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Show 158 Hunt studied the faces. Most often they were in shadow. Even the apartment- house doormen, some standing in bold city light, had faces which appeared to be retreating from themselves. Here a man's hat visor wanted to obscure his eyes. This other man's cheeks consumed his mouth and nose. Only the black doorman, under the canope that said: "Eldridge" seemed unobscured and unshadowed. The studio extension buzzer purred, indicating a phone call. Hunt picked the reciever up. It was Suskind, long-distance. "How're you doing?" he asked. "How many have you got done?" Hunt explained that the photographs had just arrived. "I'm in my studio, working," he said. "It's all in my mind, pretty much. But I can see my way clear." "You're my boy!" Suskind said, Suskind had, Hunt knew, three daughters. "How about Hamlet?" Hunt asked. "Kid?" "For the name. The invented name. David Hamlet. It just came to me." "Too late," Suskind said. "It's done. Garrison! Reuben Garrison! Promo had to go to press. Did you get your contract?" "Not yet," Hunt said. "It's coming," Suskind promised. "Please, Pal, remember: This stuff has all gotta be for rich shitheads. We want commercial loneliness. Commercial, urban alienation. Check?" "Check," Hunt said, and they hung up. Hunt drove into Phoenix and bought a half dozen mere standing easels which gave him a total of eight. He set them up in a circle in his studio and roughed |