Part 14 (1/2)

She says, ”What the h.e.l.l is that car doing back here?”

My hands go into my pockets. Instead of b.a.l.l.s of lint and thread, maybe I'll find a plausible excuse. I say, ”Oh, some guy asked if he could park there real quick. Said he was just returning something next door. I told him it was fine.” Lame story, but should be good enough for now.

Ellen lets out an exasperated sigh. ”If he's not out in five minutes, I'm calling a tow truck. I can't have people parking back here.” She's all talk. She'll forget about the car as soon as the door is shut. I bet.

Ellen leads me through a small back hallway and into the studio. The background overlay is a desert and tumbleweeds, huge ones, bigger than my car. A little kid is dressed up as a cowboy with hat, vest, chaps, six-shooters, spurs, the whole bit. He must've just heard the saddest campfire song ever because he's bawling his eyes out while rocking on a plastic horse.

Those UFO-sized photographer spot lamps are everywhere, warming the kid up like he's a fast-food burger that's been sitting out since the joint opened. I don't blame him for being a little cranky.

His mom yaks on her cell phone, sniping at someone, wears sungla.s.ses and lip gloss s.h.i.+nier than mica, and has a purse bigger than Ellen's mural tumbleweed. It ain't the OK Corral in here.

I say, ”Sorry to interrupt. As you were.”

The little kid jumps at the sound of my voice, cries harder, and rocks the wooden pony faster, like he's trying to make a break for it.

I say, ”Remember the Alamo, kid.”

Ellen apologizes, puts on a happy face like it's part of her professional garb, something that hangs on a coatrack after work is over. She ducks behind her camera. ”Come on, Danny boy, you can smile for me, right? Look at my pants!”

Yikes. I'm out of the studio, door closed behind me, and into her nondescript reception area. Ellen has a desk with a phone, computer, printer, and a buzzer. Next to that is a door to the antiques store. That's locked too. The doork.n.o.b turns but there's a dead bolt about chest high. I need me some keys. Don't want to have to see the clown pants and cowboy-tantrum show again. I go behind her desk and let my fingers do the walking through her drawers. I find a ring of ten or so keys.

Guess and check, and eventually the right key. I don't turn on the lights, as the store's bay window is large and I could easily be seen from outside. The afternoon is dying, but there's enough light in here that I can see where I'm going.

The antiques store is packed tight with weekend treasures: wooden barrels filled with barely recognizable tools that might've come from the dawn of the Bronze Age, or at least the 1940s; home and lawn furniture; kitschy lamps, one shaped like a hula girl with the shade as the gra.s.s skirt; fis.h.i.+ng gear; a shelf full of dusty hardcover books; tin advertising placards. Piles of useless junk everywhere. If it's old, it's in here somewhere. I never understood the appeal of antiques. Some things are meant to be thrown away and forgotten.

The photography and film stuff has its own corner in the rear of the store. There's a display counter with three projectors under gla.s.s. Short stacks of film reels separate the projectors. Nice presentation. No price tags, but the specs and names of the projectors are written on pieces of masking tape that are stuck to the counters. The curling and peeling tape is in much worse condition than the projectors, which look to be mint.

All right. I a.s.sume the film is 8 millimeter, but I'm not exactly sure what projector I need to play it, and even if I had the right projector I don't know how to use it. I need Ellen's help. Again.

Out of the dusty store and back into the reception area, I stick my head inside the studio. Glamour Mom is still on the phone, talking directly to a Prada handbag maybe. The kid continues to wail. Ellen dances some crazed jig that pendulums back and forth behind her tripod. She makes odd noises with her mouth. A professional at work.

I say, ”Hey, Bozo. I need your expertise for a second.”

Under normal circ.u.mstances (maybe these are her normal circ.u.mstances, I don't know), I'd a.s.sume she'd be p.i.s.sed at me for interrupting. She mumbles something under her breath that I don't quite hear, but it might be Thank Christ.

