He rubbed grit from his eyes and waited for his heart to decelerate. He rolled his head from side to side, trying to work out the kink in his neck. As he sat up, the sofa springs grumbled.

      The TV was still on. On any other Saturday, Joey might have poured himself a big bowl of Fruit Loops and settled down happily to watch cartoons. Not today, however. His head throbbed, and there was a bad taste in his mouth, like library paste.

      The dream-drums had him on edge. Those suckers were more than he could handle.

      The odd thing was, he could never remember the dreams themselves. The only part he could recall was the pulsing of a multitude of drums. Not snares or timpani, but wild bongos and congas. Heavy, powerful drums that never let the soul rest.

      The drums frightened him. Ever since Ed Curley brought him that copy of Razor Cut, he would snap awake after a few hours' sleep, his heart hammering, a thin sheen of nightgrease coating his body.

      The drums always seemed to continue for just a second after he woke up. That's what scared him the most.

      He glanced at the digital clock in his VCR. 9:25. He'd better shake a leg if he was going to meet Alison at 10:30.

      Joey shambled into the bathroom. He looked at himself in the toothpaste-flecked mirror. Not a pretty sight. Turning on a blast of frigid water, Joey stuck his head in the sink. He kept it there until the backed-up water threatened to spill over onto the floor. Gasping, he surfaced and, with eyes squinched shut, grabbed a handy towel.

      He felt a little better, but not much. He opened the medicine cabinet in search of some drug to alleviate the ache in his brain. After scattering empty plastic bottles across the bathroom floor, he came to the conclusion that he was out of Anacin, Tylenol, Bufferin, Nuprin and Midol. It was a mystery to him how the last had found its way into the apartment, but he wished he'd saved a couple tablets.

      Back in the living room, Joey congratulated himself on having undressed before falling asleep on the sofa. He put his pants back on and, after sniffing the armpits without gagging, donned his tee-shirt. He set off for the bedroom in search of fresh socks.

      Having found some that almost matched, he sat on the bed and scratched the webbing between his toes. He often wondered what kind of genetic screw-up had produced his webbed feet. His mom and dad hadn't had them. Neither had the twins, Jeff and Tom. Just one of life's little mysteries, he guessed.

      He fixed himself some toast and orange Kool-Ade, then sat back down on the sofa to enjoy his breakfast. Before he knew what he was doing, he picked up the VCR remote and pushed the play button.

      In silence, the Walkman stuck a long kitchen knife into one of the football players.

      "Jesus Christ!" Spilling some of his Kool-Ade, Joey jumped up and smacked the television's off button. The blank screen was a relief.

      He must have been watching Razor Cut last night and turned off the tape, but not the TV itself, just before he fell asleep.

      That made it, how many times now?

      He really didn't want to think about it, but a voice in his head tried to count for him. He had watched Razor Cut once at the Picture Palace, then once again at home that same night. Twice on Thursday morning. Once while he made a dupe of it after hours.

      After that, his recollection became foggy. Had he watched it twice yesterday afternoon, or three times? For some reason, he couldn't quite remember. Should he count all the skipping from scene to scene he did during odd moments of the day?

      Joey figured he might have watched the film ten times in three days.

      How come he didn't remember watching it last night before he dozed off?

      He should have given Alison the original and gotten the thing out of the house. That might have been the smart thing to do. But there was a blockbuster story here for his newsletter. The loyal readership of The Splatter Times demanded he give this bizarre tape the in-depth study it deserved.

      Taking extra care to bolt his apartment door securely, Joey walked eight flights down to the lobby. He met no one. The residents of the Tobias Building were not known for their gregariousness. Everyone tended to mind his own business, not out of any particular respect for privacy, but because the last busybody in the building had been stabbed thirty times with a sharpened screwdriver after taking too close an interest in the methamphetamine factory in 6D. The apartment dwellers understood that discretion was the better part of survival.

      As he came out of the building's front entrance, he spotted Crazy Al outside the drugstore across the street. Since time was short, Joey merely waved without going over to chat. Al waved back, happy to see him.

      Fall brought warm weather to San Francisco after a summer of chilly fog. Joey started to sweat before he made it to the telephone kiosk at the corner. He looked around to see if anyone was paying attention to him, then deposited two dimes in the machine. Reading from a yellow Post-It, he punched seven digits.

