Shutter(63)

“Rita! Are you in there? Please tell me you’re in there. It’s me. Philip. Rita? Rita!”

I sat up, startled from the dream. I turned to look at my clock: 4:30. From the glimmer of light I saw coming into my window, I could only assume that meant 4:30 P.M.

The knocks on my door continued.

“What do you want, Philip?” I yelled.

“Rita, please open up.” When I opened the door, Philip had his hands pressed together in supplication. “I’m really in a bind right now.” As I turned, I could smell his cologne—thick and heavy as the taste it left in my mouth. He followed me in like a hungry puppy.

“Are you going to tell me what this is all about, or do I have to guess?” My patience was short. I took the one beer from my fridge and finished it in two gulps, then set the empty bottle on the counter. “I’m still recuperating, I guess.”

“I have this huge client party tonight—lots of rich people, friends of the lady who bought that huge McMansion up on the mountain. She’s very artsy. Anyway, the photographer I hired fell through. The hostess was insistent we have a photographer—the mayor is coming.” He picked up the beer bottle to take a swig, then saw it was empty. “Are you working?”

“Not at the moment. I’m kind of on mandatory vacation.”

“Oh, right.” He stared dejectedly at the beer bottle.

“So, what? You need me to take pictures of your rich friends?”

“They’re not really my friends. My clients. And I’ll pay you. Fifteen hundred dollars. You can ride with me down there now. The party starts at six thirty.”

“Fifteen hundred dollars?” I could use the money. “How many hours?”

“Six thirty to eleven o’clock,” he said. “After that, everyone will be too drunk and sloppy to get their picture taken.”

“Okay. Let me get ready.” I steered him by the shoulders toward the door. “And can you get me something to eat . . . and something to drink? And get me one of your valiums, too.”

He turned to me, surprised. I closed the door in his face.

It had been at least four years since I had taken pictures of people who were still alive. I had to remind myself about the rules of the living. I walked to my closet and pulled my ghost clothes from the hangers. Everyone who works behind the scenes anywhere has a set of ghost clothes—a pressed set of nice black pants, black shirt, black shoes, and black socks. When you wear this attire, no one notices you as you lurk in the shadows, taking pictures. They’re not supposed to. You are not there. You are the flash of light that pulses from the darkness, the action of a finger on the button. That is how you get the best stuff, people smiling or having a quiet moment (hopefully somewhere with nice lighting or architecture in the background). I never liked staging people and giving them the option to know how to stand, how to look. They become self-conscious. The trick is to take the picture seconds before that moment, before they think about their teeth or their hair, while they are still spontaneous.

My camera bag was full—maybe I’d done a little too much planning. I brought four lenses, all my filters, two cameras. A quick, well-paying gig didn’t come every day. I saw my huge 200 to 400 lens sitting by my computer and figured, why not?

As I put the lens in a second bag, a huge crash echoed from behind my bedroom door. I almost didn’t want to see what it was, but curiosity got the best of me. One of Mrs. Santillanes’s bottles of herbs had been shattered, random pieces of green settling into dresser tops, the gold lid still spinning on the wood floor. Erma wasn’t there, but I knew it was her. I grabbed my two bags and headed out the door.

Mrs. Santillanes was in the hallway. “Are you okay? I heard a big crash coming from your place.”

“I’m okay, Mrs. Santillanes.”

“What was it?” she asked, but I think she already knew. Her little hands rubbed at her red rosary beads.

“It was one of your jars.” I couldn’t look at her. I just locked my door.

Mrs. Santillanes made the sign of the cross and pulled me into a strong embrace. Thankfully, I heard Philip coming up the steps. It was time to go.

“I’ll pray for you, mija.” She looked worried. “Be careful.”

“I HAVE BEEN kissing this lady’s ass for the last six months,” Philip told me as he steered wildly through the stacked sets of switchback turns that took us up the mountain. “I mean, I even drove her dog to the vet and bought her some Epsom salts on the way home. I’m her designer, for crying out loud. But I was good. I did what I was told, and we got this huge bid.”

I never realized that they built houses that far up into the canyon, but apparently these people were so loaded they could have built on the moon. Philip explained that the Benavidez family, his biggest client to date, had spent over two million dollars decorating their house—nine bedrooms and nine baths. I needed to make sure to get Mr. and Mrs. Benavidez in pictures with every single influential person who was at that party. That was my job. To make them look glamorous, important, and connected.

“What exactly is it that Mr. and Mrs. Benavidez do for a living?” I asked.

“Something involving money and politics. But don’t even ask. I’m in my boss’s good graces right now, so don’t mess that up, okay?”

“So, it’s a politician party.”