A hand reached out and opened Box 785.

'Show time,' Myron said.

Jessica snapped her head around to look. The man was slim. Everything about him was too long, eerily elongated, as if he had spent time on a medieval rack. Even his face seemed stretched like a cartoon imprint on Silly Putty.

'Recognize him?' Myron asked.

She hesitated. 'Something about him… but I don't think so.'

'Come on, let's get out of here.'

They hurried down the steps and got in the car. Myron had parked illegally in front of the building, putting a police emergency sign in his front windshield. A gift from a friend on the force. The emergency sign came in handy - especially during sale days at the mall.

The slim man came out two minutes later. He got into a yellow Oldsmobile. New Jersey plates. Myron shifted into drive and followed.

Slim took Route 3 to the Garden State Parkway north.

'We've been driving almost twenty minutes,' Jessica said. 'Why would he go to a mailbox so far from his home?'

'Could be that he's not going to his house. Maybe he's going to work.'

'The dial-a-porn office?'

'Maybe,' Myron said. 'Or it could be that he travels a long way so no one will see him.'

54

He got off at Exit 160, jumped on Route 208 heading north, and pulled off at Lincoln Avenue, Ridgewood.

Jessica sat up. 'This is my exit,' she said.

'I know.'

'What the hell is going on here?'

The yellow Oldsmobile turned left at the end of the ramp. They were now within three miles of Jessica's house. If he took Lincoln Avenue all the way to Godwin Road, they'd be…

Nope.

Mr Slim turned on Kenmore Road, a half-mile before the Ridgewood border. They were still in the heart of suburbia - the suburb in question being Glen Rock, New Jersey. Glen Rock was so named because of a giant rock that sat on Rock Road. The key word here is rock.

The yellow Olds pulled into a driveway. 78 Kenmore Road.

'Look casual,' he said. 'Don't stare.'

'What?'

He didn't answer. He drove past the house without pausing, turned at the next street, and stopped the car behind some shrubs. He picked up the car phone and dialed the office. It was picked up midway through the first ring.

'MB SportReps,' Esperanza said.

'Get me all you can on 78 Kenmore Street, Glen Rock, New Jersey.

Owner's name, credit check, the works.'

'Got it.' Click.

He dialed another number. 'My friend at the phone company,' he explained to Jessica. Then: 'Lisa? It's Myron. Look, I need a favor.

Seventy-eight Kenmore Road, Glen Rock, New Jersey. I don't know how many lines the guy has, but I need you to check them all. I want to know every number he calls for the next two hours. Right. Hey, what did you find out about that 900 number? What? Oh, okay, I understand.

Thanks.'

He hung up.

'What did she say?'

'The 900 number isn't operated by the phone company. Some small outfit out of South Carolina takes care of it. She can't get anything on it.'

'So what do we do now?' she asked. 'Just watch his house?'

'No. I go inside. You wait here.'

She arched an eyebrow. 'Excuse me?'

'You were the one who didn't want to scare anyone away,' he continued.

If this guy has something to do with your sister how do you think he'll react to seeing you?'

She folded her arms across her chest and fumed. She knew he was right, but that didn't mean she had to be happy about it. 'Go,' she said.

He got out of the car. It was one of those no-variety neighborhoods, each house cookie-cut from the same mold - split-levels on three-quarters

55

of an acre. Sometimes the house was backward, the kitchen on the right instead of the left. Most had aluminum siding. The street reeked of middle class.

Myron knocked. The thin man opened the door.

'Jerry?'

Slim's face registered confusion. Up close he was better looking, his face more brooding than freakish. Give him a cigarette and a black turtleneck, and he could be reading poetry in a village cafe. 'May I help you?'

'Jerry, I'm-'

'You must have the wrong house. My name isn't Jerry.'

'You look like Jerry.'

Something dark crossed his face. I'm sorry,' he said, closing the door. 'I really don't have time right now.'

'Sure about that, Jer?'

'I already told you-'Do you know Kathy Culver?'

It was a sneak attack. And it drew blood. 'Wha- what's this all about?' he snapped.

I think you know.'

'Who are you?'

'My name is Myron Bolitar.'

'Am I supposed to know you?'

'Well, if you're a big basketball fan… actually, no. But I'd like to ask you a few questions.'

I have nothing to say.'

Ace of spades time. Myron pulled out the magazine. 'Sure about that, Jerry?'

The whites of Slim's eyes grew tenfold, looking like Wedgwood china on the elongated face. 'You have me mixed up with someone else. Goodbye.'

He slammed the door.

Myron shrugged, headed back to the car.

'Well?' Jessica asked.

'We shook him,' Myron said. 'Let's see what falls out.'

The neighborhood newsstand.

Win remembered a time when the phrase conjured up nostalgia and Rockwellian images of real America. No more. Any street, any corner, any hickville town was the same. Candy, newspapers, greeting cards - and porno mags. Kids could pick up a Snickers bar and get an eyeful, all in one.

Porno had become a staple of American life. Hardcore porn. The kind of porn that made Penthouse look like Highlights magazine.

Win approached the man behind the lottery ticket dispenser. 'Pardon me,' Win said.

'Yeah?'

56

'Would you be able to tell me if you have the most recent issues of Climaxx, Jiz, Orgasm Today, Licks, Quim, and Mps?'

An elderly woman gasped and gave him an icy stare. Win smiled at her.

'Let me guess,' he said. 'Playmate of the Month, June 1926?'

She made a harumph noise and turned away.

'Check over there,' the man said. 'Between the comic books and Disney videos.'

'Thank you.'

Win found three of them - Climaxx, Orgasm Today, and Quim. He tried three other newsstands and was able to pick up Lick, but there was no sign of Jiz or Nips. He finally found copies of them at a hardcore shop on Forty second Street called King David's Smut Palace. They had a big sign out front that said open 24 hours. How very convenient. Win considered himself fairly worldly, but the items and photographs in the 'palace' proved that both his life experiences and his imagination had at best been limited.

It was almost noon when he exited the palace. A productive and quasi educational morning.

With a total of six magazines lodged under his arm, Win caught a taxi to midtown. He skimmed through a few in the backseat.

'So far so good,' he said out loud.

The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror, shrugged, looked back to the road.

When Win arrived at his office, he spread the magazines across the vast breadth of his desk. He studied them closely, comparing them. Incredible.

His suspicion had been sound. It was just as he thought.

Five minutes later, Win put the magazines in his desk drawer. Then he buzzed Esperanza.

'Kindly send Myron to my office as soon as he comes in.'