“Dead? How can he be dead? I just talked to him a couple of days ago,” Stephanie asked Harry’s secretary in disbelief. “What happened?”
“Heart attack. It was all so sudden. He just keeled over yesterday at the breakfast table. Poor Harry.”
Poor Harry? He’s dead; nothing bothers him anymore. What about me? Stephanie had the hottest tip she’d had in a long time, and Harry Grain was too dead to hear it, let alone print and pay her for it. Was there no justice in this world? How could Harry die without clueing her in that he was even sick? Some people are so fucking thoughtless!
“I’ll be in with Carl if you need me,” Stephanie said, referring to the paper’s editor. Carpe diem. Seize the moment, she thought. Harry’s sudden departure meant his job was wide open, and Stephanie had no intention of leaving until she put her own bid in to replace the man. She practically sprinted through the newsroom to get to Carl’s office.
“Carl?” Stephanie asked, sticking her head in the editor’s door.
“Visa, come on in. I’m glad you’re here. I was planning to get in touch with you myself this afternoon.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I know you’re as upset as the rest of us about the loss of Harry Grain.”
“In more ways than one, Harry’s death leaves a void in all our lives.”
“Harry spoke very highly of your work. He seemed to think that you have all the instincts necessary to be a fine celebrity reporter.”
“If I do, it’s only because those instincts were honed under Harry’s tutelage. He was the best teacher a young reporter could ever hope to have.”
“Visa, I’d like you to take over ‘The Grain Harvest’ column—on a trial basis—one column a week for the next six months. After that, we’ll see how things are going. If they go as well as I hope, ‘The Grain Harvest’ will become yours. We’ll even rename it.”
“I’m honored, though slightly intimidated. Harry left some big footprints to fill,” Stephanie said, quickly calculating the man-hours necessary to continue her work at WJ&A and write the column. She immediately abandoned the task, knowing that if taking this job meant that she had to work around the clock, she’d do it.
“I’m confident you’ll find a way to blaze your own trail.”
“I will definitely do my best to leave my mark. You can count on that,” she promised.
Stephanie waltzed into the Mad Hatter, stepped up to the bar, and ordered herself a split of the house champagne. She had a lot to celebrate. Not only was the additional income going to come in handy, this job was just what she needed to get her plan in motion. Now that she had complete editorial control over “The Grain Harvest,” Stephanie’s plan to keep Gabrielle’s personal life in the papers could begin in earnest.
This was her first time in the Mad Hatter since the initial months following her breakup with Jack Hollis. Prior to coming, Stephanie had thought she was finally over Jack, but now, sitting at the very bar where they met, the memories—both pleasant and painful—came crashing back. It was evident by the ache in Stephanie’s heart that even after nearly three years, she still missed him. She’d had a few marginal relationships in the years following Jack, but none could fill the black hole his absence had created in her life.
Stephanie threw a few peanuts into her mouth and ground them into paste. She swallowed, gulping down with them any self-pity or anger she still harbored over Jack. Nothing was going to spoil her great afternoon. She had a second job doing what she loved—writing—and a new personal goal—authoring Gabrielle’s biography. Now, if she could just find a place to live and a new man, life would seem almost fair. When her drink was delivered, she lifted the glass and silently congratulated herself for her recent good fortune.
“Celebrating?” asked the guy sitting on the stool next to her. Stephanie looked into the face of a rather plain, though not unattractive man. All in all, his face was common, rather forgettable, in fact, except for his eyes. Stephanie had never seen such strange and eerie-looking eyes before. They were the color of a pale-blue aquamarine, with very small pupils that had a way of gazing through you. If the eyes were the window to one’s soul, then this man appeared spiritless.
“Yeah,” Stephanie said, anxious to share her good news with someone. “I just accepted a new job. One I’ve wanted for quite a while.”
“Congratulations. It’s good to hear that at least one person in this city has a job they like.”
“I take it you don’t.”
“Not most days.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a photographer.”
“What do you shoot? Weddings? Bar mitzvahs?” Stephanie asked. He seemed like the type you’d find working at the portrait studio at Sears, though those spooky eyes of his could scare even Pugsley Addams.
“Nah, I don’t do crap like that. I’m more of what you might call a celebrity photographer, you know, part of New York’s paparazzi.”