      The phone on the other end rang five times before someone answered. "Hello?" said a female voice.

      "Hi," Joey said. "Is C. William Hartinger there, please?"

      "I'm sorry, but Bill's not available right now. Can I help you? I'm Carol Hartinger."

      "Well, my name is Joseph Spelvin, and I'm calling from Patterson's Picture Palace."

      "Did Bill forget to return one of his tapes?"

      Joey laughed, a friendly chuckle to allay any suspicion. "No, no, Mrs. Hartinger, I'm calling to tell you that your husband has won our Videotape Giveaway Contest. Isn't that great?"

      "I guess so. Do we have to buy anything?"

      "Of course not, Mrs. Hartinger. Your husband has won, absolutely free of charge, ten free movie rentals."

      Carol Hartinger finally began to exhibit some enthusiasm. "Hey, neat! Did you have a drawing or something?"

      "That's it, exactly. We drew Mr. Hartinger's name out of a giant fishbowl. Today's your lucky day, I guess."

      "How about that?"

      Joey said, "I've got a gift certificate made out in your husband's name. All he has to do is come by the store and pick it up."

      "You can't mail it to us?"

      "I could, I suppose, but I'd really like to take his picture. We want to prove that no one connected with the Picture Palace won the contest. All we need is a ten-second Polaroid shot."

      Carol Hartinger said, "Can Bill stop by after work on Monday? Around five-thirty?"

      Perfect. Curtis never came in on Mondays. Joey would have the run of the store. "Fine. I'll be at the front counter. I'll have everything ready."

      "OK. Well, thanks for calling."

      "I'll look for Mr. Hartinger on Monday. Have a good weekend, now."

      "Bye."

      Joey hung up. Great. If everything worked out, in two day's time, he'd get a look at the twistoid who had substituted Razor Cut for Cartoon Fun Fest.

      On the BART train, heading toward the East Bay, Joey picked up a partial copy of the day's Chronicle left behind by another passenger. After looking for, and failing to find, the section with the comics in it, he skimmed the national news, then turned to "Bay Area Report," a round-up of short items.

      Two headlines caught his attention. The first was BODY DISCOVERED IN GOLDEN GATE PARK. A Harry Devlitt of Pasadena had been found with his throat slashed near the Japanese Tea Garden last night. The item identified Devlitt as a producer of adult films, but Joey had never heard of him.

      RIOT AT BERKELEY VOODOO TEMPLE noted that ten people had been arrested at the First Church of Caribbean Mysteries when a voodoo ceremony somehow got out of hand. The adjoining buildings were vandalized, a car ran through a chainlink fence, and three people were injured in fistfights and accidents.

      Joey shook his head. Always something weird going down in good old Berzerkley.

      Thirty minutes later, Joey was sitting on the steps of UC Berkeley's Student Union, half-listening to some tin-eared lunatic strum a guitar and mangle Beatles tunes, when he saw Alison Davis cross Sproul Plaza. Even at this ungodly hour, she looked great. The same sunlight that poked microscopic needles into Joey's red-rimmed eyes set Alison's blond, shoulder-length hair agleam.

      "Yo, Alison!"

      She looked his way and waved. When she joined him on the steps, she gave Joey the once-over and asked, "Rough night, kid?"

      "Rough decade. Let's go someplace where it isn't quite so bright."

      They crossed Bancroft and headed down Telegraph Avenue. The street vendors were out in force, assembling their displays, hoping to earn a few bucks by selling clay unicorns, painted ties, odd-shaped prisms or tee-shirts with allegedly witty slogans printed on them. Restless youths queued in front of the pizza shop. At the corner, a blind fortune teller prognosticated with Braille-labeled tarot cards.

      Just as Joey and Alison were about to cross Durant, a sweaty stud in tight yellow shorts and a blue UC Track Team jersey loped past and nearly wrapped himself around a telephone pole while doing a double-take. Alison seemed not to notice. Joey snickered. Served the putz right for gawking.

      In all fairness, Joey supposed that he and Alison did make an odd couple. Something on the order of Princess Grace being squired about town by Ratso Rizzo.

      Pointing up the street, Alison said, "Hey, do you mind if we stop in Tower Records? I've got to pick something up for Brad's birthday."

      Joey shrugged. There was little point in being in a hurry with Alison. He said, "Still seeing the Incredible Hulk, are you?"

