Work Text:
Kodachrome
by MJ
mjr91@aol.com
The lights were dim in the West Side Manhattan apartment, allowing the guests a splendid view of Central Park West by night. The crowd, almost entirely male—a few guests were of dubious gender, let alone age—prowled around the parquet-floored living room of Raymond Armington's duplex with looks that suggested that they weren't fixed on departing with whomever had entered the apartment with them.
Armington's walls were decorated surprisingly for the guest list, with a fabulous assortment of women's photographs—Audrey Hepburn, Grace Kelly, Jackie Kennedy, and Ingrid Bergman among them. Every one, however, was an Armington original. For all his lack of interest in women sexually, Armington made his living on their beauty as one of the highest-paid photographers in the business. Fashion shoots, magazine covers, publicity shots: if any woman could look good, Armington could figure out how to do it.
Most of the women whose photos graced his walls counted him among their personal friends. Most of them had been guests of his before; a few of them had dropped in that evening on their way to the theater or to other parties. Rarely did any of them stay when Armington's parties went on late, however; although it wasn't discussed, they all knew that his male guests were waiting to meet each other when they were done fawning over Armington's princesses. More than a few of those guests weren't above borrowing one of the bedrooms, other empty rooms, or occasionally one of the closets for fast encounters with other guests, regardless of with whom they might leave; that included more than one of his women guests' husbands.
The air in the living room was heavy with cigarette smoke and whiskey that evening. Men were circulating near the food, near the bar, near the balcony, near each other. A few, mostly the prettiest younger ones, remained aloof, some lounging on chairs or the couch, one loitering with a cigarette against the wall near a portrait of Ava Gardner that Armington had done for "Photoplay." He leaned against the wall as if he were doing it a favor, sensual lips surrounding cigarette filter with an attitude that made more than one of Armington's other guests faint, heavy brows hooding dark eyes that stared back through anyone who looked at him long enough to establish eye contact. A rumpled white silk shirt was partly unbuttoned over black pants; shirt cuffs were rolled back over wiry forearms, exposing just enough skin to be unnerving. A glass of what appeared to be Scotch on the rocks dangled from his hand as he ignored everyone with sufficient disdain to be irresistible.
Another guest, an older and less prosperous fashion photographer, nudged a friend, within earshot of the younger man. "Who's the Italian beauty propping up Raymond's wall? The one over by Ava?" A cigarette in holder pointed in the direction of his gaze.
"Oh…that? That's a friend of Armand's. Gorgeous, isn't he? He's absolutely divine, Armand tells me."
"And how well does Armand know Sleeping Beauty there?"
"Biblically, dear. Biblically. But I understand that pretty-pretty over there's rather—um—generous with his favors?"
"And how would you know, if he's Armand's?"
"Because he came over one night when Armand was out and I was in—and believe me, that boy can wear kneeholes in my Aubisson carpets any time he wants, dear. Absolutely anytime. Those lips can do things you dream not of."
"Oh, can't I, Geoffrey? You just try me."
"You? I don't think so, love. Not when Raymond has decorations like that lolling around here."
The decoration, passive as he appeared to be, was taking in everything around him, including that conversation and a few similar ones going on around the room. The speakers' opinions really didn't concern him, although they did interest him mildly. He knew most of the men there one way or another; most of them bored him, and, unlike most of the younger men there, he could afford to be bored by them if he so chose. Unlike most of the younger eye candy at the party, he had a paying job during the day, although it wasn't one that was likely to take kindly to his idea of a good time in the evenings.
The job was because, unlike the mixed bag of young hustlers, would-be models and struggling chorus boys that showed up at Armington's, he actually had an education. The United States Naval Academy.
