NBM: Certain critics insist that every great novelist has his own narrative “voice,” and that this voice provides the defining quality of his prose. If you agree with this claim, please describe your prose voice. Is it consistent or does it vary with the different types of your novels?

Simenon: Naturally, every novelist has his own style. I have always tried to make mine as simple as possible, with a minimum of adjectives and adverbs, a minimum of abstract words which have a different resonance for each reader. I use a maximum of mots matière.

The rhythm alone varies according to the subject, sometimes from one chapter to another.

NBM: Are your characters’ lives determined by forces — hereditary and environmental — over which they have no control? Or do you allow them the chance to alter their destinies?

Simenon: Very few people are capable of changing their destinies, but heredity, environment, and even climatic conditions play an important part in human behavior. A discussion between husband and wife on a lovely spring day will not have the same violence as in oppressive and thundery weather.

NBM: You have said that the purpose of your revisions is to remove the “literary” sentences. Yet you admire William Faulkner’s work. Isn’t he a highly literary writer?

Simenon: Faulkner was not considered as such when he started, so much so that he had to work in Hollywood to make a living, and if he was largely published and acclaimed in France, he had to discuss no end with his American publishers.

“Style is the reflection of man,” and Faulkner was a most complicated person. Fortunately for us.

NBM: Most of your worldwide readers know your work only in translation and so have read Simenon filtered through someone else. What rules would you like your translators to obey?

Simenon: To safeguard my simplicity. Which is difficult, as for instance in Italian.

NBM: Are there elements in your work that are untranslatable?

Simenon: It depends on the languages... and on the translators.

NBM: What qualities should your ideal reader possess?

Simenon: To read without trying to analyze.

NBM: When you were writing a novel, were you consciously aware of technique — or did the material shape your technique?

Simenon: I have always searched after simplicity. Boileau wrote: When you want to say it rains, say: “It rains.”

NBM: Did you see your characters’ faces as you wrote about them? Did you deliberately collect or save the faces that you observed?

Simenon: I have collected, or rather, unconsciously recorded, living characters which I used, sometimes years later.

NBM: As the most widely read living author, do you feel that your work has “universal qualities”? If so, what are the qualities that cut across the borders, languages, and cultures?

Simenon: Simplicity? Sincerity? I just don’t know.

NBM: If you were beginning your career in 1985 what kinds of novels would you try to write?

Simenon: I don’t know. Probably the same.

Dancer’s apartment — at the Li-Chee. Nick is lying on the sofa, as before. Lum Kee is sitting in the corner, reading a book. In another chair, Polly is sitting, manicuring her fingernails. Dancer is sitting astride a chair, chewing a toothpick and looking angrily at Nick. Nick is in the middle of an apparently long and pointless anecdote.

Dancer spits toothpick out on the floor and says angrily, “Listen, we’re putting up with you, but do we have to put up with all this talk?”

Nick sits up and looks at him in surprise, saying “But I thought I was entertaining you.”

A Chinese waiter opens the door and says, “Mr. Caspar here—”

Caspar comes in. He is a little man, almost a dwarf, sloppily dressed, with bushy hair, and is addicted to Napoleonic poses. He comes into the room bowing and smiling to everyone and saying “Well, well — what is it?”

Dancer, grouchily. “Do I know? So a guy comes in and buys a drink. He goes out and somebody kills him. What are we supposed to do, give the customers insurance policies with the drinks?”

Nick says, “Wouldn’t be a bad idea — with the kind of stuff you’re serving.”

Caspar advances toward Nick with his hand out, saying “I didn’t recognize you for a moment, Mr. Charles. You remember me — Floyd Caspar?”

Nick says, “Oh, yes,” and pats his pockets as if to make sure he hasn’t lost anything.

Caspar goes on, “A man killed! Surely you don’t think these people—” he looks at the three others in the room as if they were saints, “—would have anything to do with a thing like that!” He puts a hand on Dancer’s shoulder and says, “Why, I’ve known this boy since he was—”

Dancer pushes the hand off roughly and says, “Save it for the district attorney. What’re you wasting your voice on this gum-heel for?”

Through the closed door comes the sound of men arguing. Then the door is swung open by Lieutenant Abrams, pushing a Chinese waiter against it. Two other detectives are with Abrams. He looks very tired and very dissatisfied with all the people in the room. When he sees Caspar, he groans and says, “I knew it would be like this. I knew there would be some shyster around to slow things up.”

Caspar draws himself up to his full five feet and begins pompously, “Lieutenant Abrams, I must ask you—”

Abrams pays no attention to him, walks over and sits down on the sofa by Nick, asking not very hopefully, “Is it right you know something about what’s been happening?”

Nick says, “A little.”

Abrams says, “It can’t be any littler than anybody else seems to know. Do you want to say it in front of them — or do we go off in a corner?”

Nick says, “This suits me.”

Abrams asks, “Is this the dame Mrs. Charles was telling me about — that lives in Dominges’ apartment and was with Landis tonight?”

Nick says, “Yes. She sings here, but she took time off to see that he got home all right.”

Abrams says gloomily, “She certainly did a swell job.” Then he asks Polly, “And what did you do after he got home?”

Polly says, “I came back here. I work here.”

Abrams says, “When did you find out he was killed?”

Polly says, “After I came back — maybe half an hour. Dancer told me. I guess Mr. Charles told him.”

Abrams says, “Never mind guessing... I guess you know your landlord was killed this afternoon?”

Polly exclaims, “What!”

Nick says, “I told her earlier tonight, but she seemed to think it had to do with some fellow named Peter Dufinger, or Duflicker, or something.”

Polly says, earnestly, to Nick, “I honestly didn’t know, Mr. Charles. I never knew what his name was, except Pedro.”

Abrams asks, “What did you know about him besides that?”

Polly says, “Nothing. I’ve only lived there a couple of months and I never even seen him more than half a dozen times—”

Abrams asks Nick, “You believe her?”

Nick says, “I believe everybody. I’m a sucker.”

Abrams asks Polly, “Who do you think would kill Landis?”

She says, “I haven’t the faintest idea. Honest I haven’t.”

