Last Call

Jack did a quick study. The man had gained a few pounds, the face was fuller and bore the lines of time, and the eyebrows were as gray as his ponytail. But there was no doubt in Jack's mind that he had the right Lance Gilford.

Gilford seemed to be trying to place Jack, but not surprisingly, his expression showed no sign of recognition.

"Who are you?" he said.

"Jack Swyteck. I'm a lawyer for Theo Knight. Portia's son."

Celeste shot Jack a look of surprise. "I thought you said you were-"

"Celeste," said Gilford. "Can you leave Mr. Swyteck and me alone, please?"

"Your two o'clock will be here any minute."

"Tell them to wait," said Gilford.

She seemed confused, but she complied. The door closed, leaving Jack alone with Gilford. He didn't offer Jack a chair.

"What do you know about Portia Knight?" said Gilford.

"I know you filmed her rape," said Jack.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Jack leaned against the wall, arms folded. "Do you really want to do this dance, or do you want to hear what I want?"

"I don't know a Portia Knight."

Jack walked toward him, pulled the still image from his coat pocket, and dropped it on the computer table beside Gilford. "This is from the movie that's posted on Reality Bitches dot com. That's you in the mirror filming Portia's rape. And don't tell me that it isn't you, because the FBI has already confirmed that it is."

He stared at the image for nearly a full minute. "Oh, you mean that Portia Knight," he said finally.

"Yeah, that one," said Jack. "Interesting thing about the film is that it's been carefully edited. Did you do that work here?"

Gilford leaned back and rested his elbows atop the table. "No, actually. I did it at home."

"So you admit it?"

"Sure. My wife got really sick, and we needed cash. Took a second mortgage on the house, and I even considered selling the business. We were desperate. I don't know what made me think of that old film, but I dragged it out, cleaned it up, and sold it to one of the big Internet porn distributors."

"But first you cut out any frames that would reveal the identity of the attackers."

"Hold on, pal. You need to rewind a second. First of all, there was no attack."

Jack scoffed. "What do you call it then?"

"Damn fine work by a young film student. I wrote the script, I hired Portia to be the lead actress, I got my drunken frat brothers to volunteer as extras, and I filmed the short with a handheld. Nothing is real. Except the sex. Probably could have done the piece with simulated intercourse, but for another hundred bucks, Portia was willing to take it hard-core. My 'extras' were more than willing to cover the added expense."

"I don't believe you."

"I don't really care. That's exactly the way it went down."

"The website says it's real."

"Yeah, and they put twenty-two-year-old women in pigtails and pass them off as teenagers. It's called marketing."

"You can see the terror in her eyes."

"I don't see anything in those eyes but drugs."

The guy was way too cool. Jack said, "You have an answer for everything, don't you?"

"I merely speak the truth."

"Well, let's see if you can handle this truth. The experts at the FBI have studied this film, and they say it was rape."

"Isn't it against the Florida bar's rules of ethics for private attorneys to threaten people with criminal prosecution?"

"Number one, I'm not threatening you. Number two, it's only unethical if I make the threat to gain an advantage in a civil law-suit.

"I'm not sure I agree with your interpretation."

"You a lawyer?"

"Went to law school for two years. Then I saw the light."

"That's like two-thirds of a course on how to disarm a bomb. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing."

"I know more than you think."

"Such as?"

"Your threat goes nowhere. The statute of limitations has run.

Jack said, "There is no statute of limitations for rape in Florida"

"Wrong. There's no statute of limitations if the rape is reported within seventy-two hours. If it's reported after that, the statute of limitations is four years."

"Interesting that you know that fact," said Jack.

"You could call it interesting. I'd call it helpful."

He rolled his stool toward the computer screen. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some editing to do before my next appointment."

Jack watched him for another moment, but he decided not to push it. Not yet, anyway. "We're going to find out who raped Theo's mother," said Jack, as he opened the door. "With or without you."

He left and closed the door, leaving Gilford alone in his editing room.

Chapter 41

Five minutes after Jack left: to meet with Lance Gilford, Theo was on his way to Miami Beach.

South Beach was home to what Theo called the succtiful crowd – not merely successful people who happened to be beautiful, but people who found success precisely because they were beautiful. They were everywhere. At any time of day or night, it was impossible to cruise Ocean Drive and Washington Avenue and not see a top model posing for a fashion shoot, a film crew shooting a commercial or telenovela, choreographers whipping dancers into sync for the making of a music video. They worked the lobbies of famous art deco hotels, on busy street corners, and at popular cafes. It could be in English, Spanish, or Portuguese. They came in all races, men or women, their ages ranging from young to younger. Sex selling everything from Gucci to the Gap, rap to reggae, bling to Carrier. Beautiful meant success, and success was beautiful. Succtiful.

"Theo, how you doin', bro?"

Theo hadn't seen Mel Booker in at least a year, right after a failed attempt at rehab. His mood was never predictable, and it was a relief to get the happy "How you doin', bro," coupled with a big hug.

"I'm good," said Theo. "You all cleaned up, finally?"

"Going on eight months now. Nothin' harder than O'Douls. That's why you ain't seen me around Sparky's."

"That's cool. I'm proud of you, man."

Booker worked in a world where sex didn't just sell the product. It was the product. He leased a film studio behind an old art deco apartment building on Washington Avenue. It faced the Dumpsters and the rear parking lot, but the windows were boarded over, so it didn't matter. The lighting inside was entirely artificial, mostly from spotlights so bright that Theo left his sunglasses on. He and Booker were standing behind a seven-foot-high divider that cut across the studio. From the working side, Theo could hear the telltale moans and groans of the film stars – Booker's hookers, as they were known in the industry.

"What you got going on?" said Theo.

"Two chicks, one dude. Typical male fantasy shit. Want to watch?"

"Ouch. Quit twisting my arm."

Booker smiled. "Come on."

Theo followed him around the divider to the working side of the studio. Two fixed cameras were in place, plus one guy walking around with a handheld in order to ensure a tight close-up of two beautiful young women getting way too excited over Zeus's big moment. There was something very robotic about porn in progress, with the director barking instructions, the actors responding to his commands, the cameramen struggling for the ideal angle. It certainly wasn't painful viewing, but on some level Theo thought it should be up there with laws and sausages on the list of things not to watch being made.

Booker lit a cigarette. "This is go

"Gee, wonder how it ends," said Theo.

They could talk freely, since all the sound would be dubbed in later. Booker said, "Makes me rich. That's how they all end. At least until they ban porn on the Internet, which will never happen."