stretched. “Finish your shake, dearie. It’s got yohimbé extract—your prostate will thank you.”
Chapter 10
“You can always tell a true has-been, pilgrim—they have lousy timing,” said ATM, shaking his head at the sparse turnout for Walsh’s funeral. He snapped a couple of telephoto shots of a cop scratching his nuts beside a wilting floral display at the entrance to the chapel. “Walsh gets planted on the same day that a nationally syndicated talk-show queen may be getting indicted for murder, you know where the cameras are headed. Not that I blame them. Debra! caps her longtime boyfriend—that’s entertainment.”
“So what are you doing here, ATM?” Jimmy looked across the grassy expanse of Maple Valley Memorial Gardens, a boneyard just outside Seal Beach, with a view of the ocean from the most expensive plots, and a view of the 405 freeway from the lowlands where Garrett Walsh was being interred. “Why aren’t you camped out at the Hall of Justice, waiting for the DA to announce his decision?”
“
Major
miscalculation.” ATM sighed, the three cameras slung around his neck swinging gently. He was a rotund, slovenly paparazzo specializing in car crashes and Hollywood Babylon, utterly heartless in pursuit of a tabloid buck. “Not an A-list star in sight, no current ones anyway—strictly cable and movie-of-the-week-grade heat.” He assessed the crowd. “No wonder the only other shooters here are amateurs who wouldn’t know an f-stop if it blew them.” He snorted. “Second-rate media coverage too. A couple of radio talk-show remotes and one local TV news crew. Bottom line: This funeral is a waste of film.”
“Not for you,” said Jimmy, looking at ATM. The photographer was renowned for staking out the rich and famous in a food-stained sweatshirt and baggy shorts, but today ATM wore reasonably clean jeans and a black tuxedo T-shirt, his tangled hair freshly washed. “I think you knew what you were doing when you came here today.”
“Yeah,” ATM admitted, scratching his belly. “Walsh—he was a stone genius. A snap of Debra! sneaking out the side door of County is good for a paycheck, but sometimes you have to show respect. Even if it costs you.”
“Does that mean you
didn’t
try to bribe the funeral director to open the casket for a shot?”
“Come on, give me some credit.”
“I am.”
ATM sighted through his camera. “Open-casket portrait of a floater that used to be famous? I could peddle that horror show to some European tabs maybe, but it would barely bring in what I’d have to lay out to take it.” He swung the barrel of the telephoto toward the chapel. “Just for your information, never approach the funeral director—go through his assistant. It maintains deniability, and assistants have a better grasp of the marketplace.”
A dozen or so demonstrators from Voices of Victims, a throw-away-the-key advocacy group, marched around the gravesite, waving their signs at a cluster of listless goth teenagers who squatted on the nearby markers flipping them the finger. Jimmy waved to Lois Hernandez, the Orange County chapter president, and she waved back. The goths were sweating in their black outfits, capes dragging on the grass, necks layered in silver crosses and ankhs, but even in the heat they remained cheerful; death of any kind was cause for celebration, but the death of a murderer was particularly festive. Every few minutes a bored off-duty cop would order the goths and the VV demonstrators to disperse. He was ignored by everyone. The cop didn’t care; he was pulling down forty dollars an hour for standing around watching the freaks. The Maple Valley officials didn’t care either— any kind of publicity was good for business, and they were as bummed out about the arrest of the talk-show diva as everyone else.
“I’m going to check this out,” ATM said, heading toward the demonstrators. “With any luck, maybe it’ll turn into a riot.”
Jimmy watched him
Chapter 10
“You can always tell a true has-been, pilgrim—they have lousy timing,” said ATM, shaking his head at the sparse turnout for Walsh’s funeral. He snapped a couple of telephoto shots of a cop scratching his nuts beside a wilting floral display at the entrance to the chapel. “Walsh gets planted on the same day that a nationally syndicated talk-show queen may be getting indicted for murder, you know where the cameras are headed. Not that I blame them. Debra! caps her longtime boyfriend—that’s entertainment.”
“So what are you doing here, ATM?” Jimmy looked across the grassy expanse of Maple Valley Memorial Gardens, a boneyard just outside Seal Beach, with a view of the ocean from the most expensive plots, and a view of the 405 freeway from the lowlands where Garrett Walsh was being interred. “Why aren’t you camped out at the Hall of Justice, waiting for the DA to announce his decision?”
“
Major
miscalculation.” ATM sighed, the three cameras slung around his neck swinging gently. He was a rotund, slovenly paparazzo specializing in car crashes and Hollywood Babylon, utterly heartless in pursuit of a tabloid buck. “Not an A-list star in sight, no current ones anyway—strictly cable and movie-of-the-week-grade heat.” He assessed the crowd. “No wonder the only other shooters here are amateurs who wouldn’t know an f-stop if it blew them.” He snorted. “Second-rate media coverage too. A couple of radio talk-show remotes and one local TV news crew. Bottom line: This funeral is a waste of film.”
“Not for you,” said Jimmy, looking at ATM. The photographer was renowned for staking out the rich and famous in a food-stained sweatshirt and baggy shorts, but today ATM wore reasonably clean jeans and a black tuxedo T-shirt, his tangled hair freshly washed. “I think you knew what you were doing when you came here today.”
“Yeah,” ATM admitted, scratching his belly. “Walsh—he was a stone genius. A snap of Debra! sneaking out the side door of County is good for a paycheck, but sometimes you have to show respect. Even if it costs you.”
“Does that mean you
didn’t
try to bribe the funeral director to open the casket for a shot?”
“Come on, give me some credit.”
“I am.”
ATM sighted through his camera. “Open-casket portrait of a floater that used to be famous? I could peddle that horror show to some European tabs maybe, but it would barely bring in what I’d have to lay out to take it.” He swung the barrel of the telephoto toward the chapel. “Just for your information, never approach the funeral director—go through his assistant. It maintains deniability, and assistants have a better grasp of the marketplace.”
A dozen or so demonstrators from Voices of Victims, a throw-away-the-key advocacy group, marched around the gravesite, waving their signs at a cluster of listless goth teenagers who squatted on the nearby markers flipping them the finger. Jimmy waved to Lois Hernandez, the Orange County chapter president, and she waved back. The goths were sweating in their black outfits, capes dragging on the grass, necks layered in silver crosses and ankhs, but even in the heat they remained cheerful; death of any kind was cause for celebration, but the death of a murderer was particularly festive. Every few minutes a bored off-duty cop would order the goths and the VV demonstrators to disperse. He was ignored by everyone. The cop didn’t care; he was pulling down forty dollars an hour for standing around watching the freaks. The Maple Valley officials didn’t care either— any kind of publicity was good for business, and they were as bummed out about the arrest of the talk-show diva as everyone else.
“I’m going to check this out,” ATM said, heading toward the demonstrators. “With any luck, maybe it’ll turn into a riot.”
Jimmy watched him
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