Jazz Noir--Ms. Kilgore
I shook the rain from my hat and walked into the room. I'm a freelance photographer who doesn't believe in red tape. I never did object to a little snap 'n run. I shoot fast and I hit what I shoot at.
The beautiful blond at the piano didn't even notice me, and that's the way I like it. She was my target for the night, though she didn't know it. Mr. Big gives the orders, and he wanted her shot--tonight.
The Bartender caught my eye with a frown--he knew there'd be no tips from me, not even any drinks--though if he offered, I'd be glad for a free cup of Joe. It wasn't. No surprise there.
Rebecca Kilgore--the lady is jazz royalty, and her love of 30s and 40s jazz always takes me back to Phillip Marlowe, classic Bogart films, pin-striped double-breasted suits and ladies who wear hats and gloves.
She's a regular at jazz festivals, cruise ships, and municipal jazz concerts in the park. But lounging beside the hotel's grand piano--Dave Frishberg at the keys--her black dress against the Honduran Mahogany--this is the lady in her native habitat.
I crouch, get low, put my elbows against my ribs, breath and release, and get my shot, and I'm out the door--no one the wiser.
Mr. Big is waiting back at the office. "Ya got the girl?" he asks. I nod, show him the print--though the 30s jazz mood almost had me working in black and white.
"Mmmm" mumbled Mr. Bigg, "you shot the piano player, too, right?" Damn. No way to keep this guy happy. I reach for my hat...it's still wet.
Jazz Noir--Ms. Kilgore
I shook the rain from my hat and walked into the room. I'm a freelance photographer who doesn't believe in red tape. I never did object to a little snap 'n run. I shoot fast and I hit what I shoot at.
The beautiful blond at the piano didn't even notice me, and that's the way I like it. She was my target for the night, though she didn't know it. Mr. Big gives the orders, and he wanted her shot--tonight.
The Bartender caught my eye with a frown--he knew there'd be no tips from me, not even any drinks--though if he offered, I'd be glad for a free cup of Joe. It wasn't. No surprise there.
Rebecca Kilgore--the lady is jazz royalty, and her love of 30s and 40s jazz always takes me back to Phillip Marlowe, classic Bogart films, pin-striped double-breasted suits and ladies who wear hats and gloves.
She's a regular at jazz festivals, cruise ships, and municipal jazz concerts in the park. But lounging beside the hotel's grand piano--Dave Frishberg at the keys--her black dress against the Honduran Mahogany--this is the lady in her native habitat.
I crouch, get low, put my elbows against my ribs, breath and release, and get my shot, and I'm out the door--no one the wiser.
Mr. Big is waiting back at the office. "Ya got the girl?" he asks. I nod, show him the print--though the 30s jazz mood almost had me working in black and white.
"Mmmm" mumbled Mr. Bigg, "you shot the piano player, too, right?" Damn. No way to keep this guy happy. I reach for my hat...it's still wet.