I nodded my head in agreement. I didn't want him to stop talking. The Mole's head was buried in his papers, but I could feel him telling me to watch my step.
"My boys enjoy knowing they give me pleasure. And it gives me pleasure to show their love for me to other men who believe as I do." He took another sip of his drink. "To be sure, there may be an element of egotism in exchanging photographs with othersI am proud of my success. But-and I'm sure you understand-one must be very discreet at all times."
I understood that all right…gave him another nod of agreement.
"There are those who produce pictures of children for purely commercial purposes. Not those who share my loves…my life style, if you will. But no true lover of boys would buy such pictures. They are so impersonal, so tasteless. One knows nothing of the boy in such a picturenot his name, his age, his little hobbies. Commercial photographs are so…anonymous. Sex is only a component of love. One brick in a foundation. Do you understand this?"
"I understand," I told him. It was true that the devil could quote the Scriptures, as the Prof was always saying. "Would a person ever destroy his pictures…like if he was afraid there was a search warrant coming down or something?"
"A true pedophile would never do that, my friend. I can assure you that, if the police were battering down my door at this very instant, I would not throw my memories into that fireplace."
"But the pictures are evidence…"
"Yes. Evidence of love."
"People get convicted with evidence of love," I told him.
A smile played around his lips. "Prison is something we face all the time. A true believer in our way of life accepts this. Simply because something is against the law does not mean it is morally wrong."
"It's worth going to prison for?" I asked him.
"It's worth anything," he said.
"The people who…exchange…pictures of boys. You'd know how to get in touch with them?"
"We have a network," the man said. "A limited one, of course. You see the computer?" he asked, nodding his head toward the screen.
I nodded.
"The device next to it, with the telephone? It's called a modem. It's really quite complicated," the man said, "but we have something called an electronic bulletin board. You dial up the network, punch in the codes, and we can talk to each other without revealing our names.
I gave him a blank look.
"As I said, it's really quite complicated," he said smugly. I could feel the Mole's sneer clear across the room.
"Can you show me?" I asked.
"Very well," he sighed. He got up from behind the desk, bringing his glass with him. The man seated himself before the computer. He took the phone off the hook and placed it face down into a plastic bed. He punched some numbers into a keypad and waited impatiently, tapping his long fingers on the console. When the screen cleared, he rapidly tapped something on the keyboard-his password. "Greetings from Santa" came up on the screen in response, black letters against a white background.
"Santa is one of us," the man said, by way of explanation.
He typed in "Have you any new presents for us?" The man hit another key and his message disappeared.
In another minute, the screen blinked and a message from Santa came up. "Seven bags full," said the screen.
"His new boy is seven years old," said the man. "Are you following this?"
"Yes," I told him. Santa Claus.
The man went back to the screen. "This is Tutor. Do you think it's too early in the year to think about exchanging gifts?"
"Not gifts of love," came back the answer.
The man looked over his shoulder at me. I nodded again. Clear enough.
"Later," the man typed into the screen. He pushed a button and the screen cleared once more. He returned to his seat behind the desk. "Anything else?" he asked.
"If the boy's picture…the one I want…was taken for sale…not by a pedophile…I couldn't find it?"
"Not in a million years," the man said. "The commercial pictures…they sell them to just anybody. Besides, those pictures are not true originals, you see? They make hundreds and hundreds of copies. The only way to find an original is if it was in a private collection."
"Say I didn't give a damn if the picture was an original, okay? If I showed you a picture of the boy, would you ask around…see if you could find the picture I'm looking for?"
"No," he said. "I would never betray the trust of my friends." He looked at the Mole for reassurance. The Mole looked back, giving nothing away.
"And you don't deal with any of the commercial outlets?"
"Certainly not," he sniffed.
This freak couldn't help me. "I understand," I said, getting up to leave.
The man looked at me levelly. "You may show yourselves out."
The Mole lumbered to his feet, standing in the doorway to make sure I went out first.
"One more thing," the man said to me. "I sincerely hope you learned something here. I hope you learned some tolerance for our reality. Some respect for our love. I trust we can find some basis for agreement."
I didn't move, willing my hands not to clench into fists.
"I am a believer," the man said, "and I am ready to die for my beliefs."
"There's our basis for agreement," I told him, and turned my back to follow the Mole down the stairs.
71
I STOPPPED at a pay phone off the Drive to call Strega-tell her I would need the boy for the day after tomorrow. Her line was busy. I lit a smoke, took a couple of drags, and dialed her number again. She picked up on the first ring.
"Yes," she breathed into the receiver, her voice as hard and seamless as her body.
"It's me," I said. "Thursday afternoon, okay? Like we agreed? Bring him to the parking lot across from the courthouse in Manhattan, where we met the first time."
"What time?"
"Four o'clock. If the lot's too crowded, I'll be standing in front of the Family Court. The dark-gray building on Lafayette. You know what I'm talking about?"
"Make sure he understands that it's okay to be with me."
"He'll be all right," she said, in a mechanical tone.
"See you then," I said, getting ready to put the receiver back in its cradle.
"That's for then," Strega said. "What about tonight?"
"It's too soon. I need time to set this up."
"What about me?"
"What about you?"
"I'm here by myself tonight. All alone with myself. You want to come over and talk to me?"
"I can't come over…I'm working."
"Maybe you just want to come," she whispered into the phone, playing with the last word. I could see the sneer on her painted lips, glowing in a dark room.
"Some other time," I told her.
"You can never be sure," said Strega. I heard the phone slam down at her end.
I headed back to the office, wondering where her sacred child was all the time.
72
I SPENT the next day taking care of business. American Express was threatening to sever the line of credit I maintain in several names unless they got some prompt payments. There's only one way to respond to such a legitimate request-I typed out some new applications, checking my list to make sure I didn't duplicate any of the old names. Then I placed some ads-my new mail-order company was offering the latest version of the Navy Seal Survival Knife for only twenty-five bucks. No CODs. My company doesn't take checks either- too many dishonest people out there. I checked my file of birth certificates for people who died within a year of their birth. I had some of them apply for Social Security numbers, others for driver's licenses. When I got back the paper, I'd move it into various productive activities-passports, disability payments, unemployment benefits. As long as you don't get too greedy, it goes on forever.