Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 1, February 1961

“I try to buy the pictures off the guy, but he won’t sell,” Delaney’s voice was soft. He kept his eyes on spaniel eyes while his hands slowly stretched and ironed the ten spot on the counter. “So we toss the breeze some more, and I say I’m coming to L.A. Then the guy tells me he got the pictures here.

“ ‘Film Enterprises on Cahuenga,’ he tells me. ‘There’s a sharp cookie on the counter who knows the score,’ he says.”

Spaniel eyes shook his head regretfully. Then it seemed he owned a pair of hands. They appeared on the edge of the counter with softly white, spatulate fingers which crept towards the bill, then retreated. Only they wanted to creep out to the bill again, and their owner had to pull them back. He said:

“The guy gave you a bum steer. He sold you a three dollar bill, mister.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” Delaney protested quickly, pained surprise in his voice. “He was a right guy.”

“Look, mister,” spaniel eyes interrupted flatly, “we don’t sell nothin’ here. This is a processin’ plant. We develop negatives. Print positives. Black and white, or full color.”

Delaney grunted. He turned the bill over and began to iron the other side. He said, “What d’you take me for — a square?”

White, spatulate fingers did an adagio along the edge of the counter while spaniel eyes tried to read Delaney’s face, then watched Delaney’s hand move back and forth over the green pattern.

Delaney said: “So I come to L.A. and rent an apartment in a dump on DeLongpre. I get a 4 x 5 Graflex and some film packs. For lighting, I get a couple of floods and a baby spot. I get a lot of ideas and I think I’m in business. But I need a model.”

“You slay me,” spaniel eyes licked his lips and swallowed. When his adams apple stopped bouncing, he added, “I’m screaming with sorrow for you.”

“There’s a model in one of the pictures the guy showed me I could really go for,” Delaney lowered his voice and leaned closer. “Beautiful. I mean she’s really thrown together. Guy said her name’s Doris, or Iris, or something like that. You know her?”

“You kiddin—?” spaniel eyes sneered, but he avoided meeting Delaney’s gaze.

Delaney moved his hands from the bill and let them rest palms up on the counter. He said:

“Guy tells me there’s a book under the counter with pictures of girls in it. Lots of girls. Names, addresses, phone numbers, everything. How about it?”

“This guy seems to know a hell of a lot,” spaniel eyes complained, white, spatulate fingers very still on the edge of the counter. “He have a name?”

Delaney slowly shook his head and looked away. When he looked back, the ten spot was gone.

“Okay. You couldn’t know all that ’thout talkin’ with somebody who did,” spaniel eyes came up from under the counter with a book in his hands. “So I’ll take a chance on you. But of all the screwy approaches — that beats anything I ever heard.”

Delaney grinned.

The book was a black, three ring binder, and the fillers were cheap, lined paper. On each page was pasted a 5 x 7 glossy print of a nude girl. A different girl on every page, and lots of pages. Each girl had struck a pose calculated to show to best advantage her most outstanding attractions. All of the “studies” were full figure: some girls faced the camera directly, others didn’t, but none of them were suffering from an excess of modesty.

Under each picture were neatly typed the girl’s statistics. Under each description were her name, address and phone number... Selma... Ruth... Gladys... Cynthia...

And Delaney leafed the pages slowly, pausing to comment on one girl, then another.

Dorothea... Frances... Mildred... Mavis...

Delaney snapped his fingers in simulated excitement. “That’s the one. That’s the babe! Mavis. How do I go about lining her up?”

“You don’t. Not if it’s the chick I think it is.” Spaniel eyes turned the book around to see.

“Why not?” Delaney groaned.

“She’s moved. Week or so ago, she up and disappears. I get calls for her, and I’m tryin to contact her. See? I go way out to Sawtelle where her address is,” white, spatulate fingers tapping the page, sliding caressingly over the picture of Mavis, “but she’s gone.”

Delaney began to curse under his breath.

“Wait—! I’m tryin to tell you,” spaniel eyes complained, eager to please, having committed himself. “Yesterday I get a call from her. From Mavis. She’s in Long Beach, and she’s on her way back here. But she’s gotta find a place to live. An address. And a phone. She tells me she’s coming in as soon as she gets located. And she wants a job right away. Needs the dough.

“So you’re it, mister. Come back tomorrow or the next day. I’ll fix you up.”

“Swell,” Delaney grinned. “Like the guy said — there’s a smart cookie on the counter. Thanks.”