Chapter 2

By the time I got home it was after seven, and I was famished. I live in Jasmine Heights, in a one-bedroom apartment. It's a nice building, all brick with a swimming pool in the courtyard, with sixteen units in all. I live in one of the garden apartments, which is a polite way of saying the basement. I really can't afford to live here the way things have been going the past couple years, but I hate to move now that I've got the darkroom set up.

I made myself a sloppy ham and cheese sandwich and ate it in front of the computer while I checked my email. Six messages with words like "Opportunity," "$$$," and "Cash" in the header that I deleted unread. I get a kick out of the ones hawking bulk email programs - it's like trying to sell guns by going around shooting people. A message from Vic asking if anything happened on Sparkle Beach. I composed a reply, hitting the highlights, and then I went into my cozy bathroom and took a shower.

The anticipation of developing the pictures of Claire was making my skin tingle. As I toweled off after the shower, the damp terrycloth rubbing across my cock sent a shock of pleasure through my body, and I had an overwhelming urge to jerk off. On the theory that self-deprivation was good for me, I put on a loose pair of shorts and a T-shirt, and then I took the roll of film into the darkroom.

I built the darkroom myself, by walling off a corner of the living room with fiberboard paneling. The hardest part was the plumbing. I had to break into the living-room wall and tap into the cold water pipe which heads to the bathroom. The building manager wasn't too thrilled when he found out, but since I'm already in the basement I can't flood anyone but myself, and he let it go.

I closed the door behind me, and for a split second before I turned on the dim red light I was in absolute darkness. The inside space is about eight feet by six, and most of that is taken up by a row of sinks, metal shelves for supplies, and a big developing table. It's kind of cozy in there, with the dim lighting, the burbling flow of water in the sinks, and the familiar smell of the chemicals. I often spend hours in there fooling around with negatives, losing track of the time as I try to get the perfect print. Then I come stumbling out, disoriented and blinking against the sudden light, like a submariner surfacing and opening the hatch after a long cruise.

I turned on the little radio to a classic rock station, keeping the volume low, and got to work. First I quickly make a set of small working prints, skipping only the frames that were completely out of focus or misaimed. Then I turned on the light and spent a few minutes going through them, marking where I would crop and picking out the best shots for enlargement. Usually when I shoot a roll under such difficult conditions there will only be a few decent shots, but out of the twenty-two frames of Claire Ingleford fifteen were of usable quality. I winnowed that down to eleven by eliminating repeats, and then turned off the light.

An hour later I had about a dozen good-quality five-by-seven prints hanging from the drying clips on the outside wall of the darkroom. I sat on the couch with a beer in my hand and gazed at them fondly. The little Olympus has a terrific autofocus, and all the shots were crisp and clear. Claire turning in her chaise with a smile on her face, one breast exposed. Claire with her back arched and her hands over her head, her breasts thrust out proudly as she stretched. A close-up from the side, as she walked by me toward the beach, with her large nipple outlined against the blue water.

A door slammed on the other side of the courtyard, a sound I had been unconsciously listening for. I went to the kitchen window and looked out. Sure enough, the lights had gone on in Gerri's apartment. Gerri Imbasi is a woman I did a favor for a while back, and we're now on good terms, if not exactly close friends. I don't think Gerri has friends. She's a stunning African woman, an immigrant from Liberia. She's a call girl, and a very expensive one. I could never afford a date with her at her going rate, but I get a sort of discount service.

I called her up and invited her over, telling her I had some pictures to show her. Gerri has an improbable voyeuristic streak, and enjoys my collection almost as much as I do.

She walked into my kitchen a few minutes later without knocking, dressed casually in white jeans and a tight yellow top. Gerri is six feet tall, with long, slim legs, a firm round ass, and small high breasts which are always braless. Her skin is the color of milk chocolate. I would describe her face as exotic rather than beautiful, but that's just a matter of taste. She was wearing gold sandals with two-inch heels, which put her almost eye-to-eye with me.

"Hello Frank." She gave me a cool smile and went over to the refrigerator and took out a diet coke.

"Busy day?" I asked.

"No, not really. The ad executive took me out to dinner, and then he got called back to the office before I could earn my money."

Gerri has four or five regular clients. There's the managing partner, the rock musician, the rich young playboy, and the ad executive, who is her least favorite. There's also the private dick, I guess, although I don't really pay enough to be considered a client.

"Lucky you," I said.

"I suppose. So you have some new pictures?"

"Yep. Took them this afternoon on Sparkle Beach."

She walked by me into the living room, and I followed her, catching a faint whiff of her musky perfume. She went over to the pictures drying on the darkroom wall and studied them carefully for a few minutes without comment, her hands on her hips. I fondled myself discreetly through my shorts as I watched her.

"She's beautiful," she said finally, in her precise, faintly- accented English. "Very nice breasts. They are real. But she is just sunbathing, yes? Not very exciting. I can see this every day in the changing room at the gym."

"Yeah, but I can't."

She raised an eyebrow. "Yes, I see your point. But you sounded so excited about these pictures..."

"Doesn't she look familiar?" I prodded.

Gerri turned back to the pictures and then her eyes got wide. "Oh! Of course ... this is the one from that TV show - the one who is always doing mean things to her employees. I would have known, but she has the sun cream on her nose. She is very well known. What is her name?"

"Claire Ingleford."

"Yes. OK, Frank, you are right. These are good pictures. You don't usually get pictures of famous people."

"Right, I don't really do celebrities. They have professional photographers stalking them, not to mention fans, so they're usually pretty wary. I'd rather just get regular people doing nasty things, anyway. But this one fell into my lap."

"It would be nice if she was sucking this other man's cock instead of just walking around. But the pictures are very good. Nice and sharp."

She took a sip of her diet coke, and gave me a look of faint amusement.

I took my hand out of my pocket, cleared my throat, and said "So how would you like to make twenty dollars the hard way?"

She shook her head. "Such a charming man. Such a way with the ladies."

I felt myself flush. Gerri always makes it difficult for me. She knows I'm nervous around her, and I think she's enjoys the feeling. Or maybe she figures if she doesn't needle me a little, I'd be bugging her all the time.