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    Photoplay
    T HERE WERE MIRRORS everywhere in Elenor Nichol’s house, reflecting the perfection of the glamorous movie star’s life. It would be a challenge, Duane Foley thought as he dropped his camera bag in the front hall, to keep the flash from bouncing off them, wreaking havoc with the carefully composed shots he had been hired to take during the party.
    Duane lit a cigarette, inhaled, and gave a wet cough as he stooped to check his gear. He was winded from lugging his camera bag up the long driveway from the carport near the bottom of the driveway off Sunset, where they’d asked him to park. Felt like he’d run a mile by the time he’d finally reached the front steps of the white house with its colonnade and Palladian windows—­ Gone with the Wind meets Giant , with a cast to match.
    This gig was more than a few cuts above his usual: stalking celebrities and taking pictures “on spec,” as they said in Hollywood. Maybe he’d find a buyer, maybe the celebrity would pay him not to. His most fruitful venue was Holiday House, Malibu’s exclusive celebrity hangout. His best get so far was Frank Sinatra and Juliet Prowse, walking arm in arm through the parking lot. Not because their affair was secret, but because the picture showed how much she towered over him. That same day, on a roll, Duane had snuck into the restaurant and scored a close-­up of Jack Kennedy and Marilyn all lovey-­dovey over dinner, only to have a pair of goons tackle him in the parking lot and smash his camera. Wiped out his profit on Frankie. Some days it was zero-­sum game.
    Duane checked his watch and stubbed out his cigarette in the base of a potted palm. The party was supposed to have started at nine, five minutes ago, but he still had plenty of time to prep his gear. Anyone who was anyone would be fashionably late.
    He loaded both of his cameras with fresh film and checked that he had new batteries within easy reach. Stashed one camera in the bag that he’d strap across his chest. Hung the other around his neck, and raised it to his face.
    He aimed the viewfinder through the arched doorway into the living room, adjusted the speed, and focused, trying to capture the scale of the two-­story space. The barrel-­vaulted ceiling made the elaborately carved gilt chairs, flanked by marquetry-­inlaid end tables, look like toys. Plush couches covered in floral brocade nestled on white wall-­to-­wall, and a gleaming white grand piano stood silent in the far corner.
    Empty opulence. Click.
    A single black maid in a black uniform and starched white apron came into the room and started setting out ashtrays. Duane took out his other camera, turned off the flash, and adjusted the light settings. Click. That one was for himself. He loved the contrast, the single dark figure, slightly blurred because of the low film speed, bent over her work in the vast white space.
    The maid had started to dust the top of an end table when she stopped, mid-­wipe. She tilted her head and gazed overhead. Duane heard it, too. Raised voices. A man’s, then a woman’s, the words muffled. A heavy thump. Then the crash of a door being slammed open and the man’s voice clearly audible. “ Puta . You think I don’t know?”
    The woman’s voice: “You’re a fine one to be accusing . . .”
    A door slammed again and the voices muted. Overhead, the crystals of the massive chandelier hanging in the entry hall tinkled as they vibrated against one another.
    The maid glanced at Duane impassively and went back to her work. Duane put away his backup camera and also went back to work, this time focusing on the massive painting over the fireplace on the opposite wall, a life-­sized portrait of Bunny, as Elenor was better known, seated on one of those gilt chairs, wearing a chiffon Greek-­goddess gown the same color as those famous eyes. Peacock blue. Was it possible that eyes