On a nonfair Sunday, NoHo was peaceful and gray, livened in spots by the colorful signage of clubs and cafés and exhibitions. Foot traffic was moderate, for the most part people looked happy.
They took Petra’s car, parked on a side street, and went hunting. Eight galleries featured photography and five were closed. Of the remaining three, one was showing hand-manipulated Polaroid landscapes- dreadful stuff- by a Latvian émigré. Another combined photocollages of Asian women with woodblocklike oil paintings.
Flash Image, a half-width storefront next to a defunct theater academy, was all black-and-white camera work. The bright, pencil-thin room had warped wood floors. Water marks browned the acoustical ceiling. Very good lighting and hand-lettered partitions showed a real attempt to spruce up what had obviously been a dump. The smell of mildew interfered.
This month’s exhibit was: “i-mage: local artists do l.a.”
An alphabetical list of half a dozen photographers was posted on the front partition.
First on the list: ovid arnaz.
The multiple murderer was good with a camera.
His contribution to the show: half a dozen street scenes, unframed and mounted on board. Buildings and sidewalks and sky and bare trees, no people. From the cool light and chopped shadows, probably winter. The lack of activity said early morning.
Night owl prowling empty city streets with a Nikon?
Good use of structure, Omar. Decent composition.
The photos were dated and signed OA, the initials graffiti-square. Dated six months ago; she’d been right about winter. The posted prices ranged from a hundred-fifty to three hundred dollars. The two best prints- a long shot of the Sepulveda Basin and a fisheye up-shot view of the Carnation Building on Wilshire- were red-dotted.
In order to look casual, they moved on to the other pictures in the exhibit- all throwaway pretense- and returned to Selden’s work.
Petra’s black hair was tucked under a white-blond wig she’d used for undercover jobs back in her auto-theft days. Posing as a shady maybe-hooker type, out to buy a Mercedes cheap. Real hair, nice quality, courtesy LAPD. She’d found it tucked in her closet, under a pile of winter clothes, had to shake out the dust and comb out the tangles.
Her duds were a long-sleeved black jersey top under a black denim jacket, tight black jeans, loafers, and big-framed Ray-Bans. The shades were leftovers from her marriage- one of Nick’s twenty pairs. She’d ripped up the clothes he’d left behind, always wondered why she hadn’t stepped on the sunglasses.
Karma; a purpose for everything.
Eric wore mirrored ski shades, yesterday’s black jeans, and soft shoes, had traded his white T-shirt for a black V-neck and put on his black nylon baseball jacket with the custom gun pocket.
His limp had subsided a bit but his gait was still a bit off. No need for the cane, he insisted. Only a few more days of antibiotics.
The pink-haired girl who worked at the gallery had smiled at him more than once from behind the scratched metal desk she used as a work station. Petra hooked her arm around his as they both stared at the same photo.
The parking lot of the Paradiso.
Flat stretch of blacktop, devoid of cars, bounded by posts and chains.
Different light. Longer shadows than the others.
Dated a week before the murder.
The title: Club.
Take it home for only two hundred bucks.
Pink Hair came up to them. She wore a short green dress that did little for her hair- how could anything go with bubble-gum? Clearly a wig, cheaper than Petra’s blond tresses, probably Darnel. For some reason that made her feel smug.
Pink said, “Ovid is acute, isn’t he?”
“Perfect aim,” said Petra. “Where’s he from?”
“Ovid? He’s from here.”
“L.A.?”
“Right here in the Valley.”
“How’d you find him?”
“He was part of a student class at Northridge,” said Pink. “But he’s the only one we took on. Way better than anyone else.”
Eric leaned in closer to the photo, studied the details.
Pink Hair said, “Are you guys interested?”
Petra said, “Are we, honey?”
Eric said, “Hmm.”
“What I like,” said Pink Hair, “is that it’s pure line and shadow, no clutter of humanity.”
“Who needs people?” said Petra.
“Exactly.” The girl smiled, hoping for a shared ethos.
Eric wandered over to the next print. Full-on shot of a theater on Broadway, downtown. One of the old ornate dowagers. Its marquee now read Jewelry! Gold! Wholesale!
Selden had an eye.
Petra eyed the Paradiso photo. “I really like this one, honey.”
Eric shrugged. Stepped backward and positioned himself midway between the two photos.
Pink Hair said, “Everything’s priced good.”
Petra said, “We need personalized signatures.”
Pink Hair’s smooth little brow mustered up a shallow furrow. “Pardon?”
“These just have generic initials. We want it signed to us personally,” Petra explained. “After we meet the artist. We do that with everything we collect.” She favored the girl with a cool smile. “Art’s more than buying and selling. It’s about chemistry.”
“Sure- ”
Eric said, “Maybe I like this better.” Pointing to the theater.
“I like this one, honey.”
Pink Hair said, “You could take both.”
Silence.
“I guess I could ask Ovid. About signing it to you. Especially if you buy two.”
“We begin any collection with a single piece,” said Petra. “Take our time to see how we live with it. After that…”
She looked Pink up and down.
Pink said, “Well, sure… so which one- ”
Petra said, “I assume you’ve got some stretch on the price.”
“Well… we could give ten percent courtesy.”
“We always get twenty percent courtesy. On this, we were thinking more like twenty-five.”
“I’m not the gallery owner,” said Pink. “Twenty-five off would be…”
“One-fifty,” said Eric, keeping his back to them.
Pink said, “What I meant is it would be a lot. More than we usually give.”
“Whatever,” said Petra. She began to walk away.
Pink Hair said, “I guess I could call the owner.”
“If that works for you.” Petra continued toward the exit. “We’ll check out the other galleries, maybe come back if- ”
“Hold on… I mean, the owner’s my boyfriend, I’m sure he won’t mind.” Big smile. A sprig of fake hair protruded above one ear, haloed by artful gallery lighting. “You guys look like serious collectors, it’ll be okay.”
Eric swiveled. Turned robot eyes on her. Petra thought the girl would swoon.
“One-fifty,” he said.
“Sure, great.”
Petra said, “When can we meet the artist?”
“Um, that’s the thing, I don’t know… let me try to arrange it. If you leave a deposit- ”
“We’ll leave you fifty,” said Eric, producing two twenties and a ten.
Pink took the money. “Great. I’ll take your number and let you know… I’m Xenia?”
Turning it into a question, as if unsure of her own identity.
“Vera,” said Petra, arching an eyebrow as she scrawled her cell number. “This is Al.”
“Vera and Al, great,” said Pink Hair. “You won’t regret it. I think one day Ovid’s going to be famous.”
Back on Lankershim, strolling north along with the Saturday throng, Eric said, “Al and Vera.”
“ ’Cause we’re silky smooth.”
He smiled.
Petra said, “You’re very good.”
“At what?”
“Acting.”
“Then I can get a job as a waiter.” A beat. “Provide us some income.”
She gripped his arm harder. “You’ve got the military cushion and once you get going privately, you’ll probably double your income.”