Nick says, “Miss Byrnes has a brother who carries a gun. Dancer was chucking him out when I came in. I hear he hung around for a while outside... Perhaps until just about the time that Polly and Landis left.”

When Nick says “Dancer was chucking him out,” Polly looks sharply at Dancer, but when Nick finishes his speech, Polly jumps up and comes over to him, saying earnestly “Phil didn’t have anything to do with it, Mr. Charles. He wouldn’t have any reason.”

Nick says, “I’m not accusing anybody. I’m just talking.” Then he tells Abrams, “Dancer says he threw him out because he was bothering Polly for money.”

Polly turns to Dancer, angrily exclaiming “That’s a lie! You had no right to—”

Little Caspar interrupts her, saying “Take it easy — take it easy. That’s the idea of this police clowning — to get you all at each other’s throats. Just answer any of their questions that you want to and don’t let ’em get under your skin.”

Abrams complains to Nick, “That’s the way it goes. I leave that little shyster stay in here because I got nothin’ to hide and he keeps buttin’ in. If he don’t stop it, I’m going to put them where he’ll need a court order to get to them.”

Caspar smiles and says, “Well, that’s never been much trouble so far.”

Abrams turns to Polly again, asking “Where is this brother of yours that didn’t kill anybody?”

Polly says, “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him today.”

Abrams asks, “Does he live with you?”

Polly says, “No. He lives in a hotel on Turk Street. I don’t know just where.”

Abrams says, “You don’t know much about anybody, do you?”

Polly says, “I honestly don’t know what hotel. Phil’s always moving.”

Abrams says, “What’s the matter — does he have to move every time he don’t kill somebody? What does he do for a living — besides not killing anybody?”

Polly says, “He’s a chauffeur, but he hasn’t been able to get much work lately.”

Abrams asks if anybody knows a Selma Young. Nobody does.

Abrams asks Nick, “What do you think of it now?”

Nick says, “My dear Lieutenant, you wouldn’t expect me to question a lady’s word.”

Abrams says, “It’s all right for you to kid. Nobody jumps on your neck if you don’t turn up a murderer every twenty minutes.” He sighs and, indicating Dancer and Lum Kee, asks, “Well, what about them?”

Nick says, “They seem to have disappeared not long after Polly and Landis went out. Then showed up again with their hats on around the time I heard about the murder.”

Abrams asks Dancer, “Well?”

Dancer says, “I went out to get some air. What city ordinance does that break?”

Lum Kee, who has continued to read all through the scene so far, puts down his book and says, “I went with him.”

Dancer tries not to show surprise.

Abrams says, “Yeah? Where’d you go for all this air?”

Lum Kee says, blandly, “Air pretty much same everywhere. We go in my car — ride around. Ask chauffeur.”

Nick says, “There was another little point: I told Dancer Landis had been killed, but he seemed to know that he’d been shot.”

Abrams asks Dancer, “How about that?”

Dancer says, disagreeably, “This is the twentieth century — in a big city. How do most people get killed — battle axes? I just took it for granted, like you would when you don’t know you’re on the witness stand.”

Abrams asks, “Have you got a gun?”

Dancer takes an automatic out of his pocket and gives it to Abrams. From a card case he takes a slip of paper and gives it to Abrams, saying “Here’s my permit.”

Abrams asks Lum Kee, “You?”

Lum Kee brings Abrams an automatic and a permit.

Caspar says, “If you’re going to take those, Lieutenant, we should like a receipt.”

Abrams complains to Nick, “I can’t stand that shyster.”

Nick. “I was beginning to suspect that.”

Abrams asks Polly, “Have you got a gun?”

Polly shakes her head no.

Abrams. “What’d you do with it?”

Polly. “I never had one.”

Abrams, wearily. “Nobody has anything, nobody knows anything. I don’t see why I don’t give up this racket and go farming.”

Dancer, to Caspar. “Everybody thought he did a long time ago.”

Abrams. “I’m laughing. Did you know this Pedro Dominges?”

Dancer. “No.”

Abrams looks at Lum Kee, who says, “No.”

Abrams stands up wearily, saying “Come on, we’re going down to the Hall of Justice.”

Caspar. “On what charge?”

Abrams, disgustedly. “Charge, me eye! Witnesses. You ask ’em questions — where were you when you were over there? — and you have a stenographer take it down. You ought to know. Your clients spend nine-tenths of their time doing it.” He looks at his watch, nods at the door through which the sound of music comes, says, “Or maybe for staying open after hours. Didn’t you ever tell ’em about the two-o’clock closing law?”

Caspar. “I’m going with ’em.”

Abrams. “And you can bring the wife and kiddies for all I care.”

The door opens and Nora and David come in accompanied by a detective. David and Polly look at one another with startled recognition, but neither says anything. Nora goes quickly over to Nick, who asks, “What are you up to now?”

Nora. “Have they found out who did it? Who did it, Nick?”

Nick. “Sh-h-h, I’m making Abrams guess.”

Abrams looks from David to the detective and asks, “Where’d you find him?”

Detective. “You told me to shadow anybody that left the Landis house. Well, Mrs. Charles did, and went over to his apartment, and I knew you wanted to talk to him, so as soon as I found out who it was, I went on up and got him. There’s something about a fellow on the fire escape, but they can tell you better than I can.”

Abrams looks questioningly at Nora, who says, “Yes, it was—” She looks at Polly, hesitates, says, “It was her brother.” Then to Dancer. “The one you threw down the stairs when we came in.”

Everybody looks expectantly at Polly, who seems dumbfounded. After a long moment she exclaims, “I don’t believe it!”

Nick says, “That’s certainly a swell answer.”

Abrams asks Nora, “What was he doing on the fire escape?”

Nora. “I don’t know. He went away as soon as we saw him, and by the time we could get the window open there was no sign of him. You know how foggy it is. And then this man came” — indicating the detective — “and by the time we could persuade him to do anything, it was too late.”

The detective, apologetically. “I reckon maybe I wasn’t up on my toes like I ought to’ve been, Lieutenant, but it sounded kind of screwy to me at first.” He addresses Nick, “I didn’t know she was your wife then.”

Nick. “You never can tell where you’re going to find one of my wives.”

