“Okay,” Lucy replied lightly. “I have lots of homework.”
“I won’t be gone long,” he assured her.
She didn’t seem to hear him. Instead she got up and headed for her room, her fingers already digging for one of the small pencils he was perpetually finding among the tangle of grotesquely knotted clothes he sorted for the wash.
“I’ll try to be back before you go to bed,” he called after her, but she’d already disappeared into her room.
The building had once had a buzzer system, but it had fallen into disrepair. The front door was slightly ajar, and just inside, the tenants had written their names and apartment numbers across the faded plaster walls. Simpson’s name was the third one on the list. His apartment number was 1–C. Before going to it, Corman took a few shots of the names. In a book, the picture would suggest their expendability, tell the world how little they mattered. In the right position, it would add a flavorful detail to the woman’s fall, leave no room for doubt as to just how far it was.
Simpson opened his door unexpectedly wide and nodded crisply. “You’re the photographer?” he asked matter-of-factly.
“Yes.”
“Archie said a photographer was working the neighborhood.”
“I talked to him this afternoon,” Corman said. He kept his eyes on the man in the doorway, noted the sharpness of his features, the predatory glint in his eyes. In a picture he would come off vaguely menacing, a man you wouldn’t want to meet on any terms but your own. “I took some pictures of the store,” he added.
“Yeah, he told me,” Simpson said. “He said you were doing some kind of book. What about?”
“The woman who fell,” Corman said.
“Jumped,” Simpson said.
“Yeah, jumped.”
Simpson folded his arms over his chest and rooted his feet in place. “So, tell me about this book.”
“It’s mostly pictures.”
“You done something like it before?”
“No, this would be my first one,” Corman said, “and I was hoping that …”
Simpson pressed an open hand toward him. “Whoah, now, slow down,” he said. “I got to know a few things.”
“Like what?”
“Well, you saw some money, didn’t you?”
“For the book? No.”
“But you will see some, right?”
“I may.”
Simpson smiled cleverly. “Don’t start fucking with me. I’m not some goddamned streetfreak.”
“I didn’t say …”
“You want a piece of me, I got a right to have a piece of you,” Simpson said firmly. “The action. Know what I mean?”
“I don’t think there’s going to be …”
Simpson laughed. “You’re bullshitting me again.”
Corman shook his head.
“Yes, you are,” Simpson told him confidently. “Playing me for a fool.”
“I was just interested in …”
“Something for nothing,” Simpson interrupted. “Well, you can forget it.” He started to close the door. “I got to talk to the cops, but I don’t have to do nothing for you without there’s something in it for me.”
“But I don’t have anything to give you,” Corman said.
Simpson smiled mockingly and closed the door. “Works the same from me to you, dickhead,” he said.
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
CORMAN DRESSED quickly the next morning. He could still see Simpson’s door closing in his face, blocking another route to Sarah Rosen and the book Julian wanted out of her. Hastily, he considered his other options, his frantic pace sweeping out to Lucy, rushing her through her morning routine so hurriedly that by the time they reached her school she was tired and irritable.
“May I play at Maria’s after school?” Lucy asked as they neared the school gate.
“I guess.”
She smiled brightly. “Don’t forget to pick me up there,” she said, then lunged away from him, sprinting up the stairs, as if in dread of his good-bye kiss.
Corman shook his head helplessly, then walked east to the offices of the News on 42nd Street.
As he made his way toward the building’s perpetually turning revolving doors, Corman remembered the morning Lazar had brought him over to introduce him to Pike and get him started in the business. They had paused at the doors and Lazar had nodded toward the river, showing him where Nathan Hale had declared his regret at having only one life to give for his country, a line which made him famous, Lazar had said with a slim, ironic smile, despite the fact that he’d simply lifted it from an old English play.
Corman did not pause now as he hustled into the building and went directly to the elevators. Once on the fourth floor, he glanced toward Pike’s office and saw him pacing back and forth behind its Plexiglas windows. For a moment he hesitated, standing silently as the elevator doors closed behind him, almost afraid to move. It was as if each step he took now was somehow irretrievable, marked with fatal falls.
Pike was leaning over a light box, staring at several strips of negatives when Corman finally walked into his office. Rudy Fenster stood half-hidden in a rear corner, slumped against a green metal filing cabinet, his eyes darting impatiently about the office while he waited.
“Not bad, Rudy,” Pike said finally as he straightened himself. “I might be able to use one of these shots.”
Rudy’s face brightened with mock delight. “Hear that?” he asked as he stepped away from the cabinet. “Hear that, Corman, one fucking shot.”
Pike shook his head tiredly. “What do you want, a private publisher? This is a fucking newspaper. I don’t use more than one picture on anything but the lead.”
Fenster stepped over to the light box, began gathering up his negatives. “Not good enough, Hugo,” he said. “This stuff is still warm.”
Pike laughed. “In an hour it’ll be cold as death, Rudy. For Christ’s sake, take the money and run.”
Fenster shook his head determinedly, his fingers still peeling the strips from the light box. “Can’t do it.”
Pike stared at him wonderingly. “You really going to start playing me against the Times?”
“Against whoever I can,” Fenster said with a shrug.
Pike grabbed Fenster’s hand. “Wait a second, Rudy, let Corman be the judge.” He waved him over to the light box. “Take a look at these shots. Tell me how they add up to a lead.”
Fenster pulled his hand free and peeled off the last of the strips. “You’re king of the butt-fuckers, Hugo,” he said disgustedly.
Pike looked at him, stunned. “What did you say?”
Fenster dropped the negatives into a plastic folder. “You heard me.”
Pike’s eyes turned into small, angry slits. “Get out of my fucking office, Rudy,” he cried. “What are you, huh? Van Gogh, something like that? Just get the fuck out of my office.”
Fenster hooked his camera bag over his shoulder and started toward the door.
Pike was right behind him, an angry bird swooping at his back. “Get out! Get out! Go slice off your fucking ear!” He slammed the door as Fenster stepped through it, then turned back to Corman, still blazing. “Prima-fucking-donna,” he sputtered. “Who the fuck does he think he is?”
Corman stared at him silently, waiting for him to cool. Pike’s head rotated slowly back toward the door. Fenster’s tall frame could still be seen, a soft blur through the frosted glass.
Pike turned to Corman. “Did I say he was a hack? Did I insult the man? Was I going to buy a goddamn picture? What the fuck’s the matter with that guy?”