Blind side

3

It had been two years since I'd last seen, Frank Cordero. He'd come up to New York with his portfolio of photographs looking for a gallery.

He'd crashed in my loft, then made the rounds in his worn old boots and coWhoy hat. People gushed over his work, oohed and ahed, told him his pictures were "fascinating." But in the end no gallery would take him on.

The night before he flew back to New Mexico we went out together and got quietly drunk. He wasn't mad or bitter, held no rancor for the New York dealers, and had no intention of changing his course.

"they don't think they can sell me here-fine, they ought to know.

Meantime I'll keep on working, and sell what I can in Santa Fe."

Though he'd been badly disappointed, he showed more concern for my problem than for his own: "What are we going to do about this block of yours, Geof? How're we going to get you back on the track?"

He was the most loyal friend I ever had. And so, when I saw him smiling at me in the Albuquerque airport, tanned and lean, his short black beard beginning to gray, the crow's-feet around his eyes etched a little deeper than I remembered, I was moved to feel that at last I was with the one person on this earth I could truly trust. And that was a relief after the weird scenes I'd been through in the weeks since I'd met Kimberly Yates.

He embraced me, grabbed my camera bag, hustled me out of the airport. A few minutes later we were in his battered Land Rover heading east on the Interstate, the raised road that slices through the center of Albuquerque.

The city flew by below, a grid of endless commercial strips, while the sky arched above like a giant hemisphere of deep blue silk stretched taut.

It was a Big Sky-as they say out West.

We left the city, curled around the back of Sandia Mountain and there confronted an amazing pile of clouds, soft white bulbous billowy things, pouring into the valley.

"Good formation," Frank said. He glanced at me.

"Red filter?"

We laughed remembering the days in 'Nam when I'd taught him how a red filter can turn a blue sky black, making a dramatic background for scenes of war.

He glanced at me again.

"It's serious, what's brought you out?"

"Pretty serious," I agreed.

"We'll give you a day to get used to the altitude. Then we'll talk about it," he said.

It felt good to be in the West. I could get high on the pure rarefied air, so much dryer than the tropical haze that clung to the Florida coast. And the dusty esert tones were a fine relief from the hot saturated colors of the Keys. Perhaps best of all the faces of the people looked real. they were in touch with the Ian. For a while, driving in silence with Frank, I wondered whether I'd been corrupted by the hothouse atmosphere of Key West. Blackmail photographs of a sexual voyeur-suddenly all that seemed far away.

Past Sandia we turned north, past dry fenced fields crisscrossed by guileys and sparsely covered with desert grass. Then we drove through the old gold-rush town of Golden, where piles of stones, ruins of buildings, were spread about on either side of the road.

We stopped in Madrid for a beer in the local saloon. Ten years before, when Frank had first brought me there, Madrid had been a ghost town. Now it was a thriving village. But still there were haunting visions: rotted-out old houses strangely illuminated by the dying sun, and the hulks of forsaken automobiles with cryptic slogans emphatically scribbled on their sides.

It was late in the afternoon when we reached Galisteo. Mai must have seen us coming. She emerged from the house when we drove up, wearing a faded work shirt, jeans and hand-tooled boots. She smiled at me, the same marvelous smile that had driven me to distraction in Saigon.

"Howdy, stranger," she said.

I rushed to her, grasped her up, whirled her around in my arms.

"Geof-Frey, Geof-Frey!"

Then a bunch of handsome Eurasian kids crowded around.

Frank introduced them, three girls, Ali, Jessie and Meg, and the smallest, a boy, Jude, who gazed at me shyly while clinging to his mother's waist. Ali, the oldest, h@d-Mai's willowy Vietnamese figure and the swelling breasts of an American teenage girl. She stood against Frank, who placed his hands protectively on her shoulders, while I distributed the funky Key West T-shirts I'd brought them all as gifts.

When the kids had gone to their rooms to start their homework, Frank showed me the improvements he'd made in the house. It was an old adobe set in a two-acre field, a ruin when held found it and bought it cheap.

He'd rebuilt slowly, adding rooms as the family grew. In the years since I'd seen it, he'd added one for Jude and enlarged the back building, Mai's studio and foundry. His own studio and darkroom were in Santa Fe, twenty miles to the north. dinner: a rich beef Mai had prepared a Vietnamese broth called phu, crisp spring-rolls, cha-gio, and thin slices of barbecued pork served with mint, lettuce leaves and delicate rice-flour cakes. The accompanying nuocmam sauce perfumed the dining room and brought back memories of warm mellow evenings in Saigon.

"Mom usually cooks Mexican. Makes a mean chili," Ali said.

"But tonight, in your honor, (ieof-" Frank gestured at the array of food. ed to their After the girls had cleared the table and retir rooms, the three of us sat out on deck chairs in front of the house sipping beers and watching the sun sink behind the old Spanish cemetery on the hill.

"The girls are great. Beauties too," I said.

"Yes, they're great kids, Geof-Frey."

Mai had always divided my name into syllables. She'd been in the States for fifteen years, but she still spoke with the singsong accent she'd used when she was an art student in Saigon, She'd met Frank at the VietnameseAmerican Association when she'd enrolled in his Englishlanguage class. We'd both fallen in love with her, but Frank had won her heart. I'd always envied him his marriage. That night, looking at her, I could feel a little of that envy still.

Several of her metal sculptures were set out on the field in front, angular black forms made of old iron Frank had stripped off a ruined steam locomotive he'd found in Gallop, then hauled piece by piece to Galisteo. In the fading light her sticklike constructions began to resemble the skeletons of dinosaurs.

"You guys have it made out here. Hope you know that," I said.

"I think so," Mai said.

"But sometimes Frank doesn't." She turned to him, shook her head.

"Sometimes I wonder if we aren't playing in the bush leagues," he said.

I reminded him of the dreary hassles of the city, the meretricious charms of the big-league Art Scene in New York, and how fortunate he and Mai were that they didn't have to compete with superficially talented hustlers like Harold Duquayne.

"Sure," he said.

"But there've been some times lately when I've wondered when the struggle's going to end."

"It will, Frank." Mai rose, kissed me on the cheek, then stood behind Frank's chair, leaned down, thrust her fingers into his beard and kissed the top of his head.

"It's a good struggle. I think so, Geof-Frey." She looked at me, kissed Frank's head again, then slipped inside the house.

Frank and I remained out long after the sky turned black, catching up on everything, his kids, Mai's sculptures, his and my ambitions in photography.

"Fame, success-I know better than to care about that," he said.

"But I'd like just once to experience it, to know firsthand how it feels. I think then I'd have an easier time living out here renouncing it."

"The only trouble with that," I said, "you might find out that you like it."

"Yeah, Geof." He laughed.

"Well, isn't that the risk you take?"

The terrible splendor of the sunrise: In northern New Mexico it comes out of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, comes fiercely, firing up the cold dry shrublands, reddening the salthush and the scrub. The yuccas, chollas and grasses begin to glow. The gullies, called arroyos, create the shadows, black slashes across the plain. Then, as the sun rises, you feel the first intimations of the heat.

By 6:30 the kitchen was busy, Mai presiding over the stove, supervising the frying of sausages, the turning of flapjacks by Jessie and Meg. When we all were fed, Frank piled me and the girls into the Land Rover and took off down a dirt road that followed the dry gulch called Galisteo Creek. He dropped the girls at the school bus stop near lose Cerrillos, then turned north toward Santa Fe.

His studio was situated on an upper floor of a restored warehouse on Guadalupe Street. Not the choicest area in that city of galleries, but, still, within walking distance of the Plaza. A sign on the door said:

FRANK CORDERO, PHOTOGRAPHS. There was a big room, lit by track lights, where he exhibited his prints, a darkroom where he did black-and-white printing for two famous Santa Fe photographers, Leo DeSalle and Nelly Steele, and a small workshop where he kept the old cameras he found, rebuilt, then sold to collectors.

He was getting tired, he told me, of making more money from the cameras than from selling his own photographs.

"Sometimes I'm here the whole day, and no one comes in', not a single person. No need for anyone to buy anything@enough for me if they just come in and look."

He put a CLOSED FOR THE DAY sign on the door, then we got back into his car.

"Where're we going?"

"Old road to Taos," he said. "'We'll talk as we drive."

I told him the story, all of it, every detail from my first meeting with Kim on Desbrosses Street, to her seeing me off for Miami the morning before. He nodded as I spoke, occasionally asked a question to clarify the sequence of events. Other than that, his only interruptions were the stops he made to show me the sites of famous photographs.

I welcomed these respites. It was stressful to tell my tale, and listening to myself recount it, I began to wonder about my role. Did I come off as hero or antihero, lover or fool? Frank didn't let on what he thought. But I could tell by his smile that he liked the way I'd handled Rakoubian. And I knew, despite his silence, that he was taking in everything I said.

Meantime I was thrilled to see the places where the legends of our profession had planted their tripods and created immortal images. We stopped before the old wooden cross that Eliot Porter had photographed on the outskirts of Truchas, and then the small grave marker Beaumont Newhall had found in the cemetery at Las Trampas. We visited the church in San Lorenzo Pueblo photographed so brilliantly by Laura Gilpin, and the Mission Church in Ranchos de Taos (perhaps the most photographed site in the American West) where Paul Strand had so gravely shot the buttresses.

