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"Yeah?" he said. He gave me the sort of look I'm sure lambs like to give wolves, which was pretty fucking funny given my history with the paparazzi. But I forced a smile on my face.
"Yeah," I replied. "I need you to help me break the legs off this table. You think you can do that?"
He squinted across the street, peering into the alley where I'd been ineffectually tugging at the dining room table for several minutes. My hands were so cold that any touch sent little spears of pain through my fingers. Meanwhile Mr. Paparrazo Moneybags had a pair of thick gloves.
"Why?" he asked.
I shrugged. "Does it matter?"
He grinned without humor. "Yeah, it matters if you're gonna knock my block off with one of those table legs."
I arched an eyebrow. "Is there a reason I should?"
"Oh. Oh, no. Of course not. I'm just saying..."
I was certain now that he was one of the photographers that took pictures of Anton and me during our more intimate moments. But whatever. I had worse things to deal with now. "I'm going to use it to make a sculpture," I said. "I need it to hold up my clay."
He looked faintly surprised. "Oh, you're an artist?" he said.
"Starving," I told him. "Didn't you read all the profiles on me in the papers?"
He shrugged. "Nah, I just take pictures."
"Right. So. Want to help?"
He appeared to consider this for a moment. It probably sounded an awful lot like work to some guy who spent all his time hanging out around famous people's apartments hoping to catch a shot of them in their skivvies. But after a second he nodded. "Yeah, all right," he said.
The work went a lot easier with his help. His name was Jake and he was a skinny guy, but he could kick like a mule, and in less than ten minutes we had the legs off the table and I was moving on to the next dumpster. He fell in beside me, since we were apparently friends now.
"So," he said after about half a block, "what are you making?"
"A sculpture," I said.
"Yeah, I know that," he told me. "What kind?"
"I'm not telling you," I said. "You'll just tell whoever writes those little blind items or whatever and then it won't be a surprise."
"It's a surprise?"
To more than just you, I thought. "Yeah, it's a surprise," I told him. "A nice surprise for good little paparazzi who take pictures of me naked."
He blushed red at that. "Hey, I never took pictures of you naked," he said.
"But you have taken pictures of me?" The spanking pictures maybe?
"I plead the fifth."
I shook my head. The damage was done. And it didn't really matter now anyway. "Well, stick around. Maybe you'll see what I'm making."
"Can I take pictures of it?"
I slowed down. I hadn't thought about that. An idea started to form in my head.
"Yeah..." I said after a minute. "You can. You can take pictures while I'm making it, even."
"Do you sculpt in your underwear?"
I pursed my lips. "I'm sure I can make it worth your while. Maybe it'll be a nice juicy tidbit for the tabloids. Recently Estranged Wife of Billionaire Businessman... I don't know... Goes Mad or whatever."
