Active Shooter Page 4

  “So would I.”

  “Are you in?”

  “Yeah, I'm in.”

  “All the way?”

  “What else is there.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “The money you're going to pay me. In cash.”

  He craned his neck this way and that, then straightened up in his seat. In another second he was resting his elbows on the table and looking at me with calm, tired eyes. He asked me how much, I told him a figure I knew they wouldn’t pay, he said he’d take it up the chain.

  “Fair enough,” I said, figuring most numbers above zero would suit me.

  He regarded me for a second. “How did you two leave it?”

  “I told her I had to think about it. Gave her a lot of reasons why I shouldn't do it. I figured playing hard to get would seem more natural.”

  “Yes, it would,” he said with a weary smile. “It is like riding a bicycle, isn’t it?”

  “So long as that means I don’t need a refresher course. I hear those are expensive, and I would want to make sure the U.S. taxpayers can spare every penny to secure my financial well-being instead.”

  His smile broadened. “We're going to put you on a charter back to L.A. First thing in the morning. It will be better than first class.”

  “Are the flight attendants extra-cute?”

  Still smiling, he twisted his lips a bit and shook his head. “Maybe next time.”

  “Ah, something to look forward to. So long as I'm a good boy.”

  “Take care of the mission, and we'll take care of you.”

  Right, like they took care of me last time, I wanted to tell him. Somehow I managed to say, “Fair enough.”

  ***

  I arrived at my Marina del Rey apartment shortly before noon the next morning. I didn't get there alone. They drove me there in one of their shiny black sedans. They helped me carry my luggage, now including a silver gray briefcase, up to my front door. They came into my apartment and did a scan. They told me it came up clean, and they left, but not before they reminded me to use the secured cellphone that now hung heavy and warm in my shirt pocket.

  I took it out and played with it a bit. From afar it would look like a nice, name-brand smartphone. In my hand it felt heavier, denser. Was I imagining that, the weight of it? No, I probably wasn't. It came with a few more capability and a tad more shielding and ruggedness than your average street smartphone. With all that, it's battery didn't seem like much. In merely an hour of use since landing at LAX, which included little more than turning it on, its power indicator had run down to the 70 percent mark.

  I dug up the phone's charger, plugged it in, and it was then time to deal with my compensation.

  I opened the silver-gray briefcase and unpacked the stacks of 100 dollar bills into the safe in my bedroom closet. Before I locked the safe, I stared at my two Glock pistols. I shook my head and slammed the safe shut. A minute later I was spinning the dial, opening the safe again to take out one of the guns and a case of ammunition. I loaded the pistol's clip and a spare clip, and I slid them both under my bed.

  A minute after that I was shopping online for a couple of hand-keyed gun cases, the kind that only open when you stick your hand into a slot. I placed the order, and that consoled me a bit. I might have been a killer, but at least I could ensure I followed proper gun safety.

  Then it was time to check my email. I saw straightaway that my spam filter rules needed serious updating. A particularly abundant bombardment overcame my inbox since… yeah, just in the last three days. Coincidence? Maybe withheld could shed some light on that. I pushed this thought aside. I didn't want to face it, the possibility of someone dampening me and my story.

  I took the time to wade through the barrage, one email message at a time. After a while, my pinky finger more or less kept reaching for and pressing the delete key. I almost did this with an email titled “Fine-art photography: partnering proposal.” My finger hovered over the delete key with just enough hesitation to tell me I needed to review the message. It was short and to the point:

  “My name is Lucia Fuentes. I represent artists in the L.A. scene. Checked out your website, impressed by your vision. Let's chat. Text, email, your choice.” Her cell number and email addresses followed. I searched my memory. In the weeks since the LAX shootout, I'd received a high volume of emails through my website. I thought her name, Lucia Fuentes, sounded familiar, but I couldn't place the context of whatever she had communicated before

  I stared at my screen reflecting how a month ago this would have been the type of contact I would have jumped on. Just the thing I needed to kick-start my faltering career as a fine-art photographer. Now it seemed like a distraction. Maybe a distraction was just what I needed, I told myself. I added her as a contact in my smartphone and entered a calendar reminder to call her later in the day.

  It took me another hour to tame my Inbox. Then it was time to see how my on-screen persona was doing. I paused. Did I really want to wade through countless Tweets, Facebook wall posts and Google+ messages? I pushed myself away from the computer and took my smartphone to the couch. Maybe it would all seem less daunting on a smaller screen.

  I was about to get rolling when I noticed a text message. From Withheld. “Keep playing along,” it said.

  I set the phone face down, as if that would help me get away from it and what it contained. I thought back to the days when I developed the gadgetry that generated text messages from untraceable sources, along with other assorted tricks. My mind wasn't ready to contemplate all that stuff again, I told myself as I felt the onset of another panic attack swelling in my chest. My breath grew shallow and hard to draw in. I closed my eyes in my best effort to restrain the onslaught. My neck pulsated to the beat of my heart.

