Active Shooter (6 page)

“It’s impossible to make it in this business
if you go one hundred percent with fine-art photography. Especially
for someone getting started.”

“Ah, see, but that’s where I come in.”

“With bags of money, I hope.” My mind drifted
to my safe and the stacks of hundred dollar bills.

“Nah.” She slapped me on the knee again. “Our
clients come in with bags of money.”

For the next fifteen minutes, I listened to
her explain how it all worked. With efficiency and enthusiasm, she
walked me through her approach to the business of selling fine-art.
Eventually we narrowed our discussion to the topic of how to sell
photographs. In an age of ubiquitous imagery, I objected, no one
wants to pay for a photo, matted, framed or otherwise adorned.

“As long as you believe that, you'll keep
diluting yourself with other types of photography. As you do that,
your view will continue to become a self-fulfilled prophecy. Just
like when you take a photograph, you have to decide what's the one
thing it's about and focus only on that, frame out everything else,
right? Isn't that what you said on your blog?”

I shook my head, then accepted defeat on the
point. “So I need to frame out everything else but fine-art
photography.”

“Or at least let your fans -- right after we
get you some -- know what's that one thing. Fine-tune your branding
so they're not confused in any way about what you do or what you're
about. Right now, with the buzz around you--”

“It's not the right kind of buzz,” I said.
“Who wants to hire a killer to photograph their wedding?”

“Exactly. But there might be some cachet
around buying art from a hero. We just have to channel the buzz in
that direction.”

“And you'll show me how to do that.”

“Right after we sign our agreement.” She
smiled. “But before you sign, you have a decision to make.”

“About dumping my other photography.”

“That, and whatever else is going on.” Lucia
made a circular waving motion in front of my face. “Whatever is
happening in that head of yours and elsewhere in your life, I don't
know what it is, and I'm not asking you tell me. But there's this
energy.” She repeated the circular motion. “You have to let it go.
You can't dwell on it. You have to let your art reign supreme. You
have to let the real you show through, and toss all the rest aside.
You get what I'm saying?”

I considered her words, deft as they were to
point to my past and suggestive enough of how I should leave it
behind in favor of a new life founded and driven by art and nothing
else. I wanted to rebut her, and yet couldn't find a way to do
it.

“When is your next show?” I asked.

She grinned. “I thought you’d never ask.”

“And I thought you’d give me an answer.”

“Saturday.” Lucia must have seen me swallow
because she rushed to add, “No pressure for starters. I only need
four good pieces from you. And I already got them picked out from
your site. I just need you to mat and frame them. You’re setup for
that, right? Since you have an order form on your site.”

“I am.”

“Because I have a friend, not far from here
that can--”

“I mat and frame my own stuff.”

“With quality, right?”

I restrained the urge to get defensive.
“Yeah, with quality.”

“So we’re on, then?” she asked.

“Do I have to be there? At the show, I
mean?”

“You mean
here
. And hell, yes, you
need to be here.”

I shrugged. “I have a wedding to shoot.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Where?”

“Palos Verdes. Nice locale. Beautiful couple.
Well to do family. Reception is going to rock. Portfolio building
stuff.”

"I'm sure it will be epic."

"You bet it will."

“You haven’t been listening to a thing I
said,” she replied.

“Wedding photography keeps me sharp,” I said.
“You know me. I have to stay active.”

Lucia rolled her eyes, then closed them.
“Yeah, you, Mr. Active Shooter himself.” She opened her eyes and
faced me. “Show’s from 6 to 10. You can’t even be here for an
hour?”

She absorbed that in the way one does when
working through a complex math problem. “OK,” she said. “Let’s
sleep on it. I’ll email you with a list of the four photos I like,
and I’ll let you know in the morning if we’re on.”

By the time I returned to my apartment,
Lucia’s email was waiting for me. So was one from the bride for
upcoming wedding. After much thought and consideration, she said,
she regretted that she couldn’t use me. Family members were nervous
about having Mr. Active Shooter from LAX doing the wedding. Yeah,
they knew they’d lose their deposit, but that was cool. They’d
already secured a photographer to take my place.

