St Kilda Blues (Charlie Berlin #3)(60)
Derek looked up at the sound of his name. Berlin could see he was nervous.
‘Any chance we can have a bit of privacy, Sheldon, and maybe get that music turned down a smidge?’
The photographer nodded. ‘Out the back is private enough, I suppose, but can you make it quick? Delvene is getting paid an outrageous amount of money to not show us her tits and it’s by the hour.’ He walked across to a stereo next to a stack of LP records and turned the volume knob down.
‘Just give me a shout as soon as you’re done, will you? I’ll be out in the front office giving my favourite bitch a rub on the tummy.’
TWENTY -S EVEN
They followed Derek down a window-lined side passageway to an area behind the studio. Berlin’s nose wrinkled at the familiar, acrid smell of photographic processing chemicals. The smell told him there was a darkroom somewhere back there. They passed a large, slowly rotating shiny chrome drum that Berlin knew dried the paper prints and put a gloss surface on those intended for newspaper reproduction. There were cupboards and shelves everywhere, filled with photographic supplies and paraphernalia. Berlin could see the place was designed and put together by someone who really knew how to use a tape measure, a T-square and a hammer.
Derek stopped at a bench mounted under a window and dropped the rolls of film into a cardboard box marked ‘To be developed’. A sheet of white perspex set into the top of the bench was lit from underneath to make a light box. The light box was strewn with large colour transparencies in clear plastic sleeves. Berlin leaned over the light box and used a magnifying glass to get a closer look. The transparencies were crisp and sharp with rich colours. They showed a shiny two-door car on a mountain road with the sun just rising behind it.
‘That’s the new Holden, the Monaro, won’t be out till next year. You shouldn’t be looking at those pictures, actually, it’s all very hush-hush till the official launch.’
Berlin put the magnifier down and turned to Derek. ‘That’s okay, I can keep a secret. Plus, I’m a policeman so I can be trusted.’
Derek Jones looked as if he was about to say something in response but then changed his mind and scooped up the transparencies. Good move, boy, Berlin said to himself. After yesterday’s run-in with the bloke at the Buddha’s Belly he wasn’t really in the mood for any more smartarse comments.
Up close Derek Jones wasn’t quite the boy he’d first appeared. Mid-twenties, perhaps, with long shaggy hair that was in need of a good wash. When he bent over the bench to put the transparencies into an envelope, Berlin saw a rash of pimples where his greasy hair had rubbed against the back of his neck.
‘Like I said, Derek, we need to talk to you about a photograph. The people at GEAR said you took it at a dance.’ Derek tossed the envelope full of transparencies into a wire tray and turned around. ‘I probably did, then, if they say so.’
Berlin was trying to place the tone of Derek’s responses. He was being polite enough, most young people still were with policemen, but he was a bit edgy. Berlin caught Bob Roberts’ eye. He inclined his head towards Derek Jones and nodded slightly. Maybe Roberts could get a handle on him
Roberts picked up the envelope full of transparencies from the wire basket. He pulled one out and held it up to the overhead fluorescent light. ‘Nice-looking car, might have to get myself one. So, tell me, Derek, are you a photographer or an assistant? I’m confused.’
‘At the moment I’m a bit of both. That’s how it works. Sheldon’s a good photographer but a cheap bastard and he doesn’t pay his staff much.’ He glanced towards the front of the building and lowered his voice. ‘Except if you’ve got big tits, of course, and you’re on the pill. He works me hard but he lets me use the studio and darkroom nights and weekends to practise and to make a few extra quid shooting jobs for small clients, little jobs he wouldn’t bother with.’
‘For people like GEAR you mean?’ Roberts asked.
Jones nodded. ‘That’s right, they’re my biggest customer right now.’
Roberts tossed the envelope back into the basket and handed Derek the clipping from GEAR. Derek studied it briefly before handing it back.
‘Just a couple of Charlies. I suppose I photographed them if you say so. Don’t remember who, don’t remember where, don’t remember when. I do at least two or three a week.’
‘You do two or three dances a week or two or three Charlies?’
Derek grinned and shrugged. ‘That depends. Sometimes it’s both, sometimes more. More Charlies, I mean.’
Berlin was leaning against one of the benches, watching, listening. Derek Jones was laying on the young Romeo tale pretty thickly but there was still an edge there that Berlin was having trouble with.
‘You’re a real little charmer aren’t you Derek?’ Roberts said, smiling. ‘You must be beating them off with a stick.’
Derek smiled back. It was obvious he had missed the sarcasm.
‘Girls just can’t resist a good-looking young bloke with a camera these days, you know, we’re something special. Sometimes I do have to beat them off with a stick. Have you seen Blow-Up yet?’
Berlin had seen the movie, he’d gone with Rebecca a few months back. It was all about the life of a swinging London fashion photographer and featured a lot of nudity and sex, with pretty young models rolling about on the background paper. After the film Rebecca had said people should get ready for life to start following art in the photography business and it looked like she was right.