Lieutenant Al Calavicci had been shipped from Pensacola to Santa Barbara to Staten Island, and Staten Island had been good to him. Men could be found anywhere, especially in the Navy, and even more especially if you were undeniably pretty, but the posting to Staten Island had put him back in his home territory, and a home territory, at that, where other men flocked in droves to meet men like themselves. He had no objection, either moral or sexual, to women, and the fashion community in New York offered a chance to meet all the beautiful and readily available women any man could want, but it also offered an equal, and equally enticing, opportunity to be surrounded by other beautiful and readily available men.
Of the men he knew at the party, only Armington and Armand saw much of him other than at night; he'd done a little modeling for Armington, all strictly legitimate, to make a few dollars, and had fallen into bed first with Armington and then with Armand, Armington's favorite makeup artist. He saw the two of them occasionally on business, sometimes detouring from his own assignment at the naval base to work on Armington's photo shoots. The others were acquaintances from Armington's frequent dinner parties and from various beds after Armington's parties. If his looks alone hadn't been enough of an advantage in picking and choosing bedmates, his naval officer's uniform on top of the looks had assured him of almost anything he wanted.
Malcolm Briggs, the really older man across the room, the publisher, had called him the night before for the third time that month, offering to set him up in an apartment in the West Village. A shame to turn down being kept by one of the richest men in America, but you couldn't expect that kind of arrangement to last, and it would have had the drawback of actually having to sleep occasionally with Briggs, who was no prize. Besides, Al was good—damned good—at his own work as a pilot. You could never be free enough—flying was as close as you got to that. The idea of selling out as a kept boy, the major goal of most of the other younger men in the room, chafed at his nerves. He could get whoever he wanted, when he wanted them, without selling his soul to another person for an unreliable living; why should he bother?
"Come on, Geoffrey," the photographer urged. "Introduce me to Armand's friend."
Geoffrey arched an eyebrow. "You sure, Phillip? You don't need another heartbreaker."
A wave of disdain with the cigarette holder. "I may not need it, darling, but I want it."
"You and everyone else in the room. He threw over Malcolm, you know."
"Did he? Really? Oh, then he has impeccable taste—or else he's a rich boy. I must meet him at once. Move your tush, Geoffrey. Now."
Geoffrey Harrington, Beefeater and tonic firmly in hand, escorted Phillip Hedrick across to the Temple of Ava—the French Provincial side table under her portrait that held a vase of freshly cut gardenias and two retired church candlesticks that Raymond had purchased at auction in Paris—and the momentary resident acolyte smoking at its side. "Albert. Albert, darling. Phillip here is absolutely dying to meet you, and he's threatened to kill me if I fail to make a proper introduction."
The Scotch moved quickly into the left hand along with the currently-burning Chesterfield. The Chesterfield's smolder was outdone immeasurably by its owner, as brown eyes locked onto Geoffrey. A slight smile turned up at the corners of the lips. Geoffrey shuddered with the direct recollection of exactly what those lips did and how they did it. The thought went directly to his groin, and he shifted uncomfortably.
"Certainly, Geoffrey. I'd be delighted." His audience wanted arch; he could deliver arch. He'd rather crash his plane than use the same tones near another officer—well, maybe that depended on who the officer was and where he met him…but that was another matter. He extended his hand languidly, awaiting the rest of the process. He already knew who Phillip Hedrick was, but nothing was more important than observing the social amenities at these parties. What all of the men there did, who they did it with—often enough the rest of the men in that room—and however vulgar it was when no one was looking, in public the appearances were everything. He'd learned that in a week when he'd first arrived on the circuit, mostly by keeping his mouth shut and watching everyone else. It had been enough not to put him on the "A" list, for he wasn't anyone, really, but enough to put him on the "A" list's list of extra invitations, the ones that were sent to the pretty boys that the crowd like to have decorate their parties. One false move in public, and the invitations from the rich society queens dried up overnight.
"Phillip," Geoffrey continued, "do meet Albert Calavicci. Albert, darling, this is Phillip Hedrick, the society photographer." Phillip took Al's hand, clutched it in his own bony one, and squeezed. "You know who Phillip is, right?"
