 Penguin presents The Guilty Dead by P. J. Tracy, read by Sarah Borges. Prologue Hollywood Hills, California Gus Riskin sipped from a bottle of water as he surveyed Trey's living room. What he saw infuriated and disgusted him. The priceless Persian rug beneath his feet was filthy, pockmarked with cigarette burns, and littered with the cast-offs of a desolate life. Pizza and take-out boxes of indeterminate age, now housed skittering colonies of roaches, empty beer-bottles and martini-glasses, had drooled out their meager remains, leaving crunchy spots on the expensive silk-pile. Drug paraphernalia and detritus were scattered around the room like grotesque confetti. Something, somewhere, was putrefying. Or maybe the whole house was so fetted with human decay, both physical and moral, it had permanently saturated the air. None of this was his problem, but he still found it deeply offensive. Okay, gassy boy, let's bang! Trey's voice was croaky and manic as he bounced into the room on spindly, scaperous legs, his margarita-glass sloshing more effluent onto the rug. He sank into a sofa, drained what was left of his drink, then bent over the coffee-table and snorted a hearty noseful of coke from a snowy pile. He let out a pleasureed sigh. Then his waxen face twisted into an expression of warped mirth. One last party before spin dry, right? Gus smiled, wondering if Trey was asking for validation or just stating a fact. What could it hurt? Let's make it a good one. Hey, you sure you don't want a drink, a bump? No thanks. You're a clean liver with a clean liver, Gus. He laughed at his own bad joke, then rubbed his fingers together in a frenzied, greedy gesture. Gimme gimme, Mr. Sandman. What you got for me tonight? Gus tossed four glass-eyed packets of heroin onto the coffee-table. Something special for your last party. Trey fondled one of the packets with shaking hands, scrutinizing its contents. Looks good. Not south of the border street, shit. I wouldn't do you like that, man. This is pure number four. Just came in this morning. You don't even have to heat it up. You're the boss. He pulled a thick bundle of cash from between the sofa cushions and tossed it over. There's a little something extra for you this time. You never let me down. And that's worth a lot. If there was any genuine sentimentality in that statement, it was quickly forgotten as Trey began his ritual with desperate fervor. Dissolve the heroin-salt, load the syringe, tie off the arm, wait for the stairway to heaven to open up. Gus was mesmerized, watching the liquid rise into the plastic body of the syringe as the needle greedily sucked it up. Like a honeybee with nectar. He winced when Trey stuck the needle into a partially collapsed infected vein, then sagged in ecstasy as the syringe and the surgical tubing fell to the floor. Can you stick around for a while, Gus? Trey asked in a syrupy voice. You know, just in case. Sure, I can do that. I forgot to put on some tunes. I've got a soundtrack all queued up. I'll take care of it. You're the boss. Trey repeated, his voice scarcely a mumble now. Gus took his time turning on the sound system, tweaking the treble and bass adjusting the volume. When he was finally satisfied with the levels, he checked on Trey. He was unconscious, but still breathing, which was a goddamn miracle considering the amount of high-quality dope he just pushed. He sat down on a velvet covered chair and gazed up at the hideously ugly painting hanging above the fireplace, thinking that beauty truly was in the eye of the beholder. But did anyone really think that that painting was beautiful? Or was it only beautiful because it was so valuable? Trey had hinted on more than one occasion that it was worth twice as much as the house, which was a notable claim since the current market value of the place was at least four million dollars, maybe more. Sample complete. Ready to continue?