Arrow's Rest by Joel Scott (best books to read all time .TXT) 📗

and choose her assignments. She’d agreed to shoot the Toronto International Film Festival twice, and God knew what a pain those prima donnas could be, but you had to draw the line somewhere, and she didn’t do political. Not ever.

But Reese had pleaded and begged. He’d paid a small fortune for the exclusive lobby shoot. There was no one else available who could do the job. David was sick, Ellie suddenly called away to L.A., and Matt, well, who knew. Probably lying in a gutter somewhere stoned out of his mind, and, greater sin, with his cell phone turned off. Reese had even manufactured a small sob near the end. She stopped him just as the little weasel was set to drop to his knees and said she’d do the shoot for double her usual rate.

If you were going to sell out, sell high.

She’d done some research for the evening ahead, she always did. Even though she only took pictures and never wrote a single line of copy, she felt that knowing something about her subjects made for better photographs. Her research never affected her shots — well, maybe that one time when she’d intentionally shot that fascist French bitch from her bad side — but she felt unprepared when she didn’t do it. And there was no doubt that James Albright was an interesting study.

Cat had come across a clip from one of his rallies on the late news one night and found herself vaguely disturbed by the event, from that first fist-pumping entrance down the red carpet surrounded by his uniformed security team to the applause-punctuated speech that followed it. What bothered her most was not the populist speech — although it was a bit unsettling hearing that on this side of the border — but the reactions of the crowd receiving it. Many of them were wearing the arm bands his team handed out — “Albright, he’s all right” — and they shouted out the slogan at regular intervals. Sometimes they just screamed out “all right, all right” in a broad wink to their political leanings. Albright’s rallies attracted a lot of protesters and there had been several incidents where people had been injured, sometimes by the crowd and sometimes by security. Albright always deplored these incidents when they occurred, but he never actually stood up and condemned them outright.

Definitely not her cup of tea, Cat thought.

She checked her bag for lenses, flash, batteries, chargers, and all the other assorted crap you thought you’d never need until you suddenly did. She kept her kit ready to go at a moment’s notice, but it was always a comfort to have the time to make sure. The political rally (for that’s what it was — Reese could call it an exclusive dinner for the city’s finest all he wanted, but it was a goddamned political rally) started at eight. So the grand entrances would probably begin around seven thirty. That gave her an hour to get there and get organized. Reese had paid out a large bribe so she could set up early inside the spacious lobby and not have to stand outside in the weather with the rest of the rabble waiting around to shoot the city’s celebrities. Ordinarily she might have felt a little guilty about this.

She pulled on a pair of tailored jeans and blood-red ox-hide boots that sort of matched the colour of the leather jacket that was her trademark. Unruly hair twisted into pigtails and a beret over the top and she was done. She could do all this and be out the door in under ten minutes from the bunk in an emergency. The first time she’d done her quick-change call-out in front of Jared, she’d made the mistake of asking how she looked on her rush out the door.

“No worries, Pippi, you look great,” he’d said as he ducked back under the covers.

She smiled. Jared. What a jerk. She tucked her phone in her jacket pocket, grabbed her rucksack, and headed out the door.

Cat handed her card to the doorman standing by the hotel entrance and he passed her through to the good-natured jeers of the gaggle of journalists and photographers who were huddled under the canopy outside trying to stay dry. Cat threw them the good-natured finger they expected as the lobby doors closed behind her. She walked around checking the lighting and talked to the manager to make sure it wouldn’t be changed when the luminaries began to arrive. It wasn’t his first rodeo, and he took her around and made some good suggestions for entrance shots. For some reason that Cat had never understood, editors and readers always wanted pictures of the power couples sweeping into the building. Never mind that most if not all of them would have been more than happy to stand and pose for the camera. Sweeping was what was required. She refocused her attention on the manager at her side.

“So, the banquet begins at eight, there will be a brief welcome from the Party Chairman, say eight thirty for meal start. Some minor speakers while they’re being served, an informal break afterwards, and then the real dog and pony show gets going. If you’ve never heard this guy, you’re in for a treat. A real old-fashioned spellbinder. He isn’t nicknamed the Preacher for nothing. He’ll get them right up out of their chairs. The women will be throwing their knickers and the men will be throwing their wallets. Figuratively speaking of course. They say Albright considered the ministry when he was a young man, before he got into politics.”

“Great,” Cat said. “My two favourite things: religion and politics.”

“Well, it’s just politics now. I guess things didn’t work out on the religious end, although they say he gave great fire-and-brimstone back in the day. That’s when he caught the eye of the party brass, the story goes.”

Cat said, “I appreciate the background, but I just take the pictures. Greater minds than mine and all that.