Lie of the Needle(12)

            “Did you get what you needed last night?” Eleanor asked, and then she smirked. “With Serrano, I mean.”

            “Oh yeah, awesome. He’s a cool dude.”

            “And do you need any help with the shoot today?” She didn’t sound as enthusiastic as she had for the night before.

            Roos winked at her. He was such a raging flirt, it seemed that he couldn’t help himself, no matter what the age of the female. “Nah, we’re not shooting at the studio. We’re going to an undisclosed location, but if I told you where, I’d have to kill you. My man Cyril is all about his privacy.”

            Martha planted her hands on her ample hips. “Oh for God’s sake, he’s making such a fuss about one dinky little photo.”

            Roos chuckled and glanced around the store. “Daisy, this place is epic, man.”

            “Thanks. Come take a look at this.” I showed him the box in the back that Joe kept filled with an interesting mix of odds and ends for any male customers that happened to visit. I’d taken an old MAIL sign, crossed it out, and written MALE. Everything was priced at five dollars.

            He sorted through eagerly and held up one of the vintage cameras.

            “Oh, man, an Argus C3! These old cameras were great. And this was the best-selling one in the world. Peeps in the biz called it ‘the Brick.’”

            I looked at the boxy Bakelite-and-steel treasure he’d found and could see why it had earned its nickname.

            He perched on the edge of a hope chest to inspect his find, long legs encased in skintight leather stretched out before him, exposing the familiar bright green snakeskin boots. “It had such a dynamic range, man. Awesome for picking up highlights and shadows.”

            His yellow-and-blue scarf fell forward, and he tossed it back over his shoulder.

            “We lost something when we moved from film to digital. Back in the day, you had to think—about light, composition, exposure, and depth of field. You had to plan your shot instead of banging off a hundred in digital and hoping you got one good one.”

            The over-the-top showboating was suddenly gone as he bent his bleached head over the old camera in intense concentration. I’d seen his portfolio, the depth of emotion he’d coaxed from his subjects, and knew how good he was, although you’d never know it from the flamboyant way he carried on.

            “And then it was like Christmas morning to see what you’d captured on film,” he continued in a low voice, warming to his subject. “No instant gratification and models peeking over your shoulder, telling you how to do your job.”

            He fished around in his pocket, obviously searching for his wallet. But in those pants, I doubted there was room for much.

            “That’s why I’m using old-school film for the calendar,” he said, turning his attention now to the pockets of his coat. “Really makes a difference in the quality, you know. Richer, somehow. Plus I like to do my own prints and processing. It’s like meditation, man.”

            I might have to revise my opinion of him as a flaky vagabond. Anyone who had respect for the past was okay in my book.

            “Take the camera. It’s on the house,” I said. “A little memento of Millbury for you.”

            “Word! Thanks, Daisy. Hey, maybe I’ll use it for the shoot with Cyril this afternoon.” He stuffed the Argus into the deep pocket of his trench coat. “Yeah, especially for a mature dude, the black-and-white will really rock it.”

            Cyril did look like an aging rock musician, with his long gray hair, temperamental green eyes, and deep lines worn into his face by a rough life.