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drains, more often along under the tires to the unfortunate neighboring blocks, everyone moaning and lifting their feet clear. Just moving it around, that's all. At the next corner he ran into a crowd gathered staring at a couple of young teenage girls from inside, from the apartments, the other side of the barrier. They'd come out of the apartment building on rollerblades to sightsee, to slum on the streets. Sealed in a murky bubble of the One-Way Permeable Barrier they were like apparitions, dim ghosts, though you could hear them giggle as they skated through the hushed, reverent crowd. Like a sighting of gods, these teenage girls from inside. No one bothered to spare-change them or bother them in any way because of the barrier. The girls of course were oblivious behind their twilight veil, like night things come into the day, though for them probably it was the people in cars and around the cars that appeared dim, unreachable. He shouldered his way through the dumbstruck crowd and once past this obstacle he found his man, locked into traffic like all the rest, right where he'd last seen him. The Apartments on Tape dealer, his connection, sunbathing in a deck chair on the roof of his Sentra, eating a sandwich. The backseat was stacked with realtors' tapes, apartment porn, and on the passenger seat two video decks for dubbing. His car in a sliver of morning sun that shone across the middle of the block, benefit of a chink in the canyon of towers that surrounded them. The dealer's neighbors were on their car roofs as well, stretching in the sun, drying clothes. “Hello there, remember me? That looks good what you're eating, anyway, I want to talk to you about this tape.” “No refunds,” said the dealer, not even looking down. “No, that's not it, I saw something, can we watch it together?” “No need since there's no refunds and I'm hardly interested—” “Listen, this is a police matter, I think—” “You're police then, is that what you're saying?” still not looking down. “No no, I fancy myself a private detective, though not to say I work outside the law, more adjacent, then turn it over to them if it serves justice, there's so often corruption—” “So turn it over,” the dealer said. “Well if you could just have a look I'd value your opinion. Sort of pick your brain,” thinking flattery or threats, should have chosen one approach with this guy, stuck with it. The dealer said, “Sorry, day off,” still not turning his head, chewing off another corner of sandwich. Something from inside the sandwich fell, a chunk of something, fish maybe, onto the roof of the car. “The thing is I think I saw a murder, on the tape, in the apartment.” “That's highly unlikely.” “I know, but that's what I saw.” “Murder, huh?” The dealer didn't sound at all impressed. “Bloody body parts, that sort of thing?” “No, don't be absurd, just a shadow, just a trace.” “Hmmm.” “You never would have noticed in passing. Hey, come to think of it, you don't have an extra sandwich do you?” “No, I don't. So would you describe this shadow as sort of a flicker then, like a malfunction?” “No, absolutely not. It's part of the tape.” “Not your monitor on the fritz?” “No”—he was getting angry now—“a person, a shadow strangling another shadow.” The chunk of sandwich filling on the car roof was sizzling slightly, changing color already in the sun. The dealer said, “Shadows, hmmm. Probably a gimmick, subliminal special effects or something.” “What? What reason would a realtor have for adding special effects for God's sake to an apartment tape?” “Maybe they think it adds some kind of allure, some thrill of menace that makes their apartments stand out from the crowd.” “I doubt very much—” “Maybe they've become aware of the black market in tapes lately, that's the word on the street in fact, and so they're trying to send a little message. They don't like us ogling their