uptight about their weight, and that could mean they’d be in the bathroom after a pricey meal, barfing up their supper.
Another positive vibration: no miserable mutt anywhere near her. And if Leo was not mistaken, that binder sitting on the empty chair was a portfolio. The genius of it all. Now he could walk up and ask what agency she was with.
He got the waitress’s attention and told her he’d be drinking a Cuervo margarita, straight-up with salt, at that table where the blonde was sitting, and to bring the blonde another glass of whatever she was having.
He picked up his cigarettes, walked over, and introduced himself. Did she mind if he joined her? Of course she didn’t. Leo lifted her book off the chair and asked who represented her.
“I’m not with any agency right now,” she said, implying she’d been with some agency in the past, though Leo knew that was impossible, unless she worked when she was a kid.
Was that a nervous giggle he heard? He believed it was.
Her name was Whitney and she was nineteen, a real corn-fed, hand-spanked, all-American type with either blue eyes or green eyes, a tough call from behind the shades.
Pretty was not Whitney’s problem. Height was. She wasn’t tall enough to model any kind of clothes, and she had the wrong shape for it besides, her plump titties touching the tabletop. Leo imagined she was thick through the waist and the hips, too, stealing a glance downstairs without being too obvious. The girls who got work were all starvation skinny, five-nine at least (a sixfooter was not unusual), all legs and necks and big flat feet that held them up.
Leo took a look through her book. A natural disaster, it was, in a way, better than he could have hoped. The pictures were poorly lit and the styles were so whack the clothes must’ve come from her closet. A photo of Whitney wearing a floor-length gown chopped a muchneeded three inches off her height. Somebody sausaged her into a one-piece bathing suit with a horizontal pattern; she looked like a zebra-striped fire hydrant. There wasn’t a single tear-sheet, not one shot from a magazine or a catalogue or any actual job she had done.
But toward the back of the book things got interesting. Whitney had a banging body she wasn’t bashful about showing off, and there was no denying those boobies, flowering fully in one photo, no annoying bathing suit blocking his view. The last few shots — the whole cheesebucket, woolly little pubic patch and everything. If her sights were set on the pages of
“This is a terrific book,” Leo said. “You’ve got a lot of talent.”
“I’m glad you think so,” Whitney said. “Now all I’ve gotta do is convince those agencies.”
“You know, I just might be able to help. You’d be surprised,” he said, trying to get his mouth around this outrageous lie, “you’re better off than most. But I’ll tell you what.”
Leo took a card from his wallet. He had them printed when he rented the house, cards that said he was associated with the Top Girl Agency, a completely false claim, but if the play was ever going to work, Whitney was the type of girl he had in mind for it.
She swallowed a sip of wine from her fresh glass. “You’re so nice. I wish I’d met you a couple weeks ago.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Leo said. “The important thing is, we know each other now. I could be an important contact for you.”
“Your hair is really cool,” Whitney said. “Take off your sunglasses so I can see your eyes.”
Leo drove her back to the house. She didn’t have any clothes with her besides the cut-offs in her knapsack, but stripping off the bikini was Whitney’s idea. Leo let her run with it. Hunting down a roll of Kodachrome, he realized Vicki could’ve passed him ten times while he was out there on the Drive charming the pants off of Whitney and he never would have known it, but Vicki was going to have to wait. He was having too much fun right now to worry about Vicki.
Whitney put on a CD that featured the Iggy Pop oldie, “Real Wild Child.” She ignited a spastic dance around the living room, throwing a kick that knocked over a lamp and broke the lightbulb, Leo snapping away at the action. She kept right on moving, ending up in his face, giving him her tongue. He carried her to the couch, his fingers squeaking on the sweat-slicked small of her back, and fucked her wearing all of his clothes. She wanted to quit and videotape it, but Leo didn’t own a Handicam. He promised her he’d buy one, and he promised himself the same thing. A camera and a tripod, too.