In Taos we ate burritos, and all the while I continued to talk. Then Frank drove me around Mount Wheeler, past the D. H. Lawrence shrine, on to the ruins of "E-town," where Edward Weston had taken his famous series.

"Funny about these places," I said. "The spot where I took the PietA-1 doubt I'd recognize it today."

"Because that picture wasn't about a place. It was about people." He paused.

"I'll say one thing for this Kimberly of yours-she's got you shooting people again."

He pointed out something else to me too-that I'd returned to the Leica, the camera of my youth.

"It's like you went into this slow phase for a while, Geof, when you needed to use a view camera. But now your life has speeded up and you have to react more quickly. Maybe Jim Lynch was right-maybe you still are a photojournalist. Maybe the quick incisive look is your thing, not the slow examining gaze."

There was something special Frank wanted to show me, more important to him and more vivid than the subjects of other photographer's famous images. It lay just a few miles south of Eagle Nest.

He didn't say much as we approached, but I could tell by the way he was handling the wheel that a special emotion was brewing inside. Then, when I caught sight of the place, a soaring modern structure that seemed to grow out o the earth, I recognized it as a building I'd seen in several of the photographs on the walls of his gallery in Santa Fe.

As we turned up the drive he told me what it was, a Vietnam Veterans;

Chapel built by the father of a marine killed in the war. It had since been taken over by the Disabled American Veterans, who now maintained it as a permanent memorial. There was only one other car in the parking lot, and th sat down not a single person inside the chapel. We bo on a semicircular bench that faced the tall narrow window at the high end.

Then we stared at the only visible artifact, a tall cross bearing an eternal flame.

I was impressed by the purity of the interior, the opposite of the heavily decorated mission churches we'd been looking at. But what really moved me was Frank's reaction. He focused on the cross with enormous concentration, then his shoulders began to shake. After a time I decided to leave him alone. Later, when he rejoined me, his eyes were red.

"Gets to me," he said. "Don't know why. Feel it every time I come. it could be the design, the site. Maybe just the idea that a kid got killed and -his dad wanted to make a chapel to remember him, and when it was built it became a place to remember all the kids who died. How many years has it been, Geof? Twenty since we met? Fifteen since I finished my final tour'? And it still hurts, you know. Maybe because I got a Vietnamese wife, half-Vietnamese' kids, it's with me all the time. Maybe too because I don't want to forget it, not a single brutal moment… around the exterior, he told He was calmer as, walking me how much he wanted to take a picture that would all he felt about the place. But he found the C= t mes, c difficult to photograph. He'd ried many times shooting in different seaons, and he'd even tried to put some people in his pictures, visiting veterans he'd posed against the stone.

"But that didn't work out," he said, "and anyway I'm no good at setting stuff up. Remember what you taught me, GeoP That basically there're only two ways to approach photography: you roam the world searching for images or you make your own."

"You like film noir, Geof. Remember The Woman in the Window?" I nodded. We were driving back to Santa Fe by the new road that runs along the Rio Grande.

"Edward G. Robinson explains blackmail to Joan Bennett. He makes a nice little speech.

" 'There are only three ways to deal with a blackmailer,' he tells her.

'You can pay him and pay him and pay him until you're penniless. Or you can call the police yourself and let your secret be known to the world.

Or'-and here old Edward G. pauses for effect-'you can kill him." I remembered that nice little speech.

"That's what you're up against. I should say 'we' -because I want in if you'll take me after you've heard what I've got to say. I have some reservations. The girl bothers me a little. But even if she's not as straight as you think, I can deal with her unless she's very bad news."

"Whatever she is, she isn't that," I said.

"Trust her?"

"I do now-yes."

"But then you're not the best person to judge her, are you, Geof)"

I had to agree with him about that.

"Okay, I got maybe nine points I want to make. First, normally I'd say double the demand to show we mean business, But we can't do that here because the original demand for a million was way too much. Still, now, we've got to stick to it. Show the slightest sign of weakness and we're dead.

"Second, we have to enforce compliance by giving the enemy (and that's what they are, Geof, the enemy-don't ever forget it!) a whole array of unpleasant alternatives. Fine to threaten them with the cops, but that isn't enough. Murder rap's good, but not sure. Find their other weak spot, threaten them there. That's how we make them pay." o what's their other weak spot?" I asked. xposure. The tabloids.

That's what'll make Darling Guy wears a mask, he's afraid of being seen.

So for that. We got pictures, we can show the world he is. See, there's our basic threat: disgrace. n this same area, call it point three, we exploit that weakness to unnerve him. I'd like to see you stake him out, then ambush him with your camera. Even money says he won't be able to take it, that you can make him cover up. Do that-and you're in charge. Then you'll hold the whip."

"That means going back to New York."

"You're going to have to do that anyway. Thing is, Geof, if you shoot him like I say, he gets to look you in the eye and see you're serious.

Easy for him to come to a meeting prepared to stare you down. But take him by surprise, and every shot will be like a blow across his face.

I smiled. I liked that. In fact I liked Frank's whole approach. He had a grip on the thing, which made me feel good, and that I'd been right to bring it to him.

"This Mrs. Z-she's another weakness. As are the Duquaynes, if they're as fashionable and well known as you say. they didn't do any murders, but they don't want to go down with people who did. If we approach them right, we can get them to pressure Mrs. Z. And that may help us divide her from Darling." f didn't get what Frank was saying.

"Darling and Mrs. Z are accomplices."

"Yeah, right now they are. But for how long? He's got money, she doesn't, which means he's got to pay for both of them, and that breeds resentment-on both their parts. If he hadn't whacked Sonya, she wouldn't be in trouble. If Kim hadn't gotten ideas, he wouldn't be getting blackmailed. Doesn't matter that they're allies, each has got a problem with the other. The more we can exploit that, the more we weaken them and increase our chances."

"What next?"

"Send them a message. they have to understand what happens if they don't comply. The best message is a demonstration-like sending that kid to throw lye at your door. We're going to have to do a violent act to make them see we're serious, something comparable to breaking Rakoubian's lenses. That was a stroke of genius, Geof. Best move you made."

"What kind of violent act?"

"We'll think of something."

I must have moaned, because, when Frank glanced at me, his eyes were a little sharp.

"This isn't a game."

"I know that."

"Intellectually maybe, but not yet, not in your heart. What old Edward G. said in that movie-that's the way they're going to think. They're going to give very serious consideration to killing you, Geof-to killing all of us. Which brings me to point number five: Play for keeps. I'm talking now about mental attitude. This is combat, and they're the enemy, and there's no middle groundit's us or them. Go into this, you're going into lawless territory where you have to be prepared for treachery and also to kill. I mean really be ready to do it, Geof, because that split-second when you're thinking, Should I kill this guy or is there some other way? will be the split-second when, without compunction, he'll be killing you.

He went quiet after that, and I fell silent too. I didn't doubt that everything he said was true. I only wondered whether I had the character for it. I was a photographer. I didn't know if I had a warrior's blood.

"Actually," he said, "it won't be so bad. I'll always be there watching your back. I want you to take pictures too. The more you take, the more they'll fear you because photographs are their nemesis. And with pictures, if things go wrong, you'll have material to take to Scotto.

The cops would rather put away a decadent killer like Darling than a one-time amateur blackmailer like you."

"Okay," I said, "what's number six?"

"Neutralize the cops. You've handled them pretty well so far, but you can't leave them hanging the way you did. From your description Scotto sounds good, but Ramos may be even better. Good cops are relentless-that's why they choose the work. they like the chase and they like the capture. So when you go back to New York, you're going to have to handle them with care.

"Another thing you're going to have to do is sacrifice Rakoubian. Sounds harsh, but the guy deserves it. He deserves whatever he gets."?"

"What do you mean-'sacrifice'.

"Squeal on him. Have Kim tell Mrs. Z he took the pictures. they may kill him for that, which wouldn't be such a bad thing-you'll be rid of the one person who might try to extort from you later on. Also7 you'll give Once they Darling and Mrs. Z an outlet for their rage. do something to him they may feel a lot less anger toward you." I thought about that, and, funny thing, the longer I thought about it, the better I felt. Rakoubian had been willing to see me killed. Whatever happened to him now came with the territory.

Okay," I said.

"What's next?" ily a guy like "An idea I have about Darling. Norma that would insulate himself. If he wanted to get rid of Shadow he'd contract out the job. He didn't. He tortured her. Which tells you what a'twisted animal he is. But there's more. See, it's pretty clear he had some help, someone to drive her body to Newark, and those two street. Which means there're guys who chased Kim on the nd no matter people around who know what he did, a they probably don't like him what kind of goons they are, n-'oying it they're for hurting girls and e j – Guys like that, if caught, they'll spill their guts, and Darling's got to know that too.

That has to keep him up at night, as does the prospect that under certain conditions Mrs. Z may very well-squeal herself. Okay, what does that tell us? That he may have as his objective the liquidation of all these difficulties at once. I mean killing you, me, Kim, his associates, Mrs. Z, everyone who ow@ver.yone. Now, if he does decide to go that route, if he sees that as his only way out, he can't use surrogates, he'll have to do it himself. And that means exposing himself on the field of battle. ,,Which brings me to my final point: choose the battlefield. Ultimately, in a deal like this, there comes the payoff-and-exchange when the parties have to meet. That's the most dangerous time, the time we're most vulnerable, the time we want to control the territory. Can't be the base. Key West's your base-the place you take the Money and hide out.