“Howie Joseph. And you are?”
“Stephanie.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Howie said with all sincerity, his eyes locking on Stephanie’s for a split second, before she looked away. “Why are you celebrating by yourself?”
“It’s like that sometimes.”
“Let me buy you a drink. An attractive woman like you shouldn’t have to celebrate happy times alone.”
“Thank you. In fact, why don’t we grab a table? You can sit down and tell me all about yourself. One never knows when one will need a good photographer, does one?” Stephanie remarked with a sly grin.
Stephanie and Howie carried their drinks to a secluded corner in the back of the bar. After several hours of conversation and drinks, Howie’s eyes appeared less spooky and Stephanie began to find him creatively appealing. Howie Joseph and Stephanie Bancroft had a lot in common. Both the photographer and the writer planned to establish their own celebrity by chronicling the lives of the already or about-to-be famous. Both were desperate to be recognized for their work and to feast on the fruits of fame. But perhaps the greatest thing Howie and Stephanie had in common was their uncanny ability to dismiss any discomfort or pain that doing their respective jobs might cause others.
By evening’s end the pact between them was sealed. Both had found their professional soul mates. Not only did they agree to work together to help further each other’s career, Howie had the solution to Stephanie’s housing problem—the second bedroom in his apartment. They left the Mad Hatter together, headed back to Brooklyn to pick up Barclay and pack up a few of Stephanie’s belongings, and took them over to Howie’s apartment in a gritty part of Brooklyn known as Dumbo (Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass), a haven for artists, photographers, actors, and writers. The apartment had two bedrooms and one usable bath; the other Howie had turned into a darkroom. It was sparsely furnished—a couch, coffee table, and a couple of chairs in the living room, a bed and dresser in each bedroom.
“How can you afford this place?” Stephanie inquired. The unit was a virtual mansion by New York standards.
“Well, for one thing, it’s rent-controlled, and I also kind of lied to you in the bar,” Howie admitted. “I do shoot weddings and bar mitzvahs, even birthday parties when I’m forced to.”
“Well, roomie, stick with me and those times will fade like an old Polaroid. From now on we’re on the celebrity watch.”
“You’re sure about this?”
“You just keep me supplied with exclusive photos, and we’ll be okay. Remember, though, nobody can know that we’re working together.”
“Not a problem. Keeping secrets is a skill I mastered long ago.”
“I hope, for your sake, you’re as good as you say.”
“I am,” Howie told her matter-of-factly. “Now, when do we get started?”
“Tomorrow’s soon enough for me.”
“Great. I’d like to get out and see what the elusive Mrs. Bessette-Kennedy is up to.”
“Forget Carolyn. There’s a model I want you to concentrate on for a while.”
“I like models. Which one?”
“Gabrielle Donovan.”
“Yes!” Howie shouted joyfully. “Following Gabrielle around will be my pleasure. She’s with First Face, right? I’ll need to get some leads on her schedule.”
“Don’t bother. I can get you all the information you need.”
“How do you know Gabrielle?”
“We have mutual friends. Just make sure you get me some good stuff. I want pictures of everything. I want to know where she goes and who she sees when she’s not working. If she’s jogging, I want a picture. If she’s out partying, I want a picture. Hell, anything short of her sitting on the toilet, I want to see it captured on film.”
“Why all the interest in Gabrielle?”
“Here’s our first secret: I have big plans for us, Howie. We’re gonna put together a nice little book on Ms. Donovan—a book that, if done right, will bring us both a lot of money and recognition. Only, nobody knows this yet, not even Gabrielle, so let’s keep it that way. Now, are you interested? Do you think you can get me what I need?”
“You don’t worry about that. I’m good, and I’m persistent. I can sniff out a celebrity shot from a mile away.”
“Well, can you sniff me out something to eat? I’m starving.”
“No problem. One ham and cheese, coming up.”
While her new roommate and business partner headed for the kitchen to fix her a sandwich, Stephanie checked out the view from the living-room window. Today had turned out to be a damned good one. Everything was looking up. She now had a place to live—granted it wasn’t the snobby East Side, but it was clean and affordable—plus she was surrounded by fellow artisans. And Howie Joseph was just what she needed to set her plan in motion. If a picture was worth a thousand words, the combination of Howie’s pictures and her words had to be priceless.