Big Guns Out of Uniform (23 page)

I
usually get one of three reactions when people see my studio for the first time: shock, disgust, or rapture. I converted two bedrooms and a bathroom on one side of my house into a work area, darkroom, and studio less than a year ago. Before that I worked out of the darkroom at the local high school, but my rise in fame allowed me to purchase a three-bedroom house a couple blocks from the beach in Encinitas.

It wasn't fancy; a one-story white stucco with a wrought-iron gate and plenty of bougainvillea. There were tons of gracefully arching windows, high ceilings, and hardwood floors. I'd loved it on sight and had decorated most of the house with antiques that I found at flea markets and thrift stores as well as in the high-end shops. I went with simple and comfortable rather than flashy, and the result was a restful, charming space that exhibited my love of life and beauty.

The studio, on the other hand, could be seen as a reflection of my dark side. There wasn't a lot of furniture: a few stools, lighting equipment, some backdrops. What really stood out were the photographs. There were hundreds of them hung on the walls, some framed, some matted, but most were just held up by pushpins. Color and black-and-white prints vied for attention against the stark white paint, and more than one person had commented that they didn't know where to look. Half the time they played it safe and just looked at their shoes. I didn't really blame them. Some people had a problem with nudity, and my walls were covered with lots and lots of naked people.

The first thing everyone asks is: “Why do you always take pictures of naked people?” To which I usually say that I just happened upon it, and it turned out I was good at it. I rarely mention the accident, or my subsequent fascination with bodies rather than faces. I think that for a while I thought that if I couldn't recognize people by their faces, then I would recognize them by something else.

In the case of men, it was dicks. Some of my first subjects were the men I dated. And since I had lost about thirty pounds after the accident, I dated a lot. Most of them were all too willing to pose for me. I kept pictures of their dicks in the file folder in my office, all neatly labeled on the back with their real name, height, weight, relevant birthmarks, tattoos, etc. Their nickname was written in the white space below the image. Some of my favorites were: Pencil Dick, Sumu Wrestler, Little Turtle Head, Knob Job, EWF (Every Woman's Fantasy), EGMF (Every Gay Man's Fantasy), Corn Pone, Listing Aft (he was a sailor), and Vienna Sausage.

I got so good at it that I was approached by the friend of one of my subjects to shoot some photos for their gay porn magazine. I was barely scraping by at the time, so I took the job. Needless to say, it was only the beginning, though now my work is considered “art” rather than porn.

My grandmother was horrified when she found out what I do. I think my mom was, too, but since I freaked out a little every time she came over and I didn't recognize her, she refrained from lecturing. But at twenty-seven, I'm the only one of my brothers and sisters who owns her own home, and I'm often the only one with a job.

I wouldn't know what else to do now anyway. I love photographing the body, the lines and curves, shadows and planes. I can't help but feel that if it's my destiny to live life without ever again knowing the relief and joy of seeing a familiar face, then at the very least I can enjoy what I do without shame and sometimes with a great deal of pleasure.

 

T
HE NEXT MORNING
I started work developing the black-and-white prints from the crime scene. The color film I took to a friend of mine who owned a photo-processing and framing shop next to the old theater in Oceanside. He was a lean black man named Burtis Ewell, and one of my most enthusiastic supporters.

“Hey, there, Miss Debbie.”

I always identified him right away. It was easy: he had a distinct voice, a sort of wobbly tenor, and he always smiled at me like I was sunshine after weeks of rain. “Hey, Burtis.”

“Whatcha got for me today?”

“Nothing fun,” I said, setting the two canisters neatly on his countertop. He swiped them up with one big hand and deposited them in the special envelopes he kept on hand for my work. “Just crime-scene photos. You know the rules.” Burtis had been cleared through the department as well, and knew most of the cops better than I did.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“You going to The Man's birthday party tonight?” I asked, deliberately casual.

“Why, you need a date?”

I smiled at him. “Oh, yeah. Jason would like that. Besides, I'm not bringing a date. It'd be like tossing a puppy into a tank of piranhas.”

