Nightlife (4 page)

From obscurity to legend in less than an hour. All in all, there were worse ways to go out.

With his A-seat, he managed to spend a lot of time staring out the window. Flight was a strange mix of illusions. While gazing out over nearby cirrocumulus clouds, it felt as if they were skimming low over vast polar regions and snow-drenched mountains.

The sight kept him isolated from his seatmate. Late thirties, gray suit and yellow power tie, receding hairline. Hunched over the drop-down tabletop, scribbling into arcane reports while his fingers danced on a calculator’s keypad. What a horrible life it looked like from the outside. Justin would have preferred the trash compactor to ending up like that in ten years. He had come to learn its price. The hard way.

Sometimes life felt like a bad movie, moments of reality that seemed like anything but. Wondering if other people looked on him with the same benign loathing he felt toward his seatmate. Wondering if his life were indeed a movie being lensed for the enjoyment of some cosmic film buff with a penchant for tragicomedy. Wondering how the script read . . .

Fade in, interior, a TWA DC-10, economy class. In seat 19A sits Justin Gray, swilling his fifth screwdriver of this Monday morning. He stares out the window for answers and finds none, as he leaves behind the wreckage of his life in a desperate attempt to rebuild anew. Will he succeed? Only the Smirnoff distillery knows for sure.

He looked aisleward as a woman threaded back to the bathrooms. She had apparently boarded after, of all things, a trip to donate blood. Her blouse’s collar still bore the little Red Cross sticker:
Be nice to me. I gave blood today.
Justin wondered what might be appropriate for his own sticker.
Be nice to me. I fucked up my life this year.

They touched down in Tampa shortly after noon, taxied to the gate. Halt. Everyone clogged the aisles to retrieve overhead carry-ons. Justin wavered a bit as he left the plane for the gangway and imagined a collective sigh of relief from the stewardesses.

Freedom, then. Transplantation complete. Hopefully, salvation.

He scanned unfamiliar faces inside the terminal until the sole familiar one broke into a big smile. Hugs were next, big back-slapping bear hugs just so no one got the mistaken impression that these two rather artistic-looking fellows were reunited lovers. Public image is everything in a land of sun and water and misspent passions.

“Welcome to my con-tree,” said Erik, counterfeit south-of-the-border accent flashing briefly. Then back to white-bread American: “How was the flight?”

“Crash free,” Justin said. “That’s all that counts, isn’t it?”

The similarities between them were almost brotherly. Both tall, with similarly high cheekbones, the same purposeful stride. But Erik smiled more. He looked healthier; maybe the tan. And the eyes . . . Erik’s wide baby blues tagged him as one of life’s innocents, whereas Justin’s chocolate browns seemed warier, too many laps around the fast-track. Maybe Erik’s ambitions had not been quite as high, but he was
happy.
Without betraying the aesthetics and values truly important to him. Justin had traditionally been the better groomed, Erik the true artiste, just a touch scruffy, boyishly and endearingly so. But the gap was narrowing. Six weeks since Justin’s last haircut, while shaving was now an every-other-day inconvenience; once upon a time, unthinkable.

Justin let Erik take the lead. Following airport hieroglyphics to locate baggage was now beyond him. They boarded a stand-only elevated tram that whisked them to another building, and out its windows Justin drank in the change of scenery. Palm trees, bluer sky than he had left behind, flat tarmac. It was May in Florida, and it didn’t look any different than it did in October. He would adjust, gladly.

“My guess is that in-flight service was very very good to you.” Erik tipped an imaginary bottle and made a
gluk-gluk
noise.

“Mother Russia’s finest.”

“That’s a good start. I talked myself into some premature vacation time this week. So what we do is, you and I bag over our legal limit of fun and we slay brain cells left and right until we get you down to one cell. And then you start over from scratch. Sound good?”

Justin said that it did. Erik, bless him—planning strategies for overhauling the pieces of a life when he knew only the  barest facts as to what had caused its kamikaze dive to begin with. Such was his way. You couldn’t ask for a better partner in crime when you wanted to lop off a few brain cells and revert to prehistoric language. But he would still be there the next morning to make the hangover more bearable. And he was equally handy at the heart-to-hearts, as well. Erik Webber, last of the emotional Renaissance men.

