the Charleston.
"You
do that for a while and everybody comes out looking like they're
takin' a shit."
He
tapped Allison's half-hidden face.
"The
tight unit had plenty of time to get ready. We got this one with her
hair over her face. Number two where she's got one side of her face
behind his arm, and a third where she's looking the other way, for
Christ's sake."
He
lined the three stills up on the table top. He picked up the
negatives from the bottom of the envelope, holding the thin brown
strips carefully by the edges.
"Watch,"
he said. "I got fifty says they were taken in this order."
He
tapped the three photos again. "One, two, three. Wanna bet?"
"No way."
I'd
played in card games with Carl. He had a nasty habit of going home
with everybody's folding money.
One
after another, he held the strips up to the light.
"That's
why there's three of four in every series. The photographer can tell
he's not quite getting her and keeps pushing the button."
I
must have looked dubious. He continued.
"Bingo,"
he said. "Here they are. Right in a row, one, two, three."
I
took the negative and held it to the light. Carl was right. The three
photos were indeed sequential.
"Where's
my fifty?"
"I
didn't bet."
"You
don't have to take the bet. That's life's little joke, Leo. You're
playin' whether you know it or not."
He
pointed down at the table. "Look at the one with her hair in the
way," he said. "Look at her hand." "What about
it?"
"It's
on the outside by her ear, like she's moving the hair in rather than
out of her face. If she were moving her hair out of her face, her
thumb would be on the outside and up. You try moving hair out of your
face that way. You'll poke out your fucking eye, is what you'll do.
And speaking of poking, I'd sure like to wet a finger in that one."
When
I ignored him, he began to paw through the photographs again.
"How
many pictures we got here?" he asked no one in particular.
He
counted up one row and across, then multiplied.
"Fifty-six,"
he said, answering his own question. "You remember back to those
thrilling days of yore, before no-fault divorce, when I had the
little shop down on Michigan and you used to bring me all those
motel-room specials you used to take?"
I
admitted I remembered.
"Even
under those circumstances, you bein' the worst photographer on the
planet, bad light, people diving under beds, you still used to get
usable shots of them, didn't you?"
I
nodded.
"Why?"
he asked.
"I
always figured it was by virtue of my great cunning and dare."
"No,
Shamus, it's just a numbers game. That's why I sold you that
autowinder. If you take enough shots, something will come out. Watch
the pros. They'd never admit it, but half the time they just keep
burning film until luck takes over. They know that if they get enough
prints, they'll stumble on something good when they get in the
darkroom."
"So
what do we do?" I asked.
"We?"
he chucked. "Okay, you."
"Well,
Leo, I'll tell you. You're a lucky bastard on two counts. First off,
there's your timing. Just a few years ago, this would have been a
first-class pain in the ass. Woulda cost you a fortune. Now"—he
snapped his fingers—"it's a piece of cake. Actually," he
chuckled, "it's a piece of software. Adobe Photoshop. Hell
of a fuckin' program. Do everything except milk your lizard for you."
I
poked him back on track.
"So
the computer will do it?"
"Only
in the hands of a master, my friend, which is where you get lucky on
the second count. You have me," he said expansively. "For"—he
waggled a thick finger—"a nominal price, of course."
"Of
course," I agreed. "What needs to be done?"
"First,
we pick out the best of this crap."
He
took his time as he poked through the collage of prints covering his
worktable, eventually selecting six, piling the rest.
"Then?"
"In
the old days, I'd have had to take the negatives into the darkroom,
adjust the focus and the distance from the camera so they more or
less matched each other, cut the damn
"You
do that for a while and everybody comes out looking like they're
takin' a shit."
He
tapped Allison's half-hidden face.
"The
tight unit had plenty of time to get ready. We got this one with her
hair over her face. Number two where she's got one side of her face
behind his arm, and a third where she's looking the other way, for
Christ's sake."
He
lined the three stills up on the table top. He picked up the
negatives from the bottom of the envelope, holding the thin brown
strips carefully by the edges.
"Watch,"
he said. "I got fifty says they were taken in this order."
He
tapped the three photos again. "One, two, three. Wanna bet?"
"No way."
I'd
played in card games with Carl. He had a nasty habit of going home
with everybody's folding money.
One
after another, he held the strips up to the light.
"That's
why there's three of four in every series. The photographer can tell
he's not quite getting her and keeps pushing the button."
I
must have looked dubious. He continued.
"Bingo,"
he said. "Here they are. Right in a row, one, two, three."
I
took the negative and held it to the light. Carl was right. The three
photos were indeed sequential.
"Where's
my fifty?"
"I
didn't bet."
"You
don't have to take the bet. That's life's little joke, Leo. You're
playin' whether you know it or not."
He
pointed down at the table. "Look at the one with her hair in the
way," he said. "Look at her hand." "What about
it?"
"It's
on the outside by her ear, like she's moving the hair in rather than
out of her face. If she were moving her hair out of her face, her
thumb would be on the outside and up. You try moving hair out of your
face that way. You'll poke out your fucking eye, is what you'll do.
And speaking of poking, I'd sure like to wet a finger in that one."
When
I ignored him, he began to paw through the photographs again.
"How
many pictures we got here?" he asked no one in particular.
He
counted up one row and across, then multiplied.
"Fifty-six,"
he said, answering his own question. "You remember back to those
thrilling days of yore, before no-fault divorce, when I had the
little shop down on Michigan and you used to bring me all those
motel-room specials you used to take?"
I
admitted I remembered.
"Even
under those circumstances, you bein' the worst photographer on the
planet, bad light, people diving under beds, you still used to get
usable shots of them, didn't you?"
I
nodded.
"Why?"
he asked.
"I
always figured it was by virtue of my great cunning and dare."
"No,
Shamus, it's just a numbers game. That's why I sold you that
autowinder. If you take enough shots, something will come out. Watch
the pros. They'd never admit it, but half the time they just keep
burning film until luck takes over. They know that if they get enough
prints, they'll stumble on something good when they get in the
darkroom."
"So
what do we do?" I asked.
"We?"
he chucked. "Okay, you."
"Well,
Leo, I'll tell you. You're a lucky bastard on two counts. First off,
there's your timing. Just a few years ago, this would have been a
first-class pain in the ass. Woulda cost you a fortune. Now"—he
snapped his fingers—"it's a piece of cake. Actually," he
chuckled, "it's a piece of software. Adobe Photoshop. Hell
of a fuckin' program. Do everything except milk your lizard for you."
I
poked him back on track.
"So
the computer will do it?"
"Only
in the hands of a master, my friend, which is where you get lucky on
the second count. You have me," he said expansively. "For"—he
waggled a thick finger—"a nominal price, of course."
"Of
course," I agreed. "What needs to be done?"
"First,
we pick out the best of this crap."
He
took his time as he poked through the collage of prints covering his
worktable, eventually selecting six, piling the rest.
"Then?"
"In
the old days, I'd have had to take the negatives into the darkroom,
adjust the focus and the distance from the camera so they more or
less matched each other, cut the damn
Similar Books
