Free A Penny for the Hangman by Tom Savage Page B

dark-haired Caucasian, handsome in a lupine sort of way. He rather towered as he smiled down at her. He was wearing baggy gray cargo pants, sneakers, and a brand-new white T-shirt emblazoned on the front with a message in bold black letters:
i slept on a virgin (island)
. Witty. He had what looked to be a pack of cigarettes and a pair of sunglasses in the pocket of the shirt, and a small, expensive-looking camera hung from a strap around his neck. She gestured toward the couch beside her, and he sat.
    She looked at her watch: 11:45. “We have a few minutes to wait, so I can tell you what I need this afternoon. A few shots of the subject and maybe a few shots of his home, if he consents to it. To tell you the truth, I’m not even certain he’ll allow you to photograph
him
. He’s a very private man. But try to get shots anyway. I assume you know how to do that without his knowledge, if necessary.” She gestured toward the camera. “Is that all your equipment?”
    “Sure. It’s all I need. Best camera on the market—for this kind of work.” Don Price grinned, and the flash of teeth told her that surreptitious surveillance was something he enjoyed. He was apparently what her friend Gwen would call an “operator.” Karen wasn’t at all sure she was going to like him. Well, so be it, she thought, as long as he does his job….
    They fell into an uncomfortable silence, and Karen leaned back on the couch and kept an eye on the front entrance, glancing over at her companion every now and then with a brief, empty smile. She wondered if she should be attempting to make small talk with him, then decided it wasn’t necessary. She didn’t mind his silence—quite the contrary. But one question did occur to her:
If you live here, in the sun-and-fun capital of the world, why are you so pale?
Glancing at him again, she thought better of asking it.
    For his part, Don Price didn’t seem at all curious as to where they were going this afternoon. In that way, he reminded her of all the photographers she’d worked with at the magazine. Silent observers, most of them, always setting up the next shot in their minds, framing it, checking light levels and shutter speeds.
    She’d spoken with Jim on the phone last night, asking him for advice on what she should wear to the interview. He’d laughed.
“Demure young journalist meets tropical climate”
—those had been his words. Karen glanced down at her short-sleeved, pale blue cotton blouse and slim-fit jeans over new underwear, with white sport socks and sneakers. Neat and sensible, plain and simple. She had a digital recorder in her shoulder bag with her cell phone, but after some thought, she’d left her laptop in her room. It would be enough to record him, maybe take some pen-and-paper notes, and type it all up tonight when she returned to the hotel. This was her usual procedure with face-to-face interviews.
    The sudden shadow falling on her brought her out of her reverie, back to the hotel lobby. She and Don Price looked up to see a big man standing before them. Just over six feet tall, he was powerfully built, thick and muscular. He was dark-haired, bearded, and deeply tanned, and his dark eyes were widely spaced above his wide nose. There was little indication where his neck ended and his head began. She guessed he was in his mid-fifties, but it was hard to tell; there was something oddly youthful about him. The massive quality of his body was tempered by his clothing—jeans, sneakers, and a loud Hawaiian shirt festooned with palm fronds—and by the wide smile as he leaned down to her.
    “Ms. Tyler? I’m Carl Graves. Are you ready to go?”
    “Yes, I’m ready,” she replied. “This is Don Price, from the
Daily News
. He’s coming, too.”
    The man glanced over at Don Price, noting the camera, and nodded. He extended a meaty hand, and the two men shook.
    “Well, we’re off,” Graves said. “Your host is waiting.”
    “And who is our host?” Karen asked as she