I closed the email and stared at my inbox. I
vacillated between being upset at getting fired and entertaining
the unlikely possibility that Lucia somehow had a hand in this.
Lucia’s and my bride’s message listed one after the other, no more
than ten minutes apart. Though I knew I’d never prove it, I
couldn’t shake the suspicion that one tied with the other.

A minute later, I forwarded the bride’s
message to Lucia. “You wouldn’t believe our good fortune,” I wrote
at the top of the message body. “I guess we’re on after all.”

She wrote back almost immediately, “Oh, yeah,
we’re very on.”

In a fit of strange visualization I imagined
Lucia raising her arms and doing a little dance while her lips
curled into a clever smile aimed at me.

Bridget landed late that evening on a direct
flight from JFK. Seconds after landing, she started peppering me
with text messages about getting together. She had a hotel room,
but if I was up for it, she would love to stay at my place, she
said. I didn’t answer any of her messages, eventually shutting down
my phone and removing the battery for good measure.

With a few clicks, I checked my online
presence. All was quiet on the social media front. Bridget and her
source proved themselves right and accurate. A lot of dampening
going on out there. I almost didn’t do it, but I gave in to the
urge to dig into it a bit more, and sure enough, I found it. A
story related to the LAX shootings focusing on where the terrorists
obtained their weapons and explosives had take preeminence. It came
complete with second amendment vs. public safety flame wars. This
shrank the relevance of my accomplishments and heroism, turning me
into the proverbial yesterday’s news. One offshoot of the story
focusing on how a citizen -- namely, me -- able to use a gun had
provided the solution, not he problem didn't get much traction.
Yup. A lot of dampening going on -- the expertly done kind.

I was thinking about winding down my day with
a few glasses of wine when the secured cellphone rang.

“It's me, Walter,” I heard him say on the
other side in a digitally distorted voice. “Are you in a good
spot?”

“My apartment.” I said that assuming my
answer confirmed, that yes, I was in a good spot. They'd no doubt
swept my domicile before my arrival, and they kept it clean while I
was out and about.

“She's in town.”

“I know. She's been pestering me ever since
she landed. I'm sure you know that too.”

“Yeah, about that. Why haven't you returned
any of her texts?”

“Playing hard to get, remember?”

“Right.”

I stepped into the kitchen and read the
microwave oven clock. “You aren't just calling to let me know she's
here, so out with it. I have a pillow that's getting lonely.”

“We think she's setting up a meet.”

“With her source?”

“Yeah.”

That made sense, I thought. Whoever the
source was, she more than likely worked at the lab where I'd toiled
for the good of national security, until my career ended with a
crash.

“OK,” I replied after a few moments of
hesitation.

“Any idea who she is?”

“I don't have any more information than I had
last night, Walter.”

“Yeah. I see you've been taking care of some
everyday life things.”

OK, so he knew about my meeting with Lucia.
Of course, he did. That's what he did, and I appreciated why he did
it, so why should it bother me? Because I wanted to have a life,
that's why.

“My pillow's getting anxious,” I said.

“Hang tight, Andre. Stay engaged. Can you do
that for us?”

“Engaged? Sure, I can do engaged.”

“Without getting distracted? You're probably
going to be the key to plugging up this leak. I am trusting you to
stay sharp and engaged, OK?”

“OK.”

We hung up.

I spent the remainder of the evening sipping
three fourths of a bottle of Beaujolais wine while I reviewed,
touched up and uploaded the four photos Lucia selected. Once the
upload to a local lab completed, I placed my print order for pick
up the next morning. The wine inflicted the desired effect. By the
time I watched the evening news, I was drifting to sleep on the
couch. I pulled a smelly blanket I’d been telling myself to wash
for weeks, and I let myself crash there.

***

I didn’t wake up until seven in the morning.
With a half cup of coffee in my system and a low grade headache, I
went out for a run. Traversing the few blocks between me and the
coast line, I ran out to the jetty, back, and up to Venice. There I
stopped at Muscle Beach for a quick stretch before heading back
south and to my apartment. My GPS watch congratulated me with a 7
mile reading recorded at an average 9 or so minute pace.

