Marilyn rolled over and buried her face in Finger’s crotch, and his face took on an ecstatic grimace, which Cantor preserved in digital code. Then they changed positions, and Finger was doing the work in her lap. He was on his knees, his buttocks pointing to the sky. Cantor was almost as ecstatic as Finger. He continued photographing until both Marilyn and Finger had collapsed in a tangle of love.

Cantor took out a small laptop computer and the little portable color printer he traveled with, and, minutes later, he had a sheet of postage-stamp–sized prints, half a dozen enlargements and everything on a CD. He pulled out his cell phone and pressed a speed-dial number.

Up at the Post on the floor where the Page Six staff worked, a phone rang and a young man picked it up. “Page Six.”

“You know who this is, Henry?”

“Yeah, I know who it is.”

“I want you to do two things: I want you to go down to your cashier and draw ten grand in hundreds and fifties, then I want you to meet me at the bar across the street. You’ve got an hour, and if you don’t bring the money, I go elsewhere.”

“What could be that hot?”

“If you don’t think it’s hot enough, you don’t have to give me the ten grand. I’m not going to hit you over the head and take it.”

“Give me a hint.”

“How’s this for a hint: in flagrante delicto?”

“Who is?”

“Trust me, you’re going to love it.” The caller hung up.

Cantor removed the lens from the camera, packed his equipment and took the elevator to the lobby, giving Tim, the doorman, a little salute as he passed. Half an hour later, he was in a back booth of a dark bar, nursing a dirty martini with two olives. Presently, Henry entered the bar, waited for his eyes to become accustomed to the light, or lack of it, then headed for the booth. He was carrying a small, zippered canvas envelope that bulged just a bit.

“Okay,” he said, “let’s have it.”

“First, I want complete confidentiality,” Cantor said. “I don’t want even your editors to know where this came from.”

“Guaranteed,” Henry said. “The paper loves it when we go to jail for not revealing sources. It makes them look brave, and they get a chance to run editorials about First Amendment issues.”

Cantor laid an eight-by-ten photograph on the table and switched on a penlight.

“Beautiful girl!” Henry enthused. “Who’s the guy with his head up her twat?”

Cantor laid another photo on the table and illuminated it.

“Holy shit!” Henry spat. “Is that Bernie Finger?”

“None other.” Cantor spread out more photos and held up the CD. “Many more where that came from.”