“Where? I don’t know; they all sort of run together in my mind south of Acapulco. She was carrying on about not getting any work because of the politics at the studio. I don’t know what she was talking about. She wasn’t getting any work because she was a pain in the butt. I just turned up the music and stopped listening.”

I looked at the photo of Cathy Vega again; sprawled against the backdrop, her eyes half closed, her back arched, her legs spread open. It reminded me of the way I’d seen her in the loft.

“So who takes these pictures?” I asked. “Looks pretty professional to me.”

“Lots of guys. Anyone with a hundred bucks for a Japanese camera. Or a girl like her. Excuse me a second.” He went into the bathroom and partially closed the door. We heard two snorts before he reemerged, smiling and a little flushed.

“Allergy problem.” He tapped his nose with one finger. “Now, Lupe, let’s get some more pictures. You’re looking hot. Whitney, you come over here and get in the picture, too. Let’s have the two of you girls together.” He walked toward Lupe and pulled her shoulder strap down again.

“I don’t take my clothes off. And I don’t do lesbo stuff.” She bristled, walking away from the lights.

“Touchy, touchy. Can’t be like that if you want to make it in this town.” He certainly had a way with women, I could see that. Guy probably couldn’t get laid if he was passing out pardons at Sybil Brand.

“Was this taken in a studio or in someone’s home?” I asked pointedly, ignoring his perverted intent. I could imagine what he thought he could get the two of us to do for his picture.

He took the picture from me and looked at it for a while. I couldn’t tell if he was thinking about my question or just staring at Cathy Vega’s snatch.

“Studio,” he said finally. “You can tell by the lighting. It’s set high. The guy would need to have a place with high ceilings like this. He was probably using a strobe pack, too. See, you can tell by the shadowing.”1

I glanced down to the opposite end of the studio, where there were two black strobe packs.

Lupe brushed past him to the table, where she picked up her glass. He hurried to fill it for her and tried to get her to look at him.

“How do you get these pictures developed? You send them to a regular lab?”

“There are a few labs who do this kind of kiss-the-pink stuff, but it’s mostly underground. You have to know who they are. Guy must have had his own darkroom or access to a darkroom. Probably did the printing himself. You want to see my darkroom?” He walked toward the cubicle built against the east wall.