And New York's no good-it's their territory as much as yours. Which leaves New Mexico. Resolve 't out here, my stamping grounds, and we'll have a big advantage."

I'd been listening so intently, I didn't notice that just before Santa Cruz he had turned off the road to Santa Fe and driven a mile or two along the route to Tierra Amarilla. He stopped the car.

"What's this?" I asked.

"Get out. Take a look."

I got out, looked around, didn't see much of anything.

"You can't tell now," he said, "but right here',-he made a mark with his boot heel in the dirt beside the road-"this is the very spot." floo ked at him. He was grinning.

"Can't help it Geoff. I couldn't resist. This is where Ansel set up his tripod." He motioned to some ruins in a field on the left side of the road.

"That's what's left of the village." He raised his finger above the distant mountains.

"The moon was just about there..

"Moonrise, Hernandez": Ansel Adams's greatest picture, a photograph swooned over by school kids and sophisticated collectors alike. The picture had been printed over nine hundred times, but still the prints were so greatly desired they fetched close to ten thousand dollars whenever they came up at auction.

"to take a picture like that-the thought of it!" Frank looked at me, then down at the ground.

"Don't think you know, but for years I've been jealous of you. Guess most every photographer has. Jealous too of Ansel for 'Moonrise.'

Jealous of Cartier-Bresson for the man leaping over the puddle. Of Kertesz for the man carrying the picture while the train passes on the bri@g@. Of Caponigro for the running deer. Those are the miracle pictures, the ones no matter how good you are, you can never find they have to find you. I've thought about it a lot, why they come to some and not to others, and I've decided I shouldn't be jealous; they've enriched my life too much. I've also come to the conclusion that people don't just stumble into shots like that, that they come to the great photographers because the great photographers are ready.

I was with you, remember, when you took the PietA. You were ready. Were you ever…

When we reached Santa Fe, he called Mai, told her we wouldn't be back till late, then took me on a tour of the town. We strolled around the Plaza, then looked into the galleries on Canyon Road.

Most of what we saw was garbage: sentimental paintings of Navaho women and illustrator-type coWhoy scenes. The prices shocked me when I considered the fact that the galleries wouldn't charge them unless they were what people were willing to pay.

After dinner at a Mexican place, Frank took me back to his studio. While he disappeared into his darkroom to finish up some work, the full force of what he'd said coming down from Taos suddenly hit me hard.

He was talking about killing or being killed, and sacrificing Rakoubian as if he were a pawn. I didn't know if I was ready for stuff like that.

I picked up the phone on his desk and called Kim in Key West.

I caught her just as she was about to leave for work.

"Geoffrey, what a terrific time to call. I was starting to get depressed about tonight. How's it going? It's so humid here, you sweat from just thinking about going out." The notion of her sweating turned me on. I imagined the gloss on her forehead, the faint aromatic flavor of her skin.

"Frank thinks we can do it," I said. "Great! Is he willing to join us?"

"Yeah. Only problem is-it could turn violent, he says. I don't know if I'm up to that." There was a pause before she spoke. "Don't worry about it. "

"I am worried."

"Frank's our hired gun."

"Yeah…?"

"So we'll let him take care of the violent parts." She paused again.

"Hey! I miss you, lover-boy!"

"And I miss you."

"It's hard to sleep alone."

"Hard for me too." "Come back soon, will you?"

"Looks like we'll be meeting in New York."

"All the better," she said, 11 I cause I'm really starting to loathe this place. I'd love it, of course, if I could lounge around the Pier House pool. But waiting on tables… Well, it won't be long now. When you and I are done with this thing we'll own Duval Street. Got to go to work, Geoffrey. But I want to leave you with a thought. Instead of letting the danger scare you, see if you can let it turn you on. Go with it, the why you did with Dirty Adam. The way you did that first night down here. Remember how you ripped my clothes and left my brains on the floor?" She laughed.

"Fun, wasn't it? Well, taking Darling's money can be fun for us too."

She made a kissing noise.

"That, Geoffrey, is a big sweet kiss. And please give a hug to Frank for me, even though I haven't met him yet."

After we hung up, I sat behind Frank's desk. Talking to her made me feel good. She was so vibrant, alive, and she was right about letting the danger excite me. All I had to do, I found, was just to think about it in a certain way.

When Frank came out of the darkroom he showed me the latest work of Leo DeSalle and Nelly Steele. He did all their black-and-white printing.

Several times he paused to explain the pains he'd taken to achieve a particularly sensitive effect.

The two famous photographers made good strong pictures. DeSalle was the old master, working in the grandview landscape tradition, while Steele, his young lover and prot6g6e, made perfect tender little still-lifes.

"Leo doesn't bother with the darkroom anymore. He's done it all, and he'll keep doing it till he dies-climbing around the rocks like an old mule, setting up, then burying his head under the focusing cloth. But Nelly cares about everything, every tone, every nuance. Which is why, in time, she'll surpass him. And if she's smart, she'll leave him for someone else."

There was something poignant in Frank's observation that dovetailed with the comments he'd made on the site of "Moonrise, Hernandez." He was a master printer and a master analyst-he had the ability to see straight to the core of a situation. Looking again at his own work, I wondered why he tried to obfuscate what he saw. There a density in his pictures that blocked access to their g. He showed the viewer something new, but he beckon him past the surface of the paper with his passion. 4'Can't imagine trying to bring this off without you, Frank," I said.

"But still I'd like to know why you want in on such a dirty deal." He searched my eyes.

"Money. "Come on! It can't just be that."

"Why not?" He looked almost angry.

"Hey! Don't make me feel bad I asked a question,"

"Sorry," he said. And then: "Your question cuts pretty close. "

"I understand. Look-maybe ou don't see it, but in a way you really do have it all. Great family. Great wife. You live in one of the most desirable places in the country. You and Mai are artists, you make your own hours. Maybe you're not as rich as DeSalle, but how many artists are?"

"Sure," he said, "I know all that. But it's not enough anymore. I'm forty-four, I'm tired of struggling. I'm sick of worrying-can I afford to have the car fixed? pay the grocery bill? send Ali to college? I'm sick of printing DeSalle's pictures, then reading articles about the superb prints of Leo DeSalle. I want to be a full-time photographer, take my shot, see how far I can go. And I want the same for Mai because I think her besi-work's still ahead. That's what it's all about, Geof@coring the money to buy the time to pursue our own work for a couple years."

But after midnight, as we drove back to Galisteo, the scent of pifion trees heavy in the night air, he told me something else: "What I was saying up at Hernandez sometimes I wonder whether I'll ever be ready the way you were." ':Ready for what?" , to take the great picture when it comes."

"Come on, Frank!". His self-pity bothered me.

'!'in a highly competent "No, Geof-I mean it. I know photographer. But maybe I'm better at something else?"

He went quiet after that, but a few minutes later, when he spoke again, his voice was different.

"Maybe this thing you've brought me, this blackmail thing-maybe this'll be my 'Moonrise,' " he said.

Again in the morning the fiery sun stoked up the cold dry fields. Mai drove the girls to the bus, while Frank and I sat outside working up a plan.

We plotted out the next steps: Kim's and my trip to New York, what each of us would do, who'd say what to whom, demonstrations we could make of our seriousness of purpose. I phoned Kim in Key West twice that morning, and both times I put Frank on to speak with her. He asked her questions about Mrs. Z. Listening in to his side of the conversations, I could tell they were getting along.."I think this partnership just may work out," Frank said after he spoke with her the second time.

"She's a real live wire, this girl of yours."

"You told me, 'Don't let her go,' " I reminded him.

By noon we were excited; we felt we had a viable plan. We'd war-gamed the thing every which way, and though there were several points of danger, we couldn't find any major flaws.

Mai called us to lunch. The three of us ate at a picnic table in the back garden. Then Frank offered me his second car, a beat-up Volvo, to use while he went up to Santa Fe to tend his gallery. He gave me a map, marked some places he thought I might find interesting. When I was in the driver's seat ready to leave, he propped his arms against the door, leaned forward and spoke.

"You know you're going to have to pack iron."

I shook my head.

"You have to, Geof."

"I didn't carry a gun in 'Nam. I'm not starting now."

"Yeah, right-you only carry a camera. Well, we'll have to think about that," he said.

I drove to Lami, checked out the railroad station, then followed the Pecos River into the Sangre de Cristo range. There was a Benedictine monastery up there. I looked at it. But when I came to a settlement called El Macho, I did a U-turn and drove back to Galisteo.

I found Mai in her studio, an open-walled building set behind the house.

She was wearing a welder's mask, cutting steel with an oxyacetylene blowpipe. She had an old stereo going full blast back there, Maria Callas as Norma, barely audible above the roar of her torch.

When she saw me she signaled me to stand back. For a while I watched her work. It was a strange scene, Callas singing her heart out while that lean little Vietnamese woman in the huge mask created showers of sparks.

Finally she turned off the torch and raised her visor.

"Want to talk, Geof-Frey?"

I nodded. She pulled off her asbestos gloves, tossed them onto her worktable. Then she led me around the side of the house.