“So what’s this new job you’ve gotten?” Justin asked as they waited for the luggage from Flight 435 to find its way onto the carousels. Praying that the gods of airborne transportation hadn’t sent it elsewhere. “I thought you’d be snapping pictures for the
Tribune
forever.”

Erik grinned, pushing errant hair back from his forehead. It was sun-bleached a few degrees lighter than the shade of brown it had been when Justin had last seen him. Had it really been a year and a half? They had both been too lax about contact lately.

“You won’t believe me if I just tell you. I better show you.”

The feed hole in the carousel wall began to spit fresh luggage. Dozens of conversations halted in midstride, eyes flicked to inspect what was emerging next. It was like watching numbers come up in the lottery. Ah, a winner.

Justin plucked up his bags and they turned away, hoofing it toward the garage for Erik’s car. Both of them sharing the burdens.

Justin couldn’t wipe the perplexed grin off his face as he flipped through the rack. Nothing but lingerie. Sheer nighties, peekaboo teddies, lacy little inconsequentialities that exposed a lot and left the best to the imagination.

This didn’t make sense. The place was a photo studio, sign outside saying
NORTH LIGHT PHOTOGRAPHY.
He’d seen customers elsewhere in the building awaiting portrait sittings, engagement shots.

Justin looked at Erik, found a more knowing grin than his own. As if it had gotten the joke minutes before.

“Boudoir photography,” Erik said, somewhat sheepishly.

“Boudoir. Meaning?”

“Meaning I shoot tasteful cheesecake and make good money doing it.” Erik shrugged, easygoing.

Justin pulled a hangered black lace thing from the rack, held it before his own torso. They both shook their heads, and he put it back.

“It’s the latest thing. One of them, anyway.” Erik motioned him to follow, led him past a jumble of studio gear. Lights, tripods, backdrops, ornate brass-rail bed with frilly coverlet. They left it behind for a side cubbyhole crammed with a desk and file cabinet. Erik flipped on the light. “Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like the office.”

“So what does this involve, if I may be so bold?”

Erik spoke while digging through a file drawer. “In a nutshell, women come in to have erotic pictures taken of themselves. No hard-core nudes, no couples, no guys, transvestites or otherwise. Very classy. The management is pretty strict on that.” He plucked out a folder with a satisfied nod. “Yah. Here we go.”

He handed a few proof sheets to Justin, who scanned the miniature images with wide eyes and a longing heart. Three different women, looked to be from midtwenties to late thirties. One per proof sheet. Obviously, they knew how to pose and Erik knew how to capture the moment.

“We’re supposed to destroy the proofs after they place their orders.” Erik made doubly sure they were alone. “But sometimes I fudge and tuck them away. The
really
good ones. An artiste’s life has so few rewards, you know.”

Justin handed them back, and away they went. “I hate you. I bet you make out like Don Juan in this job.”

“Huh. Dream on. There was only once that the client-photographer relationship got a little heated.” Erik sighed, settled in his desk chair. “I’d say at least ninety-nine percent of the women who come in are having them shot for someone else. They give them to husbands, boyfriends. So it’s a lost cause. Or they’re giving them to a girlfriend, in which case it’s
really
a lost cause. You kind of have to be a real philosopher to not go crazy in this job.”

Justin slid down to the floor, back to the wall. The vodka buzz was waning. Have to remedy that soon. Hung over by early afternoon was not the most ideal proposition.

“So why the switch from shooting news? I thought you loved that job.”

“I did.” Erik’s eyes grew cloudy. He laced his fingers while gazing at the ceiling for inspiration. “But with some of the stuff I was shooting—man, it really takes a certain mind-set to not get to you. The drug wars, especially. I mean, this isn’t Miami, but we’re not immune here by any means. I was shooting pictures of these people—men, women, kids, everybody gets caught in the cross-fire sooner or later—and I was seeing some really hideous stuff. Shootings, knifings, beatings. Murder by automobile. One guy they found—one of his arms wasn’t anything but bone from the elbow down. Coroner said somebody had stuck his arm in with a bunch of piranha, if you can believe that. So I’m seeing all this through my viewfinder, and I find that it’s not making much of a dent in my head anymore.”

Justin nodded. “But you’re supposed to bring a certain amount of objectivity with you.”

