Speak for the Dead (18 page)

“Oh, gosh, yes! Farrah Fawcett’s one. Of course she’s got a lot of other things, too.”

It sounded like an Arabic plumbing device, but Wager nodded and said, “There, you see?” Cindy was quickly happy again, and it seemed to him that this little girl would need a hell of a lot of luck in life. “Do you have a portfolio?”

“Yes. The school puts one together for us.”

“Who’s the photographer?”

“Les Tanaka was mine. He’s real good; I think he does all the photography for the school.”

“Have you ever heard of Phil Bennett or High Country Profiles?”

“I sure have! I heard I’d better stay away from him. Jeri doesn’t like that man at all!”

“Why?”

“He rips-off people. He tells them they need a lot of expensive training before he can put together a portfolio.”

“Did Tommie have any work done by him?”

“I wouldn’t think so. But not just for the money. Jeri says that he tries to … to seduce every girl who goes there. Tommie just didn’t seem to be the type who’d put up with that.”

“You’re sure Bennett acts that way?”

“Well, Jeri said so. And she knows just everybody in the business.”

Wager drove the girl home. On the way she told him that yes, her parents worried a little about her being a model; but no, once they knew a little more about the business and had met Jeri, they didn’t mind the cost of the school. Especially now that she was starting to make some money, and her daddy even bragged a little to the neighbors.

He walked her to the door of the split-level home set on the bend of a curving street in one of the many suburban developments whose name ended in “wood.” The porch light glowed and a man’s shadow rested against the curtains of the picture window.

“Daddy’s watching television.” She hesitated on the top step, not quite sure how a woman of the world said good night to a detective. “Thank you for a lovely evening.”

“And thank you for your help,” said Wager.

W
AGER’S FIRST CALL
after he got off work the next morning, Friday, was to the Famous Faces Modeling School. The moist, hot voice said it would be very happy to help with the two things he asked about: yes, the school’s photographer was Les Tanaka. “His number is 794-5541! and our records don’t list Tommie Lee as working for us at any time on the nineteenth, Detective Wager!”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome!”

He felt like swabbing his ear with a towel. The Tanaka number rang eight times before an entirely different voice answered, “Hello?”

“Is this Mr. Les Tanaka?” He wondered why so many Japanese-Americans gave their children names that began with L’s or R’s.

“It is,” said the mild, deliberate voice.

“I’m Detective Wager investigating the death of Tommie Lee. Can I come over and talk with you?”

“Certainly. Do you know my address?”

Wager didn’t; the mild voice gave him a number on West Alamo in distant Littleton. It took almost an hour to make the drive south through heavy traffic and strings of lights that turned red as he approached each one, and he hoped it wasn’t going to be one of those days.

The building on the corner was a remodeled gas station. Concrete aprons led from both streets, and in place of gas pumps, the service islands held large clay flowerpots filled with frost-killed petunias. The outside doors to the automobile bays were walled up with concrete block and whitewashed over, but except for removing the cash register and racks for oil cans, little had been done to the small office with its large windows and single concrete step. The room was empty. “Mr. Tanaka?”

“In here, please.” The voice came through a door leading to the bays. Wager looked in to see the slight figure of a young man twisting the collar of a light stand. In the glare of some twenty bulbs and cushioned starkly against a sloping background of white cardboard sat a jar of green olives.

Wager showed his badge. “You’re doing an advertising picture?”

“Yes. The client’s Ollie the Olive. I think I’ll call it ‘Ollie’s Story.’“

Wager could not tell if the shorter man’s black eyes smiled or not. “Is this your usual type of job?”

“No—this one pays money.” He screwed the surprisingly small camera onto its tripod and peered down into the square viewfinder. “Let me finish this series.” Giving the aperture a gentle turn, he pressed the cable trigger, then cranked the film forward and peered again. Wager counted six pictures. “O.K., I think Ollie’s happy now.” He turned off the hot lights that had flooded the windowless room. “It’s very difficult to make an olive say ‘cheese.’”

“Is it easier with live models?”

“Rarely. As a matter of fact, I think I prefer the olive.”

“But you do the photography work for the Famous Faces Modeling School?”