We walked out into the front field, where her sculptures were set amid the weeds. Again I saw, in the strong abstract forms, images of skeletons.

"Oh, yes, Geof-Frey," she said, "they are the icons of this country. New Mexico is crucifixes and bleached old skulls. Crosses, swastikas and bones."

She led me to her largest piece, took my hand, pressed it to the metal.

"Caress, Geof-Frey. Feel the texture. The sun and the rain, how they mark the steel. Old wood, iron…. they change here. Age. Adapt. In time they become…. part of the land." I looked at her. She had aged in the years since I had met her, but there was still something youthful in her face, her eyes. There was a moment there when I felt a surge of love for her, as intense as the love I'd felt so long ago in Saigon.

"Mai.

She brought her finger to her lips.

"Don't say it, Geof-Frey. "

"You know wat I'm going to say.

"What you're doing here. I don't want to know. Frank doesn't tell me.

Better you don't tell me. Best keep it secret. Okay?"

"Okay," I said.

"Frank has changed. Do you see it?"

I nodded.

"He's more bitter now. Kids don't see it yet. He's so kind with them.

But I worry. One day they will see. He needs luck, Geof-Frey. Before too long. Life is good here. I am happy. But Frank not happy. He wants more. We have everything. But for Frank She shook her head.

"Not enough."

"He's an American, Mai. You know us, we're never content.

She smiled. We walked farther into the field. Some of her sculptures had rust on them, an effect, she told me, that she liked.

"You're sorry I came, aren't you?" I asked her.

"Always love to see you, Geof-Frey,"

"You think I'm bringing trouble here. Trouble for Frank.

"Better not talk about this," she said.

"Now I go back to work."

I watched her as she walked urgently back across the field, then around the side of the house to her studio.

Ali and Jessie cooked the dinner that night, a melange of dishes that Frank called "Viet-Mex." Afterwards we retired to his shop to further refine the plan. I called Kim to coordinate our trip to New York, and then, though it was only ten o'clock, I went to bed.

In the morning, I said good-bye to Jude and Mai, thanking her for everything. At the bus stop in lose Carillos I kissed the girls.

"So long, Geof-Frey," they said in unison. they broke up-they had rehearsed Mai's pronunciation of my name.

When we reached Albuquerque, Frank pulled off the Interstate, then into the empty corner of a parking lot at a shopping mall.

"Something I want to show you,' he said, reaching to the rear seat, picking up a flight bag. He opened it, removed a camera. It was a Leica R-4, the model I use.

"This is your gun," he said.

"Hey, Frank!"

"Hear me out, okay? You don't carry guns, you carry cameras, right?" I nodded.

"So here's a camera. The fact that it contains a gun-well, so what?

It's still a camera,. 't it?" isn "Does it take pictures?"

"No. 11 "Then it isn't a camera."

"Okay, it's a gun in the shape of a camera. Satisfied?"

"Not quite."

"What's the matter?"

"It's a gun."

"Jesus, Geof. Going to sit here and split hairs?"

I started to laugh.

"What's the matter?"

"A gun-camera!"

"A gun concealed in a camera," he corrected me.

"Yeah. The point is-"

"What?"

"It's still a friggin' gun."

"Okay, it's a gun. It really shoots. Two shots. Twentytwo caliber.

But this is not an offensive weapon."

"It's such a cliche, Frank. I mean, Jesus! the gun hidden in the camera, It's like a cheap spy novel or something. "

"You think this is like a cheap spy novel-is that what you think?"

"Don't act insulted."

"I am insulted. I was up half the night putting this together, to accommodate your delicate sensibilities."

I shook my head.

"Yeah, yeah, I know-no weapons. You only carry a camera. So when you went to see Rakoubian, planning to clobber him, you took along your old Nikon to do it with. Tell me something: What's the difference between using a camera as brass knuckles and using a camera as a gun?"

"You're shaming me, Frank."

"Good. That's what I want to do."

I looked at him and then I remembered Kim's advice, to let danger and the possibility of violence excite me, to go with it rather than resist.

"Okay, Frank," I said, "why don't you show me how it works.

He opened the back and showed me the mechanism. He'd chopped down the handle of a single-action Beretta semi so it could only take a two-bullet magazine. He'd installed the gun in the shaft of a 90mm.

Leitz Elmarit lens, whose diaphragm closed to the very edges of the barrel opening. A piece of molded plastic, easily pierced by a fired bullet, acted as the concealing front "lens" element.

It was a clever little toy, especially the way the depth of field lever acted as the cocking mechanism and "trigger." I hung it around my neck beside my own Leica. The two camera bodies were indistinguishable. "You start carrying this as a second camera. You're an old photojournalist-nothing odd about that. You usually use a @5mm. lens, so carrying a second camera with a 90 is only logical."

"I wouldn't want to get the two mixed up."

"You won't," he assured me.

"When you raise the gun-camera you can't see anything through the finder. But notice the little notch at the front of the accessory shoe.

That's your sight. When you fire, don't hold the camera too close-it'll kick a little and you don't want to damage that million-dollar eye."

I tried out the sight.

"See-ms simple enough."

"It is. Just aim and fire. There won't be much recoil. The gun's fixed inside the body with a small version of a Ransom rest. That holds it in place and allows for recoil and muzzle lift. The springing's set so the barrel's brought back into alignment for the second shot."

"Is it loaded?"

"Not yet." He opened it up again and showed me how to load it.

"If and when you fire it, you'll be amazed at how quiet it is. There's steel-wool packing between the gun barrel and the lens shaft, with just a little room left in the back for the first ejected shell. There'll probably be more noise when the bullet hits than from the powder explosion. "

He watched as I played with it.

"Well?" he asked.

"Well, what?"

"Still think it's corny?"

"Of course it's corny. It's also Pretty goddamn ingenious." it!"

"Will you carry

I'll think about it."

"Fine. You do that, Geof. Remember, you only use this up close, eight feet or less, and you only use it if you have to. It's awkward to fire.

It's not very accurate. It won't knock anyone down or blow anyone away.

But you can put a bullet into a person, and a bullet in the body isn't a treat. It's a last-ditch defensive weapon. People kin pictures. So, for all its are used to seeing you ta 9 draWhacks, it'll give you one not inconsiderable advantage -the element of surprise."

He started up the car, pulled out of the lot, and drove me to the airport.

"I'd like you to carry this when you go after Darling, in case he tries anything, and because I think carrying it will help your confidence. But that's up to you. Naturally, you can't carry it past airport security, so if you decide to take it with you, you'll have to stash it in your check-through I ies for carrying a concealed weapon "There're big=," in New York."

"The biggest penalty I know of is death."

"What happens if I'm caught with it?"

"Plead innocence. You didn't know'you had it. Your -gun freak out in buddy gave it to you, this crazy camera New Mexico. Don't worry-I'll back you up."

I knew he would too. But still I hesitated.

"After a while you'll get used to it. Your camera and your gun-camera@they'll both be standard equipment. it'll b-e just like your credit card, Geof-you won't want to go anyplace without it." d it at a taxi I held the thing up to my eye again, aime just ahead. It had a nice feel, a nice weight. it would make a good souvenir when we were finished.

I told him to pull over,. and, as he watched I smiling, I wrapped the gun-camera in my dirty laundry and stuffed it in a bottom corner of my bag. s the middle of September, two and a half weeks It wa since I was last in New York, but the city was still as hot and damp as it had been the day I left for Miami. I taxied from the airport to the Howard Johnson Hotel on Eighth Avenue and Fifty-first Street.

We'd chosen the place because it was middle-class and nondescript, full of large in and out, the kind of place where they groups moving aon't remember you at the desk, where they don't even look you in the eye.

I found the house phone, asked the operator to connect me to Mrs. Lynch.

"Hello?"

"Mrs. Lynch? This is Mr. Lynch."

A pause, then a throaty "Well, hello there, Mr. Lynch."

"May I come up?"

"I would surely love it if you would, Mr. Lynch."

She was waiting for me on the bed, naked and spread-eagled, surrounded by a scent of lemon and musk.

"Geoffrey, Geoffrey! Come do me. Quick…

I tore off my clothes.

"Hurry," she said. Her arms, above her head, gripped the top of the headboard. As I lowered myself upon her she arched her back.

"Yes, Geoffrey! God! Yes!"

We took showers after we made love, then sat in easy chairs and gazed at each other. Then I called Frank at his studio in Santa Fe, told him we'd arrived and were together. Then we got dressed, went out and walked. I told her she looked great in her big-city clothes, with her Florida tan and her bleached-out hair. She said I looked pretty good myself.

"Weathered, kind of like a cowpoke," she said.

We walked down Eighth toward Forty-second. It was dusk and the whores were just coming out. The crack dealers had been out for hours.

"Great to be back," she said.

"Feels like I've got this city by the hairs."

"The way you've got me, Kim?"

"The way we've got Darling," she corrected me. She smiled.

"We're going to be rich, Geoffrey. Rich!"

We had a feijoada complete in a Brazilian restaurantnightclub on West Forty-fifth. I ordered champagne, and after we ate we danced a few sets. She felt good in my arms.

"to getting even," she said, toasting me with her glass.

"And to money," she added.

"This time it's going to work. I know it…"

At eleven o'clock we split up. She went back to our room to call Mrs.

Z, while I went downtown to collect my mail.