      Alison made a face. "Yes, I'm still seeing Brad. You got a problem with that?"

      "No skin off my nose."

      "Uh huh."

      The security guard at the record store stopped them before they could get too close to the merchandise. "You'll have to leave your pack here," he said to Alison.

      She dutifully handed over the goods. "I'll only be a minute," she said to Joey and headed toward the jazz section.

      "Take your time." Joey strolled aimlessly, checking out the new releases. He noticed that the Talking Heads had a new album out. He wished there were an extra ten bucks in his wallet.

      Joey suddenly realized someone was standing quite close to him. He turned and saw a tall, thin black man, dressed in shoes, pants and a coat the color of midnight. A shiny top hat perched atop his flattish head, and a silver chain circled his muscular neck. At the end of the chain hung a tiny silver shovel.

      The man grinned widely, displaying a set of preternaturally perfect teeth. It was not a particularly friendly smile. It held something menacing, something mean and mocking.

      A shiver skimmed up Joey's spine, and he glanced quickly away. He wondered whether this geek had just used his miniature shovel to take a healthy toot of nosecandy.

      "Check it out, man!" the stranger said. Joey couldn't help but look back at him.

      The man held up a record album. "Zobop" was written in scarlet on the otherwise jet-black cover.

      He waggled his eyebrows at Joey and winked. "Come in or go out?"

      The same thing the Walkman had asked that day at the Opal. Joey scuttled sideways, away from Mr. Top Hat and his mile-wide grin.

      The stranger looked from the album cover and back to Joey. He lifted one finger to tip his hat and then began to laugh, a rich guffaw from deep within his guts.

      Catching his breath, the man said, "Sooner than you think, boy. Sooner than you think."

      Joey beat a hasty retreat to the jazz section, where he found Alison pricing John Coltrane albums. She said, "I don't know whether to get this, or something by Charlie Parker."

      "Buy the Bird. You can't go wrong." Joey snuck a look over his shoulder. Laughing Boy wasn't in sight.

      He said to Alison, "Ever hear of something called Zobop?"

      Alison shook her head and selected an album. "No. Should I have?"

      "On the way in, did you see a black dude in a top hat?"

      "Uh uh. Why?"

      "He was pushing an album called `Zobop' at me. Very weird. Gave me the creeps."

      "Does he work here?"

      "I don't think they hire six-foot-four coke fiends in undertakers' suits."

      "Maybe Zobop is a local band."

      "Maybe. The guy looked fucked up enough to be a musician."

      On their way to the register, Joey noticed Alison had a second album. "What have you got there?"

      She held up "Great Science Fiction Film Themes." It included such such time-honored classics as the themes from Attack of the Fifty-Foot Woman, The Mole Men, Killer Shrews and The Creeping Terror.

      "I take it that's not a gift for Brad."

      "No, it's for my own enjoyment."

      "I bet Bradley just hates records like that."

      Alison giggled. "He sure does. And that's just too bad for him."

      Joey surveyed the store. A group of leather-clad teenagers stood in line at the BASS Tickets counter. A female clerk chewed a pencil while taking inventory. The dude in the top hat was nowhere to be found. Good.

      Before the clerk could ring up Alison's purchases, Joey asked, "Hey, do you have an album called `Zobop'?"

      "Is that the name of the album? Or the group?"

      "Beats me."

      "Might be a foreign import. Might be reggae. Might be anything."

      Alison paid for her records and retrieved her bookpack. "Want to go back and look for it?"

      Joey said, "Never mind. Let's go."

      They walked a while, then stopped in front of Tuscany, a trendy little cafe' and bakery.

      "Want to get something to eat here and talk?" Alison said.

      "If we can sit off by ourselves somewhere."

      As they walked inside, the aroma of roasting coffee engulfed them. Student-types brunched on cappucino and all-natural muffins. Alison surveyed the mirrored menu boards. To the woman behind the marble counter, she said, "I'd like a latte' and a chocolate croissant. Heated, please. Joey, you want anything?"

      "Black coffee and a jelly doughnut."

      The woman behind the counter sniffed. "We don't serve doughnuts."

      "Just coffee, then."

      They found a table on the upper level, a dark, cigarette-stale area equipped with uncomfortable metal chairs. Alison set her bookpack beside her. After removing a jumble of newspapers from the tabletop, Joey set down the food tray, spilling only a few teaspoonfuls of their drinks.