The sound of music suddenly stops. Out in the restaurant, the customers, complaining about this unaccustomed early closing, are being shooed out.

Polly flares up, saying angrily “What are you picking on Phil for? What’s the matter with Robert’s wife killing him? He told me himself she was batty as a pet cuckoo and would blow up and gum the whole thing if she found out that this guy—” pointing at David “—was paying him to go away. Maybe she did find out about the bonds. What’s the matter with that?”

Abrams looks thoughtfully at David and says, “Hmmm, so that’s where the bonds came from?”

Dancer is watching Polly with hard, suspicious eyes. Nick, surprised, asks David, “Bonds?”

David nods slowly.

Abrams says to Polly, “This is no time to stop talking — go on, tell us more about this bond deal.”

Caspar comes forward importantly, saying to Polly “No, no, I think this is a very good time to stop talking at least until you’ve had some sort of legal advice—”

Polly says, “They know about it. Anyway, he does” (indicating David). “Besides, you’re Dancer’s and Lum’s mouthpiece, not mine. How do I know you won’t leave me holding the bag?”

Abrams looks pleased for the first time since he’s come into the room. He says to Polly, “Now just a minute — that’s fine!” He turns to Caspar and says, “So you aren’t her lawyer? Well, that’ll give us a little rest from your poppin’ off. You and your two clients are going outside and wait until we get through talking to the little lady—”

Caspar starts to protest, but Abrams nods to his detectives and two of them take Caspar, Lum Kee, and Dancer out. At the door, Dancer turns to warn Polly. “Don’t get yourself in any deeper than you have to.”

When the door is closed behind him, Abrams sits down with a sigh of relief and says, “It’s a lot better in here without them — especially that little shyster. Now maybe we can get somewhere!” He turns and sees that Nick, Nora, and David are huddled together whispering in a far corner of the room. David is telling Nick about Selma and the gun. Abrams says gloomily, “There it is again. If people got anything to say, why don’t they say it to me?”

The huddle breaks up, Nick saying “Just a little family gossip.”

Abrams says, “I’d even like to hear that.” He asks Polly, “Did you ever see Mr. Graham before?”

Polly says, “I saw him tonight, when we went to get the bonds.”

Abrams asks, “You and Robert Landis went to get them?”

Polly says, “Yes. He was waiting for us on the corner of ___ Street — and he gave them to Robert.”

Abrams asks, “And then what?”

Polly says, “And then nothing. We left him and Robert went home.”

Abrams asks, “And what did you do?”

Polly, after a moment’s hesitation, says, “I went with him.”

Abrams asks, “He took you home with him?”

Polly says, “Well, not in the house. I waited for him a block away — around the corner.”

Abrams asks, “And then what?”

Polly says, “I waited a long time and then I heard a shot — only I thought it might be an automobile backfire — it was foggy and I was too far away to see anything — and I didn’t know what to do — then after a while a policeman went past the doorway where I was standing — and a police car came — then I honestly didn’t know what had happened, but I thought I’d better get out of the neighborhood if I didn’t want to get in trouble — so I came back here—”

Abrams says, “Phooey!” and looks at Nick.

Nick says, “I think somebody ought to ask her where she was too far away from—”

Polly stammers, “From wherever it was it happened. If I hadn’t been too far away, I’d have known where it was, wouldn’t I?”

Nick says, “I give up.”

Abrams. “All right — we’ll come back to that later. So you were waiting for him? What were you going to do if he hadn’t been killed?”

Polly glances uneasily at the door through which Dancer went, then shrugs and says, “We were going away.”

Abrams. “Where to?”

Polly. “New York first, I suppose — then Europe, he said.”

Abrams (looking at her evening gown). “Dressed like that?”

Polly. “We were going to stop at my place for me to change.”

Abrams. “Dancer know you were going?”

Polly. “No.”

Abrams. “Think he found it out, and knocked Landis off?”

Polly, shaking her head quickly from side to side. “No!”

Abrams. “You’re supposed to be Dancer’s gal, aren’t you?”

Polly. “I work for him.”

Abrams. “That’s not what I asked you.”

Polly. “You’ve got it wrong — honest. He knew I was running around with Robert — ask anybody.”

Abrams. “How long?”

Polly. “A month — three weeks anyhow.”

Abrams. “Get much money out of Landis?”

Polly, hesitantly. “He gave me some.”

Abrams. “How much?”

Polly. “I don’t know exactly. I–I can tell you tomorrow, I guess.”

Abrams. “Did you split it with Dancer?”

Polly. “Why, no!”

Abrams. “Maybe you’re lying. Maybe Dancer found out you were going away where you could keep all the sugar to yourself — and he put a stopper to it.”

Polly. “That’s silly!”

Abrams. “Sure. And hanging up in the air with a hunk of rope around your neck is silly, too.”

After a little pause to let that sink in, he says, “Landis hadn’t been home for a couple of days. Was he with you?”

Polly. “Most of the time.”

Abrams. “Drunk?”

Polly. “Yes.”

Abrams. “In your apartment?”

Polly. “There and here.”

Abrams. “Anybody else with you in your apartment?”

Polly. “No.”

Abrams. “Let’s get back to the money. How much did you get out of him — roughly?”

Polly stares at the floor in silence.

Abrams. “As much as a grand or two? Or more?”

Polly, not looking up. “More.”

Abrams. “More than five grand?” Polly nods. “All right, kick through — about how much?”

Polly shrugs wearily, opens her bag, takes out a check and gives it to Abrams, saying “A couple hundred dollars besides that, I guess.”

Abrams looks at the check, then up at the girl and asks, “What’d he give you this for?”

Polly. “Well, I was chucking up a job and everything to go away with him, and I didn’t want to take chances on being stranded somewhere off in Europe.”

Abrams. “Looks like you didn’t, all right.” He beckons to the others, who come to look over his shoulders at the check. It is to the order of Polly Byrnes for $10,000 and is signed by Robert Landis. They look at one another in amazement.

Nick says, “Where do you suppose he got hold of that much?”

Abrams. “Why? Aren’t they rich?”

Nick. “The money is his wife’s, and she found out some time ago that she had to stop giving him too much at a time — just on account of things like this.”

