Blues in the Night by Dick Lochte Read Free Book Online Page B

seats on his back, clutching a camera to his chest. The car was a mess of fast food containers, plastic pop bottles, rumpled clothes. The man was in his forties. Bald. His nervous eyes were tiny and slightly slanted. They, his off-white color, roman nose and high cheekbones suggested an ethnic mix too complex for Mace to sort out, even if it mattered. He was wearing faded brown cargo shorts and a yellow T-shirt emblazoned with the question: ‘Who Directed WILD SEX IN THE COUNTRY?’
    Seeing Mace at the passenger window, he tried to slide under the steering wheel.
    Mace yanked the door open, grabbed one sandaled foot and dragged the man out of the vehicle. The man’s head hit the side of the car and the garage’s cement floor, but he held the camera protectively.
    Mace pried it from his fingers.
    â€˜Th-that’s my property,’ he whined. ‘Shit, I think I chipped a tooth. And my fucking head . . . I’m gonna sue your fucking ass.’
    Mace ignored him. He was trying to make some sense of the camera.
    â€˜Be careful, goddamnit,’ the man said as he got to his feet, using the car to steady himself. ‘That’s eight grand you’re holding.’
    â€˜How do I get the film out?’ Mace asked.
    â€˜The . . . film?’ The man looked like he didn’t know if he should laugh or cry. ‘There’s no film.’
    â€˜What’d you do with it?’ Mace asked, stepping toward him.
    The man backed up, bumping against the Cherokee. ‘There’s no film,’ he screamed at Mace. ‘It’s a digital . . . an EOS-1D. Top of the line.’
    Mace looked from him to the camera. ‘The photos are on a disc or what?’ he asked.
    â€˜A Fat32 memory card.’ He reached out a hand. ‘I can show—’
    â€˜No. Tell me.’
    â€˜OK.’ He talked Mace through the camera’s image playback set-up. ‘Hit that button,’ he said, ‘the photo can be magnified as much as twenty-five times. At eleven point one megapixels, you can—’
    â€˜These six shots of me all you took?’
    The man hesitated, then said, ‘No. I took twelve, total.’
    â€˜How do I get rid of them?’
    â€˜Key that command.’
    â€˜This one? “Erase all?”’
    â€˜Oh, Jesus, no. I got over fifty shots in there. Even some of Gaga without the wig. Please. Just delete the snaps I took of you.’
    Mace started on that, going one at a time, to make sure.
    â€˜I can never figure you fuckers out. It’s all publicity, man. I don’t get why guys like you and Clooney try to take my fucking head off. I don’t get in your face like some. I respect your space. Still, you guys throw shit at me. Hit me. Bounce my head on concrete. I can’t even get health insurance any more . . .’
    Mace was barely listening to the guy. When he was finished deleting his photos, he handed over the camera.
    The man took it eagerly, cuddling it like it was a favorite pet. ‘You guys think we’re all lowlifes, right? Bottom feeders. Fuck you. We make you guys.’
    Mace didn’t know what the hell the man was going on about. ‘Who told you to take my picture?’
    There was an aluminum case open on the Cherokee’s back seat with two cameras nestled in foam rubber pockets. The photographer placed the EOS-1D in the remaining pocket. ‘Told me? Nobody told me. It’s just what I do.’
    Mace saw that the question asked on the front of the man’s T-shirt was answered on the back. ‘I DID.’ He grabbed the man’s shoulder and spun him around.
    â€˜C’mon, buddy. Leave me alone, for Christ’s sake. You got what you wanted.’
    â€˜Who told you to take my picture?’
    The man looked genuinely puzzled. His free hand moved toward his pants pocket. Mace stopped it.
    â€˜What’s your fucking problem?’ the man whined, trying to release his wrist from