“Armando freelances them to some of the newspapers. Don’t you, Armando?” Rudy interjected.

The Cuban nodded.

“I didn’t want my picture taken,” I snapped. “I’d like to have the one you took of me.”

“When you are in a public place, you consent to have your picture taken,” he replied coolly.

I couldn’t argue the law with him on that one. He was right.

“Didn’t you say you sold one to the Times of that demonstration back in June when that singer—what’s his name—got arrested at one of those sit-ins at the Federal Building?”

“I sold two. One was on the front page,” the Cuban answered.

“I don’t blame you,” said Rudy, going back to the photograph of me. “Look at those lines around your eyes. When I do your photos, I’m going to light you so none of that shows. Give her her picture, Armando.”

The Cuban retrieved the photos from Rudy. He clenched his jaw angrily but recovered quickly, smiled and said, “Certainly. A lady does not wish to be seen in an unfavorable light. Or setting. I will make a print for you.”

“Don’t go to that trouble, just give me the negative.”

“It’s no trouble.”

“I want the negative.”

“It is my property,” he insisted.

Was he going to try to sell it? It didn’t look like a very dramatic or newsworthy image to me. Had he ever taken a picture of Cathy Vega? Maybe she had been at the demonstration in June. What did he do with the rest of the photos? Keep a file of them? Did he keep track of who came to the demonstrations for some reason? I did look terrible in the picture.

“When can I get it? Today?”

“I will give it to Rudy for you. It will be ready tomorrow or the next day. Call Rudy.” The Cuban bowed slightly, making his way to the door without bothering to look at me again. Of course, he had recognized me from the first moment.

“Later, man. You know you can use the studio anytime,” Rudy called after him.

The door closed behind the Cuban.

“Great guy, huh?” Rudy asked enthusiastically.

“Lovely,” I responded sullenly, feeling paranoid. “How long was he in the darkroom?”

“About forty minutes or so. Don’t worry. He didn’t hear us. He comes over and rents my place if I’m not using it.”

That must be often, I thought.

“You known him long?”

“Almost eight months. He already had his studio when I got here. He’s a nice guy. Does mostly weddings.”

“Weddings?” I repeated. “So why’s he so interested in those photos of the demonstrations? What’s he do with them?”

“Makes dart boards. Hey, that’s a joke. You got to shoot a lot of film to sell one picture. That’s how this business works.”

“I think he does something with them,” I fumed.