I hesitated outside my building. Nassau Street at that hour was as deserted as it should have been, and I didn't notice anyone lingering about. I emptied my mailbox, stuffed to its top, then rode up in the elevator. Upstairs I checked around my door. The ruined paint from the lye attack was prominently visible, but the door itself looked to be intact.

When I opened up, there were two slips of paper lying on the floor.

Messages from Scotto: "Urgent I talk to you. Call me when you get back." and "Still waiting to hear from you!" I crumpled them up, locked the door behind me, then rewound my answering machine. I dumped my mail on my desk, and, as I listened to my messages, started to sort it, throwing away the junk.

In my wastebasket there were remnants of the Chinese carryout dinner I'd eaten just before I'd gone to see Rakoubian. The bag was swarming with roaches. I carried it to the hall and dumped it down the compactor chute.

My phone messages weren't all that interesting. One from my gallery, another from a collector who wanted to buy a print of my PietA. Nothing, thank God, from the goon who'd threatened me before. But there were four messages from Scott@the first two pleaded, the third was slightly irritable, and the last, left two days before, expressed considerable anger that I hadn't called.

I was deep into my mail, sorting the -bills, when my telephone rang. The sound startled me. I switched on my machine to screen the call. It was Scotto, and the first words he said were: "I know you're there. Pick up."

I hesitated.

"Pick up, goddamnit!" He sounded mean.

I picked up.

"Hi, Sal," I said. "Just got in."

"I know."

"How do you know?"

"Guy works for me saw the light go on."

"You've got my place watched? What the hell's going on?"

"A murder investigation's going on. When're you going to stop playing dumb?"

Okay," I said.

"Now, why don't you cool down?"

"I mean it, Geof-Aon't mess with me. I'll be there in half an hour.

Buzz me in."

I considered calling Frank for advice, but he'd warned me not to call him from the loft. Kim was only to make her initial calls from our motel; after that we were to use public phones. Well, I thought, maybe it's better this way, since I have to deal with Scotto anyhow. But he sounded pissed off, which made me wonder if there'd been developments and if I was in some kind of trouble.

It was over an hour before he showed up, and when he did he came on like a bully.

"Where have you been?" he snapped.

"I don't think I have to answer that." He glared at me.

All right, I've been hiding out."

"Someplace pretty nice, looks like to me. Nice dark tan you got.

"What's the trouble, Sal?"

"I already told you."

"You told me there's a murder investigation. I already knew about that."

"Dave Ramos wants to go to the D.A., have you designated a material witness."

"Which means?"

"you go before the grand jury. Then you talk or else."

"Fine. I'd like to talk. I'll tell them what I told you: my girlfriend's missing since the night her roOMmate's murdered. In the meantime my life's threatened, and someone throws lye at my eyes. When the investigating officers refuse me protection, I feel I have a right to leave town and hide o-ut."

"Guess what, Geoffrey? You're annoying me."

"And you're,bugging me, Sal. So why don't the two of us cut the shit. ' "Tell me where you've been."

"I don't want to tell you."

"I know you've seen her." He gestured toward my reconstructed serial portraits of Kim.

"What makes you say that?"

"I smell it."

"Maybe your nose is off."

"Maybe it's not. Maybe I Smell her all over you. Maybe you've been eating out her snatch and the fumes are still coming off your face."

I gave him a severe look of disgust.

"I thought you were a classy guy."

"You thought wrong-I'm a cop." I hesitated. I knew I had to give him something.

"If I did decide to tell you anything, Sal, it would be that she doesn't know who killed Shadow."

"How about why Shadow was killed?"

"She doesn't know that either."

He went quiet, just stared at me. When he spoke again it was with confidence.

"We found that Mrs. Z you told us about."

That worried me, though I tried not to show it.

"What did she have to say?" I asked.

"You won't tell me nothin'. Why should I tell you?"

"Let's trade."

"I'm a cop. I don't have to trade."

"Suit yourself," I said.

"Now, if you don't mind I've got mail to answer here."

He groaned.

"You're acting like a real asshole."

"That's the story of my life."

"Don't be a sucker."

"What do you want?"

"Kimberly Yates. I want to talk to her."

"She won't talk to you. Anyway she's out of state."

"Which state? Okay, forget it. I won't ask you that. I'll ask this: last time we talked you were sure about one thing, that her building super didn't do it. Tell me why you were so sure?"

"Just a hunch."

"A hunch, huh? You know, you really are a jerk." He knew something-I could tell: he had an I-know-it look on his face.

"Everyone thinks we're stupid. Stupid cops Thick heads. Lugs. Who else would go into this kind of work? Got news for you, pal. A few of us are bright. Dave Ramos, for instance. He gets interested in something, he starts looking around, and when he does he's very methodical. Ever hear of VIA?"

"What's that?"

"Visual Investigative Aid. An approach to criminal investigation. A way to chart what you know and what you don't, useful when you have a complicated case. You chart this stuff, then you draw lines in between, and sooner or later you start to see connections. You see what you need to know to put the thing together. Knowing what you need to know-in police work that's half the battle. "

He smiled at me, and that made me nervous. He did know something, I was sure of it.

"Okay, you call me from the airport, that means you're going someplace.

So Dave and me, we listen to the tape-yeah, we tape everything. We listen and figure out you're calling from La Guardia. So we check on what flights are going out of there around the time of your call, we get the passenger lists, and, lo and behold, we find your name on a flight to Miami." He smiled again.

"Shakes you up a little, doesn't it?"

"A little," I agreed.

"So we make some calls, check around Miami, hotels and stuff. And car rental companies. Don't want to forget those."

I didn't say anything.

"Seems there's this fella, Geoffrey Barnett, he's rented this nice little Toyota Corolla. Guy rents a car, guy returns a car. When he returns it to the airport we start checking on flights again. And guess what? We find his name, this time on a flight to Dallas with a connection to Albuquerque. So, using deduction, we're more or less sure the little honey pot's in either Florida or New Mexico. Maybe she's back here now. Not a bad suppose, since you're here and you follow the honey. Course, we can check with the airlines, run her name through their computers. Or you can tell me now and save me the time.

I knew Kim had used an assumed name on the plane, but still there was a moment there when I thought about telling Scotto the truth. We'd have to forget the blackmail, we wouldn't get rich, but maybe we'd see some justice. It might even feel good to go on to the law-andorder side.

But the thing had taken on a life of its own. Kim wanted the money, Frank needed it, and I'd brought him in. It would be hard to let them down.

There was something else too: my fascination with the game, which is the way I'd begun to think of it. A three-cornered game, with three teams of players: Kim, Frank and me;

Darling and Mrs. Z; and Ramos and Scotto. The object of the game was to outsmart the other two teams and carry home the loot. And the prospect of doing that, the anticipated high if we won, was, I was beginning to understand, as important as the actual winnings.

I think something had changed in me those last few weeks. I think I gave up my gloomy view. And the possibility that we might really force something out of those monsters had become a lot more exciting than any photograph I could visualize.

I was also, I discovered, as I talked to Sal, finding it easier to lie.

"Okay," I told him, "you're a good detective. I never thought you weren't. I'm going to tell you something now so you don't waste your time. Kimberly's not in New York. As for where I went, yes, I was in Florida and New Mexico, and the reason was to take pictures-which happens to be my profession. As for Shadow, you say you located Mrs. Z.

In my opinion that's the place to look. I'll tell you another thing.

There was a Swedish girl named Sonya who also worked for Mrs. Z, a friend of Kim's and Shadow's. I never met her, but I hear she disappeared and there're people who think she was killed by someone close to Mrs. Z."

Scotto had been writing in his notebook the entire time.

"That it?" he asked when I finished.

"One more thing, and I swear to you it's all I know. there're some fancy people who live in Soho, a painter named Duquayne and his rich-bitch wife. I think they know something. Before I left I tried to talk to them. they threw me out. Maybe you and Ramos'll have better luck. "

Scotto put down his notebook. Then he stood.

"Okay," he said, "you've told me a couple of things, maybe helpful, maybe not. I think you've been straight with me. If I ever find out you're not, I'm going to sic Dave onto you, Geof. And with Dave there's no mercy. None."

After he left I thought about his threat: he'd turn me over to Dave;

Dave would have me designated a material witness. It didn't sound all that bad, More like passing the buck.

Meantime, I thought, I'd tied some good knots. Tomorrow Sal would pressure Mrs. Z, which, added to the pressure Kim was putting on her tonight, should propel her into a state of panic. And if the Du(juaynes could be made to panic too, then Darling would soon feel the force of our attack.

An hour after Sal left, I slipped out of my loft. At first I thought about leaving my lights on, in case his lookout was still around. But it occurred to me it would look more natural if I turned them off-it was getting late, time for the itinerant photographer to go to bed.

Once outside I strode swiftly toward Broadway, hailed a cab, and asked the driver to drop me at Forty-second and Eighth, It was 1:30 in the morning, but it could just as easily have been noon-the action at that sleazy intersection was still that heavy and fast. The tang of pot, sweat and cheap perfume hung upon the air. There were throngs of tourists, camera-toting Japanese, assorted teenagers, beboppers and a man, dressed in a horned helmet like a Viking-, regaling the crowd on the subject of fleshly sin. Pimps, prostitutes and drug dealers cruised, and a mad shopping-bag lady, with bulging eyes, shouted a string of mindless obscenities to the wind.