That Top Girl front he laid on her came back to haunt him. Even though Whitney checked out the competition and had to understand her brand of sexy was not what the agencies were looking for, she’d taken what he said to heart. Leo moved things around to let her know, not in so many words, that she wasn’t going to be modeling fashion in this or any foreseeable lifetime. What client wanted those big rounds boobs blowing his product off the page? But if they required a face, for cosmetics or jewelry, maybe Whitney had a shot.
Her eyes came off violet, Elizabeth Taylor-eyes in the right kind of light, blue-grey in another, slate-grey from a third angle, slate-grey and sparkling. Leo didn’t think she’d be that tough of a sell. It’d involve calling in favors and creating some he’d owe, but Leo had the juice to get it done.
First things first. That dirty picture book masquerading as a portfolio had to get kicked to the curb, and in a rush, if Whitney was going to get anywhere in the business. But she had to replace it with something. He called Stuart A. Homes-Leighton. A monied Brit who fancied himself a homeboy, Homes-Leighton had been kicking around the Beach for the last few winters, arriving at New Year’s, breaking out after Easter for destinations north. He got a lot of shit for his receding hairline and his double chin, for his fire-engine red hair and the pasty English skin that turned a luminous lobster in the sunshine, but mostly, he got shit because he was from a rich family and the other scenesters were jealous of him.
He had a raft of shortcomings, weaknesses that played right into Leo’s strengths. He would do anything to be around models. Professionally, he was vulnerable: He was a solid photographer, but the agencies all treated him like a troll. And he was a wicked blowhound. The mere suggestion of lines was enough to bring him running. There was no way he was going to refuse this job. He didn’t, calling Leo back ten minutes after Leo left a message with his service.
Homes-Leighton rolled up in a 1974 Oldsmobile Delta 88, red with a white convertible top. The odometer had flipped at least once, but the engine ran smooth and her body was solid aside from a raggedy patch-up somebody slapped on her left rear quarter panel. He could afford any car he wanted, but he went out of his way to look like he was struggling. This was a Homes-Leighton thing Leo didn’t get. The way Leo saw it, the more money, the better. Why hide it?
He had a delicate creature named Fraunces in tow, and when Leo said, “Hey, Francis, what’s up,” Fraunces cued him to the phonetics and spelled out the name for him. He was as tall as Leo and he might’ve weighed a hundred and thirty pounds with lug bolts in his pockets.
Leo went out to the Olds to help Homes-Leighton hump in his gear. He said, “Where’d you get this guy?”
“Fraunces is the mack-est of all make-up daddies.”
“I’m not paying him,” Leo said.
“No, I am. By the hour. So if your girl’s good to go, let’s set this shit off.”
Leo introduced everybody, fumbling Fraunces’s name again. He thought the living room would make a good set, and Homes-Leighton agreed, stalking the corners, rearranging the furniture, opening the windows and fluffing the shears. Homes-Leighton was wondering what kind of shots Leo had in mind.
“Concentrate on the face,” Leo said. “Let’s get some head shots, do a few, I don’t know, three-quarters? You’re the photographer, killer. What do you think?”
“I’m with that,” Homes-Leighton said, though he didn’t mention which part of it he was with.
“What we’re trying to do is demonstrate that she photographs well. Am I right?”
“No diggity-doubt,” said Homes-Leighton.
“Stuart? Nobody says that any more. The whole Etonhomeboy thing, it’s over. Okay?”
Fraunces sat Whitney in a dining-room chair. She had what looked like a stainless steel poncho draped over her shoulders, and he was working on her with a brush, stroking powder under her cheekbones.
“Honey,” he said, “your eyes are flawless.” He had a clamp on her eyelashes, teasing them up and out. Applying mascara that made a sharp contrast with her blonde hair, he frowned. “Who did this to your hair?”
A hurt look hit Whitney’s face. “My cousin,” she said. “He’s a licensed cosmetologist.”
“If this is any indication of his work,” Fraunces said, “his license ought to be revoked.” He flipped her hair