Abrams. “Yeah? How about the signature?”

Nick. “Looks all right to me.”

David. “And to me.”

Abrams (as if thinking aloud). “But he don’t usually have this much money, huh?” He asks Polly, “Sure you didn’t take this to the bank today and find out it was no good?”

Polly. “I did not.”

Abrams. “That’s something we can check up. You know you’re not going to have any easy time collecting this — unless his wife’s as big a sap as he was.”

Polly. “Why? He gave it to me.”

Abrams. “Maybe. But his bank account’s automatically tied up now till the estate’s settled, and then I got an idea you’re going to have to do a fancy piece of suing — taking a drunk for his roll!”

Polly. “I’ll take my chances. Just the same, if his dying makes all that trouble, that shows we didn’t have anything to do with killing him, doesn’t it? Why wouldn’t we wait till after we’d cashed it?”

Abrams. “We, we, we! So Dancer was in on it! How about the Chinaman?”

Polly. “Nobody was in on it. There was nothing to be in on.”

Abrams. “Phooey!” He addresses the remaining detective. “Okay, Butch. Take her and her two playmates down to the Hall and let the district attorney’s office know you’ve got ’em there. We’ll be along in a little while.” He turns to Nick. “Or do you want to ask her something?”

Nick. “Yes. Did Robert Landis know Pedro Dominges?”

Polly shakes her head and says, “Not that I—” She remembers something. “Once when Robert and I were going out together, we passed him and he said good evening to both of us by name and we couldn’t figure out how he knew Robert’s, and Robert made some joke about nobody being able to hide anything from a landlord.”

Nick. “Thanks.”

Polly and the detective go out.

Abrams. “That mean anything to you?”

Nick. “Not too much.”

Abrams. “Now, Mr. Graham, I’ve got to—” He breaks off to look at Nora and Nick, saying thoughtfully “I don’t know whether you two ought to be in here while I’m doing this or not.”

Nick, yawning, says, “I know where we ought to be. Come on, darling.”

Abrams. “Maybe you ought to stay. Now, Mr. Graham, I got to ask a lot of questions that you’re not going to like, but I got to ask ’em.”

David. “I understand.”

Abrams. “First off, you’re in love with Mrs. Landis. Right?” David starts to protest, then simply nods. “She in love with you?”

David, trying to speak calmly in spite of the painfulness of this inqury. “You’ll have to ask her.”

Abrams. “I will. Did she ever say she was?”

David. “Not — not since she was married.”

Abrams. “Before?”

David. “We were once engaged.”

Abrams. “Until Landis came along?”

David, in a very low voice. “Yes.”

Abrams. “Ever ask her to divorce him and marry you?”

David. “She knew how I felt — it wasn’t necessary to—”

Abrams. “But did you ever ask her?”

David. “I may have.”

Abrams. “And what did she say?”

David. “She never said she would.”

Abrams. “But you hoped she would. And you thought with him out of the way she would.”

David looks Abrams in the eye and says, “I didn’t kill Robert.”

Abrams. “I said you did? But you did pay him to go away.”

David. “Yes.”

Abrams. “Did she know about it?”

David. “No, not unless he told her.”

Abrams. “Were you and Landis on good terms?”

David. “Decidedly not.”

Abrams. “On very bad terms?”

David. “Very bad.”

The lights go out. In complete darkness Abrams’ voice is heard saying “Stay where you are — everybody!”

From the distance come the sounds of doors crashing, of glass breaking, of feet running, of men shouting; then close at hand furniture is knocked over, a door is slammed open, feet pound on the floor, two shots are fired, bodies thud and thrash around on the floor. Presently a cigarette lighter snaps on, held in Nick’s hand. Behind him, in the dim light, Nora’s and David’s faces can be seen. The three of therm are looking down at their feet. Abrams lies on the floor on his back. On top of him, mechanically chewing gum, his face serene, is Harold. One of his feet is on Abrams’ throat; both his hands are clamped around one of Abrams’ feet, twisting it inward and upward in the old Gotch toehold.

Nick says gently, “Harold, Harold, get up from there. Lieutenant Abrams isn’t going to like this.”

Harold, cheerfully. “You’re the boss.” He jumps up.

As Abrams gets up, a hand to his throat, Nick says, “My chauffeur. Stout fellow, eh?”

Abrams goes toward Harold, saying “What do you think you—”

Harold sticks his face into the lieutenant’s and says, “What am I supposed to do? I’m sitting out there and I see the lights go off. Nick and Mrs. Charles are up here and I know what kind of dump it is. Think I’m going to sit out there like a sissy till they throw the bodies out? How do I know you’re a copper?” Then more argumentatively as he goes on. “Suppose I did know it? How can I tell Nick ain’t got hisself in a jam with the police?”

Nick. “All right — but don’t you boys think you’d better stop wrangling long enough to find out who turned out the lights and did the shooting?” He asks Harold, “Did you run into anybody else on your way up?”

Harold. “Only the copper, here.”

The lights go on.

They are standing in the passageway outside Dancer’s apartment. As they start toward the front of the building, out of the restaurant comes one of Abrams’ men with Polly, Lum Kee, and Caspar, and behind them another detective, dragging a Chinese waiter.

Abrams asks in a complaining voice, “Well, now what have you been letting them do?”

One of the detectives, indicating the waiter, says, “Dancer had this monkey pull the switch and beat it out a window. Butch is hunting for him now.”

Abrams asks, “And what was that shooting?”

The other detective says sheepishly, “I guess it was me. I thought there was somebody running at me but I guess it was only me in the mirror.”

Abrams says wearily, “All right — but this time take them down to the Hall like I told you.”

David has taken Nick a little aside and is asking “Should I tell him about Selma and the gun?”

Nick. “It depends on whether you think she did it.”

David. “Of course not — do you?”

Nick. “No. Then the only thing to do is to tell him everything.”

At this point, Abrams, returning from seeing his men off, says, “I asked you people not to go off whispering in corners all the time.”

David. “Lieutenant Abrams, I’ve something to tell you. I happened...”

Abrams interrupts him. “All right — but we’re all going down to the Hall where we can talk in peace. I don’t like the high jinks that come off here.”