  A second later my cellphone started buzzing, almost in perfect sync to that rhythm. It kept on buzzing until the call went to voicemail. A few seconds later it started buzzing again. The impertinence of whoever was calling managed to distract me and bring me out of the sinking spiral. Looking back, I realize now this was the intent.

  I checked the cellphone, still buzzing, and I didn’t recognize the number. The previous call, I saw, originated from the same number. I let it go to voicemail. Sure enough, it started buzzing again. Same number.

  “Hello,” I answered the call.

  “Is this Andre Esperanza?” a woman’s voice asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Since this is your business line, shouldn’t you say something like, ‘Hello, Andre Esperanza speaking’?”

  “I’m two millimeters away from hanging up.”

  “I’m just trying to help you with your end-user experience,” she replied. “Your first touch point is sucking big time right now.”

  At this point I should have hung up. But her halfway between abrasive and assertive manner along with her confidence kept me on the hook.

  “What about your touch point?” I asked.

  “What about it?”

  “I haven’t heard your name either.”

  She laughed. “Nice. I think you and I can work together.”

  “Why? Based on the fact that we have lousy touch points?”

  “My name is Lucia Fuentes, Andre. My friends call me Luz, and it my gut feeling about you proves right, you’ll be calling me Luz before the night is over.”

  “Before the night is over?” I peered through my window. Out to the west blazing sunlight still prevailed.

  “I’m going to be at a local gallery, over in Venice,” she said. “Not too far from you. I’m checking out the space for an upcoming show I’m doing. I was wondering if you could drop by and we could chat.”

  I pulled the text she’d sent me earlier. “I guess you couldn’t wait for me to text you back?”

  “Oh, I could. But something came up, and I thought we might do better to chat sooner rather than later.”

  “That something that came up, does it concern me?”

  “It could. But it’s
better seen than discussed, know what I mean? I rather show and not tell.”

  I thought about her offer for a moment. Again, I felt the compulsion to decline. I didn’t really need this, not right now. By the next morning, Bridget would be in town, expecting me to provide her with information and clues for her reportage. She and I needed some alone time to plot our way forward.

  Nonetheless, Lucia’s offer intrigued me. I didn’t allow myself to waver with indecision.

  “What time would you like to meet?” I asked.

  “I’m planning to be at the gallery around 5 PM. I can’t really make it out there any earlier.”

  "Sounds doable," I said.

  “OK. How about dinner afterwards?”

  “Sounds good.”

  I arrived at the gallery just shy of the appointed time. Lucia met me at the front door. She shook my hand, and the way she leaned in made the overgrown shoulder bag she carried swing forward and almost fall. Lucia caught it and righted herself.

  As I followed her into the gallery, I noted that her shoulder bag hung heavier than it should.

  Chapter 5

  As soon as we went in, Lucia dropped her purse on a small bar counter by the door. She returned to the door to lock it. I took a few seconds to scan the space, which currently featured a sparse smattering of abstract art.

  “You own the place?” I asked.

  “No. A good friend of mine does.”

  “Good enough to trust you with the key.”

  She gave me a sideways look, but the rest of her ignored my remark. She walked over to a wooden bench, sat and tapped her fingernail on the empty spot. I accepted her invitation and sat next to her.

  “I like to be straight with people,” Lucia said. “So I’ll get the awkward stuff out of the way first.”

  “Sounds ominous.”

  “I didn’t chase you down because I have some crush on the guy that cleared LAX of terrorists with his wits, a handgun, an AK and some flash-bangs. Sorry if it sounds like I’m assuming things, but this is not a social call.”

  “I didn’t say it was.”

  “But you might be thinking it.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I don’t mix business and romance. Meaning I am a Lesbian and I don’t care for your type, no matter how sexy you look or promise me to be.” Lucia smiled and gave me a slight slap on the knee. “See, I told you I get right to the thing.”

  “Thank you for clearing things up.”

  “Not disappointed at all?” she asked, no coiling her smile into a grin.

  “There’s no way I can answer that question and come out ahead.”

  She slapped me on the knee again, harder this time. “Perfect. I knew you were a sharp one.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “A couple of answers you gave during that interview. My personal favorite? When asked why you were reluctant to give an interview, you said it wasn’t modesty. Did you want the attention? We all want attention. I didn’t need it. Perfect.”

  “You give an interesting IQ test.”

  “It’s what it means, what it says about you. I like how you stayed the hell away from any social media. Most saps would have been so drawn to the instant-celeb flame, they would have gone up in one bright splat.”

  I didn’t reply. Instead my gaze drifted to her purse, slumped at the counter.

  “Now I’m here to show you how you can be smarter about the whole thing. Use the moment to draw people to what matters.”

  I waved at the room. “My art.”

  “Your art, yes. But first, you, the person, the visionary, the dreamer of images that move and console the soul.”

  “That sounds inspirational.”

  “You know what your problem is, Andre?”

  “Please, do tell.”

  “You have a confused brand. Portrait sessions here, headshots there, weddings when the booking comes, some event photography if you can score the gig, fine-art photography if anyone dares order through that cluttered site of yours. You’re all over the map, unfocused, blurry as all get out.”

  “But you can change that.”