"Who doesn't?" Al squeezed back. Phillip Hedrick was no prize, but a night or two wouldn't hurt for the contacts; after a couple of fast fucks, he'd be able to relegate Phillip to the Saturday lunch list without offense. "That photograph of Mrs. Astor at Belmont in 'Town and Country'—beautiful work."
"You liked it?" Phillip smiled back toothily. Geoffrey was a good friend, but it paid to be seen with someone younger and better-looking at these parties, the way word got around—if this one decorated Phillip's Porthault sheets as elegantly as he was decorating Raymond's wall, he'd make a useful addition to Phillip's list of suitable party escorts. And Phillip desperately needed a new one for Truman Capote's upcoming Black and White ball. He dreaded being seen with anyone on his old list at anything Lee Radziwill was attending, especially with her sister married into the Kennedys. He wanted that White House photo shoot so badly he could taste it. "I'm so pleased. Brook is just such a joy to work with. So are you, by the way—has Raymond told you you have wonderful facial structure?" He peered more intently. "You model, don't you?"
"A few times. Not regularly."
Phillip waved his cigarette holder. "You should, you know. A good male model's hard to come by. Especially runway, though you might be just a tad taller for that, but I shoot for 'Gentlemen's Quarterly,' you know. If you're interested. Day job?"
"Yes."
"Surely they'll never miss you. I'm shooting for Christian Dior's men's collection next month. Consider it." Phillip looked at Al judgmentally. "You're no mailroom boy, you don't wait tables…do you act? Of course, you act."
Al nodded. "I have, a bit, but mostly before college. I don't do it for a living any more."
"You're not independently wealthy…you don't look like you're in law…what?"
Al shrugged, smiled, took a sip of his Scotch. He looked at Phillip from the corner of his eye. "Try Navy. I'm an officer."
Phillip clutched his chest. "My god, you don't look like a sailor. I ought to know, I've done enough of them."
Al grinned. "I'm not a sailor. Commissioned officer—I graduated from Annapolis—and I'm a flyboy. Engineering background, but I'm a pilot."
"Oh, god, my heart's going weak," Phillip moaned. "You're coming back to my place and fucking me senseless, aren't you?"
A shrug. "It could be arranged." Another quick grin. "Although I'd hate to have you leave Geoffrey all alone like that—Armand's still in Paris, isn't he?" Al was having a much better thought now. Geoffrey wasn't a bad lay at all, and he was younger and more attractive than Phillip. But there was no way, socially, to keep out of Phillip's bed. There might be a way, however, to make it a bit more pleasant, and to make everyone happy, as well as to keep his reputation—of a sort—intact as the myths about him spread.
"Yes," Geoffrey acknowledged, waiting to see Phillip shot down.
"What did you have in mind?" Phillip pursued.
Al; shrugged one shoulder carelessly and attempted to maintain no expression. "I was thinking that if your bed won't hold three, Geoffrey's certainly will."
Phillip swooned with delight. "My dear boy, I knew there was something I liked about you. What do you say, Geoffrey? Armand's nowhere around this weekend, is he?"
"He's in the Hamptons," Geoffrey acknowledged. "Doing makeup. Some Whitney cousin or another is getting married and wanted him to do her makeup." He smirked. "Albert, darling, really, you come up with the most splendid ideas. And I have a car waiting." He looked around quickly. "Ah, Freddy Carmitchell's already left, so it's safe to go now, we won't be the first ones out the door. We need to split up and make our excuses, and meet up in the lobby. Now, Albert, be a dear and don't decide to leave with someone else instead while you're making the rounds."
»»»
Sam Beckett stared blankly at the photography equipment in his hands. Seven graduate degrees, but no photography background. All he knew about cameras was "point and click", and as far as that went, he still liked Polaroids because of the instant gratification and because watching them develop was, frankly, fun. But fashion photography?