Nora yawns.

Abrams. “Sorry, Mrs. Charles. I won’t keep you any longer than I have to but we’ve got to do things regular.”

Terry McNair’s a good enough kid in his way. Dumb rather than stupid, the dumbness of inexperience — seventeen’s the age for that.

Rick McNair and his son had moved into the next apartment a few months back. Terry would run errands, wash my car, feed the cats and like that all without a handful of “gimme.” He just liked feeling useful, helping out. Right now he was about to help his old man into an early grave.

I don’t snoop worth a damn, but this time it was hard to resist. Their apartment door was open, and locking mine, I heard sounds that wouldn’t mean diddly to some folk and said plenty to me. The small noises certain types of machined metal make when you treat them a certain way.

Ready to duck, I put my head round the door. Sure enough, Rick McNair had a handgun there, a big old Colt model 1911, your basic.45 automatic. I’d heard him smacking the magazine home and now he worked the slide and set the safety and put the piece down the back of his jeans; kind of shrugged and wriggled, making sure it set right, and got into a parka. It was loose enough for the gun to be hidden.

“Yo, Rick,” says I, because he’d looked up and caught me peeking. “Gonna rob a liquor store or what?”

“Norm, just mind your own business and leave me mind mine,” McNair told me. He was at the door by then. The faint smell of work sweat — he was a carpenter — had that overlay of anger, a coppery reek. He was looking past me, not at anything solid, but what he meant to do next.

“Sure thing,” I agreed, stepping aside to show sincerity. “Only you’re from out of state... Maybe you aren’t aware that in this state they’re kind of into gun control and suchlike. Kinky for permits. Get caught on the street with that piece, you’ll take a long vacation, all your fellow guests be wearing the selfsame clothes, eating the same meals, if you get my drift.”

Rick McNair stared at me until I came into focus. A lot of stuff was going on behind his poker face. I gave him credit for it not being that the last thing he needed was some nosy black dude giving him a short course on firearms regs in the city.

“I don’t aim to get caught,” he said. “Appreciate your concern though, Norm. But this is fam’ly business.”

He’s a widower with just the one kid, meaning the business concerned young Terry McNair. It was then I noticed Terry in a corner of the living room. He looked pale and sort of sickly, and he’s one healthy kid.

McNair nodded like I’d said something. “Yeah, the jackass got himself a heap of trouble, over the Limit.”

“Makes sense,” I said. The Limit’s a couple — two, three blocks on Republican and the itty cross streets between aforesaid blocks. Every city has a Times Square or Combat Zone. Here we call it the Limit. Good place to stay away from, less you work out of there. Me, I visit some. But up on my tippy-toes, one set of eyes doing duty for maybe four sets.

“Kid got a heap of trouble, and now you going there?” Ricky McNair nodded, zipped up the parka, understood that hampered the pistol, unzipped it again. White folks listen, oftentimes they don’t bother hearing. I’d told the man something, he cared to think about it. So I had to go the i-dotting, t-crossing route. “What you plan on doing, down there at the Limit?”

“Kick ass,” said McNair. “Get Terry’s money back. Dumb kid!” Biting down on the anger, he managed a little grin. “It’s not the principle of the thing, Norm. It’s the money, right?”

“I can save that much again, easy,” Terry put in. His left cheek was red and the ear real fiery red. I figured Pop had smacked him upside the head, a good one. “It’s only a hundred dollars.”

“The hell it’s only a hundred dollars; where d’you come off with the ‘only,’ Mr. Rockefeller?” McNair went, top of his voice. And to me: “Kid’s spent best part of a year saving that; he wants a motorcycle. Then he gets a better idea, whorin’ around this Limit place. Where’s it at, anyway?”

“You try kicking ass around the Limit, all they’ll find is your foot, they put that in some kind of museum,” I told McNair. “I mean it, Rick. Cops go in double-banked, riot guns for walking canes. You want the Limit that bad, ask some other sucker.”

Ten minutes later, out front, Rick McNair stopped fooling with what he calls wheels — little rust bucket near as old as his son — and came over. Me, I’m laid back on my reclining seat in reclined mode, nice tunes on the stereo, ready to motorvate, no particular place to go.

“Listen,” McNair said, “lend me your car, Norm. Please. Mine won’t start, damn it.” Naturally, on account of me fixing it that way.

“This fine car don’t go to no Limit,” I announced, giving him a little ethnic rasp in the voice. “But I’ll give you and Terry a ride.”

He nodded tautlike. “Get in the back,” he ordered Terry, and slid in beside me. It took a while to get to the Limit, plenty of home-going traffic that time of day. “When did he go, anyway?” I asked Rick McNair.

“This afternoon, fourish,” Terry supplied from the back. That struck me as a little early for the locality, like five, six hours early. The Limit’s hardly begun hopping by nine at night.

“I was just curious,” Terry mumbled. “And I heard about this ace girl there, she... well, you know... does it. I was curious.”

“A hooker,” his father snapped.

Not looking at either of them, I said, “Rick, you never had anything to do with a lady of the night, huh? Not in Nam or wherever? Real straight arrow, my man.”

“Not at Terry’s age,” McNair said shortly. “Not hardly ever. Never, once I’d met his mother, God rest her soul.”

“I was curious,” Terry whined. “All the guys were talking about the Limit, what goes on there.”

“They go all the time, huh?” I suggested.

Terry started to say yes, but he’s an honest kid and after a bit he said, “Well, some of them. One guy, anyway. His father’s a landlord there, so Mike gets left alone.”

“Fine friends you make,” McNair said.

“He’s not a friend, we were just hanging out, talking,” Terry explained miserably.

“This looks a decent area,” his father said, when I pulled in. “I thought the Limit—”

“This aint it,” I said. “From here we walk. Limit’s down there a ways, and one block over. Rick, either you let me lock that forty-five piece in the trunk or... put it this way, you pull it for any reason at all, I’ll bust your hand before you get to squeeze a shot off. You can bank on that in Denver, my friend.”

He just grunted and got out of the car. He thought I was bragging, but that was all right because I knew I wasn’t — and that left the pair of us happy.

