I decided to use the Identi-Kit method. I made blowups of all the best angles I had of him, then cut up the prints until I had a collection of his features. I then reassembled the clearest of these, creating a composite.
It was a difficult task. That damn Pentax was always blocking out one of his eyes. But then it occurred to me that the camera itself could be a clue to his identity: if he was a professional photographer, a picture of him, camera up, would be characteristic and therefore, I hoped, recognizable.
The portrait I finally created looked a little strange, assembled from pictures with different points of perspective. But strange or not, I had no doubt I had revealed him. A person who knew him should be able to identify him upon looking at my composite. I rephotographed it, then made up some 8 x 10s to show around. When I was finally finished and staring at my handiwork, I was seized by the notion that I had seen the man before.
Had I? I wasn't sure. After all, I'd been staring at bits and pieces of him for an entire day. Familiar with the torments of puzzling over a half-forgotten face, I gave up trying to place him and took a break. But later that evening, glancing at the composite again, I was struck by the fact that I was now on the track of another photographer, a kind of double of myself, who, apparently in collusion with Kim, had engaged in movements parallel to my own.
'All I had to go on was the cryptic name of an escortservice madam ('Mrs. Z'), and the cut-up face of a photographer. I decided to start with the photographer-I thought he might be easier to find.
New York is full of camera stores, big, small, fancy, basic, a few where the salesmen are helpful, a great number where they're hideously rude.
There're usedcamera stores where you are likely to be taken, and places, owned by Hasidim, where you get big discounts buying 'gray market.' But in the entire city there's only one store professionals really like. You pay full price at Aaron Greene Photographic, but you get good service and you don't get hustled.
Aaron has sold me many cameras over the years. In my photo-journalist days, when I used them up fast, he sold me a slew of Nikons and Leicas.
Later, when I went into art photography, he found me my battered Deardorff and my Sinar.
I went to see him early in the morning, just minutes after the store opened. Already there were people inside, buying, selling, trading.
Aaron was busy with a gentleman looking at old twin-lens Rolleis-there were half a dozen models lined up on the counter.
I caught Aaron's eye, signaled that I wanted to talk, then prowled among the showcases, excited by the displays of shiny black-and-chrome equipment. If you have money in your pocket, and are aroused by the sight of beautiful machines, Aaron Greene's is a dangerous place to go.
After a while, Aaron found me. He embraced me.
'Hey, boychik!'
He's a stocky man in his mid-fifties, calm, goodhumored, with a kind of permanent half smile that turns his lips. Practically nothing fazes him, which is why, he says, he'll never be better than a middling photographer. But he doesn't care, he loves fine cameras, loves the look and feel of them, the precise craftsmanship with which they're made. As he told me once, he's found himself a perfect job: he gets to handle cameras all day long, open them up, demonstrate them, turn people on to them.
'I'd pay to do it,' he told me. 'But miracle of miraclesdoing it has made me rich.'
Now he was staring at me.
'You don't look too good. What's amatter, Geoffrey?'
'How bad do I look?';
He appraised me.
'Like a guy who's broken up with his girl.'
'That's pretty close.'
His smile turned compassionate.
'What can I do for you? What do you need?'
I showed him my composite.
'Ever seen this guy before?'
He looked at my picture, then handed it back.
'You doing surrealism these days, Geoffrey? Hub?'
'Please, Aaron, look at the picture. Have you ever seen him?'
'Not that I can think of. Who is he?'
'A photographer.'
'I see the monster Pentax. So?'
'So I need to know his name.'
He stood back, then peered at me quizzically.
'Last I heard, there were six hundred thousand of you guys going around calling yourselves 'photographers.'
'Has he been in here?'
He examined the portrait again.
'If he has, I didn't wait on him.'
'What about the other guys? Could you ask them, please?'
'Sure, Geoffrey. Later, though. We're kind of busy here just now.'
'thanks, Aaron. By the way, who repairs the Pentax?'
'There's Sid Walzer in the West Forties, and there's this Japanese kid around the corner. Lot of district people use him. they like the monster. Ever hear the damn thing go off?'
He edged me down to the Pentax case, pulled out a used 6 x 7 with pentaprism, set the shutter speed to one second, then cocked and tripped the release. There was a loud clunk as the mirror flipped up, then crashed back down.
'Crash like that, I wouldn't take this jobbo mountain climbing. Might start a little avalanche.'
'Who likes these things?'
'Advertising photographers. Centerfold shooters. You name it, they use it. It's a terrific device.'
'What's so terrific?'
'The six-by-seven image, and still you can handle it like a thirty-five.'
'I need a favor, Aaron.' I handed him my composite.
'Check around for me. The repairmen too. See if anyone knows this guy.'
'This is important, Geoffrey?'
I nodded.
'Okay. Call me in a couple days.'
On my way home I stopped at the big newsstand at the City Hall subway station, As usual, the tabloid headlines were screaming murder. When no one was watching, I bought a copy of Screw, 'New York's premier sexually oriented newspaper.' I folded it under my arm, exited the subway, then walked home down Nassau Street. I knew Screw contained ads for escort services. My plan was to call them all and ask for 'Mrs. Z.'
Stepping off the elevator, I heard voices in the hall. When I turned the corner in the corridor, I saw two men standing by my door. they turned to me. Both were in their mid-thirties. One was heavyset, with a drooping mustache and greased-up wavy hair. The other, Italian and cadaverous, seemed more of a friendly type.
'What's going on?'
'Who are you?' the fat one asked.
'This is my loft.'
'Barnett?'
'That's right.'
'We want to talk to you.' The thin Italian guy smiled at me then, a sick-sweet kind of smile.
'Good timing, Geoffrey. We were about to leave you a note.'
'About what? Who are you guys?'
But even before they showed me their badges, it occurred to me that they were cops. The fat one was named Ramos, the thin one Scotto. It wasn't hard to discern their roles: Ramos was the tough guy who called me 'Barnett'; Scotto was the nice one-he called me 'Geoffrey.'
'Always leave your door unlocked?' Ramos was playing with my doorknob.
