The Gamble

“Um… that’s okay, I took some shots.”

“Duchess –” Max said but Cotton interrupted him.

“Give me your camera, girl.”

“Really, that’s okay,” I said.

“Nina, this is Jimmy Cotton,” Max told me under his breath, my body froze and I stared.

When I could again speak, I whispered, “No kidding?”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Max said back on a chuckle.

I stared at Santa Man.

Jimmy Cotton, the great American photographer. I’d seen three of his exhibitions, one at the Smithsonian, one at the Victoria and Albert and one at The Met. He was a national treasure and his pictures were revered, including by me. I bought one of his calendars every year and had one of his Smithsonian posters framed and in my hallway at home.

He was also a recluse, never came to showings, never did interviews, famously eschewed the world that adored him. I didn’t think I’d ever seen a picture of him, not even when he was young. I knew he lived in the Colorado Rockies, most of his photos were of the mountains, but I obviously had no idea he lived here.

“I’m… I’m… so pleased to meet you,” I stuttered, feeling stupid and shy, both at the same time. “I saw your exhibitions at the Smithsonian and the one at the Victoria and Albert and –”

“V&A?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

“Yes, it was spectacular. I was… it was amazing,” I replied.

“Got a few of those they showed at the V&A up at my place. I’ll go through my barn, wrap one up, bring it over to Max’s.”

My mouth fell open, I felt it but I couldn’t do anything about it.

Max started chuckling and gave my arm a squeeze. “Give him your camera, honey.”

Automatically, my hand holding the camera lifted up, Jimmy Cotton came forward, took my stupid, little, digital camera in his artisan’s hand and took several steps back. I was so stunned that Jimmy Cotton was holding my camera, I didn’t fight against Max curling me so my front was tucked into his side, his arm tight around my shoulders, fingers shifting my hair around to bunch at my neck under his hand, forcing my cheek to his shoulder, his other hand going around my waist.

“Smile,” Jimmy Cotton, the Jimmy Cotton, called from behind my camera and I smiled with all the happiness I felt that none other than Jimmy Cotton was taking my picture (not to mention, it felt good standing like that in Max’s arms).

“That’ll be a good one,” Jimmy Cotton muttered, fiddling with my camera before he stepped forward and handed it back to me.

I took it thinking maybe I could die right there on the spot and do it happily, considering Jimmy Cotton just took my photo. Though that would mean I wouldn’t have the chance to get his photo printed and hermetically sealed.

“You hear about Dodd?” Cotton asked Max and Max kept the arm around my shoulders, hand curled around my neck but his other hand dropped away.

“Yeah.”

“Thought the sun shone brighter when I woke up this mornin’,” Cotton mumbled and I let out a little, surprised giggle.

“He was an ass,” Cotton told me.

“I’m beginning to get that picture,” I said back.

“Mick came up to the house this mornin’, luckily Nina’s got jetlag and she could tell him she was awake and in bed with me when the deed was done.”

Cotton’s face got hard and he asked, “What in the sam hill is Mickey doin’, askin’ you for an alibi?”

I was stuck on Max telling Jimmy Cotton (of all people) I was in bed with him but Max didn’t seem to feel my displeasure which I was pretty certain was so extreme it should be felt and he spoke to Cotton.

“Not a secret we don’t get along.”

“Not a secret you ain’t the type of man to do that kind of thing.”

“Cotton –” Max started.

“Especially you,” Cotton went on.

“Jimmy –”

“Especially with Dodd,” Cotton continued then looked at me. “Max had far more reason ten years ago to pull a trigger and take out that jackass, dang nab it,” he looked back at Max, “and Mickey knows it.”

“He’s just doin’ his job,” Max said but I was intrigued at what Cotton said. I’d heard the words “ten years ago” recently and just now and that seemed an interesting coincidence.

Unfortunately, Cotton was miffed and I couldn’t get a word in to ask him to explain.

“Got a lot of nerve, showin’ at your place.”

“I wasn’t his first visit.”

“And won’t be his last,” Cotton looked at me, “Dodd wasn’t much liked by anyone. Hell, Mickey could have come to visit me.”

“You don’t own a gun, Cotton, you’re a pacifist, non-violent, remember?” Max reminded him.

“Ever a man to test the mettle of pacifism and non-violence, it was Curtis Dodd,” Cotton shot back.

Max chuckled, I waited for more information to be shared but both men settled into silence.

It was either ask, when I told myself I didn’t want to know, or keep silent. It took a lot of effort, I really wanted to know about ten years ago, Max and Curtis Dodd, but I kept silent.

“Welp, you two young ‘uns don’t need an old man spoilin’ the mood, I’ll just be gettin’ on.”

“You aren’t spoiling the mood,” I told him quickly and he smiled at me.

“Any talk spoils that,” he said, dipping his head to the vista behind me. “That, you experience in silence or, better yet, with someone that means somethin’ to you.” For some reason, his eyes slid to Max when he said his last before he looked back to me and concluded, “Therefore, I best be gettin’ on.”

I didn’t share that I barely knew Max therefore he didn’t mean anything to me (at least I was telling myself that) but Cotton was on the move and Max had bid him good-bye.

“It was an honor to meet you, Cotton,” I called after him, he stopped and turned back.

Then he asked the bizarre question, “Yeah? Why?”

“Because…” I felt funny under his strangely intense scrutiny and finished lamely, “you’re Jimmy Cotton.”

“Just a man.”

“A man with a way with a camera.”

“Lotsa those,” Cotton said dismissively, clearly not one who enjoyed praise from an inexpert like me but probably, I was guessing, from anyone.