As she stepped toward me, I realized that the stick in her hands was a sand wedge, and that we were standing on a golf course. There was no snake—Jennifer had been hacking her way out of a greenside bunker.
Fondly she hooked my arm with hers and led me down the fairway. "He's been expecting you!" she shouted over the storm. "Wait'll you see the picture! The man is a genius! He's pushed this babe-on-a-beach deal to a whole new realm, spiritually and sensually and—"
"To even call it photography is blasphemous," she raved on. "What he's achieved out here is, like, completely awesome—"
She was the coolest, toughest one we had—and Kurtz had her gabbling like a Deadhead. Ducking into the shelter of a maintenance shed, I seized her by the shoulders. "My God, what's he done to you?"
A look of dreamy veneration came to her eyes. "He gave me two Canons and three Mamiyas, including the 645-See, he doesn't need them anymore! He's way beyond the equipment, Jimmy."
So it was true. Kurtz had gone insane. No shooter in his right mind would give up his cameras, especially to an editor.
"Jen, I came here to get the diskette and to bring him out."
"Nope. I already warned Dooney—don't even try. Forget it. Find another cover shot. What he's created out here is not for the mortal masses, Jimmy. It transcends the printed page. It's like a holy vapor."
"Far as I'm concerned, it's just another pretty girl in a bathing suit."