He tried desperately to remember the old Sixties reruns he'd watch late at night. He'd seen fashion shoots in those, hadn't he? He had a vague idea of how a fashion photographer should act. But taking pictures? In the old shows, they never actually adjusted any of the dials or settings, and they never instructed the audience as to what lens should be used. Or how you really posed the girls.
Thank God, there was Al. Maybe Al knew something about cameras. And he'd been around during the Sixties; he could coach Sam a bit more on being a Sixties kind of guy. But did he know anything about being a professional photographer? It struck Sam that photographers seemed to be flamboyant types—well, Al certainly knew about being flamboyant, no doubt about that…
Huh? Sam did a double-take at Al's advice. Al's usual narrations were about the women he'd known or some other hair-raising tales. But Al knew this business without asking Ziggy, without raising an eyebrow, without making a joke while he tried to come up with an answer—Al actually knew the ropes in a studio. Al's claim that he'd been in the modelling crowd in the Sixties might actually be true—but surely he'd been in the Navy at the time? No claim to dating any of these women, though—in fact, no elaboration. That wasn't like Al, who normally claimed to have gotten it on with any even half-attractive woman he wasn't directly related to.
Sam made a note to ask Al about his fashion photography knowledge sometime. Edie Landsdale's near-suicide made him forget the mental note even before the Leap ended.
»»»
"Albert. Daaaarling." The words slurred cheerily from Beatrice VanDerLooy's mouth as she waved her Manhattan at him across the dining room at "21". "Come over here like a good boy and meet someone."
Al Calavicci nodded to her, pulled a pack of Chesterfields from an immaculately tailored jacket—being in those "Gentlemen's Quarterly" shoots certainly paid in terms of free wardrobe, since one of Dior's wardrobe assistants had been paying him for "personal services" with several extraordinary gifts of the very suits he'd been modeling—and extracted one casually as he wormed his way to Bea's chair. She'd spoken the words he understood best—she'd asked him to "meet someone". "Meeting someone" always meant a chance for a free drink, a free meal, or at least one interesting evening with an even more interesting night following it. And all of those meant worming your way up the list, which meant your chances for any or all of those three things with an even more desirable person increased proportionally.
Bea, resplendent in a black Yves St. Laurent cocktail dress and a strand of pearls that could have choked an elephant, supposedly once owned by the Duchess of Windsor, handed him her own cigarette to jump-start his as she pecked him on the cheek. "Albert, darling, I love your suit. Dior, isn't it? You looked gorgeous in that last shoot; Phillip showed me the proofs. Look, darling," she said, forcing him into an empty seat beside her, "this is Baron Carlo Monchiarno. He's a friend of Lee Radziwill's, and we just escaped together from an abominably dreary dinner with her and Truman Capote. All Truman wanted to talk about, of course, was Truman." Bea flagged a waiter. "Danny, bring Albert here a dry Manhattan. Bring him a second just in case. And a third one just in case I want to switch after I see him drinking them." She leaned over to the Baron. "Carlo, did you ever see anyone look better smoking? Albert, you should do cigarette ads. Everyone will want to look like you. What do you think, Carlo?"
The Baron, a well-groomed and excessively elegant fifty, dark brown hair graying at the temples, toyed with his Hermes tie. "I wonder, my dear Mr. Albert, what else it is that you can do so attractively with such a mouth?"
Bea laughed. "Darlings," she said, "just let me get that Manhattan Danny's bringing me and I'll go annoy Margaret's table." She nudged Al with her elbow. "You know Princess Margaret's in town, right? Look over there." The entourage was in plain sight. "She'll want to meet Carlo—don't worry, I wouldn't dream of bothering you two tonight—so Carlo, I'll get you to meet her this week, if the two of you can get yourselves out of bed, that is. And bring Albert. Margaret loves to have her parties decorated properly, and that's his department."
"You are a decorator?" the Baron inquired politely as the drinks arrived.
Al shook his head. "No, I model a bit."
