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what. Lemme make a copy of the graphic and do a little surfing tonight. At least I can tell you how much we’re talking about.”
    A few hundred dollars was more discretionary income than
    I was used to these days. “You got it.”
    Mac nodded. “By the way, I got a bootleg of the new Scorsese flick. You want to borrow it?”
    “Uh, duh.”
    While he was making a copy of the man and the lamppost on the Zippo, I wandered into the master editing suite. Hank was hunched over two monitors. Gangly, with straw-like hair, his pasty complexion attested to years spent in the glow of a computer screen rather than sunshine. He moved the cursor back and forth, adjusting a bank of numbers on one monitor and highlighting a series of menus on another. Then he double-clicked the mouse, rolled his chair back, and clasped his hands behind his head.
    Video rolled on the monitors, and the image cut from a wide shot of a man walking toward the camera to a medium close-up of the same man stopping in front of the camera.
    “Seamless,” I said.
    Hank twisted around, saw me, and shook his head. “Watch it again.”
    He reran the edit. This time I saw it. In the first image, the man was gesturing, and his left hand was approximately at waist level. In the second image, the hand had jumped to his chest. “You’re right. You need a few extra frames.”
    “Except I don’t have them.”
    “Can’t you cut into him earlier?”
    “Nope. Audio’s too tight.”
    I nodded. No matter how carefully you anticipate everything, problems always crop up in post-production. The difference between a good show and a great show is your editor’s ability to fix them.
    Hank’s eyes lit up. “Got an idea.”
    Bending over the keyboard, he worked for almost five minutes, adjusting, clicking, and previewing. Then he reran the scene. This time the man’s hand naturally rose from his waist to his chest.
    “Amazing. What did you do?”
    “I interpolated. Added a frame here and there.”
    “But you didn’t have them.”
    “I created them.”
    “How?”
    “I can’t tell you all my secrets, Ellie. You’d think I was a mere mortal.”
    Mac came back in. “Don’t believe him. It’s all in the software. As a matter of fact, I’m thinking of trading Hank in for a programmer and a first round draft choice.”
    “Watch yourself, Mac,” Hank said.
    Mac tossed me the lighter. “I’ll take my chances.” He handed me a cassette in a white cardboard sleeve. “Enjoy.”
    I dropped the tape and the lighter into my black leather bag. “I’m a happy woman.”
    “If that’s all it takes, you’re way too easy,” Mac said.
    I practiced my over-the-shoulder Veronica Lake smile and exited stage-left.

 
     
    Chapter Six
     
     
    On Saturday morning you can’t drive past any open spaces around here without seeing packs of young people, in brightly colored shirts, shorts, and knee socks scrambling up and down the field after a ball. Organized soccer has become one of those rites of passage kids can’t afford to miss. Parents come out for it too, armed with deck chairs, coffee, and attitude.
    One man, the father of one of Rachel’s teammates, gives meddling a new name. He insinuates himself into every play, barks instructions to his daughter, and belittles her when they don’t work out. The kid’s the best player on the team, but I have visions of her in a few years with blue hair, black lipstick, and multiple rings piercing every inch of her body.
    Most people assume this guy is acting out his fantasies through his kid. Or that the boomers have taken competition to absurd heights. But I think he’s still suffering the effects of the Vietnam War. Really. Our generation never got the chance to feel good about combat. There weren’t any battles like Verdun or Normandy that called forth the sanctity of war. Instead, there was this seedy guerilla war where our boys were sitting ducks for the VC. Plus a war over whether we should be there at all. Thirty years