Chapter 13
There’s nothing for Paul to do in the bright, elegant Harper’s lobby but watch the sharply dressed young man across from him flip nervously through an old issue—from start to finish and back again.
Paul pities the guy, who’s probably sweating it out in his dark blue suit and polished wingtips for an underpaid full-time position.
Comfortable in his corduroy pants, wide-collared brown shirt, and fringed suede jacket, Paul’s nerves have vanished, leaving nothing but an unwavering confidence in Judith’s portfolio and certainty that Marty will love it.
If he doesn’t? So what. Paul will take it elsewhere.
When Marty appears, the well-dressed man stands up, touching his tie and clearing his throat, but Marty walks right to Paul and extends his hand.
“Paul, good to see you,” he says, directing him toward the back offices. He doesn’t refer to their past history or ask after Paul’s work—to Paul’s momentary chagrin. He only says, “I was intrigued by your phone call.”
As they walk along the busy and seemingly endless back corridor, Paul starts to lose his cool a little.
Sweat beads at his hairline, prickles under his arms. Every last stylishly dressed person who passes by greets Marty while looking Paul over, sizing him up.
Probably pegging him as yet another freelance photographer desperate for work.
What he usually is—but not today, Paul reminds himself.
Today he’s the man bringing them a gold mine.
If they only knew, they’d thank him. He stands straighter, meets people’s eyes, and tries to calm the hell down.
“I really wanted to give you a first look at these, Marty,” Paul says once they’re settled across from each other at Marty’s desk.
He can’t imagine having the nerve to say those words about his own work—I wanted to give you a first look—but it feels good to say them regardless.
Marty gestures toward the case like, Hand them over, but Paul keeps the portfolio close and waits a beat. He has to set this up right.
“Did you happen to hear about a woman killed by a stalker back in December? A mother, a housewife, lived in suburban New Jersey? Named Judith Stanley?” Marty shakes his head, reaches for his pack of cigarettes, and offers Paul one.
Paul accepts but doesn’t light it yet; he’s too keyed up for a cigarette.
“That woman—the victim—was a student in my Introduction to Photography class. She was…extraordinary. Just an extraordinary photographer. But she was also very private and refused to publish her pictures whenever I suggested it. She changed her mind just before she died, told me she wanted my help. And then—she was murdered. Tragic, tragic loss, of course.” He waits for a beat.
“And that’s what brings me here, with her photographs in hand. ”
Marty has been listening intently. “You have the family’s permission?” he asks. Nothing about Judith’s death or the serendipitous timing of her change of heart. Paul nods, relaxing when he realizes he won’t be interrogated further: he won’t need to clarify the limits of the family’s permission.
“Well, let’s see them, then,” Marty says, stubbing out his cigarette and stifling a yawn.
Paul feels a sharp twinge of irritation, then fear, at the sight of that yawn, but he reminds himself that Marty can’t possibly know what’s coming, even with the story Paul’s told.
And why should he believe Paul anyway? He’s just the one-hit wonder who can’t sell his pictures to Harper’s—or anywhere—anymore; can he even recognize great work?
With a whiff of coming vengeance, Paul hands the portfolio over and watches Marty flip through the photographs.
Nonchalantly at first, then with increasingly dense attention.
He slows down, studies each image, and when he reaches the end of the stack, he simply goes back through them all, even more slowly this time.
When he finally looks up, he appears vulnerable, moved, and electrified.
“This woman was your student?”
Paul nods.
“These are shockingly good.” Marty shakes his head and stares down at the prints again.
Paul fights the urge to say, I know. Instead, he relishes being right in silence.
And relishes being the one to possess such rightness.
Such greatness. “Tell me more,” Marty says then, folding his hands together and leaning back in his chair. “She was murdered?”
“Yes, she was murdered. About two and a half months ago.” On a whim, he adds, “I was the last person to see her alive.” Marty’s eyes widen. “Except for whoever killed her, of course. They haven’t found the guy.”
“Jesus.” Marty picks up the prints and stares at the top one—of Judith reflected in the liquor store window.
“The self-portraits alone are masterful. And the street photographs—she’s not treading the same ground as Diane, but she’s in that general area, you know?
” Paul agrees. His pulse quickens to hear Marty mention Judith alongside the great Diane Arbus, an art world darling.
“She’s truly phenomenal, Paul. I can’t thank you enough for bringing these to me.” Marty Janowski, thanking him. He gives the man his most generous smile.
“Of course. They belong here. I knew it the minute I saw them, and told Judith so. And this is just a slice of the archive,” Paul adds.
Marty stares at him over his glasses, his eyes huge. “How many photographs are there?”
“Hundreds. I have them all at my place. I’ve made a deal with her widower to be her posthumous representative. Her manager.” A falsehood for now—but Marty nods his head distractedly.
“You found a real gem here, Paul. A real fucking gem. These are the twenty best? I believe you—they’re exquisite.
I want them all. We’ll expedite this, do a portfolio in the issue after this next one, use one of her pictures for the cover.
You’ll write the introduction. And like you said, the story around these is almost as good as the photographs.
Almost.” He reaches blindly for another cigarette, offers Paul one.
Paul is still holding the one he hasn’t lighted; he lets Marty light it now.
You’ll write the introduction, the man said, so nonchalantly.
Paul will be published in Harper’s again, after all this time.
He takes a long, delicious drag and when he blows it out, he thinks of how he’s building himself into a brand-new man: the man who speaks for the soon-to-be-famous Judith Stanley.