“That’s why I prefer the olive.” He led Wager back into the office and gestured at a chair. “What may I help you with?”

Wager wasn’t exactly sure. He had the same feeling last night when he was talking to Cindy: something was there, just out of sight, but he had no idea what it was or in what direction it lay. Still, a man couldn’t catch fish without casting lines; he showed the picture to Tanaka. “Have you seen this woman before?”

Like Kramer, this photographer glanced at the back of the paper before studying the smiling girl. “Sure. It’s Tommie Lee. I heard she had gone over to the enemy.”

“Bennett?”

“Yes. He can’t stand the Famous Faces School—and vice versa.”

“Do you get along with him?”

“Oh, business could be better, but it’s not worth fighting over. Besides, Phil’s not a bad photographer. This isn’t a bad shot. Well, not too bad.”

“Does much of your work come from Famous Faces?”

“More work than money.”

“Don’t they pay their bills?”

“Sure—who couldn’t pay what they offer? But for the work I do, it’s not enough.” He reached into a steel filing cabinet and pulled out two canisters of film. “Here’s one girl’s day—forty shots. That should take”—he shrugged—“two hours, maybe. With the sweet young things of Famous Faces, it’s an all-day labor.”

“Why don’t you do something else?”

“Half a loaf, and all that; the girls pay fair prices, but I have to kick back 50 percent to Famous Faces. Still, I don’t know what I’m complaining about. If I wasn’t doing that, I probably wouldn’t be doing anything. The world has only so many olives. Which Jeri, bless her heart, knows.”

Wager glanced out a large window at the surrounding neighborhood, one that long ago changed halfway from single-family homes to the neighborhood’s commercial block before the money ran somewhere else. “It’s kind of a long way for the models to come, isn’t it?”

“Low overhead. I underbid the competition. I even underbid myself. But when I get rich, friend, then you’ll see a real studio.”

“When did you do the pictures for Miss Crowell—Tommie Lee?”

He scooted his chair on squealing casters across the concrete to a small shelf of ledgers, “In”—his fingers ran up one page and down another—”April of this year. The twelfth through the fifteenth.”

“It took a whole week?”

“Four days—Monday through Thursday.”

“Do they all take that much time?”

“The school tuition pays for two days—the first is a dry run, then one day of real shooting. Black-and-white only. The third day’s optional: some color work as well as more black-and-white, offered at reduced rates for students of Famous Faces only. Almost all of the girls want the option; Jeri talks them into it. For half.” One dark eye winked at Wager. “And to tell you the truth, I don’t hurry the girls through. I have more time than I do film.”

“Why the extra day for Tommie Lee?”

“She didn’t like the ones we did Tuesday and Wednesday. And I can’t blame her. They were as lousy as anyone else’s.”

“Couldn’t she pose in front of a camera?”

“Not as poorly as some, but not very well. Even she saw that. That was one thing about her.”

“What was?”

“She did have a good eye—even for herself, which is one of the hardest things for a would-be model to learn. Most of the people when they see themselves think the picture’s great. It can be god-awful, but if they recognize their own face, it’s great art. If people weren’t like that, Famous Faces would be out of business. And I’d be a tax burden.”

“So you gave her an extra day’s work?”

“Gave? She paid for it, friend. Cash.” He put the ledger back. “But don’t tell that to Jeri, will you? If one of the girls wants extra shots, I knock off 10 percent and tell her to keep quiet about it—what Jeri doesn’t know about, she doesn’t collect on. But if she ever does find out, there’ll be no more
gohan
for old Tanaka-san.”

“Gohan?”

“Japanese for ‘rice.’”

“Why did Tommie Lee switch over to Bennett?”

“I told her to. Well, I told her to try another photog. She didn’t like any of the shots, and she wouldn’t believe that it wasn’t the camera. It’s my business to make cameras lie, but I can only do so much.”

“Do you tell a lot of the students to try someone else?”

“Hell, no! Fortunately, I don’t have to; most of them are happy with what they see because they see pretty pictures of themselves.”

“But you told Miss Lee?”

“Some models do come out better for different photogs, and Tommie was very serious about this modeling crap. More so than most of the ones I’ve seen. So I suggested that perhaps she could do better work for another person.”

