Waldman stepped back. One of the boards on the floor was loose. The place shouldn't have had a wooden floor anyhow. He stamped down hard on one end of the board. The other rose, like a brown-stained square tongue. He leaned down and ripped it up. It covered small plastic bags with oblong brown wads slightly smaller than Hershey bars. So that was the reason for the flooring. Waldman smelled the contents of a bag. Hashish. He kicked off the board next to the first. More bags. The basement was a stash. In rough estimates, he saw about thirty-five hundred dollars worth already. He kicked over another board. Where he had expected to find bags, Waldman saw an oblong tape deck, with a small dim yellow light in the control panel. The spool spun around and around, whipping a liver-colored end of tape against the gray plastic edge of a panel. He stared at it going around, the tape softly whipping the panel edge. He saw a black cord lead through a drilled hole in the wooden floor support. The machine was on record.

He pressed stop, rethreaded the spool and put the machine on rewind. The tape spun back rapidly. The machine had belonged to the dealer. Many pushers had them. A tape could help give them protection. It could raise a little blackmail money. It had many uses.

Before the tape rewound completely, he pressed stop again. Then play.

"Hello, hello, hello. I'm so glad you're all here." The voice was silky high, like a drag queen's. "I suppose you're all wondering, wondering, wondering what lovelies I have for you."

"Money, man." This voice was heavier and deeper. "Bread, baby. The mean green."

"Of course, lovelies. I wouldn't deprive you of sustenance."

"For a dealer, that's the level truth. Totally level." A girl's voice.

"Hush, hush, lovelies. I'm an artist. I just do other things to live. Besides, the walls have ears."