Текст книги "On the Other Hand, Death"

Автор книги: Richard Stevenson

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Greco began suddenly to cough and gasp, and said the foul air was bothering him, so we walked out into the oppressive but smokeless night and stood alongside my car.

I said, "Tad took you in when you first came out?"

"Oh, no," Greco said, laughing lightly and breathing more easily now. "It was nothing like that. I'd been out since I was fourteen and on my own since I was eighteen. Tad was ten years ago. I was twenty-four then and I'd already had several lovers. Tad must have been the—I don't know—fifteenth or twentieth."

Persons of the New Age. When I was twenty-four I was getting my kicks trying to decipher whether or not Ishmael might actually be getting it on with Queequeg.

"I didn't really settle down," Greco went on blithely, "until the year after that when I met Fenton and realized what I wanted to do with my life and who I wanted to do it with. No, the thing with Tad was ... he was in love with me, and he paid to have my first volume of poems printed. I was reluctant. I knew I wasn't as crazy about Tad as he was about me. But I was too excited about

seeing my work in print to think straight, and I let him do it. I know it cost him a lot of money, but—God, how can somebody be that bitter after ten years?"

"Right. You'd think in all that time a person's feelings about someone would have gone through a lot of changes. Gotten milder, mellower." I watched for Timmy's yellow Chevette to pull in off Central.

"Oh, jeez, it's time," Greco said, glancing at his watch. "I've gotta get back to the house by midnight and stay with Dot and Edith so their friend can go home. Are you coming out for a while?"

I looked at him, wondering if the invitation was significant in a particular way. Being a not unattentive fellow– fifteen or twenty lovers by age twenty-four—he saw my interest.

"We could go out for a swim in the pond and lie down together under the stars," was what I first thought I heard him say, but what Greco actually said was "We could run off some more leaflets and wait for Fenton to get home. The mimeo machine's in the trunk of the car."

Ethics. Had I had them once? Could I again?

I said, "No, thanks. Timmy—my lover—is probably looking for me, so I guess I'll hang around here. I'll be at home later, so call if there's any problem out at Dot's. Otherwise, I'll be out there first thing in the morning."

"I'm glad you're helping us," he said, smiling. "Even if you're on the payroll of the Great Satan." His eyes shone with their sweet humor, and I wanted again badly to touch him.

"Better not let the Ayatollah Fenton hear you say that," I said. "He still has this crazy idea that just because I'm a minion of Moloch I'm somehow not to be trusted."

"Trust is something you have to earn with Fenton," Greco said. "But once you've got it, you've got it for keeps."

He grinned again, looking as though he were trying to

tell me something useful, and wondering if I'd caught on. Then he brushed my cheek with his hand again, the exasperating little shit, and we both went back inside the bar so that he could find McWhirter and get the car keys.

A few minutes later, I watched Greco head back out to the parking lot, and I rejoined McWhirter and the leafleters. They had signed up two men for the GNS at the Green Room, bringing the grand total for the bar tour to six.

By three-fifteen Timmy still had not shown up. By three-thirty I had befriended, in a narrow but specific way, a slender youngish man named Gordon whose black hair was as curly as Greco's, and whose eyes were as dark, though a good bit dimmer, as was the area behind them. At three-forty we pulled into the deserted parking lot of a Washington Avenue institution of higher learning. At three-fifty-one we pulled out again. He asked if I'd mind dropping him off at the Watering Hole, which wouldn't close for another nine minutes, and I did.

"Catch ya later, Ron," he said.

"For sure, Gordon, for sure."

Then I drove home.

The shower wasn't necessary except for purposes of general sanitation and cooling off. I wouldn't even have had to brush my teeth. Or wash both hands. But still I stayed under the cool—tepid—spray for a good, cleansing fifteen minutes.

I settled into an easy chair and lit an imaginary cigarette. I wanted a real one and thought about driving over to Price Chopper to pick up a pack; it had been more than four years since I'd been off the killer weed, but what the hell. No, I'd smoke a joint instead, just something to feel the soothing harshness on my throat.

