Although I’d successfully managed to persuade Pretty Boy to overlook my twenty-seventh birthday on January 1—being three years closer to hitting the slippery slope of thirty made it a less than fun occasion—2002 didn’t start well. A few days into it, we were stunned by the news that Delilah Carson was found murdered in her condo, stabbed numerous times. We’d worked a threesome with her just a week or so before. Her boyfriend had set it up. She’d been uncertain of her john, unusual for a woman with her experience, and wanted the encounter filmed, so Pretty Boy and Spike worked with her, and I hid out in the crawlspace and filmed it. After the john had left, she’d laughed at her nerves. “Neal was so jumpy about this; it must have rubbed off on me.” But she’d agreed when I suggested making co