Rule of thumb: Carry a piece and sooner or later you have to use it or get dead. Dumbest dumb in my book. Around the Limit, it’s likely to be sooner than later, at that. Plenty of mean characters there, choice of race and all three sexes, count ’em.

We went over to Republican and pretty soon the discount and novelty stores were empty stores, hole-in-wall head shops, peep shows, places showing triple-X movies and promising live action on stage between whiles. Dross City, no question.

Cross streets, being narrower and darker, were worse. But the quarter was empty, still asleep. Fairly safe, especially with three of us teamed.

“It was in there,” Terry said, after leading us down the wrong street and trying again. He pointed at a brownstone, some of the upper windows shuttered with marine ply sheets, ripe for the demo men. At street level, a dusty-windowed store showed a few items of the type of leisurewear that comes with spikes and studs. It hadn’t seen a customer since when and the lights were out.

“Not so fast.” I towed the pair of them into an alley beside the brownstone. “How’d you come to lose the money, get robbed, Terry? She do it up in her crib? You get mugged out here on the sidewalk? What?”

“I never saw the girl,” he told me. “Mike showed me where she operates, gave me a ride to school this morning, we cut through here on the way. I came back, solo, this afternoon. Street door doesn’t lock, you can shove it open. Her place is on the third floor.

“It’s dark, no windows on the stairs, the lights don’t work. I got to the landing, saw her apartment door. I was... um... getting up courage, I guess. Somebody jumped me from behind, slammed me against the wall so hard I saw stars, my nose bled. Uh, they twisted my arm, too, slammed me again, ran away. I heard them on the stairs. Then I found my money was gone.”

Rick McNair shook his head in disgust.

“Where was the wallet?” I asked.

“Back pocket of my jeans. I know, I know, it’s a stupid place to carry a wallet, Norm.”

“You learned that the hard way, it’ll stick.” It cheered him up some. “The guy who jumped you, what he look like?”

Terry’s blush made his whole face match the red ear. “All I know... it was a man. He was behind me all the time, then I was on the floor when he took off. You could tell it was a man, from the feel of his hands when he grabbed me, twisted my arm and all.”

“Okay, mystery man clobbers you. Maybe he was waiting, maybe he followed you in. What next? Hooker come out, ask what goes on? He’s bouncing you off walls hard enough to draw blood, must’ve been a ruckus.”

“I just wanted to get the hell out of there.” Terry turned to his father. “Look, Mike kind of dared me and... I was curious and I didn’t want to seem a nerd, you know? I took money to show her, string her along, but I meant to duck out before... well, anything. Then I could tell the guys I’d been there, prove it by saying what she and her place looked like.”

“We’re wasting time,” Rick McNair grumbled. “The girl’s pimp waits for morons like this one, too green and puny to matter, and roughs ’em up, lifts their dough. Let’s get to it, Norm. You stay here.”

“No way, José. We’ll all go up there, visit a spell.” I was thinking that Rick McNair might be hell on wheels as a carpenter but he couldn’t figure worth diddly. No hooker’s main man carries on that way. He do, word travels among the johns pretty soon his girl runs out of clients. For sure. Maybe he does knock over a fat-cat john every so often. But wise birds don’t foul their own nests and hookers’ men are real owls when it comes to their trade. They hit the john down the block a piece, never the doorstep.

Like Terry said, the street door looked solid but pushed open. By the second set of stairs, I was climbing them real slow, feeling less than good — and I’m in shape.

When I glanced back, Terry said, “Yeah, there’s a terrible smell. Plain dirt, I guess. That would have put me off, even if I hadn’t decided to duck out soon as I saw her, from the start.”

I hardly heard him. Rick McNair was staring up at me over the kid’s shoulder. He and I knew that smell, you never forget it. Somebody nearby was dead, and had been that way for too long.

McNair pushed past his son and then me. We reached the famous landing. He went to press the buzzer beside the apartment door but I stepped in fast. “Don’t touch a thing, Rick. Terry, you go back to the stairs, keep watch.”

I just wanted him well out of the way. Any fool could tell that the brownstone was deserted, waiting for the wrecker’s ball. That store at street level had been shut for weeks and the ex-owner hadn’t bothered to haul the window-display merchandise away. Street people had been using the hallway for a rest room; the odor up here wasn’t so much worse than lower down, just different...

The lock was strictly five-and-dime; I slipped it with a credit card.

We didn’t have to go in.

The woman was just inside. She hadn’t been much in life and was even less now. I couldn’t tell whether she had been strangled or what, the corpse was far gone. Maybe it had been there for a week. The rats hadn’t helped anything but themselves, the way rats will.

“Jesus,” Rick McNair groaned, and it wasn’t taking holy names in vain. “Let’s get out of here.”

The apartment, as I’d expected, was empty. The floor was fluffy tan underlay, the final tenant had ripped up the carpet. Unfaded places on the walls showed where furniture must have stood. I stood firm as McNair yanked my arm.

“Stuff to do,” I told him.

“Say what?” He didn’t realize it, but he was shouting.

“Terry’s wallet must be around here.” He blinked at me and I got mad. “Come on, Rick! Terry couldn’t kill a fly and somebody suckered him here next a body.” Then I heard that yowl-whoop-yowl cutting off suddenly, maybe a block away.

Great.

Now there was all of sixty seconds to do a day’s work. The stairway had no windows but the apartment couldn’t get by without them. I yelled for Terry to get in there with us — he went green and started to take off at the sight of the dead lady but McNair grabbed him.

I wrestled the nearest window open. “Fire escape,” I told McNair. “Don’t go down! Go up and over the roof, far as you can get. Use cover, go quiet, think Nam. Terry, this kid Mike — what car he drive? Quick, boy!”

He was nauseous, fighting it, eyes rolling. I shook him. “What car?”

“Uh... uh... Toyota. Silver, black roof.”

“Go!” I whacked McNair’s rump, nearly threw Terry out after him onto the rusty iron escape route of the fire stairs.

The apartment being stripped cut searching time. Terry’s wallet was half under the body, shoved there. I ripped it out, frantically checking the contents. Money, tickets for a rock concert, some clippings from Sports Illustrated.