I rummaged around in the freezer, but all the little foil-wrapped packages I opened contained chicken necks. Timmy, the world's only Irish anal-retentive, saving up for a chicken-neck party or some goddamn thing.

A car pulled into the parking lot down below. Zip, back to the easy chair. I opened Swann's Way and sat there frowning toward it, as if I had been absorbed in the book since the second Eisenhower administration, which, intermittently, I had.

His footfall in the corridor. His hair would be mussed, his shirttail out. Cum on his eyebrow. Anal hickeys.

His key in the lock.

"So, there you are, you elusive devil!" He laid his jacket on the couch and bent to kiss me. "I've been all up and down the avenue since ten-thirty. Everywhere I went I just missed you. You must have left the Green Room about a minute before I got there. Sorry about the screw-up, but my damn radiator sprung a leak. Seems half the cars in Albany overheated today, so I ended up with a rental car for the weekend. How'd it go tonight?"

He was busily climbing out of his Brooks Brothers work clothes, noticing with horror, of course, the jacket he'd just dropped on the couch, and carrying it to the closet, where he smoothed it out and hung it carefully on a wooden hanger.

"Oh, it didn't go too badly," I said, my finger poised with conspicuous impatience on the line in Swann's Way where I'd left off in the spring of 1977.

"I met McWhirter at the Green Room," he said airily, taking off his pants and clamping them authoritatively into a pants hanger. "He didn't think it had gone all that well. He seemed pretty depressed, in fact. In the bars, only five people signed up for his big national strike. No revolt of the masses on Central Avenue."

"Oh, really? You saw him? He told you that? When I

left the Green Room at three-thirty, there were already six signed up."

"Yeah," he said, neatly folding his dirty shirt before placing it in the laundry hamper. "But one guy changed his mind and came back and crossed his name off the list. McWhirter had a few choice words for the poor bastard too. It wasn't nice to see. I felt sorry for both of them."

I said, "Oh."

He slipped out of his briefs. His cock was limp, shrunken, exhausted.

"I'm going to take a quick shower," he said casually. What an act. "And then let's fuck."

I said, "Wait." My heart was thudding and snapping like my office air conditioner.

He turned in the bedroom doorway to face me. I said, "How did your evening go, anyway? With Boyd-boy. You neglected mentioning that."

"Oh, shit," he said, shaking his head and looking wearily amused by it all. "Boyd is such a flake. I'll tell you all about it in a minute. Just hold on. Boy, do I stink!"

No doubt. He sped into the bathroom to, I assumed, scrub down his eyebrow.

I read in Swann's Way the words "But, whereas" several times, then reinserted the yellowing bookmark. I waited. When I heard the water stop running, I opened the book and reread, "But, whereas."

"But, whereas."

"But, whereas."

"But, whereas."

Timmy came back, theatrically erect. Quite the athlete, Timmy.

"I love your ass, Donald Strachey," he said in a low voice, and dove at me with the concentrated enthusiasm he generally reserved for a misplaced article of clothing.

I said, "Did you and Boyd-boy do it? You know—'it'?

The famous and ever-popular but-still-controversial-in-some-circles 'it'?"

He halted in midair, hung there briefly, then descended to his dumb, ugly puce shag rug I'd never liked.

In a tight little voice, he said, "No. We did not. Boyd and I did not do . . . 'it.'"

He stood there hot-eyed, waiting, his mind working, not so extravagantly prepossessing below the waist now, but staring hard at me, as if he had just been fucked—in the metaphorical sense this time. A well-rounded evening for Timmy.

I said, "Just thought I'd ask. When you came in you had some kind of goddamn dried white flaky stuff on your eyebrow."

"On my eyebrow. On my eyebrow. Ooops," he said, looking mock-guilty and clamping a hand over one eye. Then the anger surged through him and he spat it at me: "Ooops! Ooops, ooops, ooops."