  “How in the hell would I do that?” she asked, leaning back and away from me. “No, man. You change that. You have to figure out who you are as a photographer, as a person, as a visionary, as a dreamer--”

  “Fine, fine. I get it.”

  “Yes, fine. As in fine art.” Now she waved at the walls. “This gallery or one like it can be full of your work. Photos that are crisp, simple, to the point. Images that tell a clear story. I see that in your fine-art collection, even if it does need a bit of culling.”

  “It’s impossible to make it in this business if you go one hundred percent with fine-art photography. Especially for someone getting started.”

  “Ah, see, but that’s where I come in.”

  “With bags of money, I hope.” My mind drifted to my safe and the stacks of hundred dollar bills.

  “Nah.” She slapped me on the knee again. “Our clients come in with bags of money.”

  For the next fifteen minutes, I listened to her explain how it all worked. With efficiency and enthusiasm, she walked me through her approach to the business of selling fine-art. Eventually we narrowed our discussion to the topic of how to sell photographs. In an age of ubiquitous imagery, I objected, no one wants to pay for a photo, matted, framed or otherwise adorned.

  “As long as you believe that, you'll keep diluting yourself with other types of photography. As you do that, your view will continue to become a self-fulfilled prophecy. Just like when you take a photograph, you have to decide what's the one thing it's about and focus only on that, frame out everything else, right? Isn't that what you said on your blog?”

  I shook my head, then accepted defeat on the point. “So I need to frame out everything else but fine-art photography.”

  “Or at least let your fans -- right after we get you some -- know what's that one thing. Fine-tune your branding so they're not confused in any way about what you do or what you're about. Right now, with the buzz around you--”

  “It's not the right kind of buzz,” I said. “Who wants to hire a killer to photograph their wedding?”

  “Exactly. But there might be some cachet around buying art from a hero. We just have to channel the buzz in that direction.”

  “And you'll show me how to do that.”

  “Right after we sign our agreement.” She smiled. “But before you sign, you have a decision to make.”

  “About dumping my other photography.”

  “That, and whatever else is going on.” Lucia made a circular waving motion in front of my face. “Whatever is happening in that head of yours and elsewhere in your life, I don't know what it is, and I'm not asking you tell me. But there's this energy.” She repeated the circular motion. “You have to let it go. You can't dwell on it. You have to let your art reign supreme. You have to let the real you show through, and toss all the rest aside. You get what I'm saying?”

  I considered her words, deft as they were to point to my past and suggestive enough of how I should leave it behind in favor of a new life founded and driven by art and nothing else. I wanted to rebut her, and yet couldn't find a way to do it.

  “When is your next show?” I asked.

  She grinned. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  “And I thought you’d give me an answer.”

  “Saturday.” Lucia must have seen me swallow because she rushed to add, “No pressure for starters. I only need four good pieces from you. And I already got them picked out from your site. I just need you to mat and frame them. You’re setup for that, right? Since you have an order form on your site.”

  “I am.”

  “Because I have a friend, not far from here that can--”

  “I mat and frame my own stuff.”

  “With quality, right?”

  I restrained the urge to get defensive. “Yeah, with quality.”

  “So we’re on, then?” she aske
d.

  “Do I have to be there? At the show, I mean?”

  “You mean here. And hell, yes, you need to be here.”

  I shrugged. “I have a wedding to shoot.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Where?”

  “Palos Verdes. Nice locale. Beautiful couple. Well to do family. Reception is going to rock. Portfolio building stuff.”

  "I'm sure it will be epic."

  "You bet it will."

  “You haven’t been listening to a thing I said,” she replied.

  “Wedding photography keeps me sharp,” I said. “You know me. I have to stay active.”

  Lucia rolled her eyes, then closed them. “Yeah, you, Mr. Active Shooter himself.” She opened her eyes and faced me. “Show’s from 6 to 10. You can’t even be here for an hour?”

  She absorbed that in the way one does when working through a complex math problem. “OK,” she said. “Let’s sleep on it. I’ll email you with a list of the four photos I like, and I’ll let you know in the morning if we’re on.”

  By the time I returned to my apartment, Lucia’s email was waiting for me. So was one from the bride for upcoming wedding. After much thought and consideration, she said, she regretted that she couldn’t use me. Family members were nervous about having Mr. Active Shooter from LAX doing the wedding. Yeah, they knew they’d lose their deposit, but that was cool. They’d already secured a photographer to take my place.

  I closed the email and stared at my inbox. I vacillated between being upset at getting fired and entertaining the unlikely possibility that Lucia somehow had a hand in this. Lucia’s and my bride’s message listed one after the other, no more than ten minutes apart. Though I knew I’d never prove it, I couldn’t shake the suspicion that one tied with the other.

  A minute later, I forwarded the bride’s message to Lucia. “You wouldn’t believe our good fortune,” I wrote at the top of the message body. “I guess we’re on after all.”

  She wrote back almost immediately, “Oh, yeah, we’re very on.”

  In a fit of strange visualization I imagined Lucia raising her arms and doing a little dance while her lips curled into a clever smile aimed at me.