Page 65 of Antihero

Manny’s mouth stretched wide, clown-like. He tried to talk but his voice came hoarse. Cleared his throat. “I’m not sure what answers you want but I’m just the middleman. I’m the money guy, bro, a producer, a little editing. I just clean up what’s already happened, give people what they want. I don’t do any of this”—his hand swept to indicate the muted projections—“I just monetize it. That’s all I am. A middleman.”

Evan’s gaze lifted. The visuals flew at him, a woodchipper spout into his eyes. He imagined this man sitting here taking this in around the clock for weeks, months, years. He imagined it barging into the heads of countless people of all generations, setting their expectations, morphing their brains. Millions of participants, some even willing. Legion more consumers.

He took in Manny once more. His mouth held that perverse widened shape of terror, verging on a sob. The lower lip had curled over, dimpling the chin. Evan heard an echo of the tough-guy dialogue Manny had tried on over the phone: These girls know they get whatever’s coming.

“It’s so hard,” Evan said, “acting like you’re a man. Hoping no one else will see.”

Manny’s mouth pulsed. The word came out half formed. “What?”

“What happens when your bluff gets called.”

His face broke. Silent cries, mouth gaping, eyes pinched. “Don’t hurt me, man. I’m just a middleman.”

“There is no such thing,” Evan said, “as ‘just.’”

“What do you want? Who are you?”

“The Nowhere Man.”

“God. Oh God.” Manny curled over, clutching his stomach. “If I tell you everything you want, will you let me go?”

“No.” Slowly Evan walked around the couch, cutting the light of the projector so it threw his dark form a story high, blotting out the images. He turned to face Manny. “But you might live.”

“Okay, okay.” Manny drew in a screeching breath, collected himself. “What do you want to know?”

“The operation. How’s it work?”

Manny shuddered off another sob, straightened up. “I’m just a producer.”

“Which means what?”

“Content provider. I rent out props for the talent if they need it.”

“The talent.”

“Ya know, fetish stuff, S&M, toys, whatever. I have crash pads I rent around the city when they need a set. But a lot of the vids come in from around the world and I help place ’em for a cut.”

Evan half turned, the light seaming his face, half of it in blazing light, the other taking in the wall of abasement. A Japanese adolescent in a schoolgirl uniform flopped inside a sealed vacuum bag, folded legs zippered against her bare buttocks. She stilled. The clip ended.

Evan pointed, his arm a massive beam, a wing span of the Cristo Redentor embracing Guanabara Bay. “That young woman. Does she die?”

“What? What? No. No, no, no. Of course not. He lets them out once they pass out. We don’t make snuff films.” Manny grabbed the keyboard, pulled up excised footage of a bored-looking bearded man freeing the girl’s still form from the suctioned vacuum bag. She jerked in a few breaths, reviving, and then sobbed uncontrollably against the floor. The man stepped across her, sat in a chair in the background, lit up a cigarette. “That’s illegal and not, like, our jam. Not at all. I’d never participate in anything like—”

“Why do you make it look like a snuff film?”

“Just—I don’t know—people have preferences, bro. You know that. It’s just what gets them off. I mean, most violent porn is watched by women. Didja know that? Know why?”

Evan stared at him.

“It’s a way for them to explore their sexuality without having to own their desire. Like, they can say it’s not their fault. It was forced on them. But really, that’s what they want. Get it?”

Evan reached in his pocket and Manny squealed. But he only withdrew his RoamZone. Calling up a picture of Anca, he faced it at Manny. “Do you recognize this woman?”

“Uh-uh, bro.” Manny coughed out a noise of overwhelmedness, fanned a hand at the countless projected tiles of the video grid. “So many girls. So much product.”

Staring at Manny Llorente’s sweaty face, Evan realized that Manny didn’t think about the women he exploited any more than most people think of a living cow when they eat a burger.

“Chest tattoo,” Evan said. “Goat skull, devil horns.”