      "`We don't serve doughnuts.' Excuse me for living. Good thing I didn't ask for what I really wanted, a Canfield's Chocolate-Cherry Soda and some Yodels. I don't know how you stand living in this town."

      Alison shook a canister of powered chocolate over her latte. "I thought you liked Berkeley."

      "I used to like Berkeley, back in the days before the boutiques and big business moved in. Next thing you know, they'll be opening a BMW dealership in People's Park. Who needs it?"

      Alison shrugged. "It suits me. Our place on Euclid is close to school for Brad, and it's only a fifteen-minute drive to the studio for me."

      "To each her own."

      They sipped their coffees and watched each other. Joey found the section that had been missing in the paper he'd found on BART. Just as he was turned to the Datebook section to check some movie ads, Alison unzipped her bookpack and deposited a videocassette on the tabletop. Cartoon Fun Fest.

      Joey put the newspaper aside and tapped the box. "Did you watch it?"

      "Yes, I did." Alison took a deep breath, then expelled it. "Joey, why did you bring that to me?"

      "Because you're my special effects expert."

      "I make articulated models. I don't do much of this stuff."

      "But you know people who do."

      Alison fished around in her pack for some cigarettes and lit one with matches provided by Tuscany. "I've been having nightmares ever since you gave me this damned thing, Joey. I woke up screaming once. Poor Brad thinks I'm flipping out."

      "You didn't tell him anything about this, did you?"

      "No. You made me promise not to tell another living soul, remember?"

      "I'm not sure that excludes dear old Brad."

      Alison slapped the tabletop. Hot coffee sloshed onto Joey's pantleg. He yelped and stood up, but Alison grabbed him by the shirt tail and pulled him back down.

      "Spelvin, you are such an infuriating little bug sometimes! I don't hear from you for months, even though you live right across the Bay. But when you want a favor, a particularly unpleasant one at that, you look me up. Then give me nothing but shit about where I live and who I sleep with. Well, fuck you, man!"

      A woman across the room stared at them, then went back to reading her textbook.

      Joey slunk down a few inches in his seat, looking decidedly shamefaced. "I'm sorry," he mumbled.

      "What was that?"

      "I'm sorry. OK? I mean it." Joey took a sip of his coffee to avoid looking directly at Alison. "I gave you the tape because you're the only person I can trust, Alison."

      Alison grimaced. "And what am I supposed to say now? `Oh, isn't that sweet'?"

      "You don't have to if you don't want to."

      Alison smiled slightly, and Joey knew he wasn't going to receive a faceful of espresso and steamed milk.

      "Just back off a little. OK, Spelvin?"

      "Agreed. Tell me more about the tape."

      Alison stubbed out her cigarette and regarded the boxed tape with obvious revulsion. "Some of the things that happen seem impossible to fake."

      Joey thought of the Walkman's razor slicing across Tiffany Wellington's throat in extreme closeup.

      Alison said, "I played the thing half a dozen times on a high-quality machine. Looked for tricky editing, suspect camera angles, squibs, simulated flesh, the usual bag of tricks. Caught most of the gimmicks, especially in the early scenes. But as the film went on, it got tougher to spot the effects. Whoever did them must have been an absolute wizard."

      Joey picked up the tape and inspected it, as if the packaging alone could reveal its secrets. "You really think they had a special effects wizard on this film?"

      Alison bit her lip. "Joey, I don't think this is just a movie. I think some of those people really got killed, especially the girl and the two football players."

      His initial reaction had been correct. Joey had watched more than five hundred horror flicks in his career as a cinemaphile. Every single time, he had been able to see the tricks, to discern the line between reality and movie illusion.

      Razor Cut was different. The knives were real. The blood was real. The murders were real.

      Joey looked at the tape in wonder, feeling both nauseated and oddly exhilarated. "What do you know? An honest-to-God snuff film!"

      Alison winced at the last two words. She said, "Joey, what are you going to do with it now?"

      "Beats the shit out of me." While he thought about it, he picked up the newspaper again. An advertisement near the bottom of the page caught his eye. He literally felt his jaw drop.

      Alison said, "What's the matter?"

      He turned the paper around and showed her the ad.

      EXCLUSIVE THREE-NIGHT ENGAGEMENT!, it read. SEX GODDESS TIFFANY WELLINGTON -- LIVE ON STAGE!!!