The numbers changed on the screen and he picked up the phone and dialed the number he had been given. He had sent the photos as an attachment hours ago, shot from a rooftop a half mile away that had a clear view directly into Atimus Clay's Manhattan penthouse.

He had received Atimus's reply in the contract. It was only details now.

When, how and whatever else there might be. The phone was answered and Sharp listened.

His mind worked that way. He could hear it once and that was all he needed.

A phone number, a license number, a street address. It did not matter what the information contained, he could spit it back out verbatim whenever he needed it.

And when he was through with it he could flush it out of his head just as if he had erased it from his memory for good. He listened; he said nothing until the end.

"It's not something I would do," he said. He listened as the voice persuaded him.

It was not exactly a line he was asked to cross: It was subjective, and after a few minutes of listening he came to believe it was necessary. "Okay," he said at last.

"When the time comes let me know. " He hung up, shut down his laptop and closed it.

. .

Come along on a crazy ride with all sorts of shady charactors: Mob button men. Crime syndicate bosses, cops that are out to take eveything for themselves.

Top level dope dealers and Dollar, a low level loser just trying to stay alive. .

. .