“Jack Tate,” he said, holding out his hand, and Clay resisted an urge to say, Oh? I thought you were Raoul, the local gigolo. Clay shook hands and let the other man win the fist-clenching, knuckle-popping contest. Jack had a pleased grin, thinking that he had just out-squeezed the photographer, while Clay kept his grin to himself, knowing that if he wanted to, with an extra squeeze, he could have taken him down to his knees and broken that fine-looking nose with a jab from his elbow.
Jack Tate put his arm around his wife. “Did Chrissy tell you about her crazy idea?”
“Yes, she did at that.”
“Oh, hon,” she protested, “it’s not such a crazy idea.”
Oh yes, it is, Clay thought. He spoke up. “Just so I’m straight on this, you want a Christmas-card photo showing the two of you dead, on this couch. In color.”
“That’s right,” Chrissy said. “Will that be a problem?”
Problem? He thought about bringing these two back to reality. He thought about telling them that about a mile or two from this home — hell, mansion! — were families living in house trailers and cottages that could fit in this living room. That these families didn’t have to pretend at playing dead, because death was always about, always visiting. Whether in the form of a late-night visit from police officers describing a drunken drive home gone bad, or an emergency room visit after a chainsaw accident working in the woods, or a funeral-home visit because somebody’s dad worked with asbestos at the shipyard for twenty years, death was always around. And it wasn’t a playful companion.
“No,” he said. “It won’t be a problem at all. First, what did you have in mind? How exactly did you want to set this up?”
And Jack brought him right down to earth with a sharp look. “Hey, now,” he said, lowering his arm from his wife’s shoulder. “We’re the ones paying you. That’s the deal, right? If you can’t come up with a good idea or two, then we’ll find someone else. Clear?”
Clay held his hands behind his back as he clenched his fists. He knew Jack’s type. Lived and played in a world where hammering the other guy meant stealing his money. He wondered how long Jack would last in a world where hammering the other guy literally meant dropping him to the ground and going after his ribs and testicles with heavy workboots. He let out a deep breath, relaxed his hands.
“Clear. I have a couple of ideas already. I didn’t know if you had anything particular in mind.”
Chrissy smiled, trying to defuse the tension. “No, we’ll just follow your lead. Pretend we’re your models or something. Okay?”
He nodded. “Sure. Let me set up my gear and we can get started in about ten to fifteen minutes.”
Jack dismissed him with a nod and went into the kitchen with his wife, and once again, Clay felt like the Invisible Man. He bustled around the wide living room, laying out power cables, setting up light stands and flash shields, opening up his tool box so he would have ready access to the spare bulbs, screwdriver, tiny hammer, duct tape, and anything else he needed. While he worked, Jack and Chrissy stood by the counter in the kitchen, both of them now drinking from tall glasses. It was muggy, and Clay felt sweat running down his back, and he looked enviously at the drinks Jack and Chrissy were holding. Not once did they offer him a drink, and not once did he think of asking. He wouldn’t ask. He wouldn’t beg.
All the while he worked, he heard snippets of conversation from the couple.
He: “...want to get this wrapped up so we can get over to the club...”
She: “...but try to stay away from the Morrisons’ daughter, you’re just embarrassing her and infuriating me...”
He: “...if you didn’t drink as much as you did...”
She: “...at least it’s done in private, and at least I don’t paw teenage girls...”
He: “...for the last time, I wasn’t pawing, her neck hurt and I was...”
Clay straightened up, his back aching a bit from bringing in the rest of the gear and from doing the setup work. He cleared his throat and Jack and Chrissy looked over. The Invisible Man was now visible.
“I’m ready to start if you are,” he said, and they came in from the kitchen, leaving their drinks behind. The living room now had a 35 mm camera on a tripod, and two flash arrangements with reflective screens. Power lines snaked across the floor, and for a moment Clay felt good at what he had just done. He probably could have gotten away with half of the equipment and most of the aggravation, but for what he intended to charge these two nitwits when the day was done he wanted to make sure that they at least felt they got their money’s worth.
Jack and Chrissy came out to the living room and Clay went to one of his gear packs, pulled out a Polaroid instant camera. Jack eyed what Clay held in his hand and said, “All this work and you’re going to take our picture with that toy?”
Clay tried not to squeeze the camera too hard. “No, this is just what I use for a sample shot. That way I can make sure everything’s blocked right and that the scene looks good.”
Chrissy said, “Oh, Jack, leave the poor man alone. Look, where do you want us?”
“Sit right on the couch for now, and we’ll take it from there.”
As Clay watched, they both sat down on the couch, the Christmas tree and gifts to the left. He moved the coffee table away so their legs and feet could be visible, and he stepped back and lifted up the camera, and then lowered his arms.
It was all wrong.
Jack said, “What’s up now?”
Clay shook his head. “It doesn’t work.”
“You haven’t taken a single picture and already there’s something wrong?” Jack demanded.
“It’s your clothes,” Clay said.
“And what’s the matter with our clothes?”
He took a breath, held it, let it out. “The problem is, you have a Christmas tree and gifts piled up next to you. It’s supposed to be Christmastime, but you’re both dressed for the summer. I’m sorry, it doesn’t work. If you want to make this look realistic, you’ve got to start with the basics. And the basics are the clothes.”
Chrissy said, “What do you suggest?”
“Something a bit more formal, something that suggests it’s December. Maybe a dress for you and long pants and a shirt for—”
Jack stood up, face red. “Nice thinking, pal. If you’d have thought of this ten minutes ago, we’d already be that much further along.”
Chrissy stood next to her husband, arm quickly around him. “Now, Jack, you know he’s right. C’mon, I know exactly what we’ll wear. I’ve got that silly elf costume I wore two winters ago for that club party, and you can get those dreadful suspenders and tie that Aunt Cecile sent you. C’mon, it’ll be a scream.”
Jack seemed to calm down, but he still shook his head as he headed to the stairs. “All right, but let’s hurry it up. I still don’t want to be late.”
When they’d both gone upstairs Clay walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the lawn and the lake. He let out a breath with a low whoosh and leaned forward until his forehead was up against the glass. He was hot and tired and thirsty and felt like rolling up the sleeves on his shirt. He could hear them upstairs, going through dresser drawers and closets. If he had his druthers, he’d pack up his gear and get out of here before they came down, but he couldn’t. This would be a good-paying job when it was wrapped up, and he had worked too hard and long in setting up this legit business to let his irritation get the best of him. Don’t let this one get away from you. Don’t.
Just an hour or so, he thought. Get through the next hour or so and then we’ll be all done. They’ll be at their overpriced club with their overpriced friends, and we’ll be back at our apartment, music on the stereo, steaks on the grill, and maybe we can invite up that single mom from downstairs, Melissa. Even if he just rented a video and sat on the couch and made some popcorn he was sure he’d have more fun and satisfaction tonight than these two.