Black Diaries

38. Paparazzi

What...? A camera?

My right foot, hovering about five inches above the man's hand, hesitated.

"Um... just to make sure, you are a mugger, right?"

"No!" he wheezed.

"Oh." I hesitated again. "Then why did you jump out at me like that?"

"I... I just wanted to take your picture!"

My eyes narrowed. Any pity I might have felt for the man lying in front of me evaporated instantly. "Did you, now?" Cautiously, I lowered my foot until it rested on his hand, just hard enough to let him know how things were going down, like I had seen gangsters do on TV. "Why?"

"It's just a picture! If you let me get up—"

I pressed down.

"Ouch!"

"Why do you want to take my picture?" I demanded, and then added as an afterthought: "You miserable scumbag!" Hm... this gangster stuff was actually kind of fun.

"Can you take your foot off my hand please?"

"Why?" I demanded, trying to lower my voice to a threatening level. But I didn't quite manage the Don Corleone imitation I was going for. "Why did you want a picture of me?"

"All right, all right! Because it's worth ten-thousand dollars with one of the big papers!"

I lost my balance and put all my weight on my right foot to not fall on my face.

"Oooooowww!"

"Oops! Sorry." Forgetting for a moment that I was supposed to be the tough guy here, I took my boot off his fingers and he rolled over, cradling his hand against his chest.

"Argh! You... dammit! You...!"

"You can't be serious! Ten thousand dollars for a picture of me?"

"I'm serious! The offer just got out this morning!"

Stepping over the photographer I regarded myself in the mirror glass exterior of the nearest skyscraper. I was wearing black jeans, a fashionably black blouse and a jacket which was dark blue but which, under poor light conditions, might actually appear rather black. My face—my own, nice but perfectly ordinary face—was looking back at me with a puzzled expression.

"Why?" I asked. "I mean, I look all right, but ten thousand dollars? I don't look that good!"

Don't you? Elliot said yesterday that you look like a million dollars. Maybe he meant it literally. You never know with men.

"Why the hell should I care?" The paparazzi groaned. "I don't even know who you are! I just get paid to take pictures of you! And I regret I ever said yes to that deal, you crazy bitch!"

"Hey!" Whirling back around to face him, my foot caught him right in the chest as he wanted to sit up. I smashed him back down onto the pavement. "Mind what you're saying when you're talking to a lady! Didn't your mother teach you manners?"

"My mother can go fuck herself! And so can y—"

"Hey! Mind your language!"

"I'll say whatever I damn well please, you crazy—"

He cut off abruptly when suddenly, the point of a knife appeared at his throat. From the other end of the knife, I smiled down at him.

"You were saying?"

He uttered a noise that sounded something like "Ngrrrgg..."

"Yes?" I encouraged.

His eyes wandered from my face, to the knife at his throat and back to my face. I met his wide-open eyes head-on.