"Ah, I see, then you are the decoration. Farewell, cara Beatrice. Call me around noon." The Baron fussed extravagantly over her hand as she swept over to the packed table where the Queen's sister was drinking with friends. "I am staying at the Waldorf," he stated flatly to Al. "Are you quite comfortable there?"
Al lit another cigarette and gave a thin-lipped smile. "Quite comfortable."
"And at what, may I ask, are you professional besides modeling? You are not…"
Al responded rapidly in an unbroken stream of Italian. The older man backed up slightly, drawing in air. Then, as Al quieted, the other man smiled delightedly.
"Ah, I should have known by the looks. I am so sorry to have offended you with such a question. Please, let me make it up to you. You still wish to come with me tonight?"
"Yes. Of course." He had played the right card. The Baron was so embarrassed to have been slapped verbally for asking if he was a whore that he'd have to make it up to him…and that meant considerably more, in dinners, gifts, and contacts if not cash, than even the best hustler would have the nerve to charge. And Al was better than any hustler the city had seen. One Italian nobleman, who was good for at least a week's amusement and a step up the social rung, an invitation to meet Princes Margaret, and the probability of a new Patek Phillipe watch made for a reasonable night's haul. Which was all well and good, because frankly, giving Phillip Hetrick head was becoming a bore. He wondered idly if a new apartment was out of the question, between Armand and his new catch. With any luck, that threatened base transfer would never come through. And Al Calavicci was nothing if not lucky.
»»»
"Lieutenant." It wasn't a question, it was a statement to the young man in uniform. And it came from a Lieutenant Commander who was hovering over the desk at which Al was blearily cranking out a flight plan. He'd have been much more awake if only Carlo hadn't scouted him out at Geoffrey's the previous night and insisted on dragging him back to the penthouse Carlo had rented on Sutton Place. Rumor had it that the sublet came from a certain Broadway actor who was now in L.A. filming his first major movie. The actor's wife, who was usually in L.A. and who was reputedly banging her producer, supposedly wanted to keep an eye on her even more errant husband, who had a lech for chorus boys. Al knew the apartment. He'd done its primary tenant two or three times after meeting him at a cast party that Armand had dragged him to. The chorus boys, and a few girls, had been there too, but they were beneath Al's dignity. You never put out unless it moved you up.
"Lieutenant Commander."
The older officer tossed a Daily News on Al's desk. A week-old edition. It was open to Liz Smith's column. The bulk of the column was about Kitty Somerdale's last party, the one she'd thrown as a fundraiser for the New York City Opera over at Sardi's. Bea VanDerLooy had dragged him along at the last minute when her hairdresser had backed out after Jackie had asked him to come down to Washington to fix her hair. Vidal someone-or-other; Al couldn't remember the damn Brit's name. The photos were good, he had to admit—and there he was, unnamed in the caption, with Bea on one arm, a drink in the other hand, and an eye on Carter Rennesaeler, one of the curators at the Guggenheim. Carter's family only owned one investment bank, but it operated in five countries. Their summer place in Sag Harbor was only slightly smaller than Marjorie Post's beach house in Florida, and Al had been fishing for an invitation. He'd gotten more than that, as he'd hoped, but damn, that photo didn't do anything for him; he'd had three martinis before the photographer had come around. "Nice photo, Lieutenant."
"Really? I think I've looked better." Damn, that was probably the wrong thing to say.
"You seem to be in a lot of photos these days, Lieutenant," Lieutenant Commander Briggs continued, tossing two issues of "Gentlemen's Quarterly" on the desk along with it. The newer one had the Halston shoot in it. Now, Phillip had done wonders with that one.
"It's good for some extra cash," Al replied. "There a problem with my moonlighting? I haven't missed any duty time."
"I've been keeping an eye on you, Calavicci," Briggs grunted. "some damn funny people your moonlighting has you running with."
"I get invitations," Al shrugged. He pointed to the Liz Smith column. "Bea VanDer Looy is an editor at Vogue. I met her through a Christian Dior photo shoot I did. So I know her, and she asked me along. There a problem with that?"