A run always did me good, much more so than
pushups, a quick set of which I did anyway ahead of jumping into
the shower.

By the time I came out, a text message on my
now re-activated cellphone let me know my photo prints would be
available before noon. I made myself a quick wheat bagel with
nutella and peanut butter breakfast, chewed and swallowed it with
little of my usual enjoyment, and then I headed down to my
apartment's garage.

After pulling out my car, I set up shop with
some pieces of framing wood, a miter saw and a nail gun. I ran some
quick calculations. Based on the photo print sizes, I came up with
mat sizes, which in turn yielded the size for the frames I needed.
In another thirty minutes I cut all the required pieces, nailed
them together, did some light sanding as needed, and satisfied with
my wood work, I got out a spray can of black primer to lay a first
coat on the wood.

I went back up to my apartment to get
something to drink. By the time I came back, the primer had set. A
spray can of black glossy paint came next, and I applied two quick,
thin coats. While that dried, I put away my miter saw and replaced
it with a glass cutter. Another fifteen minutes of work yielded
four pieces of glass for my frames. I then used fine grain
sandpaper to smooth out my frames and applied a third and thicker
layer of glossy paint.

The frames would take longer to dry now. I
used the time to put away the glass cutting blade, replacing it
with the one I used to cut my frames. Twenty minutes later I had my
mats. All I needed now where my photos. I scanned the garage and
once more marveled at the immediate satisfaction that working with
one's hands brings. Immediate results, complete control over the
outcome, with none of the latency and partial nature of the other
type of work I'd done in my not so distant past.

In my pant's pocket, I felt the secure
cellphone vibrate. I took it out and answered it.

“Incoming,” a male voice said. “Look down
your driveway.”

The call went dead, and I did as told.
Squinting as my eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight, I made out a
tall female figure, coming at me dressed in ankle-high boots, loose
cargo shorts dangling tasseled strings, and a thin yellow blouse
that undulated either from a breeze or from her manner of movement.
She came toward me without hesitation, as if she knew this place
well, her short hair bouncing with every step.

“Hello, Andre,” Bridget said.

I said something I've either come to regret
or forget or both of the above, and she kept coming until with one
fell swoop she wrapped her free arm around me and gave me a long,
unexpected kiss.

“I really wish you'd let me come over last
night,” she whispered in my ear after our lips parted.

“Did we miss a step or two here?” I
asked.

She kept her chin tucked into the side of my
neck. “We have to give them a reason why we're getting so chummy.
Might as well make it yummy.” She stayed there for a second, as if
to let me consider her reasoning. Then she faced me, gave me a
quick peck on the lips and added, “So what are we doing today?”

“Work.” I waved into the garage.

Bridget let me go and stepped inside.
“Frames, glass, mats.” She turned to me with a smile. “Can I see
the photos?”

I checked my watch. “I have to go get them.
Right about now, actually.”

“Whoa, good timing on my part, no? I'll give
you a ride.”

I did my best to diffuse that idea, and gave
up trying a couple of minutes later. Bridget helped me tidy up the
garage. Then I locked it, and we headed out.

No more than an hour later, having picked up
my prints from a digital lab in Redondo Beach, we found ourselves
in a Manhattan Beach restaurant at a table with a view of the pier
and the ocean beyond.

“My treat,” she said for the third time,
though this time she added, “Because we have something to
celebrate.”

“Such as?”

“A breakthrough,” she said with a smirk. “But
before we go much further, are they listening?”

I looked around one more time. As we came in
and took our seats at our secluded table, I more or less determined
monitoring would prove difficult to impossible. We'd left our
phones in the car, including the secured one I slipped into the
pocket of the passenger door without her notice. Unless my handlers
had anticipated where she was taking me, they had no way of bugging
the place prior to our arrival. And from where we sat, anyone
trying to eaves-drop through old fashioned or more modern means
would stand out like a red flare.