His face was an inch from mine. I turned away. He was sweating, breathing hard, eyes like blue and white saucers.

He said, "Look at me."

I said nothing.

He said, "One of us doesn't trust one of us."

I could feel myself flushing.

He said, "You are the one who doesn't trust one of us.

I knew what was coming.

He said, "You don't trust the one of us who picked up a SUNY student in Price Chopper in June and was seen doing it by Phil Hopkins." Hopkins, that insufferable busybody. "Which aisle was it, lover? I want to know. I want to find out which are the cruisy aisles at Price Chopper in case I ever start doing again what the mistrustful one of us does now. Which aisle is the hot one? Is it fresh

produce? Oral dentifrices? Day-old baked goods?"

I looked into his face now. I opened my mouth to

speak, then closed it. Then I opened it again and croaked

out, "The meat department, naturally. In fact—poultry." He tried not to laugh. I tried not to laugh. We

laughed.

We lay together on the comfy puce shag rug and shared a joint. Ever the cautious bureaucrat, he'd hidden it in a pint of Haagen-Dazs boysenberry with a false bottom. We ate the Haagen-Dazs too.

"I apologize," I said.

"Mmm."

"It was me I didn't trust. I knew that. Sort of."

"Uh-huh. So, how many have there been? Since June?"

"I thought you never wanted to know the sordid details."

"A number is not sordid."

That's all he knew. "Since June? Oh . . . about three."

"Approximately three."

"More or less."

"Uh-huh. More or less."

I said, "Seven."

He sighed, very deeply. "Look, Don," he said. "I don't like it. You know I don't like it. Maybe I shouldn't care. But I care. I'm not a man of the brave new world. You know that. I'm just me, Timothy J. Callahan, an aging kid from St. Mary's parish, Poughkeepsie, and I care.

"But I also know that if you're going to do it, you're going to do it. And apparently you are going to do it. You told me that a long time ago. However," he said, leaning up and looking sadly into my face, "if you're going to do it—and I'm not giving you permission, because you're not a child and I'm not your parent, so I'm not in a position to

either give or withhold permission, and as a free adult you're not in a position to ask for it. But, if you are going to do it once in a while, I want to ask two things of you, okay?"

"Ask away."

"One: Don't get herpes or AIDS."

"I promise."

He sighed again. "And, two"—he looked at me wistfully now, with just a lingering trace of bitter resentment—"don't assume, Don, that I'm doing it too."

I said nothing. I couldn't. I knew that it would be so much better for both of us if I changed. And that I wouldn't.

Finally I said, "Gotcha."

"So," he said, going through the motions of relaxing again. "Don't you want to hear about my drink with Boyd?"

"Sure. What was it like?"

"Glorious," he said, grinning. "We went up to his room at the Hilton and fucked the bejesus out of each other."

I slowly turned and studied his face with great care.

"Oh," he said, shrugging. "It didn't mean anything, Don. Hell, it was just for old times' sake. That was all. I mean, it had nothing to do with us."

He couldn't keep a straight face for long—he never could—and when he began to laugh I grabbed him. He'd been ribbing me, the mischievous rascal, I was 93 percent certain.

We were just getting going again, and then, too exhausted to do it, to fall asleep together instead—when the telephone rang.

I groped onto the end table and snatched down the receiver. "This is Strachey."

"Is Peter with you?"

"Peter? No. Is this . . . Fenton?"

"Peter's not here. He didn't come home. Where is he?"

"He left the Green Room before midnight, didn't he? In your car. I saw you give him the keys."

"But he's not here!" McWhirter whined, a clear note of fright in his voice. "The cars not here."

"Don't go anywhere. Don't leave Dot and Edith. I'll be there in twenty minutes."

We dressed. As we headed out Central Avenue in my car, I brought Timmy up to date on the day's events at Dot Fisher's. He didn't react much, but he didn't like the sound of any of it.

