The Quick Red Fox by John D. MacDonald Read Free Book Online Page B

That’s where his lighting kicked back off the gloss. He made a set of copy negatives and a new set of prints. This is crappy paper, and he butchered his developing and butchered his printing solutions and times, but there wasenough quality in the prints he copied so that all in all it comes through not too bad. The guy who did the originals would be incapable of doing such cruddy work the second time around, even if he was operating in a motel closet. But, having the copy negatives, he can make any number of these poor prints. Your client destroying the original negatives means nothing now. It is unmistakably her in every one of these. I would guess she’s the one you’re working for.”
    “Yes. Now I wonder if you can do something with these.”
    “I was afraid of that.”
    “From these can you make another set of negatives, and a set of prints that are a little different than these?”
    “McGee, if you start out with crud, you end up with crud. I can’t get back to the original print quality. I can print for more contrast and clean up these whites a little, but a close focus on fuzz gives you fuzz.”
    After an original reluctance, he began to get interested. He used a copy camera, a larger negative size, a copy film with a fine grain. By the time he had developed the negatives, Doris began to howl for a little cooperation, so he hung them up to dry and we went in for drinks. The nursemaid had taken over the bedtime routines. The older ones trudged in to say their well-mannered goodnights. Doris cooked and served an old Chinese-Hawaiian specialty—broiled steaks, baked potatoes and tossed green salad. The three of us, in front of the big fireplace with a very small fire, revamped the State Department, simplified all tax legislation, tore down half of Florida and rebuilt it in a more sane and pleasing fashion.
    Then we went back to work. He would put a negative in the enlarger and focus it on the base, and I would tell him what I wanted. Then he would go to work. He would cut a piece ofmasking paper to fit Lysa Dean’s projected face. He would use sufficient exposure time to give him opportunity to dodge and burn in so that the face of someone else was emphasized. I ended up with fourteen useful prints, on double-weight paper. Some of those that took in more people were duplicated, altered slightly to highlight one and then another.
    Somewhere in the processing they ceased to have any fleshy impact. They became problems in light and shade and emphasis. He put them in his high-speed dryer, and after he had flattened them in a bonding press, I studied them under the bright lights. Lysa Dean’s features were white censored patches. Gabe was careful to give me the negatives as well as the test prints which hadn’t worked out. We argued price, with me trying to increase it, and agreed on a hundred dollars. Doris had gone to bed.
    He crutched his way to the door with me, and came out with me into the cold windy night.
    “Taking a little trip, I suppose,” he said.
    “Yes.”
    “None of my business. I suppose somebody got too greedy.”
    “That’s usually the way.”
    “You watch yourself, Trav. A little animal like that, if she’d see a way out by pushing you over the edge, she’d take it. That’s an interesting little face, but it isn’t a good face.”
    The taxi slowed, putting his spotlight on the numbers. He turned into the drive. When I looked back I saw Gabe still standing there.

Four
    When I got back to the
Busted Flush
I saw my lights still on. It was a little past eleven. The lounge door was locked. I went in and found Skeeter sound asleep, face down on the yellow couch in her baggy gray coveralls, one frail long-fingered hand trailing on the floor. Drawings of Quimby were propped everywhere. They were wise and funny and good. I admired them. In the middle of the floor was a big stamped brown envelope and a note to me:
    This LOUSY mouse. I am pooped out of my mind. PLEASE would you stuff him in