He unlocked the gate and gestured toward the door. He fumbled for an instant, feeling for a light switch inside the back door. When he got the lights on, we stepped inside. Flamingo Photo was one large room with light gray walls and a ceiling twenty feet high. To the right of the door was a bathroom with a sink that dripped. To the left was an alcove with two mirrored walls, a built-in dressing table and a small stool. The room opened out. There were built-in orange wood counters with some cooking utensils piled on them, stacks of correspondence including an envelope with the stamped return address of the Beverly Hills Municipal Court and proof sheets. Piles of large brown manilla envelopes, slides and discarded film boxes. A shaky ladder propped against the wall of a shoebox-sized enclosed space led up to a loft sleeping area. The guy was living in the place. Nothing was up to code, and he was sleeping on top of his darkroom. He had a refrigerator, an old gas stove and four chairs. At the far end of the room were some light stands, a tripod and a couple of light packs.

Lupe posed in the doorway, a hand on her hip, before entering the room with her bewitching gyrating strut. Her silver high heels shone brightly against the warm brown of her skin, and the room seemed to tilt slightly.

The man bustled around, sweeping piles of magazines and papers off the chairs for us. He took three mismatched glasses from one of his cupboards and popped open the champagne, which gushed out onto the concrete floor. Giggling politely, Lupe and I held our glasses out. This seemed to make him happy. It reminded me of that old toast that goes “Champagne for our friends—pain for our sham friends.” The stuff tasted like it could take the paint off the walls.

“Cheers,” he said, clinking glasses with us.

“I saw some of your work and I wanted to find out about it, Mr. Sancerre,” I said.

“Thank you. This is delicious, Mr. Sancerre.” Closing her eyes, Lupe gave an ecstatic wiggle that made her breasts shimmy.

“Call me Rudy,” he said, pouring himself another glass. He had his feet up on the table.

“You do a lot of head shots?” I asked.

“Lots. I love show business. Love the people. Show business is my life. Is that what you’re here for? Got a special; four shots for $89.”

“We’re not actresses,” Lupe said in her best Marilyn voice, applying special emphasis to the word actresses.

He leered back at her. “Thank God. Those people drive me nuts. Do you know how hard it is to collect a fucking $89 sometimes with all that bullshit?”

I took out the head shot of Cathy Vega. “This is some of your work, isn’t it, Rudy?”

He took the photo from me and nodded. “Sure. Great lighting. A cut above the competition.”