The City When It Rains

if you wanted to change the world, you really had to change it.

“You waiting for somebody?”

Corman looked away from the gate and confronted a fresh-faced young policeman on foot patrol, the type the old cops called “Portables” and ridiculed. His eyes were utterly youthful and unshadowed. There were sights he hadn’t seen, but they were on the way. “I just dropped off my daughter,” Corman told him.

The Portable looked relieved. He shifted slightly, jiggling the required nine pounds of equipment which hung from his belt: the two-way radio handset, handcuffs, flashlight, nightstick, citation booklet, regulation .38 special, holster, ammunition belt and accompanying cartridges.

“The thing is,” he said, “we’ve had some suspicious characters hanging around the schools. We’re supposed to keep a close eye out for guys like that.”

Corman nodded.

The Portable smiled brightly, and Corman thought that the first cops of the old city must have looked like him, young men who’d nervously patrolled the streets at night for $1.87 a tour. A fireman’s leather helmet with the frontpiece removed was all they’d taken with them to meet the droves of thugs who nightly swarmed from behind Rosanna Peers’ vegetable stand at the northern edge of Foley Square.

“You work around here?” the Portable asked.

“All over,” Corman said. “I’m a photographer.”

“For the papers, something like that?”

“Sometimes,” Corman told him. Instantly he thought of all the pictures that were for no one but himself and wondered if the shooters of the old city had also stored them up by the hundreds, until they bulged from every room, poured from every drawer, swept out in curling waves from beneath their beds and chairs, endlessly extending the history of their eyes.

Julian took his hand and shook it affectionately. “Good to see you, David. Come on in.”

Corman stepped into the office and reflexively positioned himself for a shot that could take in the whole room.

Julian sat down behind his desk and smiled cheerily. “So, how you doing?”

“Okay.”

“Have a seat.”

Corman sat down, glanced out at the rain-swept city behind the window, the clouded spires and flat gray walls. Julian’s body seemed pressed against it, holding it back.

“How’s Lucy?” Julian asked.

“Fine, Julian,” Corman said a little impatiently. “I guess you looked at the pictures.”

Julian’s face shifted slightly, turned just a shade grayer. “Yes, I did.”

Corman waited while Julian searched for the right words, then gave up without finding them.

“It’s not that they’re not good,” Julian said. “Technically, I mean.” He waited for Corman to react and continued when he didn’t. “It’s more the subject. What you shoot.” He shrugged. “These things have to go through several editors. It’s not up to me.”

Corman nodded.

“Several people,” Julian continued. “Several people have to comment, and a couple of them thought the pictures were more or less the sort of thing Weegee used to shoot, crime scenes, the underworld, that sort of thing.” He glanced away, then back. “Diane Arbus was also mentioned. The grotesque, a fascination with that.” He put his hands up quickly, as if parrying a blow. “Not that they don’t have their place, pictures like that. They do. Absolutely. But not for us … this house … not right now.” He leaned forward. “Photography books are very expensive to produce. And the market … well.”

Corman smiled quietly, tried to let him off the hook. “Yes,” he said then started to get up.

Julian stopped him. “One thing, though,” he said quickly.

Corman eased himself back into the seat.

“One of the editors came up with an idea that might interest you,” Julian said. “Take one case, follow it all the way through to the end.”

“Case?”

“Like a murderer, something like that.”

Corman stared at him expressionlessly.

“Do a study of this person,” Julian explained. “A photographic study.” He laughed. “From the cradle to the electric chair, you might say.”

“A murderer?”

“Or a victim,” Julian said. “It wouldn’t matter. A full record, though. Carefully edited. Only the later pictures would be yours.”

“Later pictures?”

“Well, you wouldn’t have been there for the early years,” Julian told him. “I mean, you would also be working on the edit. You’d be more than a photographer. You’d help compose the whole thing.”

“Pick somebody and do his whole life?” Corman asked.

“Yes,” Julian said. “And the more infamous the better. Some well-known killer, someone in the news. Or at least some twist, something to hang the tale on. You know what I mean, an angle that would give the pictures some resonance.”

Corman thought a moment, shook his head. “I don’t know, Julian, I don’t see …”

“Slow decline, that would be the hook,” Julian said. “Incremental fall. Movement, you know, downward. As they say, toward the abyss.” He sat back in his chair. “You’d be perfect for something like that,” he said. “All the people who looked at your pictures, they agreed on that. No one is questioning your eye.”

Corman got to his feet. “I’ll think about it.”

Julian looked at him pointedly. “For a really good proposal, we’d be ready to give you an advance.”

Corman could feel the landlord’s crumpled note like a small bomb ticking in his jacket pocket. “I’ll think about it,” he said again.

“Good,” Julian said happily. “I thought it might interest you.” He smiled. “It’d be good to work with you again. Like the old days, when we were at Columbia together.”

Corman nodded.

“Remember that?” Julian said. “You, me, Lexie? The Wild Bunch.”

The “old days” came back to him in a series of pictures, Lexie alone in front of St. Paul’s Chapel, then he and Lexie posed comically beside the high black gate, then all of them together in the snow, Lexie lifted high on his and Julian’s shoulders while some anonymous passerby shot the picture from a few feet away.

“I often think of those days,” Julian said wistfully as he got to his feet. Then he snapped out of it. “Anyway, think about it. The proposal, I mean.”

“Slow decline,” Corman said musingly.

“Toward the abyss.”

Corman stood up. “I’ll think about it,” he said, then turned and headed for the elevator. By the time he got there, he had completely dismissed it from his mind.

CHAPTER

FIVE

THE CITY ROOM of the News was on the fourth floor. Hugo Pike was the paper’s picture editor, and he played the part exactly, everything from the half-lens reading glasses perched on top of his head, to the smoke-filled betting parlor where he gulped his egg salad sandwich.

“What you got for me, bub?” he asked, as Corman walked into his office.

Corman draped his camera bag over the metal peg beside the door, took out an eight-by-eleven manila envelope and sat down in a chair opposite Pike’s desk. “I took some pictures of that woman who jumped out of a window in Hell’s Kitchen last night,” he said, as he drew out his contact sheets and offered them to Pike.

Pike waved them away. “We had our own people over there, but there was nothing we wanted to use.”

“There may be an angle,” Corman said.