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may be right,” Corman said dryly.
    â€œI’m absolutely right,” Eddie said. “That’s why I if I get a dick, I airbrush it right out. I cover it with leaves.”
    Corman said nothing. It was good advice, and Eddie was no moron when it came to human motives, either. He was probably right about everything. And yet?
    Eddie snapped up another photograph. It showed the body of a teenage boy lying faceup on the sidewalk. He was clothed in blue jeans, running shoes and a dark peacoat. “What’s the story with this one?” he asked.
    â€œCops figure it for a drug burn.”
    Eddie nodded thoughtfully. “Couldn’t sell it?”
    Corman shook his head. “It’s a common sight, Eddie. Nobody needs a stringer for a shot like that.”
    Eddie continued to stare at the picture. “Looks like the East Side.”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    Eddie’s eyes peeped over the edge of the photograph. “Forty-ninth Street, right?
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œWell, there it is then,” Eddie said with a sly smile. “The way you sell the picture.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    â€œFor Christ’s sake, man, that’s Katharine Hepbum’s block. This hit went down practically right in front of the old broad’s window.”
    â€œSo what?”
    â€œThat’s your angle, asshole,” Eddie said triumphantly.
    Corman stared at him silently.
    â€œYou play that up,” Eddie said insistently. “You play the shit out of it.” He leaned forward, planting his elbows on the table. “The editor looks at the picture, says nothing, unimpressed, you know?”
    Corman nodded.
    â€œHe says no, right?” Eddie said. “You say, okay, fine, no hard feelings. You start to pick up the picture, then you say, ‘Nice block, huh? Hepburn lives on it.’ You tap the print. ‘Right there,’ you say. ‘Jesus,’ you say, ‘imagine that. A drug hit right on Hepburn’s block.’ You slap your forehead. ‘What a city?’ you say. ‘Drug burns even on Hepburn’s block.’ You shake your head at the thought of it. ‘My God,’ you say like it’s just hit you, ‘what if she’d been passing by,’ you say. ‘She coulda caught some lead.’ It doesn’t change the picture, but it gives the editor an angle on the story. The angle goes with the picture. You give him both, but you act like you don’t know it.” He leaned back again, his arms folding proudly over his chest. “You make the sale.”
    Corman stared at him, wonderingly. “You actually make sales like that, Eddie?”
    â€œDo I?” Eddie cried. “Do I? Jesus Christ, man, I got a map of the city tacked to my wall.” He spread his arms out wide. “Big fucking thing. Big as you can get. I got little numbered pins that tell me where every celebrity in this town lives.” Again, he smiled proudly. “So what do you think?”
    â€œIt’s good, Eddie,” Corman said quietly, with a small, very slender smile. Anything seemed better.

CHAPTER
SIX
    A FTER A DAY of chasing small fires and fender benders, Corman returned home just before sunset and found Trang staring at the bulletin board which the tenants had hung on the wall.
    â€œAh, Mr. Corman,” Trang said as he turned toward him, “I was hoping to have word with you.”
    Corman stopped, stared at him expressionlessly, said nothing.
    â€œYou know you must make decision soon,” Trang said gravely. He was the new owner of the building, a South Vietnamese immigrant who had, according to his disgruntled tenants, accumulated large sums of money by shipping drugs out of his country before the fall of Saigon. He wore perfectly tailored blue suits, but in a 1940s style, three-piece double-breasted, with wide lapels and pleated, slightly baggy trousers, the style, as some residents liked to claim,