He chuckled, knowing I was right. The last time I brought a date to a cop party, they'd teased him unmercifully, asking if I'd brought pictures of his important bits and what nickname I'd given him (I had told them about my little hobby one drunken night at a bar several years ago, and they'd never let me live it down).

I shifted my feet. “I was just wondering what you'd gotten the detective. I can't think of anything good.”

He winked at me. “Jason and I got Stevens to steal his signed photo of Alyssa Milano so we could frame it.”

I burst out laughing. It was perfect. Detective Scott had an obsession with Alyssa Milano that had started in his teens. Everyone knew about it thanks to Stevens. Jason Markham was Burtis's much-younger lover, and Stevens's half brother. There had been some tension over the match a while back, but most everyone at the station was over that now. How could they not be when the two of them were so entertaining? They cooked up more pranks to play on the indomitable detective than any man, arrogant know-it-all or not, should have to endure.

“Didn't he notice it was missing?” I gasped out between giggles, my eyes watering.

“Oh, yeah, he noticed, and threatened to have Stevens's car stolen if he didn't get it back.”

That set me off again. Stevens owned a cherry-red 1965 Mustang convertible that he worshiped even more than his new wife. She'd told me at their wedding that he'd asked her to marry him on their first date, when she'd genuflected at the sight of the red beast and proceeded to ask him a million questions about the engine, the condition, and assorted other car questions that I would never understand. She looked like a schoolteacher, worked as a mechanic, and had the vocabulary of a truck driver. I'd liked her instantly.

It didn't help me with my dilemma, though. I had absolutely no idea what Detective Scott would want, other than naked photos of Alyssa Milano, and I was pretty sure that if he wanted some of those he could look on the Internet.

I sighed and wiped my eyes. “Maybe I'll get him a camera. One of those really small digital ones.”

Burtis shook his head, “This is the detective we're talkin' about. Get him a big one. Big, with lots of buttons and an instruction manual thicker than a phone book.”

“I don't know him well enough to spend that kind of money.”

“Mebee not. But you want to.”

He had me there.
“He'll think I'm nuts,” I argued.

“Honey, you are nuts, that's why he wants you so bad.” He leaned over the counter and motioned me closer. “You see, the detective, he's a man that just loves figuring things out. And you,” he said, tapping me on the forehead, “are some kind of puzzle.”

T
he brightly wrapped box sat next to me in the passenger seat like a bomb. I kept chewing on my bottom lip and giving it nervous glances.
What if he doesn't like it? This was a dumb idea. Really. Really. Dumb.

I'd dressed up in one of my favorite outfits, tight jeans with flared legs and colorful beaded embroidery on the back pockets, a fitted white dress shirt, and high-heeled Western boots. I'd rolled my hair and let the thick mass fall down my back in dark waves that would undoubtedly fall straight again by the end of the night.

I'd brought my camera—okay, two cameras—and my little flipbook of photos so that I could match faces to names if I got stuck. I'd stopped carrying it around all the time years ago. It didn't always work anyway. It sometimes gave me a general idea, but if two people had similar coloring, I was usually out of luck.

A wave of smoke hit me as I pulled open the heavy wooden door to Dave's, the guys' favorite hangout and probably one of the few bars in California that paid absolutely no attention to that pesky antismoking law. I stepped inside and immediately felt my heart speed up.

AC/DC was blasting my eardrums and there were people everywhere. Some said hi to me and smiled, a couple waved, but I couldn't get out my book to see who they were while I was holding the detective's present. I smiled vaguely at everyone and looked for somewhere to set the box before my sweating hands made me drop the thing.

“Hey, Debbie, let me take that for you,” said a voice to my right.
Stevens, thank God.

I handed him the box with a grateful smile and took the hand that he held out to me. He led me over to a table near the end of the bar that was already covered with presents, then waved for a couple guys to clear a stool for me at the bar. They did, hugging me and ruffling my hair like I was the team mascot or something. I thought they might be Harris and Carlyle, but I wasn't sure.

