"Maybe not," said Bolan in a voice cold as the Arctic, "but maybe you sleep together just the same."
Griff's face flushed.
"Who the hell you been talking to?"
"I keep my eyes open. You were at Parelli's tonight."
Griff could not suppress a snort of derision.
"I'm not a crooked cop," he said softly. "I don't guess I expect you to believe me, but it's true."
"What were you doing at Parelli's house?"
Griff shook his head. "I can't tell you that."
Bolan stared icy eyed at him.
"You tell me you're not in Parelli's pocket, but you won't tell me why you were at his house. Give me something solid, Griff, or I'll have to draw my own conclusions."
The cop stared at him, anger and fear mixed in his eyes.
"Go ahead and draw your damn conclusions. Nothing I can say is going to change your mind, anyway."
"Try me."
"Go ahead and shoot if that's what you want to do."
Bolan studied the stubborn cop.
Griff was afraid, sure, but Bolan had looked over his gun sights at many frightened men over the long bloody years, and he had learned that there were different kinds of fear.
Dirty cops lived every day with the fear that their sins would be discovered, fearing exposure as much as or more than they did death.
Bolan saw none of that shamed fear in Griff's taut countenance. But he did not release the Beretta in his pocket.
"You don't seem too surprised to see me."
"Maybe I'm not."
"Care to tell me about that?"
Griff shrugged. "No mystery there. I may be off duty but I'm not out of touch. That hit a little while ago at the health club Parelli runs... you left your calling cards... a pile of dead hoods and a marksman's medal."
"Dead hoods," Bolan confirmed with a nod. "That should put us on the same side of the fence."
Griff snorted again.
"Far as I'm concerned, dude, you're every bit the public enemy that Parelli is. I don't think much of vigilantes taking it upon themselves to shoot up my town just because they don't like the way the law works."
"Sometimes the law doesn't work, Griff."
"There's just one thing," Griff went on. "Whatever's between you and me, Kathleen's got no part in it. You leave her out of it."
"What makes you think you can trust me?"
"They say you keep your word."
Bolan took the Beretta out of his pocket.
He pushed the overcoat aside and slid the little automatic home into shoulder leather.
"All right, guy. If that's the way you want to play it, I'll cut you a little slack. For now."
Griff nodded, snaking his tongue over dry lips.
"Uh, okay, that's fine, but don't think you'll change my mind. I'm a law and order man and you're not, Bolan, and that's the way it is. Your coming in here waving hardware around won't change my mind, but I won't give you trouble, at least not here in my home."
Bolan went with what his gut told him about this man.
"I'm not so sure I'd want to change you," he told the cop, "and I didn't want to bring this into your home, but it won't wait."
"So talk," Griff growled steadily.
Bolan asked, "What do you know about a man named Randy Owens?"
Something flared in Griff's eyes at the mention of the name.
"I know him. At least I know of him."
"Tell me about him."
"Beyond the fact that he's a slimebucket? Not a hell of a lot to tell. He makes movies."
"I thought it was tv commercials."
"The stuff that Owens makes they don't even show on cable," Griff insisted adamantly. "Strictly dirty movies, all the way. Real dirty."
"You're sure?"
"I used to work in Vice, pal. I know what I'm talking about."
"Did you ever bust Owens?"
Griff shook his head.
"You know how it works. The guys who make the stuff never get busted and most often the distributors never do, either.''
Bolan nodded. "The ones who get thrown in jail are the college kids who work as clerks and ticket takers for minimum wage at the porn joints."
"They're the ones who get busted," Griff continued. "The higher-ups don't give a shit. There's always another college kid hard up for money who'll take the job."
Bolan had to admit that Griff did not sound like a crooked cop, but he had also known a lot of officers who railed against the injustices of the system, but felt that they might as well sell it out and get a piece of the pie for themselves.
"How does Owens tie in with Parelli?"
"Same as anybody else who makes porn," Griff replied with a shrug. "The family has control of production and distribution, not just where that sick crap plays, same as they do with a fair share of the porno publishing trade. Don't tell me I'm telling you something you don't already know. I don't get it."
"What about Mrs. Parelli?"
Griff frowned. "What about her?"
"I've heard Owens has a more personal tie-in with her."
Griff thought about that for half a moment.
"Uh, could be. Seems like I have heard rumors along those lines, though why Owens would want to bang somebody like Mrs. Parelli when he can hang around with all those young porno babes all day... guess there's no accounting for taste..." Griff let his voice trail off.
Bolan, recalling Denise Parelli's sleek, mature good looks, did not comment on Griff's last statement.
"Where can I find Owens?"
"He's got an office downtown in the Loop, but he's not there much," said the cop. "You can usually find the creep out at his so-called studio. I'll give the guy credit for working hard; that place turns out a whole shitload of those movies in a very short time."
Griff gave Bolan an address on the South Side, which Bolan filed away in his head.
"You're not afraid of me showing up at Owens's and doing what I did at Parelli's club?" Bolan asked.
"Maybe I plan to call in to the station house after you leave," said Griff. "Maybe I'm setting you up."
"Or maybe you just don't mind seeing vigilantes like me take on pornographers like Owens."
The glint in Griff's eyes told Bolan he was probably right. "Yeah, you might say that."
"Does Owens make kid porn?"
Griff tensed at the very thought.
"If I thought he did, I'd probably break some laws myself."
"And you won't tell me what you were doing at Parelli's house tonight?"
The cop's jaw set evenly. "Not now or ever. That's something else. Your days are numbered, Bolan. You'd better move fast."
The door into the den opened behind Bolan.
He moved around, hand going under his coat, fingers resting lightly on the grip of the Beretta, though he made the movement look casual enough, knowing that the newcomer was most likely Griff's wife.
He was right.
Kathleen Griff came into the den and smiled at the two men.
"My goodness, hasn't he even offered you a drink yet, Captain Blanski?" she asked Bolan.
"Well, I am on duty, ma'am," he answered with forced lightness.
"Then you can't join us for dinner? It should be ready soon."
Bolan shook his head. "I'm afraid not. In fact, I have to be getting back to work." He turned and extended a hand to Griff. "Thanks for taking the time to talk to me, Detective."
Griff hesitated, looked as if he might shake the Executioner's hand, then he stayed where he was, not accepting the proffered hand.
"Sure."
"Maybe I'll be seeing you later."
"Yeah," said Detective Sergeant Griff uneasily to Mack Bolan, "I imagine you will."
Bolan nodded good-night to Mrs. Griff, assured her that he could let himself out and left the couple in the den.
He walked out of the house quickly but did not hurry enough to attract any undue attention.
He did not want to hang around long enough for Griff to change his mind and try to arrest him.
He did not want any more trouble with the cop than was necessary, at least not right now.
Griff would have the license number and description of Bolan's car by now, and Bolan figured he would call it in within minutes.