"Oh, there's no problem with any of your lady friends, Calavicci. It's not the women you go around with, it's the men. You kinda remind me of Peter Pan—you got some fairies following you around, if you know what I mean."
Al shook himself into moderate awakeness and took a deep breath. "Look here, Sir. Just exactly what are you suggesting?"
"Nothing you ain't been doing, Lieutenant. You sleep in some pretty interesting apartments. Want me to make any bets about whose beds you were in when you were visiting?"
"What's your point, Sir? Are you trying to threaten me with a court-martial? It sounds to me as if you can't prove anything more than that I know a lot of people. Which isn't exactly against military regulations. Neither is moonlighting as a model. I can't help what some of the people in the business do."
"Oh, I'm not gonna hang you out to dry, Calavicci. You got too many friends. The Navy doesn't exactly want half of New York's society list blackballing it, and the brass don't wanna lose themselves one of their best pilots, not with what's going on down in South Asia. But let's just say I can make your life pretty fucking miserable if you don't watch it. No crime against taking an early out, is there? I can make you so miserable you'll want out the door next week."
"Look, Briggs, what the hell are you telling me?"
Briggs leaned against Al's desk with a leer. "You got two choices, you fucking fairy. You can get shipped back out to Santa Barbara or San Diego so fast it'll make your head spin, and you can kiss all your little candyass photographers and makeup boys goodbye, or you can stay right here in town with all your pansy friends. But it'll cost you."
"And what's that?"
Briggs folded his arms and stared down at Al. "Maybe it's time you tried laying that ass of yours out for a real man instead of a bunch of swishes, Lieutenant. You wanna fuck like a girl, maybe you need a man on top instead of those fairies."
Al was out of his seat before he even bothered to think about it. "Why, you fuckin' bastard—" He pinned Briggs to the desk and jammed his knee into Briggs' groin. "Like you got anything there to do it to me with, you prick." He slammed a fist into Briggs' cheek with a certain amount of satisfaction. Whatever Briggs thought, and for whatever gain Al was able to make out of the scene, he'd kept himself up and in fighting shape. He might be milking some rich cows on his own time, but he was still an officer; just because the Staten Island assignment gave a pilot enough free time to play most of the time didn't mean he'd gone soft. "You're so scared of what my society page friends think, wait until Harris Fairchild complains that a pilot ain't safe from a damned desk jockey Lieutenant Commander hitting on his ass. Don't even try calling the MP's unless you want the Secretary of the Navy's brother-in-law representing me, and he's gonna tell the board I was only protecting my ass from a rape by a superior officer, you got it?"
Briggs rose from the desk with an effort as Al backed off of him. He reached up to his face and felt for damage. "Fuck you, Calavicci, you little…"
"And a request for a Santa Barbara transfer's gonna be on the Commander's desk in the morning, Briggs," Al spat. "Sure I've been havin' fun out here, but you know, all those rich old broads you don't seem to like, they love to visit the beach. I think I can do okay pretty much anywhere—I've been doin' okay by myself since I was a kid." He walked out of the office and slammed the door.
»»»
Rear Admiral Albert Calavicci stared at a computer monitor as Ziggy flashed information to him. New York, 1964. A fashion photographer.
Boy, did that bring back memories. Imagining Sam wandering with a camera around a horde of half-naked women changing outfits—his Boy Scout of a lover was gonna get red-faced at that, all right. Not like that guy—what was his name?—Phillip; he just ignored naked female flesh. Of course, he hadn't ignored the men's. Particularly Al's, as Al recalled.
At least this time Sam was on a Leap Al had half a clue about. Good thing, he figured, because of all of Sam Beckett's talents, Al had never seen photography to be one of them. Well, if Al thought hard enough, he ought to remember enough to help Sam fake this one pretty well.
He pondered, and a few memories of his days at Staten Island came back to him with a wince.
Maybe some things weren't quite worth remembering.
end