow to find out where I was. And when she wouldn't talk . . ." Kim drew her finger across her neck, then sadly shook her head. The Duquaynes were starting to show signs of extreme distress.

"But why us?" Amanda asked.

"We had nothing to do with any of that."

"Of course not, darlings. But now the whole thing's coming unwound. You were clients too. You had private sessions. Harold's a celebrity. A famous painter. He's been on the cover of Art News. You've both been on the cover of New York. "

"But still, Kimberly, I still don't see .

"Now everything's going to come out. All the glittering names. Yours too. Unless .

"What?"

"Mrs. Z comes to her senses and agrees that reparation should be paid."

Harold squinted at Kim.

"You're talking about money?"

"What else, darling? What other kinds of reparations are there in this world?"