Ellen has to say, ”Excuse me,” three times before the woman puts down her phone. ”Maybe we should try something else. I don't think Danny likes being a cowboy. Why don't we change him, let him pick something else out of that bin over there, and I'll be right back?”

The brat has worked her over pretty good, softened her up, and hopefully made her head mushy enough so she can't add one and one together. I need to take advantage and throw stuff at her quick.

Ellen has only one foot in the reception area and I'm sticking the film canister in her face. I say, ”I just need a little help. This is eight-millimeter film, right? Or super eight? Or something else?”

Ellen blinks a few times, clearly stunned after trying to wrangle Danny the Kid into an image. She says, ”Let me see.”

I open the can and let a six-inch tail grow from the spool. She reaches for it. I say, ”Don't get your grubby fingerprints on it.”

”I need to see the d.a.m.n thing if I'm going to tell you what it is.” I give it to her, ready to s.n.a.t.c.h it back out of her hands should she hold it up to the light and see something bad. ”This isn't super eight, it's too dark. Eight millimeter.” She gives it back, yawns, and stretches. ”My back is killing me. Where'd you get that?”

I don't answer. I say, ”I need a projector. I need to watch this. Got anything I can borrow?”

”Yeah, I have projectors. Silent or sound?”

”I don't know. Do you have one that plays both?”

I take her by the arm and lead her into the store. She doesn't turn on the lights. What a good clown.

Small key goes into small lock, and the gla.s.s slides open to the left. ”This one will play your movie, sound or no sound. It's easy to use too.”

I read the tape: Eumig Mark-S Zoom 8mm magnetic sound projector.

She picks it up, shuts the gla.s.s case, and rests it on the counter. It's a mini-robot out of a 1950s sci-fi flick, only the earth isn't standing still.

She says, ”Let me finish up the shoot and I can set up the projector in here. I've got a screen in the closet.”

”No, I can't watch it here. This film, it's for a client. Just need to make sure what's in the can is the real deal, that it's what I think it is. No one else but me can see it.”

”Why? Where did you get it?”

”Sorry. Secrets of state. I can't tell you.”

”Wait. What client? How have you had any contact with a client since we've been down here?”

I think about the backyard and demolished shed. She'll know where I found it.

I hold out my cell phone, wave it around like it's Wonka's golden ticket. ”I've been on the phone with my clients all day. I'm not gonna just sit on my a.s.s the whole time I'm down here. That wouldn't be very professional, would it? Don't worry. It's no big deal. I watch the flick for simple verification, then stick it in a FedEx box, case closed. You go. Go finish up with that little cherub in there. I'm all set.”

Ellen folds her arms across her chest. She's not having any of it. She digs in, entrenches, a tick in a mutt's ear. She says, ”I think you're lying to me.”

”Frankly, I'm nonplussed. Would I lie to you, Clowny?”

”Yes. You do, all the time.”

”True. But this time everything is kosher.” I spread the word everything out like it's smooth peanut b.u.t.ter.

Ellen sighs and throws up her hands. ”I don't know what to do with you, and I don't have time to argue. I'll set up the projector, then go back into the studio, and you can watch it in here by yourself.”

Okay, I'm by one hurdle, now on to the next. I talk as fast as I can, which isn't very. ”No good. I need someplace private. Not rush-hour downtown Osterville in an antiques store with a huge bay friggin' window. Let me borrow it. I promise to return it in one piece. I'll set it up and watch it at the house before you come home.”

”You're a giant pain in my b.u.t.t, you know that, right?”

I say, ”I'll have a bowl of popcorn ready for you when you get back. Extra b.u.t.ter.”

”Fine. Let me see if the bulbs still work.” Ellen plugs it in, turns it on. A beam of light s.h.i.+nes out of the projection bulb and onto a bearskin rug and its matted fur. I resist the urge for a shadow puppet show. She turns off the projection bulb and two small lights come on within the body of the projector.

I say, ”What are those lights?”

”You could thread the film in the dark, if you needed to.”