Either he’d been cool enough to leave his ID at home, which I doubted, or Terry simply kept it separate from his dough. Adding my cash to the wallet, I slipped it into my jacket pocket, using the now-empty money clip, a hammered silver-dollar sign, to fix tie to shirt.

I just finished when two cops burst in. You can climb stairs fast or quiet; they’d tried both at once and could be heard on the final flight. So I was reaching way up, grabbing air, a fraction before they made the scene.

They said I was in a lot of trouble and a bad person to boot. Not hardly, I said, but polite.

What it was, I told them, I’d been hanging out on the corner and noticed this white teenager, maybe high school, in a silver Toyota with a black roof. He’d been in and out of the brownstone here, half a dozen times in a matter of hours. Made a fellow think...

Just now, I said, I’d gone into the hallway of the building to take a leak, and the same kid came barreling down the stairs, never seeing me in the shadows. So I’d decided to snoop around, see what drew him upstairs, day after day.

Sure, I’d opened the window. Had they noticed the smell in there? No, I didn’t know the dead lady from Adam, and neither would anyone, bar her Maker, thanks to those rats. But I did know that yellow simulated leather coat. Belonged on a street lady I’d seen from time to time, on the next block to here...

Finally the brightest cop ran out to their car, got on the switch about his comrades looking out for a black-and-silver Toyota driven by a kid. Later this cop told me he’d been covering all the bases and figured the vehicle and driver to be figments of my imagination.

Only while he was still leaning into the police car, he saw a black-and-silver Toyota cruise past; stayed cool, and observed it was driving round and round the block.

Which was how Terry’s friend Mike, who knew the Limit so well, came to be detained as well as me.

Mike’s story ran that he happened to be driving past, that was all. He denied pointing out the building to Terry McNair or telling him a hooker was there.

But as I’d gambled, Rick McNair had just enough smarts to take off on a sudden visit to Vermont with Terry. Well, I hadn’t figured Vermont, just far and fast until the mud settled. Okay, it was schooltime. Then again, it’s the American way, Pop and Junior going off to fish and hunt. Rick McNair was an impulsive father, what can I tell you?

Until they caught up with father and son, the cops had to be satisfied with me and Mike the Toyota driver. Even with his dad’s lawyer present, Mike made an uneasy witness. Then they matched his voiceprints to the anonymous call on 911, claiming a murder at the brownstone, and the prints matched.

This made Mike an uneasier witness. His lawyer had a long talk with him, in private. Then the plea bargaining began, Mike ’fessed up — he’d hit on the street lady, greased her in a panic when she refused to get out of the car again, wanting extra cash — and I was released. My fine car had been towed, like to wrecked the transmission. The Good Samaritan never had that breed of static, but then again, I guess in those Bible times he’d have ridden a mule.

About two days later Rick McNair phoned me, kind of high-strung and guarded in his talk. “Relax, come on home,” I said. “No problem anymore.”

In the middle of the night, Rick McNair and Terry were hammering at my door. Thank you, thank you, how in the world did you figure it, so forth. How in the world could anyone not figure it, I nearly came back at them.

Mike had been on the prod for Terry to go to the apartment where he’d dumped the body. From the speed the cops turned up, somebody had been watching the place, ready to tip them when we went in. It was such a rinky-dink, schoolyard plotting affair...

As such, there was a good chance, far better than drawing to a straight, that the someone who’d called the cops would hang around the neighborhood to see how his caper worked out. Amateurs always want to make sure, that’s how they stay amateurs, right?

Which was why I needed to know what sort of car Mike drove. If I’d been wrong about Mike, then it was my grief. Any fool could tell the street lady had been dead more than forty-eight hours, and I’d only been back in the city for a day — before that, I’d been in Vegas for nine days. Very firmly in, thank you: in jail, to be exact. The worst the cops could have done was give me a hard time.

So it was all pretty simple, considering. When I said simple, Rick McNair gave me a look as much as to say I was fooling. He was a good guy and Terry was a good kid, but they weren’t swift.

Rick McNair hugged me hard, close to tears. “Anything you ever want and it’s in my power, you got it, Norm.”

“One thing, then, right now. That.45 piece, Rick — toss it in the river. As a favor to me, huh?” He wanted to know why, now the trouble had passed, but I stalled on that and Rick went off to fulfill his promise.

I couldn’t tell him that I might not be able to watch out for him another time. Or that some white folks just can’t handle pressure.

Glendora dropped it on my blotter where it spun like a to, while she talked.

“He says his name is Schmettler.”

Glendora is almost the perfect secretary. She’s prettier than a red pickup, but she has a mind like a computer. That means she presents facts, follows instructions to the letter, and only offers conclusions when asked. Sometimes, that makes her a little irritating. Like now, when some Godzilla tears the knob off our office door to show he’s eager to do business, she makes him give her his name before delivering the message. Why? Because I once said I liked to know who wanted to talk to me.

“The man with him didn’t say anything, but he should probably be indicted for the way he looked at me.

As you would imagine, Glendora is doing very well in law school. Between classes, she helps out as a secretary while I turn over enough skip tracing to pay the rent and cover her tuition. Evenings, we discuss the US Tax Code and other fun things. When she passes the bar exam, we’ll set up as Biggart and Frisbee, Corporation Taxation Specialists. She’ll handle the trial work, while I do research in the back room because I want, but seldom get, a tranquil life.

It had been a slow week, so I was willing to forgive Mr. Schmettler’s enthusiasm. The knob was still spinning, just now starting to show the occasional wobble.

“Think of this as opportunity knocking,” I told her.

When Schmettler came through the doorway like a transcontinental truck on a one-lane bridge, I changed my mind, not about him, but the bad news that came as part of the package, a little fellow about five feet high with a bad reputation about twice as tall.

The last I heard, Arnie Buttons had been under indictment on seventeen counts of larceny, counterfeiting, procuring, trafficking in controlled substances, felony, murder, and suspicion of worshiping graven images. A slow week had become a bad one.

“We don’t want any,” I said, standing up to move in front of Glendora while Arnie looked around the office and decided not to buy it.

“Get the broad out of this dump,” he said.

