“She’s good,” Melissa said. “This is the first time since I was sixteen years old that I’ve wanted a cigarette.”
The she in question stood winsomely at Buck Bradley’s polished oak bar, now and then rippling auburn curls coiffed to make her look about nineteen—though Melissa felt sure she’d never see twenty-five again. She sipped sparingly from something clear with a lime twist. Each time she took a drink she returned the tumbler to a spot beside a dark blue, flip-top cigarette pack.
An extra little hair flick suggested that the woman sensed scrutiny. She picked up the pack with her right hand and drew a cigarette from it with the first two fingers of her left. She did this with the luxuriant languor of someone who wasn’t feeding a habit but anticipating a sophisticated, multi-textured pleasure so intense that she wanted to savor every morsel of the experience. Shifted the cigarette to her right hand. Rested her right arm on the bar, holding the unlit cigarette prominently, while with her left hand she rummaged in leisurely fashion through her purse. Searching for a lighter, presumably, but this inference would remain forever unverified. A young male with straw-colored hair in a surfer cut shuffled up to her and bashfully offered a light.
She accepted, with a smile that outshone his by a megawatt or so. She raised the cigarette to her mouth, bowed her head slightly as she bent with hooded eyes toward the flame from his Ronson, and used her left hand to steady his right until between them they’d managed to ignite the tobacco. Still brushing his Ronson-hand with her left, she pulled the cigarette from her mouth in a sweeping motion of her right arm. She turned her head away from the guy long enough to blow a ladylike ribbon of smoke politely over her right shoulder, then immediately swiveled back to offer him a high-beam thank-you. As she did this she rested her right elbow on the bar, managing to draw attention simultaneously to the cigarette and her ample breasts.
Kuchinski signaled unobtrusively to a waitress. Rep watched the conversation at the bar tread water for ninety seconds or so. The surfer agreed to try a cigarette from the leaner’s pack. He liked it, or at least pretended to. She fished a mini-pack from her purse and gave it to him. He seemed to realize that he’d been had, but he took the sample pack, smiled gamely, and went back to tell his buddies about the new brand in town.
“What’s up, Walt?” the waitress asked.
“Same again for everyone here,” Kuchinski said, “and tell Christina Ricci over there that if she’ll come talk to my friends when she’s ready for a break I’ll buy her a real drink.”
“She’s ready about now, I’m guessing,” the waitress said.
“Better get your butt over there then, hey?”
“When was the last time you had beer spilled in your lap, cowboy?”
“When was the last time you ate breakfast standing up?” Kuchinski asked just as jovially, but Melissa thought she saw a momentary glimmer of real fear in the waitress’ eyes as she scurried to relay Kuchinski’s message. Two minutes later the leaner strolled over to their table.
“Debbie Cantwell,” she said, tossing mini-packs to each of them.
“You’re pitching to the wrong demographic here,” Kuchinski told her.
“I could tell that from the bar. If my supervisor walks in, though, you’re gonna have to fake it or this will be a short conversation.”
“What’re you drinking?” Kuchinski asked.
“Pinch, since you’re paying,” Cantwell said, sitting down. “It’s already on the way. What’s on your mind?”
“We’re looking for a photographer,” Kuchinski said. “Guy who’s into women smoking, or at least makes pictures for people who are.”
“Oh, God,” Cantwell said, pressing the heels of her hands to her temples. “You have no idea the memories that brings back.”
“I wouldn’t think a photo shoot could be that bad,” Rep said.
“Mine was a video,” Cantwell said. “They had me sit at a cocktail table in an evening gown and smoke. They had these extra-long cigarettes, and I had to light a new one anytime the one I was smoking burned down too far. By the time I got through I was a walking surgeon general’s report. Splitting headache, raw throat, sick to my stomach—I swore I’d never smoke again.”
“You’ve sure gotten over that,” Kuchinski said.
“Only when I’m getting paid. Or drinking. Or sometimes after a rich meal. Or, you know, when—”
“Right, got it,” Kuchinski said. “Who was the cat doing the video?”
“That was actually some flatlander, believe it or not.”
“Chicagoan,” Kuchinski explained, noticing Rep’s baffled expression.
“A Chicago studio had to come to Milwaukee to find pretty girls smoking cigarettes?” Rep asked incredulously.
“They were going for a certain look,” Cantwell explained. “Fresh scrubbed, girl-next-door, nonthreatening—you know, Erin from Happy Days being naughty instead of Madonna relaxing after a three-way.”
“I’m guessing you didn’t take a gig like that on spec,” Kuchinski said. “How did they get your name?”
Plunging her hand into her purse, Cantwell pulled out a Palm Pilot whose stylus and thumb-wheel she began energetically using. After well over a minute she paused, frowned thoughtfully, then gestured for a pen.
“I’ve narrowed it down to three,” she said, as Kuchinski handed her an efficient-looking Parker. “One of these guys called me for a clothes-on calendar shoot with a smoking theme that I couldn’t do. I gave him a couple of referrals that worked out, so he tipped the video to me to say thanks.”
Rep offered her a business card to write on, but she waved it off in favor of a cocktail napkin.
“This may be a yuppie bar, but it’s still a bar, and I’m old school.”
She passed the napkin to Kuchinski and, in almost the same motion, downed the rest of the scotch in one impressive swallow.
“Thanks for the drink,” she said, rising. “Back to work.”
“Well,” Kuchinski said as with painstaking concentration he studied her return to the bar, “we’ve got ourselves a start.”