As I walked toward Seventh I ran a gauntlet:

"Going out?" a girl asked.

"Date?" asked another.

"Smoke? Coke?"

"Smack? Crack?"

"Grass? Ass?"

"Love for sale," I heard a throaty voice whisper in my ear.

I merged into the crowd on Seventh, paused before a three-card monte dealer, then looked back to see if I was being followed. There was no one lingering, so I walked back to the corner, then quickly descended the subway stairs. I bought a token, passed through the turnstile, found a pay phone and dialed the hotel.

"Mrs. Lynch? This is Mr. Lynch,"

"Geoffrey! I've been worried. I was afraid to call the loft."

I told her about Scotto and the hints I'd dropped. She especially liked my insinuation about the Duquaynes.

" I, meantime, have spoken with Mrs. Z," she said.

"It got pretty hairy there for a while. I told her the photos were back in play and she'd better get the money and pay up. I told her Rakoubian had taken the pictures, then had tried to pin them on you. I told her you were in the thing now, you and I were partners, that someone had tried to burn out your eyes, you didn't like that, and next time any lye was thrown, you'd be doing the throwing. I told her if she didn't think you had the balls, she should check you out with Rakoubian."

"Jesus!"

"Yeah, I really hit on her. She stayed quiet the whole time. I told her she may have thought the business was finished but as far as I was concerned it had just begun. I didn't give her time to answer. Just told her she and Darling had forty-eight hours to make up their minds.

She thought little Kimberly was out of her life. Now here I am, back again, talking like a bad-ass too." She paused.

"I'm feeling good, Geoffrey. Real good. Why don't you come on up and see old horny Mrs. Lynch?"

"Nothing I'd rather do," I said.

"I have to call Frank first.

"I'll be waiting," she panted.

I had no trouble getting hold of Frank; it was only 11:00 P.m. in New Mexico. when I'd told him "Good moves with Scotto@," he said, everything.

"Of course, now you can't go back to the loft."

"What about the hotel?"

"Probably okay. But be careful. Take the subway shuttle to Grand Central, get off, then get right back on. Anyone else does the same thing you'll know you're being followed. But I don't think you are. I think what happened was Scotto slipped a twenty to someone in your neighborhood to watch your windows and call him when the lights went on.

I doubt he has the manpower to follow you, and I doubt he has the motivation." That was pretty much what I'd been thinking, but it was nice to hear it confirmed.

"How do you like the way they traced my airline tickets?"

"They're methodical guys. We should have thought of that. When you come back out you'll buy your tickets under another name. And no connecting flights. Spend the night in Dallas, then fly Dallas-Albuquerque the following day under still a third name. Pay cash, of course."

"Maybe there's other stuff we should have thought of, Frank.

"Maybe. But things are breaking good. Feels like we're on a roll.

"What do I do about Scotto?"

"Keep your contacts to short calls from public phones."

"He won't like that."

"He won't mind so long as you keep in touch. Hey! Relax, Geof! The best part's still to come. Round-trip the shuttle, then get yourself back to that lusty girlfriend of yours. But not too much excitement.

You still got big things to do…

Mrs. Lynch was lusty indeed. She was all over me the moment I entered the room.

"Don't know what's wrong with me," she said, pressing herself against me.

"I must be high on the excitement." She kissed me. "The power too."

She unbuttoned my shirt, lightly clawed her nails down my chest, then slowly ran her tongue across the red lines she'd made. "I think it's you, Geoffrey. The way you smell, taste. You know how I love your skin." She licked at me again.

"Can't get enough." She stroked my arms with her thumbs.

"I'm crazy for you. You know that. Your… hardness. She fell back upon the bed, pulled up her dress, spread her legs. She wore no underwear. "Geoffrey, I'm so wet down there. Put it in me.

Please…

Arnold Darling lived on upper Fifth Avenue in an old apartment house just north of the Metropolitan Museum. It was a Stanford White building famous for its high ceilings, well-proportioned rooms and celebrity residents, including two rival talk-show hosts, and the sister-in-law of the former dictator of Indonesia.

When I arrived a little before 8:00 A.M., there were two Cadillacs and a Bentley double-parked in front. It was a beautiful morning, the first decent one of the season. For e straight months the city had suffered through one the great heat waves of the century. Now, at last, the was clear and there was a cool autumnal breeze. stationed myself across the street, on a stone bench against the wall that defines the eastern edge of Cc raF Park. From there I watched the entrance to the building through my old Key West Post Office spying device, my R-4 mounted with a 135mm. lens. My second "Leica," the one with the barrel of the Beretta concealed in the lens housing, hung from a strap around my neck and rested just below my heart.

At 8:15 a distinguished-looking gentleman with wavy gray hair and a crocodile attache case exited the building and got into one of the Cadillacs. I recognized him as the former CEO of a major aerospace manufacturer, indicted and awaiting trial for bribery and conspiracy to defraud the government.

A few minutes later a genuine celebrity came out, the Italian-American film star Tony Demarco, known for his stupendous physique, sad spaniel's eyes and winsome groans while undergoing torture. Interrogation scenes, during which he hung half naked by his wrists while being 'Soviet military officer, tormented by one or another evil were the inevitable centerpieces of his movies. People went to see a Demarco picture as much for the pleasure of watching him suffer as for the stunning brutality of his revenge.

I watched him get into the Bentley, then was distracted by the arrival of a tall skinny young woman, easily six feet two, who wore a Knicks T-shirt, a Mets baseball cap backwards, and held eight leashes attached to an equal number of dogs She was that peculiar creature of Manhattan's Upper East Side, a professional dog walker. Each of her dogs was of a different size, shape and breed. There was a wrinkled-faced boxer, a proud poodle, a high-strung Dalmation, and the star of the pack, an elegant Afghan, who, prancing, led the others, all panting and slobbering, forcing their walker to lean backwards as she pulled them to a halt in front of Darling's building.

She had stopped, it was clear, to pick up another animal. The doorman recognized her and retreated to the by. She stood ramrod-straight as she waited, her wards settling down before her in various postures, some sprawling on the sidewalk, the boxer sniffing lasciviously at her crotch, the Dalmatian snapping viciously at the legs of an innocent passerby.

A few moments later the doorman emerged, holding a leash attached to a russet-coated English setter. The walker took the leash, joined it to her others, then flicked them together like a cat-o'-nine-tails.

Suddenly all the dogs stood, poised to proceed with their walk, and, at that same moment, through a welter of leashes and canine flesh, I spied the figure of Arnold Darling as he stepped out of the lobby into the brilliant morning light.

He was wearing a sober dark pin-striped suit and a shirt so white it glittered as he paused outside the door. He stared curiously at the dogs, muttered something to the doorman, then took off fast walking south.

By this time I'd twisted the telephoto off my camera, slapped on a wide-angle, and was making my way through the gridlocked traffic across to the other side of Fifth.

My plan was to get ahead of him, then turn and confront him before he reached the corner. I was just stepping between a stalled commuter bus and a Jaguar when the light changed and the traffic began to surge.

The bus driver honked, I leaped, then was nearly run over by a taxi.

Plunging forward to avoid it, I tripped and skinned my knees on the curb. When I recovered and looked up, I found myself not three feet from Arnold Darling, under inspection by his penetrating eyes.

Even as I knew I had bungled my entrance, some old instinct from my photojournalist days took over. I had stumbled up to subjects before, had many times assumed awkward positions to obtain a vital shot. So by sheer rote I raised my camera and started firing away, and the moment I did that I regained my poise: my camera, analogous to his fencing mask, protected me from his scrutiny, and my big Leitz lens had a power his naked eyes did not-it could eat him up alive. Whap! whap! whap!

Whap-whap! Whap-whap! The whir of my motor-drive drove him back. Take that! And that!

And that! it seemed to say, and even as it did his cheeks began to flush.

I moved closer, thrust my camera at him, shot him five more times. When he continued to back off, I pressed my advantage, and the feel of my gun-camera swinging back and forth against my chest didn't harm my confidence.

"My name's Barnett," I said, "I'm a photographer. You tried to have me blinded. I'm here to show you I still can see.",,Get away from me!

Get away!"

"Fuck you, Darling. I've got you cold. I didn't take those nasty pictures of you, but I've got them now, and you're going to buy them back."

Whap! whap! whap! whap! I hit him four times hard, noting he had no eyebrows, Then I lowered my camera and smiled at him over its top.

"You're dead meat, sucker. Because before I take those nasty pictures to the cops I'm shopping them around to the press. Star. National Enquirer. Whoever'll pay the most. Imagine the headlines: 'Famous Architect Likes to Make Girls Scream." 'SM Sex Parties at Mrs. Z's.'

'Sonya and Shadow Slain by Prominent Architect." 'Architect in Deep Shit!'

All the time I was speaking he'd been looking around, meantime using his hands to protect his face. I liked that. It told me I was getting to him. I pressed on. Whap, whap, whap, whap, whap, whap!

And then, as he was staggering backward, I saw my opportunity. The dog walker was approaching fast, her nine dogs fanned out in front. A perfect trap: he was caught between my relentless camera and that ninesome of frothing beasts. Push him forward, my best instinct told me. And so I did, thrusting my camera at him, not even looking through it, just shoving it into his face as I pressed the shutter to make the film whir through.

Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap!

He panicked, stumbled, lost his balance and fell. The timing couldn't have been better-the dogs were just behind. As he dropped they parted into two groups, and, when he was down, closed in. He was flat on his back, his head at the feet of the dog walker. She, meantime, had yanked back on her leashes, bringing her dogs to a chaotic halt.

A moment later they were all stepping over Darling, sniffing at him, pressing at him with their snouts. they panted and drooled on his pin-striped suit. It was a very pretty sight.

I knelt and continued to shoot, finishin2 out my roll. I got several great shots of him iithering-up against the dog walker's knees, writhing to escape the muzzles of her dogs. He had by then lost all his dignity.

And I had the shots to go with the ominous ones taken by Rakoubian.

"Call Mrs. Z," I told him.

"From now on we'll be dealing through her." My last memory of the scene was of the tall girl in the backwards baseball cap trying to help him to his feet, while her barking wards, all high-strung and overbred, tangled their leashes into a Gordian knot.

It was 2:00 that afternoon when Kim and I hit the Duquaynes. Kim had their private number-the three of them had had, after all, a very private relationship-and so we stopped at a phone booth on the corner of West Broadway and Prince so she could call and make sure that they were home.

As soon as Amanda Duquayne answered, Kim hung UP.

"I know Harold's there. He always paints in the afternoons," Kim said.

We walked down to Spring Street, found their building. Kim pushed the buzzer.

"Yes? Who's there?" I had no trouble recognizing Amanda's fancy whine.

Kim grinned at me, then brought her mouth to the intercom.

"Hi, Mandy. It's me-Kim."

There was a pause and then an intake of breath.

"Oh, dear!" Amanda moaned.

"Buzz me in, Mandy. It's important."

"I don't know. This is so… unexpected.

"Mandy! Push the goddamn buzzer!" Kim spoke as if she expected to be obeyed. And sure enough, after an involuntary sigh of resignation over the intercom, the buzzer gave a long and splendid sigh of its own.

Harold, unshaven, in his paint-flecked sweatshirt, was standing beside Amanda when we walked-in. She, in her at-home equestrian outfit, looked the perfect spoiled little wife.

"You didn't say he was with you." Amanda glared at me. Again I noticed her freckled chest.:'Geof and I are partners now, Mandy." 'I think you'd both better leave," Harold said.

Kim didn't bother to look at him.

"Pretty hard to take you seriously, Harold, considering I've had you licking the bottoms of my shoes." Harold recoiled like a man who'd been slapped, while Amanda tried valiantly to regain control.

"You can't just burst in on us like this!" she sputtered.

"You have no right! And to come with him!" She moe tioned toward in.

"He insulted Harold. Said awful things to both of us."

"Oh, can it, Mandy!" Kim used the dominant tone again.

"Stop playing the offended party."

"But we are offended," Amanda whined.

"We're old friends. Don't be silly." Kim turned to me.

"Did I tell you Harold likes to play doggie?. And little Mandy here has drunk deeply of my-how do you call them, Mandy?-'vital juices'?"

Even as I felt for them in their moment of humiliation, I couldn't help admiring Kim for the way she'd taken command. Suddenly both Duquaynes were docile. Harold hung his head, and Amanda, who'd played proud princess last time I'd seen her, wore an expression of deeply injured pride.

"We didn't come here to insult you, Mandy." Kim's tone was soothing again.

"We came to give you some advice. There's bad stuff going down, and the two of you may be involved. We wanted to talk to you before the police.

But if having us here upsets you so much-"

"they already called," Amanda said.

"they didn't say what it was about. Just that they wanted to come over here and talk."

While Harold showed a pained half smile, Kim gave me an emphatic look.

"I know what it's about," she said. We all moved to the couches and sat down.

"It has to do with Mrs. Z. One of her clients killed an actress." The Duquaynes recoiled.

"Remember Sonya?" they nodded.

"It was her. When I threatened to expose this client-it's safer for you if I don't mention his name-they kidnapped Shadow to find out where I was. And when she wouldn't talk…" Kim drew her finger across her neck, then sadly shook her head. The Duquaynes were starting to show signs of extreme distress.

"But why us?" Amanda asked.

"We had nothing to do with any of that."

"Of course not, darlings. But now the whole thing's coming unwound. You were clients too. You had private sessions. Harold's a celebrity. A famous painter. He's been on the cover of Art News. You've both been on the cover of New York. "

"But still, Kimberly, I still don't see.

"Now everything's going to come out. All the glittering names. Yours too. Unless.

"What?"

"Mrs. Z comes to her senses and agrees that reparation should be paid."

Harold squinted at Kim.

"You're talking about money?"

"What else, darling? What other kinds of reparations are there in this world?"

"Money from us?" Amanda was tense.

"Not from you, silly. From the client."

As the Duquaynes looked at each other, I observed their relief-this was not going to cost them any cash.

"But then how-" Harold asked.

"How are you involved?" they both nodded.

"You're not. Except that the cops have got your names. they won't be able to prove anything, of course, not unless certain evidence comes to light. Only Mrs. Z and her client can prevent that. That's why we think one of you should speak to her."

"What should we say?"

"You could say, very simply, very frankly, that you understand a situation has arisen that could be embarrassing to people who have supported her over the years. And that your advice is that she do whatever has to be done to see that the injured parties in the-affair are satisfied. Anyway, darlings, this is just a suggestion. But, you see, if this does go to the cops, all the trees in the forest will fall, and that, I'm afraid, includes the two of you "We'll make the call," Harold said.

"What about the police?" Amanda asked.

"Refer them to your lawyer."

"Shouldn't we talk with them?"

"That's absolutely the last thing you should do. But I'd talk to Mrs. Z pretty soon, this afternoon if possible. Darlings, you don't want to leave this hanging. Not a thing like this."

Kim nodded to me, we rose, then the four of us moved to the door. Harold and I shook hands, Amanda and Kim exchanged a kiss, Kim whispered to her, giggled, whispered something to Harold, giggled again, and then we left.

On the street I asked her what all the whispering had been about.

"A jest," she said.

"I told Mandy we'll get together when this is over, have ourselves some fun. I told Harold next time we played I was going to tie up a very intimate part of his body-. He loved iti-He adores being tied. I suspect he even likes being hit."

Ilaughed.

"Geoffrey"' She kissed me.

"You're really amused."

"I guess I am," I said.

"they were so awful to me before, it was kind of a pleasure to watch them squirm."

"Well, that's wonderful," she said.

"Progress in a way, because a couple of weeks ago I think you would have been appalled. It's all part of the gig, you see. We come on tough with them, tell them what we want, then offer them a little fun. they're sexually driven people. Kinky obedience training-that's their thing.

But the poor darlings are too chicken to admit it. God forbid that the intimate desires of such an Exalted Couple should ever be divulged!" She grinned.

"Carrot and stick is the way to control them. Sex is the carrot.

Exposure is the stick."

At 5:00 P.M., while Kim was off seeing Rakoubian, I picked up my proof sheet of the Darling shoot from a photo lab on West Twenty-fourth The proofs looked good. There were a couple of shots of Darling covering his face that showed just the degree of panic I'd hoped to instill.

Maybe Frank was right. Maybe we were on a roll. Certainly everything was clicking along. But I was wary, It just didn't seem possible that we could extort a million dollars without having to pay some horrific price ourselves.

I stopped at a Spanish tapas joint where there was a quiet phone booth between the men's room and the bar. I dialed Scotto, the phone rang several times, and then Ramos picked it up.

"Sal's out," he said.

"But I wanna talk to you. Couple things I wanna go over. Come down to the precinct we'll sort them out."

"I'm busy," I said.

"Busy?"

"Pressed is what I mean."

"Isn't that nice? The man is 'pressed." He doesn't have time to help the cops. We're only trying to solve a homicide here. But let's put that on hold 'cause the man is pressed. "

"Your sarcasm's withering me, Ramos. Anyway, I already told Sal everything I know. If you want, we can go over it all again, but I don't have time to come down there now."

"What's a matter? Afraid to face me, let me see your eyes?"

"I think I work better with Sal," I said.

"I'll call back later on."

"Sal's soft on you, Barnett. But I'm not. You're playing games. I don't like games."

"What kind of games do you think I'm playing, Dave?"

"You got your own thing going here. they got a word for that. 'Hidden agenda." I aim to find out what yours is." I didn't say anything; I couldn't. His smart cop's instinct was telling him I wasn't straight.

"Well?" he asked.

"Well, what?"

"What do you have to say for yourself?"

"Is this when I'm supposed to break down and confess?"

"Watch it, sucker."

"Is that a threat, detective?"

"Take it any way you want. But hear this: I don't buy your story. I think you know where the roommate is.

Sooner or later I'm going to find missing Missy Kimberly, and when I do I'm going to find out about you. Turns out you've been lying, I'm going to fry your ass. All I gotta say for now. Sal'll be back in an hour."

He hung up.

I started walking uptown. My conversation with Ramos had shaken me up.

What am I doing wrong? I asked myself. How am I giving myself away?

Frank was right. The cops were going to be a problem. Even if we brought off the blackmail and collected the money, Ramos and Scotto were not conveniently going to go away I stoppe@ at Penn Station to call Frank at his gallery.

