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The buzzer on the inner door was answered by a dark, skinny young man in a gray smock. He was almost totally bald, short and bandy-legged, with tobacco-fouled fingers. A pair of extraordinarily large black eyes looked Mervyn up and down.

“Yes?” the young man said.

“I’d like to speak to Mr. Viviano.”

“I’m Viviano. Frank Viviano.”

“Oh, I wanted John Viviano.”

“He’s not here right now.”

There was the faintest overtone in the man’s voice — mockery, contempt, condescension? “Will he be gone long?” Mervyn asked.

Frank Viviano shrugged. “Maybe a half hour.”

“I’ll wait if I may.” Mervyn jerked his head toward the photograph. “That’s Mary Hazelwood, isn’t it?”

“Search me. I don’t keep track of them.”

Frank Viviano stepped back and Mervyn preceded him into a large studio that was in striking and perhaps purposeful contrast to the arty foyer. The walls were unpainted plasterboard. The room was a clutter of lights, reflectors, props, cameras and photographic accessories.

“Find a seat,” said Frank Viviano indifferently. He went to a workbench, where he seemed to be repairing a large view camera.

Mervyn strolled about the studio. He looked in at the cameras — Linhof, Leica, Nikon, Mamiyaflex and two Rolleiflexes. But after a while he wandered over to the workbench. Casting about for a conversational opening, he said, “Is this a quiet day for you?”

Frank Viviano nodded. “More or less. It comes in spurts. We don’t shoot much around here, just special stuff.”

“I thought John designed clothes.”

“He’ll do anything for a buck.” Frank Viviano spread glue along a joint, tightened a clamp. “Designing is his downtown job. This is uptown, where life is real. Are you from some agency? Or independent?”

Mervyn was puzzled. “I don’t get you.”

“Aren’t you a model?”

“Hell, no.”

Frank grunted. Mervyn tried another tack. “John said he’d meet me last Friday night and he never showed up. What was he doing?”

Viviano shook his bald head. “Might as well try to chase down a seagull as John.”

“You’re his brother?”

“Yeah. Couple of North Beach paisans.” He raised the lens board and tested the shutter. “I’ve about had it. I’m joining the Peace Corps. Get away, see something new for a change.”

“I’m about ready myself,” Mervyn said.

The brother looked up. “What do you do? You got any skills?”

“I read and write,” Mervyn answered. “I’m pretty good at tennis. In high school I played the violin.”

“I don’t think you’ll make it.”

“Make what?”

“The Peace Corps.”

“It’s true I’m not the pioneer type.”

“Somebody’s got to take it on,” said Viviano in a hard voice. “Time’s over when we can let the other slobs live like dogs. Do you know what it’s like in Ethiopia?” He studied Mervyn intently, the great eyes as blackly pitiless as the camera lens he held in his hand.

“All I know about Ethiopia is that Haile Selassie is the Lion of Judah, and that it used to be called Abyssinia.”

“I mean with the people. Hell, their lot hasn’t improved in six thousand years. Ethiopians are human, aren’t they? Just like you and me.”

Mervyn asked gravely, “You going to teach them photography?”

Frank Viviano gave him a suspicious look. “Why not? Pictures have a universal appeal. They’ll go nuts over photos of Aunt Minnie making hyena soup, Rover chasing a baboon, Junior trying out his first spear.”

Mervyn glanced at his watch. “That picture of Mary Hazelwood in the foyer — was it taken here?”

“Where else? With a long lens on the Mamiyaflex. She’s a natural beauty. Nice kid. You a friend of hers?”

“I know her.”

John Viviano’s brother barked his dark laugh. “She’s got John on the run, but good. When he starts goddamning a dame, I know he’s hooked. He’s susceptible — that’s how he got into this business. It attracts a lot of queers, but John’s all man. He takes a job where he can handle women, because that’s what he likes to do best.”

“You’re his partner?”

“Partner, manager, errand boy, floor mat. I also do most of the work. John is the woman handler. How he loves to handle women.” Viviano raised his head. “That’s him now.”

John Viviano came in jauntily. He stopped abruptly at sight of Mervyn. He set a camera bag down, came over to the bench and stared at the camera his brother was fixing. “That monstrous old Deardorff.”

“We need a big view,” grunted the older man. “Takes good pictures.”

“I’m glad you like it. I think it’s a dinosaur.”

“If a dinosaur can make me a good big negative, I’ll use a dinosaur.”

At this point John Viviano turned his attention to Mervyn. “What brings you here, Gray?” His voice was not unfriendly.

“I want your help,” said Mervyn.

Viviano glanced at him sharply, then at his watch. “Come upstairs. I’m in a hurry, but there’s time for a drink.”

He took Mervyn up a narrow staircase into a sunny parlor with white walls, a red carpet, a green Empire sofa and an ornate gilt mirror. “Scotch? Bourbon?”

“Bourbon.”

Viviano went into a pantry, returned with a pair of glasses. “Been here long?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“You talk much to my brother Frank?”

“Some.”

“What did Frank have to say?”

Who’s pumping whom? Mervyn thought. “Nothing of any consequence,” he said carelessly. “About the Peace Corps, mostly.”

John Viviano began to stride back and forth. “They’d never take him. He’s a crackpot. Full of screwy ideas. Well, Gray, what’s on your mind?”

“Mary Hazelwood.”

“Dear Mary. You saw the photograph?”

“Yes. Well... to be candid, John, I’m in love with her.”

“Who isn’t? So?” Viviano snapped his fingers impatiently.

“She’s gone off somewhere, and I’m worried. She hasn’t communicated even with Susie. I thought you might have some idea where she is.”

Viviano laughed, thrusting his head forward like a snake. “Why don’t you say what you mean? No, I’m not the ‘John.’ Some other John is the ‘John.’ Whoever he is, I envy him. I’m in love with Mary, too.”

Mervyn tried to look earnest. “I believe you, Viviano. But Mary doesn’t know too many Johns. Let’s face facts.”

“As many as you like. I am without sensitivity.”

“Our ‘John,’ now. Suppose he’s married. Or has some other reason for wanting to keep his affair with Mary secret.”

John Viviano stopped in his tracks. “So?”

“So, when I come around asking questions about Mary, he denies everything.”

The photographer said in an ugly voice, “So?”

“You won’t be offended if I ask where you were last Friday evening?”

“I will not be offended, no. But I will decline to answer.”

“I only want to eliminate the name John Viviano from my list,” Mervyn said humbly.

“Your solicitude frightens me. These other Johns — who are they?”

“John Boce, John Thompson, John Pilgrim.”

“You have eliminated them?”

“Not yet.”

Viviano showed his teeth in a wolfish grin. “You’re an imbecile, Gray. Whoever Mary went off with, he would not be here, would he? Hence why ask me about Friday night?”

“I’d still like to know.”

The grin practically slavered. “My friend, I cannot tell you. Delicacy forbids. We are two red-blooded Americans. If I suggest that Friday night I enjoyed the company of a beautiful woman — not Mary — you will understand?”