A-List For A Flash

He’d wondered what that card meant in his mailbox.

“I hope you enjoyed being on the other end of the camera.”

This was a few days earlier.

Now, looking at the picture in the unmarked envelope of him in the middle of a little foreplay with his editor’s wife, he got more than a hint.

Because the note was very specific.

“This is the only one I could stomach looking at again without vomiting,” the typed letter said, “But I have copies of all of them. Right from start to, I’m sure, unsatisfying (for her) finish.

“We need to talk. Leave your mail flag up when you’re ready to. I’ll drop you another note. But do it soon. My patience is thin.”

But he was all set to just blow it off until Preston’s problems hit the headlines.

His lawyer’s face was on the front page of Variety. TOP LAWYER FOR PIX GETS NICKED, it said.

It went into as much detail as a somewhat family oriented rag could. How all the insider trading came to light, and the mistress over in Malibu, who was all too eager to cooperate with the feds before they began looking into her, of course.

But all of that could’ve made him just another cliche in a Jay Leno monologue if it wasn’t for the pictures these people said could go on his hard drive.

“‘We don’t really want you,’ they told me,” he said when they met after he got the picture in the mailbox, “‘Get Scotty to take the meeting, maybe some things go away.’”

And he started even to disregard this. People tried to take him down before. Paparazzi have such a bad rap, and why? He told himself that people like him are a public service. That “we help those pampered A-listers get famous.”

So he decided his lawyer was a big boy. He wasn’t letting anyone push him around.

Until the guys showed up to stand next to him at the next premiere. One of them even let him touch the gun under his coat.

“Time to go home,” he said, “and consider your future moves.”

He put the flag up after the mailman left the next day.

The next day’s note read, “Brown Derby. 3 p.m. Dinner’s on you.”

He was stunned after he showed up the next day. She was already waiting for him.

Her face was completely different from when she was famous. The hair was cropped short, fully gray, even though he knew she was still quite young.

But there was no doubt who it was.

And that she was very angry.

“You know what,” he said, throwing down his credit card, “Do what you want. You can’t hurt me.”

She reached out and snatched his arm.

“I heard you tried to pull that with Desiree, and I’m not falling for it. Not to mention, you don’t have leverage on me anymore. Don’t know if you heard, scumbag, but she jumped off a bridge a week ago. Sit down!”

He sat down. “I’m sure there’s something I can do. I know everyone, and I have eyes everywhere.”

“I’ve been back home in North Carolina since you ruined me. What can you possibly do to me now?”

“I hear there’s still people who, well, frown on your lifestyle,” he said. “Probably even more in good ol’ Dixie, am I right?”

“Love is love,” she said, a shark’s smile on her lips, “but revenge is a sheer joy. Moving down the ladder, aren’t we, by the way? Desiree caught you with a studio head’s wife. You can only pull your spineless boss’s lady now?”

“He needs me more than he needs her,” he said, “I get the best shots of the hottest stars. I think you’ve run out of cards to play. Go home.”

“You’re getting old, Scotty,” she said, “Time to retire.”

“Why should I? Out of sheer curiosity, Jasmine, I’ll sit back down. Thrill me.”

“I have eyes, too, Scotty. They’ve seen you, and what you do. All the people you’ve screwed for years, that you’ve helped to embarrass, all for a quick buck--”

“I’m a journalist, you crazy---”

The whole restaurant turned towards him, and he sank back down.

“You’re a worthless piece of opportunistic garbage, and we’ve had it. If this isn’t enough for you, Johnny Carmone’s family is prepared to convince you further.”

“That crackpot? Who would believe him over me?”

“His family and that should scare you. Especially since they are very good at what they do. You didn’t listen when they asked you to back off. Or when you managed to survive them cutting your brake lines. In fact, our little group is the only thing keeping them from offing you now.”

“It’s not my fault he went loony. Or that Desiree didn’t learn how to play the game. Or that you--”

“Like both girls and guys?,” she said, genuine smile now, “True. But it is your fault you exploited all of us. But we want you to stop now. And we want you to suffer.”

“Then have Johnny’s buddies break my knees or something.”

“You won’t learn,” she said, “and that would heal. If we make you give up this job, now, that would hurt forever.”

“How about money? I’ve got some saved up. Three ways, it’ll help all of you. I’m sure Johnny’s got bills at that hospital he’s in.”

“We thought about it. We don’t want money, then we’d be as bad as you. And we’d rather you not be dead, because you having to quit will be pain enough.

“But that’s where we are, Scotty. Retire...or be exposed and then die.”

She stood up, tossed $50 on the table.

“For your retirement meal. Or your last one. Totally your call.”

He changed his name.

He changed his look.

He even changed his field. Went to shooting pictures for art in New York. Freelancing for magazines as a photojournalist. Had a opening at a art gallery in SoHo for a new coffee table book.

All he knew was taking pictures.

Sure, the money sucked. Sure, it didn’t get the attention, the rush, that being a paparazzi did.

He tried to kid himself, but he was working out ways to get back.

The night of his gallery show, he stood there, looking proud and feeling miserable.

Lots of beautiful people “oohed” and “aahed” over his pictures. Some famous ones, too. His trigger finger was itchy.

One stunning redhead in sunglasses across the room caught his eye. So he was definitely intrigued when she motioned him over.

He was less intrigued when she lowered the glasses.

And he saw Jasmine yet again.

“We’re watching you, Desmond. Keep making lovely art. It’s so...safe.”