Victor lowered his weapon. “Randy, man. What are you doing in here?”
“Just looking. I wanted to see your girls.” Randy frowned, clearly mystified by Victor’s taste in pornography. Splashed across the screen was a digital contact sheet, twenty or thirty thumbnail images of fully clothed women.
Victor said, “It’s not what you think.”
He explained, then, about the Hall of Shame. “Every one of those girls is a cold-blooded killer. I want the world to know what they’re up to.”
Randy closed one eye, as though pondering this. He seemed genuinely perplexed. “What for?”
“What do you mean, what for?” Victor felt his face heating, his patience draining away. “What if that was your child she’s carrying?”
Randy’s eyes widened. “It ain’t!” Outrage in his voice, the righteous indignation of the falsely accused. “I’m dead serious, Victor. I never touched a single one of them girls.”
“I never said you did. I said what if. What if that was your child?”
Randy looked dumbfounded. “How could it be?”
“Never mind that. That isn’t the point.” Victor set his weapon carefully on the desk. “The point is, innocent lives are at stake. These whores are about to kill their precious babies.”
“They’re hoors?”
Randy studied the screen with renewed interest.
“To kill their precious babies,” Victor repeated for emphasis. “I guess that’s all right with you.”
“It ain’t my business.” Randy hoisted himself out of the chair. “I’m going to go start supper.”
Victor sat in the chair, now unpleasantly warm from another man’s ass. He took his time opening his email, prolonging the anticipation. Checking email had become the source of all pleasure, the most exciting moment of the day. More and more, the rest of his life seemed like filler, a feeling familiar from his drinking days. He waited for new photos the way he’d once waited for eight o’clock, when he’d park for the night, stretch out in the cab with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and drink himself happy.
He glanced at the clock. It was nearly four in the afternoon, a promising hour: his West Coast lieutenants finally awake, his East Coast lieutenants winding down their day. At four p.m., he might have photos from San Diego or Kansas City or Atlanta. He might have photos from absolutely anywhere.
But not today.
His inbox was full of garbage, mail-order pharmacies selling steroids and painkillers and Mexican Viagra, lonely Danish virgins seeking companionship online. His inbox contained nothing of note except a message from Anthony. THE VIDEO!! See attached.
Victor clicked irritably—not understanding, yet, that everything was about to change.
IN THE VIDEO, SNOW WAS FALLING FAST. TRAFFIC NOISE, A CAR horn in the distance. The camera seemed unsure where to focus. The first few seconds were a jumble of back and legs. Finally it homed in on a small dark-haired figure in—surprise!—a puffy jacket.
For Pete’s sake, Victor thought.
As promised, this one was White, but as far he could tell had nothing else going for her. Her hair was chopped short. A name, Columbia, was embroidered on her jacket, in the spot where a breast would be. To Victor she looked neither male nor female, a small stubborn asexual person in a stocking cap.
The video was poor quality. Anthony’s breathing was audible, snotty and adenoidal. The female—definitely a female; the chirping voice was unmistakable—was talking to someone off camera. A man’s left arm and shoulder were visible, holding a colorful sign. ABORTION CAUSES BREAST CANCER.
Well, goddamn.