We pulled into the parking lot at the Green Room. The place was quiet, deserted. One car sat in the far corner of the tarmac lot, McWhirter's old green Fiat. We got out and examined it. The windows were rolled up and the car was empty and locked. The keys were not in the ignition.

As we sped on out Central, dawn broke in a cloudless sky.

6. When Ned Bowman arrived at nine-fifteen

I was still on the phone. I had spent nearly an hour rudely awakening people I remembered seeing at the Green Room the night before, describing Greco and asking if anyone had seen him leave the place, in a car, on foot, alone, accompanied. No one had, though none of the twenty or so men I spoke with was entirely alert and in command of his full faculties at the hour I called.

Detective Lieutenant Ned Bowman, decked out in his

customary uniform of white socks, dark sport coat, and clip-on brown tie, greeted Dot formally, exchanged scowls with McWhirter, suffered through an introduction to Timmy—homosexuals not wearing pleated skirts always confused Bowman—then came over to where I stood by the wall phone and whispered, "Hi, faggot."

"Top o' the mornin', Lieutenant. A grand day, isn't it? Be right with you."

I finished up my last phone call—still no luck—and joined the surly assemblage at the kitchen table. Dot hadn't slept well and was red-eyed and shaky. McWhirter, Timmy, and I hadn't slept at all and were beginning to feel the effects of the heat, which was coming back fast. Bowman, who most likely had slept nicely in an air-conditioned lair in Delmar, did his characteristic best to stimulate the conversation.

"So, who's the alleged missing person? This Greco's the little guy I saw hanging around out here yesterday? He's your roommate, Mr. McWhirter?"

"Peter Greco is my lover," McWhirter said in a clenched voice. "Peter Greco has been my friend and lover for nine years. Yes."

"Oh, is that a fact? Uh-huh." Taking his time, Bowman carefully printed something out in his notebook. We sat watching him. Dot picked up her coffee cup, which rattled in its saucer.

"And what is the subject's home address?" Bowman asked next.

"Four-fifty-five Castro," McWhirter said evenly. "San Francisco, California."

Bowman's eyebrows went up, as if he were already onto something. I leaned over far enough to see him write down "455 Fidel Castro St.—Frisco."

"Now then," he said. "Before I drove out here I checked the police blotter and the hospitals and found no record of your roommate's having run afoul of the law or

having met with an accident." In fact, I'd run the same checks and come up with the same result. "So, tell me," Bowman said. "What gives you the idea that your friend is 'missing'? What went on last night, Mr. McWhirter, that put this notion in your head?"

McWhirter shot a look at Dot, who sat rigid and grim-faced. Timmy, witnessing for the first time the storied Ned Bowman in action, was taking it all in with a look of slightly crazed fascination. I got up and exchanged my coffee for a glass of iced tea, which I briefly considered pouring over my head, or Bowman's.

As McWhirter described the events of the night before, Bowman took notes. He interrupted once to mention that he had seen McWhirter on the six o'clock news. "Good luck with your strike, Mr. McWhirter," he said blandly. "Me, I'm an old union man myself." He glanced over at me, poker-faced, so I could see what he was thinking: This fruit McWhirter's a real laugh and a half.

"... and Peter always lets me know where he's going to be," McWhirter nervously concluded. "And he would never just leave the car like that. I'm really afraid something's happened to him," he said, shaking his head in frustration. "A lot of people don't like us—don't like me. I've been threatened hundreds of times . . . and people know . . . they know how much Peter means to me, how much I mean to him, and—." His voice broke and he turned away, blinking, unable to speak.

Bowman screwed up his face, unsettled by this display of emotion one man could show for another. He stayed quiet for a moment and looked thoughtful. Maybe he'd seen this before. Or maybe he himself had felt something akin to what McWhirter was feeling, once a very long time ago, and had strangled the sensation at birth. Whatever his possibly useful thoughts, he rid himself of them soon enough.

He said, "Mr. McWhirter, has your friend ever gone

off with another man? Just for a little fling? Know what I mean? Doesn't he do that every once in a while?"