"Better get back to the hotel quick," he said.

"Kim's they wasted Rakoubian." waiting for you.

"What?" ,I just got off the phone with her. She was on her way to see him when she noticed patrol cars in front of his place. There was a crowd on the street. She edged in and asked what was going on. Seems your fat friend fell or jumped out of his window. My bet is he was pushed."

"Frank!"

"Steady, Geof. And save your regrets. I told you this could happen:

They're playing hardball. After what you did this morning, I'm not at all surprised."

"Kim told you?"

"Yeah. Poor Arnold. Pissed on by all those fancy dogs. She also told me about the Duquaynes. You guys played them great."

His compliment was nice, but I was still thinking about Rakoubian.

Suddenly I wished I were out of the whole goddamn mess.

"What if they'd come for him when Kim was there?" I asked.

"They'd have heaved her out the window too!"

"Point is, they didn't run into her. Like I told you last night, we're on a roll. Last night Kim taunted Mrs. Z. This morning you taunted Darling. Rakoubian caused them a lot of trouble. If you were in the same spot, you'd have killed him too."

I was quiet.

"Wouldn't youg"

"No," I said.,No, Frank, I most certainly wouldn't."

"Look, Geof, I don't condone what they did. But there's one plus here-I predicted how they'd behave, which tells me I've got a good handle on them, which tells me the plan is working, and we should proceed without delay."

Back at the motel I found a badly shaken Mrs. Lynch.

"Sure, Adam was awful. Slime. A real piece of crud. But to waste him like that.

She was pacing while I lay on the bed. Her hands were nervous and she was dripping sweat. Strangely, seeing her so upset actually reassured me. She and Frank talked casually about "wasting" people; now, at least, she was expressing pain.

"I mean he couldn't do anything to them," she said. She stopped, turned to me.

"He wasn't threatening them. He didn't have the pictures anymore."

"He could identify Darling. I guess that was the reason," I said. "I know." She started pacing again.

"Like that's what this is all about. Shows of force and all that kind of crap. God, I hate them. I hate them more than-" She stopped.

"I'd like to see them die, Geof. I really would. Rolling on the ground, you know, in the dirt, their bellies split open, their hands grasping at their guts, trying to keep them from spilling out. Crying, whimpering, dying painfully. That's what I'd like to see."

She became calm then, as if that thought, that awful vision, satisfied her rage. Her shaking stopped. The sweat dried on her forehead. Her fingers were cool when, a few minutes later, she sat beside me and began to stroke my neck.

We made love, showered, then went out to look for a place to eat. On Tenth Avenue Kim spotted a Cuban restaurant. She wanted to go there, wanted to be reminded of Key West. It turned out to be a strange hybrid, Chino-Latino or Cuban-Chinese. We ordered dishes from both sides of the menu, ate pork asado with chopsticks and poured black beans over our Cantonese rice. For five minutes we were amused, then the joke began to pall.

"Why are we putting ourselves through this?" I asked her.

"Why don't we go back to Florida and forget it? Just forget it. "

She gazed at me, her eyes pinning me down. I felt like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a car.

"It's getting too rough," I told her.

"I don't know if I can handle much more." She nodded.

"I know what you mean. I feel awful about Adam too."

"Maybe we shouldn't have turned him in, Kim. Oh, I know it might help us marginally. But to turn him over, set him up for slaughter. I put down my chopsticks, shook my head.

"Listen, Geof"-her voice was tender-"you're a sensitive guy and I love you for that. But we're both going to have to toughen up." She smiled.

"Know what your problem is? I think you give up hatred too easily." She patted my hand.

"Anyway, there's nothing we can do for Adam now. We can only go forward and hope for the best-do what we have to do."

After dinner we wandered down to Forty-second Street, merging with the crowds. The neon flashed, the porn stores were open and the hustlers worked the mob. Kim grasped my arm. I looked at her. We listened to their propositions, laughed them away. Then at the apex of Times Square she broke free to face the empty intersection alone. She stood there on the sidewalk, staring at the signs. As she spoke she seemed to glow.

"I love this cesspool. Makes me feel good. Triumphant almost. As if places like this, which people say are so degrading, are the only places I feel I'm really alive. Know what I mean, Geoffrey? It's so damn human down here, like there's nothing phony, no false front. Here you can feel what it means to be a human being. It's the opposite, isn't it, of sitting in a church?"

The moment she said that I felt that she was right. The city swirled with criminality, and we were part of it, part of the great greedy grasping mainstream, competitors in the endless struggle for gain.

She was right about another thing too, the feeling she described of triumph. You could be predatory and sexual and still hold your head high because you weren't pretending nly human, as she said, to be anything else. You were o stripped of all hyp?crisy. There was something wonderful about that, liberating, clean. I began to glow myself.

And so, as I strode with her amid that overheated crowd, my cameras bobbing against my chest, I no longer felt like an observer, a photographer, but like a player in the game.

I woke up in a sweat, disoriented, confused. But when I opened my eyes the room was dark. I reached for Kim. She wasn't there. I called out her name. No answer. I sat up.

She wasn't in the bathroom either. Has she left me? Deserted me aizain? Maybe I was still asleep, trapped in a nightmare. Bl;t of course I wasn't. And her suitcase was still in the room. But not the

set of clothes she'd worn the day before. I looked at my watch. It was 5:35 A.M.

Maybe she's gone down to the lobby, I thought, to buy a newspaper, or get some aspirin, or munch on something in the coffee shop. I picked up the phone, dialed the desk, asked the clerk to page the lobby and restaurant for Mrs. Lynch. He said the restaurant was closed and there wasn't anyone in the lobby, and he'd been on since five and the only person he'd seen go out was a man in logging clothes.

He promised he'd page her anyway and call me back if he saw a woman around. I waited ten minutes by the phone before I realized it wasn't going to ring.

Maybe, I thought, she went out for a walk. She was overexcited and couldn't sleep. I dressed quickly, went downstairs, checked in with the clerk. He told me where to find the all-night eating places in the neighborhood. I thanked him and stepped into the street. it must have There was a slick on Eighth Avenuerained, though I'd had no sense of that inside the hotel. The air was sticky. The autumnal flavor of the day before was gone. The yellow glow of the streetiamps was reflected in the pavement. I could hear the wail of distant sirens downtown.

No whores around. They'd long since gone home, or were out on dates, or wherever they went. The transvestites and pimps and dope dealers were all gone too. Only a few homeless people remained, a man curled in a doorway down the block, another sprawled across a grating in front of a discount movie house across the street.

I made the round of coffee shops, but didn't see her. And then I wandered aimlessly, After a while I found myself beside the river. No trucks around, everything closed, and the damp air stagnant without a trace of Wind. The sirens still shrieked far away. I watched the oily water lapping around the rotting piers. She went somewhere, 'somewhere specific. She had'a destination. The only thing I could think to do was go back to our room and wait.

The sun was well up by the time I returned. There were people on the streets and the traffic had begun to build. A big air-conditioned bus was double-parked in front of the hotel. The lobby was choked with baggage. The desk clerk didn't notice me. A group was in the process of checking out.

As I rode up in the elevator I felt depressed. I told myself she shouldn't have deserted me this way. She should have left me a note, an explanation. But that wasn't her style. I'd learned that before. She came and went as she pleased.

I knew she was back the moment I opened the door. Her clothes were piled in the center of the room. There was an odor in the room too that didn't belong@omething harsh and resinous.

I could hear water running. She was in the bathroom. I moved to the doorway and looked in. She was taking a shower, singing to herself, an old Cole Porter tune:

"It's the wrong game with the wrong chips, Though your lips are tempting, they're the wrong lips,"

I leaned against the doorframe, waiting for her to finish, watching her perfect body in silhouette against the plastic curtain.

"They're not her lips but they're such tempting lips.

She pulled the curtain, saw me, and then, for the briefest instant, she looked scared. A moment later she flung herself upon me, naked and wet.

She hugged me while planting kisses on my face.

"Thank God, you're back, Geoffrey! It was terrible."

"What happened?"

"I had to take a shower to wash away the smell. My clothes stink of it too. I'm going to throw them out."

"Stink of what?" She was trembling.

"Varnish remover."

I stood back from her. That accounted for the resinous odor in the other room.

"Why varnish remover? I don't understand."

She shook her head.

"That's what I used. Hold me, Geoffrey. Please." Her eyes were wild.

She had the same on-the-edge took the night she'd come to me after running away from Darling's men. I held her.

"Used for what?"

"to set the fire."

"Jesus, Kim! What are you talking about?"

"The message-remember?" I shook my head.

"Come on, Geoffrey. Of course you do. Frank told us to send them a message, demonstrate that we were serious. Well, that's what I did. It was a big message too. It said, Don't mess with us, do what we say."

I could feel her body shaking in my arms.

"My God, what did you do?"

She looked up at me.

"I was so furious about what they did to Adam, I guess I got carried away." She stood back. Droplets clung to her body. Her hair looked great, wet and tangled. She looked so good I wanted to screw her then and there.

She pushed her mouth against my shirt, spoke against my chest.

"Early this morning I torched Mrs. Z's building. Firebombed it. When I left, it was in flames. The whole rotten place was burning up." She looked up at my face again.

"God, how I wish you'd been there, Geoffrey! to see the flames! to see them dance!"