It was a name he made up for himself, Weecho, still using it at nineteen, a photographer now trying to make good for what happened that morning he took those shots of the crash.
He’d been walking a pot-holed street out in Queens, under the elevated BQ Expressway, scoping backgrounds for a grunge band poster, camera in one hand, cell phone to his ear.
“You’ll look right at home here,” he said, “a real stinkhole.” He had street in his voice, a little roll to his moves. “I’m thinking black and white, shoot you guys against a green screen, stick you in wherever. Or we can come back out here, soak up the glamour.”
A grunge guitarist in Greenpoint name of Sludge, a Gibson slung over one tattooed shoulder, had stepped away from band practice to take Weecho’s call. “Flannery says the papers could pick it up, get you some nice ink.”
“Flannery happen to mention money?”
“I’m sorry, what’d you say?”
“I’ll call you later.”
Weecho shook his head and thumbed his cell off, stuck it in his pocket and went back to taking pictures. The neighborhood was for all intents done – shut-down factories collecting soot, stripped cars rusting where they were dumped… Basically the look he was going for.
He took a few shots of this and that building, checking them on the Canon’s LCD screen, liking the edgy shadows. He clicked his way down the empty sidewalk, eye out for maybe some decent tags, stepped around the front of a trailer truck backed into an alley.
The guy in sunglasses and ball cap behind the wheel was the only other face around, didn’t look pleased when Weecho casually pointed his lens at the rig.
“Get that thing outta here,” the guy growled.
Before he could do anything about it, another truck came bombing out of nowhere, a container truck with a DIPLOMATIC CARGO sticker on its side.
Chasing the truck, maybe a block behind, was a speeding black Mercedes.
Weecho had his camera up, started shooting.
Behind him, the guy in the alley goosed his engine. Weecho turned, saw him pulling out, pointing the 18-wheeler toward a BQE pillar across the street.
The container truck flew by, missing the 18-wheeler by maybe a foot, disappearing down the street.
Weecho panned with the 18-wheeler stretching across the street and then stopping, nose to the pillar, cutting off the Mercedes coming up fast.
The Mercedes didn’t have a chance, went into a screeching sideways slide.
The air filled with a booming crash, sparks bursting, glass flying, car crunching itself into a scrapheap halfway under the trailer.
All this Weecho was seeing through the viewfinder while he kept on shooting.
The 18-wheeler’s cab wasn’t touched. The driver, still in his shades and ball cap, jumped to the pavement and jogged back to a Nissan SUV, a blue one, squealing to a stop next to what was left of the Mercedes.
The SUV driver’s door swung open and another guy got out, him too in a ball cap and shades, plus he had this little tuft, a soul patch on his chin. He stepped over to the mangled Mercedes, pulling on a pair of gloves. Yanked open the twisted rear door enough to squeeze partway inside. Weecho could see him snaking around in there, got a shot of him coming back out with a laptop, the cover smeared with blood.
The soul patch guy was taking it to the SUV when the truck guy stopped him and pointed.
“Kid’s got a camera.”
YOU ARE READING
Weecho: First Shots
Novela JuvenilA hot young photographer shoots a conspiracy murder, has cops and the killer chasing after those pictures, hooks up with a fugitive punk girl to cover his back.