I let my peripheral vision take in Timmy for a few seconds. His cheek twitched accusingly, but he didn't look my way. Dot harrumphed and did look my way. I shrugged. McWhirter slowly turned toward Bowman, and when I saw his murderous look I glanced around to make sure there was no lethal object within his reach.

Through clenched teeth, McWhirter said, "You would assume that, wouldn't you?"

"Well," Bowman said, unfazed by McWhirter's anger, which Bowman apparently took to be routinely defensive, "I think you have to admit that a lot of your people can't seem to help being . . . promiscuous." He glanced at Dot. "I hope you'll pardon my language, Mrs. Fisher."

I sneered at Bowman but avoided looking at Timmy.

"That's quite all right, Lieutenant," Dot said. "You may say 'promiscuous' in this house. If that's the word you consider to be appropriate."

She gave me a little half-wink, which meant "Just don't say 'rotgut.'"

McWhirter, not easily amused under the best of circumstances, was seething, just barely under control. When Timmy and I arrived at five-thirty, McWhirter had been frantic, unable to stop talking or to stand still, demanding that a posse be organized, the National Guard called up. Then, following a sudden violent outburst of anger at Greco for having let something happen to himself and "fucking up everything," McWhirter had plunged into a desperate sulk, which lasted for an hour or so, during which he simply sat and stared. Now the rage was back, but with a new target.

"You pathetic ignoramus!" he hissed. "You know nothing about Peter. You know nothing about me. Your bigoted head is so full of homophobic stereotypes and ..."

McWhirter made a speech. The gist of it was that gay ways of living were as varied as straight ways of living. Except, he pointed out, those gay men and women who were "sexually active"—a group that no longer included himself and Greco, he emphasized—were more relaxed and open and "joyously fulfilled" about it than were straight people who lived the same way. This was hardly the whole truth, or even half of it. But it didn't much matter that McWhirter was fiddling the facts, because Bowman, tapping his pen on the table and whistling under his breath, wasn't listening anyway.

When McWhirter concluded with a rude suggestion as to what Bowman could do with his "outmoded, mind-slave, cop-think attitudes," Bowman glanced coolly at his watch and said, "I'm due at the first tee at Spruce Valley at noon, Mr. McWhirter. If you provide me with a photo of your roommate, I'll see that the subject is listed as a missing person first thing Monday morning."

McWhirter stood up abruptly and charged out of the room. Ignoring him, Bowman turned to Dot. "I'm glad to see that you're getting along nicely, Mrs. Fisher, and haven't been troubled by any more vandalism problems or threats. If you want a patrolman to come by periodically during the night to check out your property, just let us know. And believe me, we're going to utilize every resource at our disposal to make an arrest in this case. I'll have a man out here Monday morning to check out the neighbors, and if you don't feel safe in the meantime, it might be a good idea to stay over for a couple of days with a relative or friend. I wouldn't take the threats too seriously, though. It's most likely kids or harmless kooks, and you've gotta roll with it till either it stops or the department makes an arrest."

He closed his notebook, stood up, and playfully waggled a finger at me. "I'd say you're plenty safe with this

guy on the job," he said, grinning. "Strachey's got clout now. I hear you're on Crane Trefusis's payroll these days, Strachey. I wouldn't mind a little piece of that action myself. How about putting in a good word for an old cop next time you run into Crane?"

"You wouldn't be comfortable at the new Millpond, Ned. Crane's turned into a gay libber. That's why he hired me."

"Is that a fact? Crane's tastes sure have changed all of a sudden. The word I hear is, Trefusis is spending a lot of time out at the Heritage Village apartment of that long-legged Miz Compton who parks herself outside his office door, while Mrs. Trefusis is up to Saratoga playing the ponies and taking the waters. But you never know, you never know."

Dot got her dog-fart face on, as if Trefusis himself were in the room. Timmy stared, open-mouthed. I walked with Bowman to his car.

