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By Root 2272 0

good contrast. The five boxed tapes sat before a thirty-five-inch Sony Trinitron and a studio double-player by Thompson Electronics. “Good kids this time, too,” Rodz complimented himself. “All level.” Sometimes a kid would freak on camera, or space out; lots of them were screwed up from the get-go: Fetal Cocaine babies, Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, Battered Child Syndrome. There were times when Paone actually felt sad about the way things worked.

Now came the sadder part: Paone had to sit back and watch each master; lighting, resolution, and clarity all had to be good. He plugged in the first tape. …

Jesus, he thought. Pale movement flickered on the screen. They were always the same in a way. What bothered Paone most were the faces—the forlorn, tiny faces on the kids, the look while Rodz’s stunt cocks got busy. What do they think? Paone wondered. What goes on in their heads? Every so often the kid would look into the camera and offer a stare that defied description. …

“At least let me UV the cash while you’re watching,” Rodz said.

“Yeah, yeah.” Paone threw him the stuffed envelope. His face felt molded of clay as he watched on. Rodz always fronted his flicks with cutesy tides, like Vaseline Alley, The Young and the Hairless, Stomper Room. Meanwhile, Rodz himself donned nylon gloves and took out the band of century notes. Ten grand didn’t look like much. He scanned each bill front and back with a Sirchie ultraviolet lamp. Technicians from Treasury worked liaison with DJ and the Bureau all the time. Their favorite game was to turn someone out and dust buy-money with invisible uranyl phosphate dyes. Dead solid perfect in court.

“Clean enough for ya?” Paone asked. “I mean, a clean guy like yourself?”

“Yeah, looks good.” Rodz’s face looked lit up as he inspected the bills. “Unsequenced numbers too. That’s great.”

Paone winced when he glanced back to the screen. In the last tape, here was Rodz himself, with his hair pulled back and a phony beard, doing the rodwork himself. Paone frowned.

“Sweet, huh?” Rodz grinned at himself on the screen. “Always wanted to be in pictures.”

“You should get an Oscar. Best Supporting Pervert.”

“It’s some fringe bennie. And look who’s talking about pervert. I just make the tapes. It’s your people who distribute them.”

Rodz had a point. I’m just a player in the big game, Paone reminded himself. When the money’s good you do what you gotta do.

“I’m outa here,” Paone said when the last master flicked off. He packed up the tapes and followed Rodz out to the living room. “I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure.”

Rodz chuckled. “You should be nicer to me. One day I might let you be in one of my flicks. You’d never be the same.”

“Yeah? And you’ll never be the same when I twist your head off and shove it up your ass.”

By the apartment door, Rodz held the speedlined grin. “See you next time. … I’d offer to shake hands except I wouldn’t want to get any slime on you.”

“Thanks for the thought.” Paone polished his glasses with a handkerchief, reached for the door, and—

Ka-CRACK! “Holy shit!” Rodz yelled.

—the door blew out of its frame. Not kicked open, knocked down, and it was no wonder when Paone, in a moment of static shock, noted the size of the TSD cop stepping back with the steelhead door-ram. An even bigger cop three-pointed into the room with a cocked revolver.

“Freeze! Police!”

Paone moved faster than he’d ever moved in his life, got an arm around Rodz, and began to jerk back. Rodz gasped, pissing his pants, as Paone used him as a human shield. Two shots rang out, both of which socked into Rodz’s upper sternum.

“Give it up, Paone!” the cop advised. “There’s no way out!”

Bullshit, Paone thought. Rodz twitched, gargling blood down his front, then suddenly turned to dead weight. But the move gave Paone time to duck behind the kitchen counter and shuck his SIG 220 chock-full of 9mm hardball. Move fast! he directed himself, then sprang up, squeezed off two rounds, and popped back down. Both slugs slammed into the cop’s throat. All Paone heard was the slump.

Shadows stiffened in the doorway.