Chapter 27 Just the Middleman #2
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.”
“Oh,” Manny said. “Right, right, right. Yeah, I can give you that. That’s one of the guys from the White On Posse.”
“White On Posse?”
“White On White, White On Black, White On Brown, White On Yellow, ya know. They’re a low-rent operation, four dicks and a camcorder.” He seemed relieved to have information to impart but he gave a double take at Evan’s expression and blanched. “Look, bro. Like I said, I’m just the middleman.”
“Say it again.” Evan stepped forward, loomed over him. “Say you’re just the middleman one more time.”
Manny’s Adam’s apple throbbed, a tiny fist. His mouth clamped so hard his lips turned white.
“How do I find them?” Evan said. “The White On Posse?”
“No idea.”
Evan’s shoulders tensed and Manny threw up his arms. “Wait, I swear! I swear it! They use burner phones for our comms. They email the footage or—or courier a thumb drive or whatever if the file’s too big.
I prep the vids, upload, place it with the platform, and zero-pass wipe my local files twice.
It’s an anonymous business. We keep it clean, bro. We keep it clean.”
“Why do you keep it clean,” Evan said. Not a question. “Middleman.”
Manny’s mouth elongated once more, wet lips stretching.
“Answer.”
“’Cuz who knows what’s what?” Manny said, with a sudden burst of defiance. “If there’s a raid. Maybe someone’s underage. Maybe someone has regrets, claimed they were forced. I don’t know. I don’t care. I’m just a … just a…” Shallow jerked inhalations, a hysterical fit shaping up.
Evan slapped him, snapping his head to one side. “Catch your breath. Neither of us has time for a panic attack.”
The imprint of Evan’s hand bloomed on Manny’s cheek.
“Find the latest White On Posse video.”
“I don’t have ’em anymore,” Manny said. “I zeroed out the files.”
“Friday,” Evan said. “The assault was Friday. That’s two days ago.”
“Two days is a lifetime, bro,” Manny said.
“So much product to keep up with. They shoot long, bro, marathon sessions, which means massive video files”—Evan’s stomach wrenched—“so they would’ve messengered it Saturday, which means I dealt with it yesterday.
Compressed it, sent it off, and wiped the files. ”
The guy truly didn’t remember. He’d edited the video and didn’t even remember Anca’s face.
“Zipped it off where?” Evan said. “What’s the platform?”
“RedLite. They’re the biggest. There’s so much on there. Everyone’s doing this, bro. It’s the whole world.” Manny’s eyes toggled nervously over to the black-lacquered credenza.
Evan traced his gaze. Strode across. That tangle of flash drives waited in the metal tray at the edge by the row of industrial shredders, their next stop on the assembly line.
The drives were all shapes and colors, many of them labeled with a date and description. He poked through them. One said, 2/6, Subway chick, WoW.
Subway chick. White On White.
Evan lifted it, let it dangle in the light.
Saliva leaked along his lower molars, a premonition of nausea.
In psyops training and in the field, he’d endured footage.
War crimes, hostage videos, Hamas and ISIS, experiments from Nazi camps, cartel leaders feeding naked men to their dogs.
But he’d not watched the torture of someone he knew personally.
He’d faded away inside his dread but snapped back into present awareness. Behind him, Manny was weeping quietly on the couch.
His fist clenched around the flash drive. In his palm pressed around the unyielding metal, he could feel the pulse of his heartbeat. With effort, he unclenched his jaw.
And turned around.
The time for talking was over.