Damn the Frenchman. He'd had no right to do what he did.

      October 7 was an hour old. Harry supposed he should call it a night, turn off the porn and get some sleep before catching the morning flight back to Los Angeles. His eyeballs felt gritty, and a headache pulsed at the back of his skull.

      He knew sleep wouldn't come until much later, though. Not even if he polished off the bottle. He'd be puking sick, but he wouldn't fall asleep until three or four in the morning.

      Harry Devlitt hadn't done a lot of sleeping since Tiffany left. He was always too keyed up. As soon as he shut his eyes, his mind started playing games with him, projecting shadowy scenes on the back of his eyelids.

      He confronts the Frenchman, filled with righteous rage. And the Frenchman, that faggot in the white suit, trembles with fear and brings Tiffany right to him. And Tiffany, her violet eyes filled with tears and her gorgeous chest heaving with pent-up sobs, throws herself into his arms, begging his forgiveness.

      For months, dreaming and waking, Harry Devlitt's brain had broadcast that shadow play.

      But in real life, it hadn't gone down that way. Not at all.

      Something skittered across the motel roof. A cat? A raccoon? Harry didn't give it much thought.

      He regarded the couplings on the television screen. What a bunch of amateurs! He wouldn't have hired a single one of those actors. His movies were class acts, all the way. The best talent money could buy.

      Of course, the best talent he ever got his hands on had come pretty damn cheap. At the start of it all, Tiffany had cost him, what?, a Happy Meal.When Harry spotted the girl in that McDonald's, he had known immediately that she was star material. Comb that hair out, put her in a low-cut teddy, get her to lose ten pounds, and, man, she'd stiffen wicks from Pomona to Portland.

      So he approached her carefully, not wanting to startle her, just wanting to start the conversational ball rolling. He listened to her troubles a while. She told him how she'd come to L.A. from Fresno two months ago, following a boyfriend who wanted to be a stuntman. When the boyfriend couldn't get work, he'd skipped town, leaving her with little money and no place to go.

      Harry offered to buy her something to eat. When she was done scarfing down the burger, fries and Coke, he gave her his card: Dev'lish Devlitt Enterprises. Told her to call his office if she ever needed a friend to talk to. He put no pressure on her.

      Three days later, she called. A week later, she moved in with him. Six months later, Firewomen in Heat had premiered, making Tiffany Wellington the hottest star in the adult film market.

      Sucking at the ice in his glass, Harry Devlitt realized he had a hard-on. Not from the stupid movie on the tube. But from the memory of that first film he made with Tiffany.

      God, he missed her. He had to get her back. No matter what the Frenchman said.

      Less than twelve hours ago, Harry had sat in the waiting room of the so-called Crossroads Center down on Van Ness Avenue. A tight-assed receptionist told him at quarter-hour intervals that Mr. Concasseur would be free "any moment now."

      By the time he was finally ushered into the Frenchman's office, Harry itched to punch something hard. It wouldn't be a fair fight; the Frenchman had to be at least seventy. But stealing Tiffany, his meal ticket and true love, that hadn't been fair, had it?

      All that rage dissolved in a second, with one look from the old man.

      From behind his big mahogany desk, the Frenchman had looked at Harry as if he were some kind of bug. The look had scared Harry bad.

      A thump on the motel room roof. This time, Harry started.

      He stood and walked to the window, stared down onto the courtyard and the swimming pool. No sign of anything out of the ordinary. Of course, that didn't tell him what was climbing around on the roof.

      He noticed a strange swath of light in the sky, a delicate banner of phosphorescense like the tail of a comet. He wondered what it was, where it had come from.

      Straining to listen, he heard nothing but traffic noises from the freeway and muted moans from the TV.

      Back on the bed, he looked at the telephone and debated whether he should call Shirley. Shirley Petrowski, his latest protege'e, a red-haired honey destined for the big time as soon as they did something about that ridiculous surname and got her nose fixed.Shirley would be awake. She liked to stay up and watch Letterman. Back in Salt Lake City, her parents had always made her put the lights out at eleven sharp. Shirley, three weeks shy of 18 and about to embark of a major film career, didn't have to put up with that shit anymore. She made a point to watch as much late night television as she wanted.

      But as soon as the phone's cold plastic touched his ear, Harry had second thoughts. He knew where Shirley was, all right, probably propped up in his circular bed, wearing his bathrobe with nothing on underneath, giggling at Dave and his guests, not getting half the jokes. He could see her clear as daylight.

      What if he called, and no one answered?

      At first, he would tell himself that she was sleeping, too groggy to answer the phone.

      Then he'd call again. And if he got no response, well, Shirl was in the shower or something.

      But he knew that if he had to call a third time and got no answer, then the real fear and the sweats would come. With no evidence other than her refusal to answer the phone, he would assume that someone had stolen Shirley away from him, just as the Frenchman had stolen Tiffany.

