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she said about 'all those women'? You don't get a Persistent Violent jacket without a load of priors. Ten to one, he was a serial rapist. Probably only took it to trial because Wolfe wouldn't offer him anything off the life-top, so what did he have to lose?

"You'll notice she never said a word about blood evidence being used to convict him. Experienced freak like that, maybe he used a condom. That woman is stone-lunar. To her, this is all some kind of weirdo paternity suit."

"Ugh!"

"You know what's worse, girl? There was no reason for the mother to lie. Who'd want to make up a story like that? That freak's her bio-father, all right."

"How could a TV producer not see she's a . . . ?"

"Knowing isn't caring, honey. Talk shows are going through what skin mags did years ago."

"I don't understand."

" Playboy set the standard, right? Upscale, classy, lots of features . . . and all the posed pussy anyone could want. Anything successful gets imitated, but instead of trying to outclass the leader, most of the others went downmarket. The more Playboy carved out the niche at the top, the deeper in the sewer they went, see? That's where the competition is now, who can go the lowest. Same with TV. The target's not the penthouse; it's the basement. Did you hear her voice when she said ' national TV,' girl? Same way some people say 'Our Lord Jesus.' There's no traveling freak shows anymore— cable brings them right into your home."

"Burke," she said, leaning toward me, "you're not going to take her money, are you?"

"She hasn't got any," I told her, placating both our gods.
    • • •
    I never asked the Prof or the Mole what the stuff they'd set up for me cost, any more than I would ask Max if I owed him rent. I'd left everything behind when I disappeared. I didn't know what they'd sold, what they'd destroyed, and what was still around. But I knew how to find out.
    • • •
    "W here do I stand?" I asked Mama.

"With who, stand?"

"With money, Mama."

"Oh. Plenty money here for you."

"Mama, a straight answer, okay? You're the bank, not the Welfare Department. I'm not coming around and asking for money that's not mine. Just tell me what's left, in cash, after everything."

"Why so important?"

"I have to know when I need to go back to work."

She regarded me balefully for a solid minute. Then she said, "Soon," her face as smooth and hard as glazed ceramic.
    • • •
    I t took another couple of hours to pry the balance sheet out of her. I was down to about sixty grand. I took ten to walk around with, asked Mama to dispose of the Subaru for whatever she could get for it, and went looking for work.
    • • •
    Y ou can't do the kind of work I do without a lot of preparation. There's all kinds of people who steal, from the stupid slugs who think 7-Elevens turn into ATMs after midnight to the slicksters who can buy themselves a presidential pardon when things get dicey. Me, I've got my own ways. And my own flock to fleece.

I never target citizens. They're easy, but they squawk. Before the damn Internet, I had a lovely business built up, regularly selling everything from nonexistent kiddie porn to mercenary "credentials." The horde of humans who bought from me couldn't go to the Better Business Bureau when their merchandise never arrived in the mail.

I also dealt in hard goods, middle-manning low-level arms deals, usually suctioning a little from both sides in the process. But with the breakup of the Soviet Union, there was too much ordnance floating around. By the time I left, even the congenital defectives who commanded five-moron militias were demanding surface-to-air missiles.

I gave it a lot of thought, remembering the formula I memorized during my first bit Inside— the less time you spend on planning, the more time you should plan on doing.

When I first went down, a common scam was for a prisoner to get hold of one of the lonely-hearts magazines and write to a whole list of dopes. Admitting