"You're wrong, Ned," I said, once we were out the door. "These two guys don't mess around with other men. Something's happened to Peter Greco. You ought to look into it. Really, you should. I know Greco a little."

"They had a spat, didn't they?" Bowman said.

"No."

"Greco and this McWhirter mouthy asshole had a little tiff and the kid ran off. Used to be the story of my life, these domestic squabbles, back in the olden days when I was on a beat. You been around as long as I have, you'll know a lovers' quarrel when you see one, Strachey. When Greco gets tired and hungry he'll be back, and the lovebirds will kiss, or whatever you people do, and make up. I'd give it till around suppertime tonight. When he shows up, give my office a call and leave a message, will you? Save me a shitload of paperwork Monday morning."

"You're wrong, Ned. As you so frequently are. Playing

the odds again instead of using your eyes and ears."

"Off my back, fruitcake." He climbed into his Dodge, slammed the door, and drove off.

I went back to the guest room where McWhirter was holed up. When I told him about Greco's chance meeting the night before with his old lover Tad—Purcell was Tad's last name, McWhirter said—McWhirter seemed surprised but unconcerned. He said yes, Peter might have wanted to talk more with Purcell, to come to terms in some way, but he would have informed McWhirter first, and anyway Peter was due back at Dot's at midnight and "Peter always does what he says he's going to do."

McWhirter was certain that some harm had come to his lover. He was convinced that the police would be no help in getting to the bottom of it, and then added, "Maybe the cops are even responsible. Yes. Oh, God. It's probably the cops!"

A sickening thought slid into my mind, but for the time being I kept quiet about it.

7

I went back to the kitchen and dialed a

number in the Pine Hills section of Albany.

A groggy male voice. "Yeah?"

"Don Strachey. I need a little assistance."

"Don't we all."

"Were you on duty last night?"

"Till three hours ago. I didn't go to bed when I got home though. I sat up in case you called."

"Don't give me a hard time, Lyle. I told you I probably wouldn't call. That I had a lover."

"Lucky you. Maybe I'll get one too. There's a hunk in the department I've got my eye on. He's gay, I know, and he knows I know. But he's shy. And has a wife and six kids."

"Better shop around some more."

"Uh-huh. Shop around."

"When are you going to make the move, Lyle? You're in the wrong town for your situation."

"Are there any right ones?"

"Probably not yet. Stockholm maybe. Or Copenhagen."

"Yeah. Too bad I don't speak Hindu. What do you want, if it's not what I wished it was?"

"Information. I was wondering if maybe the night squad goons were up to a bit of queer-bashing last night. Midnight or after, on Central, around the Green Room."

"I didn't hear about anything. But I probably wouldn't that soon. Unless it made the blotter, and even then I couldn't be sure. Some of the arrests that get made are the genuine article. You know, there are some real lawbreakers out there, Strachey. In case you haven't heard."

"I suppose those guys do stumble over an actual criminal once in a while. A matter of mathematical probability. But this one would be the other—the hate stuff. A phony rap on prostitution, solicitation, resisting arrest. Whatever they're dropping on people these days. A guy by the name of Peter Greco disappeared outside the Green Room at about a quarter to twelve. Slight, dark, curly-haired, cute. A bit boyish for your more mature tastes, Lyle, but ripe for picking by the bash-a-fag crew."

"I'll check around. But disappearances aren't those guys' specialty. You know about it, Strachey. They just grab people, drive 'em around, call 'em some names, maybe rough 'em up a little, then dump 'em. Some make

it to the lockup, a few to the ER at Albany Med. A total disappearance would be something new."

"I know. It would."

A silence. "Uh-huh. Oh, yeah. Jesus. Well, it was only a matter of time, I guess. They're nuts—completely out of control. Maybe this time they've really done it."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

"Shit."

"Leave a message with my service if you pick up anything." I gave him the number. "I'll check now and again and get back to you. And one other thing. See if you can sniff out any recent coziness between guys in the department and Crane Trefusis. There might be a connection."