      Better to not call at all.

      A big cockroach ran down the side of the wall next to Harry's bed. He watched it scamper to the floor, race along the floorboard and stop.

      The cockroach looked at him.

      Filthy little pest. Harry stealthily reached for his shoe, not wanting to scare the insect, wanting to smash it into an oozy speck of organic dirt.

      The cockroach zigzagged under the bed, out of harm's way.

      That's what Harry had wanted to do in the Frenchman's office, just turn around and run for cover. The old man's blue-eyed gaze had spooked him that much.

      But something, some inner need, held Harry back, kept him from bolting. He managed to croak, "I want to see Tiffany."

      The Frenchman shook his head slowly. "I am sorry, Mr. Devlitt, but that is not possible."

      "Why not?"

      "At the moment, Miss Wellington and I are involved in a very delicate business transaction. We cannot tolerate your interference."

      Renewed anger made Harry forget his fear momentarily. "Don't give me that shit, old man! I want to see her now! Pick up that goddamned phone and call her! I'm taking her back to L.A."

      "You are not," the Frenchman said. "She is staying here in San Francisco. With me."

      Knowing he was lost if he didn't find Tiffany, Harry launched himself across the room and grabbed the old man by the front of his white shirt, pulling him up out of his chair. "WHERE IS SHE?"

      The Frenchman spoke a word Harry did not understand. He made a small movement with his hands, as if communicating in a bizarre form of sign language.

      Pain ripped through Harry Devlitt. Reflexively clamping his jaw, he bit into his tongue, filling his mouth with blood. With a scream, he released the old man and staggered to the center of the room, finally dropping to the floor in a fetal crouch.

      The old man straightened his rumpled shirt. With one finger, he wiped a drop of blood from the desktop. He pointed the scarlet-tipped finger at Harry and said, "Go back to the City of Angels, Mr. Devlitt. Forget about Miss Wellington."

      Harry whimpered. The old man took it as acquiescence.

      The excruciating pain disappeared, to be replaced only by the throbbing ache in his damaged mouth. Harry checked himself for other wounds and found none. He staggered to the office door.

      "Goodbye, Mr. Devlitt," said the old man. "Do not let me see you again."

      Like a defiant grade schooler, Harry had turned in the open doorway at the last moment and shouted, "I'll get her back! One way or another, I'll do it!" Then he had run for his life.

      Tonight, the humiliation still burned in his gut, an indigestible lump of shame and self-loathing. Harry uncapped the bottle on the nightstand and poured himself another round, hoping to quench the fire. The liquor hurt his bitten tongue, but he wanted it anyhow.

      Something moved in the corner of the motel room.

      Harry jumped up and peered into the shadows that collected at the far end of the room, next to the chained door.

      When he realized what he was seeing, he almost chomped his tongue again.

      It was a cockroach. Only it was as big as a fucking cat.

      The enormous bug hissed at Harry but didn't approach.

      Harry took a step backwards, took another, caught the back of his leg on the bed, and almost toppled over.

      Now the cockroach came forward, moving slowly, watching Harry's every movement. It waved its antennae warily.

      Harry didn't spend any time wondering whether this was some kind of nightmare. That thing was real, all right. He clambered up on the bed and grabbed the phone, stabbing "O" for the motel switchboard.

      The line rang three times, but no one answered.

      The cockroach jumped up on the bed with him.

      With a shriek, Harry hurled the phone at the creature and ran for the bathroom. He tripped over his suitcase on the floor, banged into the wall, went down on his right knee. He gasped at the pain but hauled himself up and made it the rest of the way to bathroom. Inside, he locked the door with fumbling, sweating fingers. He kneeled on the cold tile floor, panting with fear.

      He held his breath, straining to hear. What was that godawful thing doing out there?

      For the longest time, nothing. Then Harry thought he heard a woman's laughter.

      "Help! Help me!" Harry screamed. The noise ricocheted off the walls and fed his terror.

      "Help me, please!"

      Laughter: feminine, louder.

      Harry felt sweat beading on his forehead. He wiped at it with a shirtsleeve.

      The sleeve came away bright red.

      He gagged but managed to choke back the bitter stomach juices. "Jesus! Jesus! JESUS!"

      He stood clumsily and faced the bathroom mirror.

      Blood covered him from head to toe. Like someone had spraypainted him with gore. Dewy beads on his brow, breaking into red rivulets that coursed down his cheeks. Damp scarlet patches blooming under his armpits.

      He felt the scarlet fluid trickling down his back, oozing from his scalp, flowing from his rectum.

      Someone in the adjoining room pounded on the wall. "What the fuck's going on in there?"

      Blood fell into Harry's eyes, blinding him. He opened his mouth to scream but choked on the coppery wetness that ran into his trachea.

      Something tore away the flimsy doorlock.

      Sweating blood from every pore, Harry Devlitt turned to face his late night visitor.