“Objectivity is one thing. Not giving a damn anymore is another. I was burning out big-time. And I just didn’t want to end up one of these grizzled old guys trading their worst murder stories over coffee and doughnuts every morning.” Erik pulled up from his slump, rested his elbows on his knees. Smiled and upturned his palms. “So now ... all this is mine.”

“Lord of the thighs.”

Erik wrinkled his nose. “Crass.” He dug through the center desk drawer. He pulled out another sheet of photographic paper. Withheld the image for a moment. “I’ve got all kinds of stuff lined up for us to do the next few days, get you out and introduced to a few people.”

Justin grinned. “So you’re not stuck with me the whole time, right?”

“All for your own good, dear boy. We’ve got to get you circulating among single women again. You’re probably out of practice.” He handed the picture over. “Here’s someone you’ll be meeting tomorrow night. And don’t drool on the picture.”

This was no proof sheet, best served by a magnifying glass, but a full eight-by-ten glossy. The girl was mid- or late twenties. It wasn’t a standard lace-teddy shot and was therefore all the more provocative. Faded ancient jeans, unsnapped and halfway unzipped. Blue denim shirt, completely unbuttoned as well, with only the inner swell of each breast showing. Bare feet, luxurious dark hair bunched messily around her shoulders. Her face looked vaguely exotic, as if she carried within a few drops of Oriental blood.

Yes, it could be love.

“That’s April. April Kingston. She used to work at the paper too. In advertising. See, you already have something in common. I took that shot of her, oh, seven, eight months ago.”

Justin pulled his eyes away, an effort. He looked at Erik with a sudden plummeting of his heart. “This is too good to be true. So what’s the catch, what is she? Married, engaged, or a lesbian?”

A wide smile from Erik. “None of the above. Formerly engaged, if you must know. It broke off around Christmas. I don’t know why, she never talked much about it. Best thing that could’ve happened, though. Her fiancé’s name was Brad, but I used to call him Dickless. That should clue you in. He was about as exciting as a bowl of oat bran.”

Justin perused the photo again. “He was probably too safe for her. A womanchild like this needs the kind of thrills that
my
roller-coaster life can provide.”

“That’s the spirit. Turn that checkered past to an advantage.” Erik wiggled his fingers, and Justin reluctantly parted with the print. Back it went into the drawer. “Come on. Let’s go start on those brain cells and play catch-up on the past few months.”

They rose to leave, Erik killing the light. Justin threw one last longing glance at the desk drawer.

“Can’t we bring her along?”

“You’re smitten already, aren’t you? I recognize that look. She stays put. Your first day in town,
I
get all your attention. I’m selfish that way.”

They were halfway across the boudoir set before Erik spoke again.

“Besides, I’ve got another print like that at home.”

Erik Webber lived in a section of Tampa called Davis Island. The “island” label made it sound more exotic than it really was. It was simply a bulbous little annex that barely missed extending to the southern edge of the city proper. You hardly knew you were forsaking the mainland when the highway bridged over a channel leading into the bay. Near the edge of the island, round timbers jutted a few feet above the water, and brown pelicans often perched there, a respite from scooping up fish that were probably contaminated by now anyway.

They made the island their final stop, ducking into the last of three bars on Erik’s agenda. Knocked back a few more beers, played a few video games, and retired to Erik’s Davis Boulevard apartment to whittle on his refrigerator stock and tune in to the VCR. Evening was well under way by now.

They watched a mutual favorite,
Barfly.
Generally heralded by critics but little known. See Mickey Rourke swagger about, full-time derelict and part-time literary genius. See Faye Dunaway match him drink for drink, understandably proud of her legs. See them revel in lowlife, for here is their life’s true niche, and they know it.

“Why is it every time I watch this, I feel like I’m just that much closer to living it?” Justin asked. The credits were rolling beneath sleazy jazz organ by Booker T.

Erik shrugged. Legs dangling over one arm of the apartment’s love seat, he aimed the VCR remote and zapped it into rewind mode. MTV came on as the video image disappeared.

Justin looked toward the row of windows. The apartment was third floor, a corner unit. The first two windows were nearly filled with an extreme close-up of the top of a palm tree. Wonderful view. Beyond lay the buildings of Davis Boulevard, a low skyline of apartments and commercial property. Darkening clouds beyond them.