"The shopping mall wizard? That Trefusis?"

"The same."

"That one might be trickier. But as soon as I grab a cup of coffee I'll be out asking around. Sure as hell nobody here is gonna miss me. You know what I mean?"

"So long, Lyle. And thanks."

"'Thanks,' he says. Oh, sure."

Timmy agreed to stay at the farm and keep an eye on Dot and Edith. I put him to work phoning more Friday night revelers who might have been outside the Green Room around midnight and seen something unusual, or, if it involved the Albany PD, not entirely unusual.

Down at Dot's pond, Edith was seated on a flat stone with her feet in the moss green water, her skirt held demurely four inches above the water line.

"Good morning, Mr. Lovecraft. Going for a dip?"

"Hi, Mrs. Stout. I just want to cool off the old brainpan for a minute. Maybe I'll get a chance to dunk the rest of me in later."

I leaned down and stuck my head in the water for twenty seconds, then stood up and shook off like a dog.

"Does your head swell in the heat?" Edith asked.

"Right. And then I can't get my hat on."

"That's what happens to my feet." She glanced back toward the house. "I guess I'd better watch my language. Dorothy can't stand the word 'feet.' Dorothy's rather eccentric, in case you haven't noticed. I'm terribly afraid she's going senile. But she's a grand girl and I don't know what I'd do without her. It's not easy for our kind, you know."

"I know about that. I'm one too."

She gazed at me for a long moment, thoughtful and a little puzzled. "Well," she said finally, "I suppose you know what you like, Mr. Lovecraft. But—two big hairy men? Hmmm. I hope you don't mind my saying so, but I can't imagine anything duller."

Chasms everywhere. Though this one we could laugh about. I said, "I can."

The old woman peered at me confusedly through her spectacles for a moment while the connections in her brain slowly got made. Then she said, "That's all you know, sonny."

Driving back toward Central, I slowed as I passed the Deem house but saw no sign of life. Neither car was in the driveway. I figured I'd catch up with Joey Deem later in the day. Meanwhile, Dot and Edith were being well looked after.

At the Wilsons', Kay was airing herself in the chaise alongside the new porch. A mammoth '71 Olds with rusted fenders and a gash along the side was parked under a maple tree. The car had a Howe Caverns sticker on the rear bumper and a sign in the back window that said mafia staff car. It was the kind of sad heap you see in front of K Mart, blithely or defiantly parked in the fire lanes.

I pulled in and shouted, "Crane sends his best, Kay.

He wished also for me to convey his warm greetings to your husband. Is Mr. Wilson in?"

"Oh. Hi there. It's you." She sat up looking wary. "Yeah, Bill's here." She heaved up her great chest and screeched, "Willl-sonnn!"

I got out and walked toward the house. The screen door flew open.

"What you hollerin' about now?" He spotted me. "Who's he?"

"Dunno. Says he's lookin' for you."

He was a good four inches taller than I was, broader, thicker, a jaw like an old boot, a flat cockeyed nose, and eyes full of simmering resentment. He wore dark green work clothes, and in a fist like a small hippo he was gripping a length of cast-iron drainpipe with a jagged end.

"Good morning, Mr. Wilson. I'm Donald Strachey, representing Crane Trefusis of Millpond Plaza Associates. May I have a moment of your time?"

His eyes narrowed. "Maybe. Maybe not. What's in it for me?"

"Crane Trefusis asked me to drop by and convey his fondest best wishes. And to ask for your assistance in looking into a problem that's cropped up."

He sneered. "Crane Trefusis is a lying, shit-eating, pig-fucking phony. I'll lend Crane Trefusis a hand the day he comes across with his big fat hunnert and eighty grand. Meantime, you tell Trefusis he can take his wishes and blow 'em out his ass. Now get outta here! I got a busted drain to fix."

"But, Bill! This man—"

"And you shut your trap!" Still watching me, he said, "You got them big bucks with you, mister?"