We all know that the Paparazzi are freelance professional photographers who pursue celebrities to take candid photos to sell to newspapers, magazines, and online web sites.
We think of them waiting in front of eateries in downtown LA or New York waiting for their celebrity to appear drunk and disorderly or on the beach of a lush tropical paradise waiting for their targeted celebrity to appear semi-nude or naked.
My name is Freddie and I am a professional Paparazzi buster, only I work out of Boston. Born and raised here, I have friends all over the city. Vinnie, the doorman at the Ritz, was my best man at my wedding. I saved his ass plenty of times when we were kids. He owes me big time and I'm never shy about collecting favors from him, so long as I do him one in return.
Now, Vinnie eats lunch with Paulie, the doorman at the Four Seasons a block away from the Ritz. I know Paulie, he's another pisano from the old neighborhood. Those two hotels are my headquarters of operation.
Whenever celebrities come to Boston, more often than we hear and read about because Boston is more puritanical, private, and respectful of celebrities than LA and New York, they stay at either the Ritz or the Four Seasons. Moreover, we proper Bostonians don't put up with scumbag Paparazzi hanging out on the sidewalks of our city. Now, whenever someone comes to town, Vinnie gives me a jingle.
"Hello?"
"Freddie, it's Vinne."
"Hey, Vinnie, what's up? You got news for me?"
"Yeah, Sandra Bullock is staying here." When a celebrity stays at the Ritz, he says here and when a celebrity stays at the Four Seasons he says there.
"What else you know?"
"She's got 9:30 dinner reservations with a young stud at Vito's."
Now, Vito's is in the historic Italian section of the North End, my old stomping grounds. If any Paparazzi dare show up around that sacred place, they'd get their heads bashed in by some of the boys. Ever since the FBI sting that put so many mob bosses away, no one dares show up with a camera.
"Hey! You! What are you taking freaking photos for?"
"I'm from Iowa and Becky and I wanted to take some candid shots by the Old North Church."
"Give me that camera." Mario steps from the curb of the Salem Street social club, grabs the camera away, removes the memory stick, and returns the camera to him. He grabs the guy by the back of the neck and spins him around. "Look up and get a good look. See? That's the Old North Church. Memorize the image, Pal, 'cause that's all you're gettin'. Now, get the Hell outta here."
Knowing full well the background of Sandra Bullock as a cougar on the prowl with a thing for young guys, I know that if I could get a photo of her with this young stud that Jesse James, her husband would not be pleased.
I waited in a doorway with the dim street giving me plenty of cover. The convenient thing about the North End is that the streets are very narrow, barely fitting one car. Originally, these cobblestone streets were cow paths.
It was 11:45am before Sandra emerged with her young, hot honey. Arm and arm, they appeared a little too chummy, if you know what I mean. I got a couple of candid shots with my digital of them kissing while waiting for the limo to pull up. The alcohol consumed took them longer before they noticed the flash of my camera.
"Hey!" Sandra held her hand in front of her face and looked at me. She is much prettier in person and has a killer body.
Her protector took a step towards me but stopped when Big Louie stepped out from the doorway behind me.
"It's okay, Louie, he was just coming over to ask me how much for the photos."
"Okay," she said brushing by her young boyfriend and ignoring my thug of a friend. "How much you want for the camera?"
"How much you got?"
She opened her purse, pulled out a wad of cash, and handed it to me. It was light, maybe only three grand. By the time I paid off Big Louie and Vinnie, I'd only have two yards left.
