I took this to mean he did advertising work when he could get it. Three hundred, five hundred, a thousand bucks a day to light computers and cans of hair spray. Make them look interesting. I looked around the studio. He wasn’t getting many of those jobs.

“It’s very artistic, Mr. Sancerre,” Lupe purred.

“Top quality,” I chimed in. “Absolutely. Rudy, do you remember the woman in the photo?”

“A real dog. Ooops—friend of yours?”

“Sort of,” I said. “I was really struck by the composition.” It was a standard full-face head shot. I tried to think of some more positive things to say about the picture but couldn’t. “I guess you get a lot of business this way—word of mouth. Is that how she got to you, or did you already know her?”

“What’s with all the questions?” he replied with irritation, setting down his glass.

“Yeah,” Lupe breathed. “What’s with all the questions? This is Saturday night. We want to have fun, don’t we, Mr. Sancerre?”

I glared at Lupe, but she didn’t seem to notice me.

“I’ve never met a photographer before. I was just curious,” I said, still trying to catch Lupe’s eye, but she was busy giving Rudy Sancerre an inviting look while running her finger lightly around the rim of her glass.

“Ad in the trades. I think that’s where she came from. I don’t really remember. She didn’t have a portfolio, not a professional one.” Nearly wet with drool, Rudy gaped back at Lupe.

“You remember her? I’m sure you’re real busy.” I looked around the studio again: there was absolutely no indication that he had worked at all lately.

“Yeah, I remember her. How about some sounds, girls? I forgot your names. Sorry. I’m great on faces, lousy on names.”

“Whitney.”

“Great name. Is it real?”

“Lupe.”

“Great to meet you. Hey, Lupe, how about you turn on the FM up there? Get some cool jazz sounds going.”

He watched Lupe’s ass move across the room and as she stretched up to a shelf to turn on the radio. All-night jazz station. ‘Trane blues-shift kind of music.

Snapping his fingers, nodding his head in time to the music, he seemed to relax. “Ok, great. Now it sounds like we got a party going.”

“So what about this woman, Cathy Vega?” I asked.

“Yeah, how do you do that?” asked Lupe, picking up the head shot he had dropped onto the table next to his glass of champagne. “She looks great. I’d like to have some nice pictures.”

“I did that shot right here in the studio about eight weeks ago.” He sprang out of his director’s chair and went over to Lupe. Taking her by the hand, he led her into the middle of the studio, where a dark gray backdrop was hanging from the ceiling.