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"I doubt if Cholo would ever testify, but maybe we can find some of the people who made the film."
"I'll be over in a few minutes."
"Rosie, I—"
"You don't think I'm up to looking at it?"
"I don't know that it'll serve any purpose."
"If you don't want to hang around, Dave, just stick the tape in my mailbox."
Twenty minutes later she came through the door in a pair of blue jeans, tennis shoes, and a short-sleeve denim shirt with purple and white flowers sewn on it. I closed the blinds again and started the film, except this time I used the fast-forward device to isolate the violent scenes and to get through it as quickly as possible.
When the screen went blank I pulled the blinds and filled the room with sunlight. Rosie sat very still and erect, her hands in her lap. Her nostrils were pinched when she breathed. Then she stood and looked out the window a moment.
"The beating of those girls . . . I've never seen anything like that," she said.
I heard her take a breath and let it out, then she turned back toward me.
"They weren't acting, were they?" she said.
"I don't think so. It's too convincing for a low-rent bunch like this."
"Dave, we've got to get these guys."
"We will, one way or another."
She took a Kleenex out of her purse and blew her nose. She blinked, and her eyes were shiny.
"Excuse me, I have hay fever today," she said.
"It's that kind of weather."
Then she had to turn and look out the window again. When she faced me again, her eyes had become impassive.
"What's the profit margin on a film like this?" she said.
"I've heard they make an ordinary porno movie for about five grand and get a six-figure return. I don't know about one like this."
"I'd like to lock up Cholo Manelli as a material witness."
"Even if we could do it, Rosie, it'd be a waste of time. Cholo's got the thinking powers of a cantaloupe but he doesn't roll over
or cop pleas."
"You seem to say that almost with admiration."
"There're worse guys around."
"I have difficulty sharing your sympathies sometimes, Dave."
"Look, the film was made around New Orleans somewhere. Those were the docks in Algiers in the background. I'd like to make a copy and send it to N.O.P.D. Vice. They might recognize some of the players. This kind of stuff is their bailiwick, anyway."
"All right, let's get a print for the Bureau, too. Maybe Balboni's going across state lines with it." Then she picked up her purse and I saw a dark concern come into her face again.
"I'll buy you a drink," I said.
"Of what?"
