Weecho: First Shots

Chapter 23 - Heat

Dara was beautiful, no question, didn’t flaunt it, didn’t need to. A little lean in the chest, maybe, from all the dancing, but still… She and Weecho met on the top floor of the town house, in the private dance studio that her Uncle Alex had built for her. She was wearing tights with a tiny black skirt, wanted Weecho to take pictures of her doing her ballet workout, for study purposes she said. 

She stood at the barre that ran along one wall, stretching her long legs, doing things with them Weecho didn’t think possible. When she started moving to the music she’d put on, Weecho started shooting. She was the real deal, Weecho could see, just like she was with the pistol. 

“I thought they were a little unfair with you downstairs,” Dara said, kicking high. 

“There’s a lot at stake,” Weecho said, kneeling for a better angle. 

Dara kept moving, spinning on her toes, doing graceful things with her arms. 

“Juna must have been upset.” 

“Juna thinks she’s being fired,” Weecho said. 

“Alex’s head is in a bad place.” 

“Because of Juna?” 

“Because of someone like Juna a long time ago.” 

A giant mirror ran the length of the room, covering the wall opposite the barre. Weecho got shots of Dara doing one of her flying splits, him thinking her hang-time had all-star potential. He stood at an angle to include her reflection, both of them getting into it now, more shots of her spinning, leaping, making whatever moves she felt worked with the music. When finally they took a break and leaned against the barre, Dara, breathing easy even after all that, told Weecho a story: 

“When Alex wasn’t much older than we are,” she said, “and was doing his service in Israel, he recruited an Arab girl to spy on the PLO. The two of them became lovers just before she went undercover. One day, after she’d been active a couple of weeks, Alex got a package in the mail. He opened it and found the girl’s severed hand. There was a note saying she was being held prisoner, that she could be exchanged for two PLO terrorists that Mossad was holding in Tel Aviv.” 

Weecho tried to picture it, how Alexey would react. How he would react. 

“Was she? I mean exchanged?” 

“If she’d been Israeli, it would have been done right away.” 

“But she wasn’t.” 

“It went back and forth, another package arrived with the other hand in it, and they determined she was dead. Her body was never found. Alex felt that being her lover, he’d exposed her. He never forgave himself.” 

“I thought Alex was a combat photographer.” 

“That was his cover.” She gave Weecho a look – Sound familiar? 

Weecho thinking the more he was around these people the less he seemed to know them. 

“Did he start the magazine after his service?” 

“He bought it. For practically nothing. It was in trouble at the time.” 

“And now it’s in trouble again.” 

“His whole operation is. Cover, the newspapers, his other magazines. You heard him that night.” 

“So he looks for the prize.” 

Dara nodded and stepped away from the barre. 

“Would you like to take a steam bath?” she said. 

“Sorry?” 

She turned toward a door at the end of the studio. “I’ll get you a towel.” 

She showed Weecho where to get out of his clothes. He hung them up in the little room with its dressing counter and massage table, didn’t think he needed to hide his wallet, wrapped the towel around his waist. 

Went to the door marked Steam Room, pulled it open and walked into a cloud – a very hot cloud. Felt his way to a wooden bench, could see Dara through the billowing steam, sitting there with a towel wrapped around her, glistening.   

“Warm enough?” she asked. 

“I’m Cuban,” Weecho said, like what was that supposed to mean?  

“If it gets too hot, take off your towel.” 

Uh, yes. 

It wasn’t long before she’d taken off hers. 

“Don’t be shy,” she said. 

Weecho tried to be casual about de-toweling. 

The two of them sat there, getting hotter, sweat streaming off them. 

“There’s a shower in the corner,” Dara said, “if you want to cool off.” 

“I’m fine, thanks.” 

They sat there, legs stretched out, Weecho thinking hers made his look like Wanda’s.      

“Have you ever made love in a steam bath?” Dara said. 

Weecho had never even been in a steam bath. “No, what’s it like?” 

She stood up and faced him, settled onto his lap. 

It was like nothing he’d ever imagined. 

                                                #          #          # 

Weecho spent most of the subway ride back downtown thinking about what had happened. They’d taken a shower, gotten dressed, gone downstairs and had lunch while they looked at the pictures Weecho had taken. Nice conversation, but zero about the steam bath. 

Dara, he realized again, lived at a different altitude. He had some sophisticating to do. 

He came up out of his subway stop and checked his cell, saw there was a message from Tilda. Said his mother was starting to come around, was asking for him. He called Tilda back, got her voice mail, left a message that he’d come up to the hospital tomorrow. 

He ran into Wanda outside his building (he’d given up trying to figure how she got out). They rode up in the freight elevator, went through Wanda’s milk routine, and then he sat at the computer with the flash card from Alexey’s to offload Dara’s pictures. 

Was cropping a headshot on the big screen, one he’d taken at the end of their session, when he heard the freight elevator coming up.  

Went over and stood by the open shaft. Waited for the mystery caller to appear. 

“You up for some night work?” Juna said when her head came into view.