Stevens ordered my usual, Vanilla Stoli and ginger ale, and leaned down to whisper in my ear, “Did you hear what we did?” he said gleefully.

“I heard,” I said, smiling. “Where's Darla?”

“She's on her way with Burtis and Jason in
my
car.”

I laughed. “Nobody stole it, huh?”

“I kept it at Jason's house.”

I grinned and leaned into him for a hug. “So how was the honeymoon?”

“It was wonderful.” He nodded, and one lock of curly brown hair fell across his forehead. He was adorable, built like an Italian god, and sweet as apple pie. I'd felt nothing but affection for him from the beginning.

“Did Darla like the pictures?”

“Are you kidding? The first thing she did when we got back was open the package from you. I might as well have fallen off the face of the earth.”

“Tell her to call me. There's another set of photos that I still need to give her.”

“I'll do that.”

“Cool,” I said, and took the icy glass the bartender handed me. I smiled at him, knowing he was either Simon or Hank, but not wanting to guess wrong.

“And the man himself, where's he at?” I was starting to calm down, though if I had to move off this stool I was going to lose it again.

“He's over at the other end of the bar,” he said gently, pointing, and I jerked to attention.

A dark-haired man with a stubbled jaw and a dress shirt opened to reveal a tanned throat sat almost directly across from me, surrounded by men and women vying for his attention. He would say something occasionally, but mostly he just stared at me, and I supposed it must be Detective Scott. God, he was hot.

I saluted him with my drink and he lifted an eyebrow in return. The man had arrogance down to a science.

Another large crowd of cops and their wives spilled into the bar, and the noise level increased exponentially. Stevens leaned down to shout in my ear. “You should go talk to him.”

I took a long sip of my drink. “I don't think so.”

“I've never met two people more stubborn than you guys. He wants you. You want him. So go get him.”

I looked at him, frowning. “I tried that once, he wasn't interested, remember?”

“You offered sex, nothing more. And that was four years ago. Neither of you was in any shape to get into a relationship, especially with each other.”

Stevens knew all about the accident and my history with Detective Scott. He'd been a rookie when it happened, and when Johnson resigned, Stevens became Scott's partner, and my friend.

“What?” I shouted, pretending I couldn't hear him.

“Fine, be an idiot,” he muttered with his pretty poet's mouth and stalked off.

I grinned to myself and looked up to see that Scott had gotten off his stool and was heading in my direction. He wasn't making much progress. He kept getting stopped for a pat on the back and a birthday greeting. One of the female cops kissed him on the cheek, and I narrowed my eyes.

I waved to Simon/Hank to get his attention. I ordered another drink, silently vowing that it would be my last. I had to drive home, and it was never a good idea to get wasted around a bunch of cops. They remembered everything.

“Hey, Debbie!” shouted a young, curly-haired man as he rushed toward me. I steadied him, taking the beer bottle out of his hand and setting it on the bar. He hugged me enthusiastically and I laughed. It had to be Curly. The mop of hair and the smell of Old Spice aftershave was always a dead giveaway.

“The party only started an hour ago, Curly, what have you been drinking?”

“Beer. Shots. You're pretty.”

“Thank you,” I said, laughing, and noticed that Detective Scott had finally managed to traverse the crowd and was standing behind the young cop with his arms crossed.

“Debbie,” Curly whispered loud enough to be heard across the bar, “remember the time we did lemon drops and you took your top off ?”

I know I'd remember if
that
had ever happened. “In your dreams, cute stuff.”

“Curly,” Scott barked, and my drunken admirer snapped to attention. “Your friends are looking for you.” At that, two other men, Larry and Moe respectively, hurried over to take the arms of their inebriated companion.

I glanced at Scott warily, but he was busy giving the cop on the stool next to me a dirty look. The man picked up his drink and stood, smiling, and wished Scott a happy birthday.

Scott sat down and I could feel the heat of his big body through the thin fabric of his shirt. My stomach quivered. I don't know what it was about the man, but the minute he got near me I always felt like a teenager again, aching and unsure. So I reacted the way I always did: I turned on the charm.

