"What does he do? Rape them?"
"In a way, I guess, it is a kind of rape. He loosens them up, breaks them down, then talks them into taking off their clothes. Has them sign an airtight release, gives them fifteen, twenty bucks, then poses them cutie-pie style, split beaver, like that, claiming he'll get them a Playboy centerfold."
"Lots of guys promise that."
"Yeah, but at least they try. He doesn't. He sells the stuff direct to hard-core porn collectors."
"Charming," I said.
"Oh, he is, Geoffrey. Scum of your illustrious profession. Sid says he works out of a district studio, somewhere on West Seventeenth. So that's it. Hope it helps. Gotta go now. Come see us when you get back."
After he hung up I called the airline and booked the next flight back to New York. Then, for a moment, I thought about phoning Scotto. But it was me, not the cops, who'd tracked Rakoubian down. And the matter of why he'd been surreptitiously photographing Kim and me was something I thought I'd do better settling with him myself.
I had a couple of hours to spare before check-in time, so I drove downtown and went into the topless joint. The clients looked the same, the same two girls were dancing on the stage, and Grace, bare to the waist, greeted me with a smile from the bar.
"Well, look who's here. Get you a beer?"
I ordered one for each of us, then told her I was leaving in an hour.
"Something wrong? Thought you were staying a couple days. "
"Some nonsense at the home office," I said.
"Have to go back and straighten it out."
"So you thought you'd come by and have a final looksee at my tits?"
"Sure, Grace. And yours are great. But I won't insult you by telling you to waste them on a man."
"Don't worry, I won't."
"I know you won't. You're your own woman. Look, I don't know you very well, but it feels like you're a friend. That's why I came-to tell you that, and also to say good-bye."
She gazed hard at me then, as she had the day before. I wondered if she saw through my hypocrisy. But of course she had no inkling why I wanted to graciously terminate our relationship.
"Well, thanks," she finally said, "that's pretty nice. I feel the same myself." She paused.
"Guess this is it, huh? We probably won't see each other again. I shrugged.
"Good luck, Jim."
"Luck, Grace."
Then I stepped back and took a picture of her, standing there topless behind the bar, looking butch and tough and in control, and also maybe a little lost and hurt.
There was some kind of air inversion over New York. The city was covered by haze. It hung so heavy and low, I couldn't see anything while we circled for thirty minutes in a holding pattern, and the stewardesses strode the aisle pouting, and the pilot made lethargic comments that made me think we were never going to land.
Finally we broke through and made our approach, and then we landed rough and after that everyone was irritable. We surged into the aisle, then stood restlessly like penned-up sheep, waiting for the door to open and grant us our release. The airport was like a madhouse. Many flights were delayed and thousands of people were milling about, sweating, confused, hauling baggage, asking dazed airline employees what was going on. I fought my way out to the ramp where a harassed dispatcher was calling up taxis and loading people in.
The cab I got was a wreck, but I had no choice-it was either take it or go back to the end of the line. It was a bottom-of-the-barrel fleet job, dirty interior, split seats, no air conditioning and one of those plastic dividing screens that make you feel as if you're in a cell. When I asked the driver to turn the radio down, he pretended he couldn't hear. He took off like a rocket, but minutes out of La Guardia he ran into a massive traffic jam. Then, as I watched the meter tick, he inched his way through the fetid sulfurous air. Two hours and forty bucks later, he delivered me to the corner of Nassau and Ann, where the old wino, who made his summer residence there, waved to me as I paid the bastard off.
No break-ins this time, no notes under my door, no further indications of lye attacks. The mutilated murals of Kim were just where I'd left them, there was another message from Scotto expressing annoyance that I hadn't returned his call, but nothing from the guy who'd threatened me.
Perhaps he was waiting for my return.
I pulled out my phone book and looked up the name Adam Rakoubian. Then I dialed his number and got his machine. Rakoubian's voice sounded slimy. He was out for the rest of the day, but he'd be back around ten, he said. I was invited to leave a message, but I declined. I had another idea.
I ordered in some Chinese food, then went into my darkroom and quickly developed my Cleveland roll. By the time the food arrived I had made up prints of Kimberly's letters. And even though the prints were wet, I read them while I ate.
The letters weren't long. In the first she thanked Grace for her support, and for wiring her money. It was off season in Key West, things were slow, but she'd found herself a waitressing job.
"Should tide me over till things calm down up North," she wrote.
The second letter was far more revealing:
"… no remorse. Tried our best, but we were up against devils.
Who could have predicted the way it turned out and that they'd do that to Shadow? God, I miss her! She took all the heat. As for the others-Adam's a skunk, with a yellow streak down his back. Knew that but didn't factor it in. And shouldn't have underestimated D. One day I'm going to stick it to him and Mrs. ZI You know me, Grace-you know I can hold a grudge. Have fantasies about that. Big bad fantasies. I'll get them both for what they did! I promise you. I will! 'Meantime, here I am, in 'paradise'-remember how we called it that? And being here, at 'the end of the line,' alone, without you, I think of all our happy times. There's a memory around every corner. The walks we,took. The swims. The fishing and all the lying around. Especially that! The smell of Key West aloe on your skin. Remember the Southernmost Tip? Reeling by it at midnight on that crazy motorcycle, then circling back and kissing, then making love on the rocks below. And Mrs. Chang-I looked for her. Seems she moved to Tampa. Just going by her place reminded me of us and all our vows. Well, that's about it for now. I'll call you Sunday night. Take care of yourself. I love you.
Always. Your loving loving K. "
She'd drawn three X's and a little smile beside her name. I put down the still-wet prints, and then I began to shake.
She knew about Rakoubian! "Adam's a skunk," she'd written. And who the hell was "D," whom she'd so badly underestimated? What had she been up to, and why had she confided everything to Grace? I had been her most recent lover. Why hadn't she written to me?
The answer, of course, was obvious: she and I had had a liaison; she and Grace shared a permanent tattoo. All that lovey-dovey stuff about making love on the rocks in Key West-that tortured me, made me furious and even more determined to track her down.
At 10: 15 I called Rakoubian again. The phone message started, then he broke in live.
"Yes-?" There was a high-pitched whine from the machine.
"Mr. Rakoubian."
"Let me turn this off." The whining stopped.
"Still there?"
"Still here, Mr. Rakoubian. I have your name from Sid Walzer. My name's Jim Lynch. I've seen your work in several collections, and I was wondering if I might see you about buying some prints."
"You're a collector?"
"That's right. The thing is, I'm just passing through town. Leaving very early in the morning. I was hoping we could meet tonight."