I nearly moaned when my stray glance showed me a slice of the bedroom. He’d left the door open, and what I first noticed was a large-format camera on a tripodular stand. And then… something else…
Sitting awkwardly on an unsheeted bed was the pregnant prostitute—Candace, I believe he’d called her. She remained naked, and the mammarian effect of her pregnancy had stretched her areolae to pale pink circles. The great, gravid belly only added to the difficulty of what she was doing…
A cord girded her upper arm, to distend the veins at her elbow’s apex, and into such a vein she was now injecting something through an eyedropper fitted with a hollow needle. The devil of a man’s got her addicted as well, to maintain his exploitation of her…
Zalen, though rummaging out of view, could easily be heard. “You’re doing too much,” he complained to the girl. “It’ll ball up the kid. Remember what happened to Sonia?”
“But I can’t help it!” she whined.
“If that kid comes out dead, you’re in a world of trouble…”
I didn’t even want to conjecture what he might mean by such a statement. They probably planned to sell the baby to an adoptionage.
The scenario and its implications were sallowing my spirit. I was not in my element, and I hoped this would be a lesson to me.
Reappearing, he pulled the door closed behind him, bearing another manila folder. “All I had were these five, Mr. Morley,” he continued to impudently emphasize. “But it’s a hundred for the lot. Take it or leave it.”
“I won’t be extorted, Mr. Zalen,” I assured him. Such leverage was to be expected, though. Now that he knew my addiction, he would seek as much remuneration as my indulgence would tolerate. “I said five apiece, so it’ll be five apiece, and that’s only if they’re precisely what I’m looking for.”
“If you like ‘em, then pay me what you feel they’re worth. How’s that?”
“Fair enough,” and then I opened the folder.
The first photograph took the wind out of me: a seaward panorama of the town which showed a declining sweep of sagging gambrel rooftops, half-collapsed gables, and smokeless chimney pots. Closer to the sea rose a triad of lofty steeples, two of which were missing their clockfaces. My God, I thought. It’s nearly straight from the text: Robert Olmstead’s first glimpse of Innsmouth from Joe Sargent’s bus window. A second photo depicted the crumbling waterfront, its half-fallen wharves, fishing boats with ruptured hulls, and mountains of disused lobster traps. A row of sullen factories and processing plants—long abandoned—rose behind this scene of decrepitude and neglect, but again, it was straight from HPL’s grimly vivid description in the book. The third photograph showed a low-roofed stone building surrounded by Doric pillars; its outer walls looked eroded by age. Two large double lancet doors stood open, showing depthless black.
“That’s the old Freemason Hall,” Zalen informed.
And then it hit me. “Of course! It was this building that Lovecraft fancied the Esoteric Order of Dagon, where the crossbred priests held services of worship. They wore flamboyant raiments and tiaras of gold.”
“Now turn to the last picture,” he goaded.
But the next photo would be the fourth, and I’d thought Zalen said that five comprised the lot. Nevertheless, I turned to the next and was stunned by the vision of a macabre sunset over the harbor inlet. The effect made the water look molten. Past more decayed wharves and flanks of leaning, boarded-up shacks whose roofs looked fit to fall in was a vista of the sun-touched channel and what barely noticeably existed a mile or so beyond: an irregular black line just above the water’s surface. A dead lighthouse seemed to look northward.
“Lovecraft’s Devil’s Reef,” I knew at a glance.
“Um-hmm. Nothin’ devilish about it, though,” Zalen said. “It’s not really even a reef. It’s just a sandbar.” He rubbed his hands together. “But they’re good pictures, right?”
“They are,” I admitted. “It’s a pity how you’ve chosen to vitiate and hence debauch such a laudable talent for the art of photography.”
I still felt rocked by the impact of the photos—the truth that they assured in their depiction of the town so long ago. “When, exactly, were these taken, Mr. Zalen?”
“Summer of 1928, July, I’m pretty sure. The only reason I took them was because Lovecraft wanted them. I did it gratis because I thought maybe he’d recommend me to some of those freaky pulp magazines he wrote for. Never did, though, the cheap bastard.”
Knowing this even spurred my interest to a new height and as such they were worth considerably more than five dollars apiece. But I was offended by this attempt at extortion. “I’ll give you fifty dollars for the set, but not one hundred.”
“It’s a hundred,” he stood firm. Then came that frowzy smile again. “But you haven’t seen the last picture, Mr. Morley.”
“Oh. That’s right.” I flipped to the final photograph.
I stared down, unblinking. Many seconds ticked by like this. Then I closed the folder, rose, and gave Zalen a hundred-dollar bill. “Good day, Mr. Zalen.”
“Tomorrow at four, then?”
“Rest assured I’ll be here.”
“With another hundred for the Lovecraft picture.”
“Another ninety-five.” I headed for the door. “Please don’t disappoint me, Mr. Zalen.”
He laughed. “They only way I could do that is if I shoot up a hot shot tonight with the horse I’m gonna buy with the cash you just gave me. Leading cause of death for junkies, you know.”
“If you’re going to die via an overdose, Mr. Zalen, please don’t do it by tomorrow.” My hand found the dirty doorknob. “But the day after tomorrow would be fine.”
“That’s the spirit!”
I stepped out of the fetid, chemical-smelling room and felt welcomed into the overly warm light of day. Zalen’s squalid apartment had been as dark as his heart.
His near-emaciated form hung in the doorway. “Going back to your room now, huh? To pursue your hobby?”
Even in light of what I’d just purchased, the implication via his tone couldn’t have offended me more. “My hobby, Mr. Zalen, as you know, is the work of H.P. Lovecraft.”
“Right. So I guess you’ll walk around town now… to see what Lovecraft saw.”
“That’s precisely what I’m going to do, not that it’s any of your business. I’m going to Innswich Point.”
“It’s pretty dull now, Mr. Morley. Just block buildings and a cement pier.” Did he snigger? “But don’t go there at night.”
I frowned on his moss-blotched front step. “Really, Mr. Zalen. The Deep Ones will get me? The acolytes of Barnabas Marsh will offer me up to Dagon?”
“Nope, but the rummies and fugitives will have a lot of fun with a guy like you. Drug runners hole up there.”
“Good friends of yours, no doubt.”
“They bring it in by boats.” The ungainly man scratched the inside of an elbow. “And my grandfather wasn’t lying when he told Lovecraft about the network of tunnels under the old waterfront. They go back to the 1700s. Privateers and smugglers would use them as hideouts.”
This was of interest, though I didn’t let on.
“And if you want a real treat, take a hike up the main road north and have a look at Mary’s place,” he snidely continued. “It’s a real slice of life. It’s just shy of the Onderdonks.”