“Where?”
“Right there, hanging over her eye, don’t you see it there?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Yeah, that’s it, thank you. Eddie, how we doing?”
“You’ve got it.”
“Gussie?”
“Yep.”
“Okay then, here we go, now give me that big red, Gussie, that’s what I want, I want this thing to yell red all over town, that’s the girl, more of that, now tilt the head, that’s good, Gussie, smile now, more teeth, honey, red, red, throw your arms wide, good, good, that’s it, now you’re beginning to feel it, let it bubble up, honey, let it burst out of your fingertips, nice, I like that, give me that with a, that’s it, good, now the other side, the head the other way, no, no, keep the arms out, fine, that’s good, all right now come toward me, no, honey, don’t slink, this isn’t blue, it’s red, you’ve got to explode toward, yes, that’s it, yes, yes, good, now with more hip, Gussie, fine, I like that, I like it, eyes wider, toss the hair, good, honey...”
For the next half hour Kling watched as Augusta exhibited to the camera a wide variety of facial expressions, body positions, and acrobatic contortions, looking nothing less than beautiful in every pose she struck. The only sounds in the huge room were the photographer’s voice and the clicking of his camera. Coaxing, scolding, persuading, approving, suggesting, chiding, cajoling, the voice went on and on, barely audible except to Augusta, while the tiny clicking of the camera accompanied the running patter like a soft-shoe routine. Kling was fascinated. In Augusta’s apartment the other night, he had been overwhelmed by her beauty, but had not suspected her vitality. Reacting to the burglary, she had presented a solemn, dispirited facade, so that her beauty seemed unmarred but essentially lifeless. Now, as Kling watched her bursting with energy and ideas to convey the concept of red, the camera clicking, the photographer circling her and talking to her, she seemed another person entirely, and he wondered suddenly how many faces Augusta Blair owned, and how many of them he would get to know.
“Okay, great, Gussie,” the photographer said, “let’s break for ten minutes. Then we’ll do those sailing outfits, Helen. Eddie, can we get some coffee?”
“Right away.”
Augusta came down off the platform and walked to where Kling was standing at the back of the room. “Hi,” she said. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting.”
“I enjoyed it,” Kling said.
“It was kind of fun,” Augusta said. “Most of them aren’t.”
“Which of these do you want her in first, Helen?” the photographer asked.
“The one with the striped top.”
“You do want me to shoot both of them, right?”
“Yes. The two tops. There’s only one pair of pants,” Helen said.
“Okay, both tops, the striped one first. You going to introduce me to your friend, Gussie?” he said, and walked to where Kling and Augusta were standing.
“Rick Schaeffer,” she said, “this is Detective Kling. I’m sorry, I don’t know your first name.”
“Bert,” he said.
“Nice to meet you,” Schaeffer said, and extended his hand. The men shook hands briefly, and Schaeffer said, “Is this about the burglary?”
“Yes,” Kling said.
“Well, look, I won’t take up your time,” Schaeffer said. “Gussie, honey, we’ll be shooting the striped top first.”
“Okay.”
“I want to go as soon as we change the no-seam.”
“I’ll be ready.”
“Right. Nice meeting you, Bert.”
He walked off briskly toward where two men were carrying a roll of blue backing paper to the platform.
“What did you find in the apartment?” Kling asked.
“I’ve got it in my bag,” Augusta said. She began walking toward a bench on the side of the room, Kling following. “Listen, I must apologize for the rush act, but they’re paying me twenty-five dollars an hour, and they don’t like me sitting around.”
“I understand,” Kling said.
Augusta dug into her bag and pulled out a ballpoint pen, which she handed to Kling and which, despite the fact that her fingerprints were already all over it, he accepted on a tented handkerchief. The top half of the pen was made of metal, brass-plated to resemble gold. The bottom half of the pen was made of black plastic. The pen was obviously a give-away item. Stamped onto the plastic in white letters were the words:
Sulzbacher Realty
1142 Ashmead Avenue
Calm’s Point
“You’re sure it isn’t yours?” Kling asked.
“Positive. Will it help you?”
“It’s a start.”
“Good.” She glanced over her shoulder toward where the men were rolling down the blue seamless. “What time is it, Bert?”
Kling looked at his watch. “Almost two. What do I call you? Augusta or Gussie?”
“Depends on what we’re doing,” she said, and smiled.
“What are we doing tonight?” Kling asked immediately.
“I’m busy,” Augusta said.
“How about tomorrow?”
She looked at him for a moment, seemed to make a swift decision, and then said, “Let me check my book.” She reached into her bag for an appointment calendar, opened it, said, “What’s tomorrow, Thursday?” and without waiting for his answer, flipped open to the page marked Thursday, April 22. “No, not tomorrow, either,” she said, and Kling figured he had got the message loud and clear. “I’m free Saturday night, though,” she said, surprising him. “How’s Saturday?”
“Saturday’s fine,” he said quickly. “Dinner?”
“I’d love to.”
“And maybe a movie later.”
“Why don’t we do it the other way around? If you won’t mind how I look, you can pick me up at the studio...”
“Fine...”
“Around six, six-fifteen, and we can catch an early movie, and then maybe grab a hamburger or something later on. What time do you quit work?”
“I’ll certainly be free by six.”
“Okay, the photographer’s name is Jerry Bloom, and he’s at 1204 Concord. The second floor, I think. Aren’t you going to write it down?”
“Jerry Bloom,” Kling said, “1204 Concord, the second floor, at six o’clock.”
“Gussie, let’s go!” Schaeffer shouted.
“Saturday,” she said and, to Kling’s vast amazement, touched her fingers to her lips, blew him an unmistakable kiss, grinned, and walked swiftly to where Rick Schaeffer was waiting.
Kling blinked.
Ashmead Avenue was in the shadow of the elevated structure in downtown Calm’s Point, not far from the bustling business section and the Academy of Music. When Kling was seventeen years old he had dated a girl from Calm’s Point, and had sworn never again. The date had been for eight-thirty, and he had left Riverhead at seven sharp, taking the train on Allen and riding for an hour and a half before getting off at Kingston Parkway as she had instructed him. He had then proceeded to lose himself in the labyrinthine streets with their alien names, arriving at her house at 10 P.M., to be told by her mother that she had gone to a movie with a girlfriend. He had asked if he should wait, and the girl’s mother had looked at him as though he were retarded and had said simply, “I would not suggest it.” Rarely did he come to Calm’s Point anymore, unless he was called there on an investigation.
Sulzbacher Realty was in a two-story brick building sandwiched between a supermarket and a liquor store. The entrance door was between two plate-glass windows adorned with photographs of houses in and around the area. Through the glass Kling could see a pair of desks. A man sat at one of them studying an open book before him. He looked up as Kling came into the office.