“And you mentioned Bennett?”

“Among others. I don’t know why she picked him. Perhaps because he’s at the head of the alphabet. I wonder if I should change my name to Akido?”

“Did she do any better for him?”

“There’s your answer.” He pointed to the photograph Wager held. “She’s pretty, she’s smiling, she’s boring. A model’s got to do better than that. The best really come alive in a picture.”

“The photographer can’t do that for them?”

“Perhaps—if they have the time and patience. But I don’t think there’s a photographer in Denver who’s that good, including me. No, it saves a lot of time and expense if the model’s got it to start with. Then anyone can work with her. That’s why the top models make so much.”

Wager remembered someone else talking about the special vitality that was missing from Crowell’s pictures: Pitkin. Who, in his own way, was something of a photographer. “Did she ever tell you about any of her friends or acquaintances?”

“No. Models aren’t paid to talk. Not in front of a still camera, anyway, and except for the video-tape rushes that I don’t handle, Famous Faces didn’t offer much training in motion work.” He paused. “Perhaps that’s why she went to Bennett—he does audio stuff as well as still and motion photography. If she was interested in voice-overs and motion, Bennett would have all the equipment in one studio.”

“Did you ever see her after she went to him?”

“No.”

“Did you talk to him about her?”

“I try not to talk to him about anything. Frankly, I don’t like the guy.”

“Why?”

Tanaka smiled. “He refers to me as ‘the inscrutable unscrupulous.’”

“What do you call him?”

“Ah, that’s very good—and you’re right: I’ve responded to an epithet with an epithet. In my mind, he’s ‘the aperture man.’”

“Aperture man?”

“He’s always trying to adjust his models’ apertures.”

“Doesn’t messing around like that hurt business?”

Tanaka looked puzzled. “What does that have to do with business unless someone gets raped? This is the exciting world of low fashion, and a lot of the girls like to feel excited. They think it’s the fashion. And Bennett’s one of those low ones who develops more than film in his darkroom.”

“Did he have something going with Tommie Lee?”

“I don’t know, but it’s possible. I hear that every woman he meets receives a standing offer.”

“Do you know any of Bennett’s friends?”

“He has mistresses and ex-mistresses. I’ve never met anyone who was his friend.”

“Why?”

“In this racket everyone uses everyone else, but Bennett’s a little worse than most. He uses people in a way that leaves them feeling … insulted.”

“Can you give me the name of an ex-mistress?”

“Perhaps.” Tanaka squeaked back across the floor and thumbed the pages of one of the ledgers. “You might talk with Ginger Eaton—I hope that’s a professional name—her number’s 761-0574.”

“Can I use your phone?”

“Why not? No one else wants to.”

Ginger Eaton was waiting when he pressed the doorbell at the condominium on South Washington Avenue. “I saw you drive up.” She reminded Wager of Julie—she had the same easy movement when she walked, the same self-assurance in her gaze. And though she was a little shorter and heavier than the blond woman, Miss Eaton seemed a few years younger. “I never met Tommie—I only read about it in the paper yesterday, so I don’t know what I can tell you.”

“I was more interested in hearing about High Country Profiles.”

“Oh? Why?”

“She had some pictures made there before she was killed. I’m trying to find out all I can about everything she did. Maybe something will turn up somewhere.”

Miss Eaton led him to an overstuffed couch and sat on one end of it. “Well, ask away.”

He sat at the other end. “I understand you had some work done there?”

“Yes. I certainly did.”

“Was that with Mr. Bennett?”

“Yes to that, too.”

“Is he a good photographer?”

The voice had a more decided tone this time: “One of the best in town.”

“Has he been real successful in training models for better jobs?”

The woman tugged a cigarette from a round canister made to look like a small Coor’s beer can and tapped it on the coffee table. “Who gave you my name?”

“Les Tanaka.”

She lit it and looked at Wager through the thin smoke. “Why?”

“He said you had been friendly with Bennett.”

“I see. Good old Les; he tries so hard to be casual.” There was no ash yet on the tobacco, but she dragged it across the small ashtray. “Phil and I screwed, Detective Wager, but we weren’t friends. Not for very long, anyway.”

“I’d like to hear more about it.”