“Happy birthday, Detective,” I said, smiling with only a corner of my mouth and looking up at him through lowered lashes.

“Debbie,” he said flatly, but there was a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

I blinked and forgot all about being charming. “Since when am I Debbie? For five years it's been nothing but Miss Valley this and Miss Valley that.”

He just shrugged. I nearly slugged him.

I frowned at my glass, then drained the sweet drink with a few deep pulls on my straw. Scott waved for the bartender to get me another before I could stop him. It arrived immediately, and I could tell from the smiling glances that were floating around the bar that everyone and their mother had noticed the attention he was paying me.

“What's with you?” I wanted to know.

“You look nice tonight. Cute.”

I stared at him.
Cute? Did he actually say I looked cute?

“Are you on drugs?”

He laughed, white teeth flashing, and I wanted to kiss him silly. He never laughed around me.

I don't know what he would've said next. Burtis and Jason came through the door then, carrying the framed Alyssa like a prize of battle. They were singing the theme song for
Who's the Boss?
at the top of their lungs. I was guessing they were already drunk.

A young woman with curly brown hair pulled back in a bun followed behind them, shaking her head and laughing: Darla.

Stevens scooped her up with a roar and planted a deep kiss on her waiting lips. Everyone cheered, me included, though the twinge of envy went deep. Since I'd gotten hurt, I had doubted, often, whether I was capable of loving anyone anymore. How could I? I wouldn't recognize Mel Gibson if he walked through the door, much less someone I loved.

The crowd cleared a path to Scott for Alyssa and her bearers. Scott had turned his back on me to watch the procession. I admired his broad shoulders, which were shaking with the force of his laughter.

They reached him just as they finished off another rousing chorus, and Scott stood to receive his gift.

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” the audience shouted, wanting Scott to kiss the photo of Alyssa's smiling lips. The thought annoyed me and made me want to laugh at the same time.

He bent as if to kiss her, holding the frame in one hand, then grabbed Jason in a headlock and yanked him down to deposit a smacking kiss on the boy's lips. Everyone roared with laughter again and began singing “For he's a jolly good fellow.”

After that the night just got plain crazy. Scott never managed to open the rest of his presents. People kept buying him drinks and calling him over for games of pool. I talked to Darla for a while about her wedding pictures, drank from what seemed like an endless supply of Vanilla Stoli and ginger ales, and somehow or another managed to end up sitting in the detective's lap and singing Marilyn Monroe's rendition of “Happy Birthday” with a group of four cops backing me up like a demented barbershop quartet.

I don't remember what happened next. I woke up on my bed the next morning with a raging hangover and a note stuck to my forehead:

I groaned and rolled over, memories of the previous evening flashing against my closed eyelids. My stomach cramped up, and I wanted nothing more than to pull the covers over my head and die. I might have done just that, if the need to pee hadn't been considerably urgent.

I shuffled into the bathroom still wearing everything except the boots from the night before. I gave myself a cursory glance in the mirror, wincing at the tangled mass of my hair and the sallow tint to my skin.

A microwave pizza, two Cokes, and a hot shower later, I felt almost human, though I didn't manage to throw on anything more than stretchy pants and a white tank bra. I watched TV for a while, but I kept thinking about Scott, and the way he'd been the night before. It was a little fuzzy, but I could've sworn that when I was snuggled up in his lap and singing my little off-key tribute, he'd been smiling at me and squeezing my waist to hold me close to him. That was ridiculous, of course; Scott was more likely to frown in disapproval and tell someone to take me home.

I shook my head, not wanting to think about it anymore. If I'd embarrassed myself, I'd embarrassed myself. There was no going back. I clicked off the TV and went into my studio, staring blankly at the nudity-covered walls for a moment before grabbing my apron off a stool in the corner and heading into the darkroom.

The negatives with the photos of the detective's hands were dry. I cut the long strip into pieces and slid them into negative sleeves before uncovering the enlarger and preparing the chemicals to make the prints. I immediately felt calmer. My mind was an unsullied sea. When all else fails, work will see you through. Or make you rich. Either way, you're better off.