Personally, I find our decor is very pleasant; rental furniture, true, but not too much of it. I didn’t quarrel with his taste, though I did take charge of the situation.

“I don’t think these people want coffee, Glendora, but I do. Double cream with a prune Danish.”

Glendora is brighter than I am, but before she met me, she had to spend a lot of time pretending to be dumb. She did it now, popping some nonexistent chewing gum and flouncing out of the room after a wide-eyed look at our guests.

When the door closed behind her, Arnie brought me up to speed. “You’re a hunter. The best. I want you to hunt somebody.”

“I’m a finder,” I said. “A hunter goes for blood, but I like solving puzzles. If you want to get in touch with somebody on a civil cause, I’m your man. I serve processes, catch bail jumpers, repossess cars, and find wandering spice, but nothing more.”

Arnie picked up the doorknob and Schmettler looked interested. “I know about you, Frisbee. You don’t play in the traffic these days. Take a walk, Bruno.”

Schmettler lost interest in me. Since his boss hadn’t told him to remove it, he left the knob on the inner door as he left. Arnie sat down in the client chair.

“I got a target you might like. Looey Flowers.”

I had reasons not to like Looey Flowers, almost as many as I had to dislike Arnie Buttons. They were two of a kind, and until I came along, they’d been rivals in the same organization. But Looey had taken out a competitor in front of a witness, an innocent citizen who had the bad luck to be present when Looey was acting out with a sawed-off shotgun. Being of normal intelligence, the witness left the area fast.

The state attorney gave me the job of finding him. I did, five hundred miles off and two weeks later. After I brought him back, he was put in protective custody. The story was he managed to climb out a tiny bathroom window to throw himself out of a hotel suite also occupied by three policemen. I left the business because he rightly prophesied when I took him in that I was signing his death warrant.

After that, with a kind of irony I still don’t appreciate, things worked out. Once he was in jail, Looey decided to recite his memoirs. On the basis of the stories he told under immunity, he should have been chained to a rock for all eternity for birds to peck at, but he did something that made it worthwhile. He nailed Arnie Buttons — but good. I wondered why Arnie wasn’t in jail. He watched my memory banks work through all this dreck.

“They had to reduce my bail because Looey is the only witness left against me. The rest of them came down with amnesia or absence. That’s why I’m hiring you.”

Just then the phone rang. Glendora was calling from the café across the street.

“You don’t drink coffee, and you never touch refined sugar. I conclude you want me to do something. What?”

“Take the afternoon off,” I said, making the automatic protective move that this liberated woman frequently finds vexing. “Mr. Buttons is just leaving.”

“Oh!” she said in a startled voice.

“Don’t hang up the phone, Bruno,” Buttons called across the room. “Mr. Frisbee and I will get back to you in a few minutes.”

I’ve been dealing with middle-class types lately, so I’m out of practice. Arnie had enjoyed demonstrating that. Despite my views on the subject, it was in the cards that I was going to have to find Looey Flowers so Buttons could kill him.

Arnie opened the haggling by saying “She’s cute, your secretary.”

He paused to let my mind fill with an X-rated movie that would be banned in Port Said.

“You find Flowers, you get ten big ones and the broad back in one piece. You don’t, and — ahh — let’s not talk about it.”

I had some violent thoughts myself, which involved tightening Arnie’s necktie till his eyeballs popped out to join the doorknob on my desk. But that wouldn’t help Glendora.

“Okay, Arnie. Glendora goes someplace safe where neither of us can reach her or it’s no deal.”

He didn’t like the sound of that, and he fingered his necktie, nervous about the way I was glaring at him.

I explained. Glendora was to go immediately to the YWCA. After she talked to me on the phone from there, I’d look for Flowers. I pointed out that as long as she was in his hands, I had no reason to trust him. Because Arnie knew me pretty well and he very badly needed Flowers dead, he told Schmettler to take her to the YWCA.

While we waited for Glendora’s return call, Arnie gave me the story till now. The federal strike force marshals had kept Flowers secure during his testimony by bringing him from the local air base to the roof of the courthouse via helicopter. By the time Arnie’s people had discovered Flowers was being kept at the base infirmary, the hearings were over and Flowers had vanished.

Then he told me why it was impossible for Looey to vanish as he did. Arnie’s security around the base was perfect: tape monitors on all the exit gates, a radio and telephone watch; even people watching the flight lines. Still, Flowers was gone, and Arnie couldn’t understand it.

“How do you know he’s gone?”

“His protection left — all those marshals. Somehow, they did it. And don’t say he just slipped by us. Looey weighs in over three hundred pounds and getting bigger. They couldn’t hide him in a flyboy uniform or get him in the trunk of a car, but they faked me out somehow.” He paused to let me see the glint of switchblades in his eyes. “This is important to me, Frisbee!”

As long as Glendora was at risk, it was important to me, too, which I didn’t need to tell him. I was wondering how I could keep from being instrumental in Looey’s violent demise. Then Glendora phoned from the YWCA, wondering why she was in the penalty box while I had all the fun.

“Some fun,” I said. “Either I find Looey Flowers or someone near and dear has bad trouble. Listen carefully and maybe you can help. Arnie says Looey left the air base. Anyway, a solid ring of Arnie’s men say they didn’t see him. All the gates were covered, the flight lines, and Looey’s too big to go into a car trunk.”

“Are you sure he’s gone?”

“Arnie tells me the federal marshals left.”

“You mean Mr. Flowers evaded all Mr. Button’s people?”

“No, I think he avoided them. It’s a case of how you hide a three-hundred-pound gorilla who belongs in jail. I expect to find Looey by this afternoon or tomorrow at the latest. Take care. Arnie promised me ten big ones, but don’t count the money till I phone again.”

Glendora went “humph!” and hung up. Arnie was thoughtful. “Why you telling her all this?”

“She’s my auxiliary brain. If I can’t figure it out, she can.” For the moment, I felt pretty confident.

When Schmettler lumbered in, I could see that Arnie had reason to be confident too.

“I forgot to tell you,” he said. “Bruno goes with you. Everywhere. And my people will be all around the YWCA. Maybe I couldn’t catch Looey, but I can sure catch a broad.”

I wondered what other surprises were upcoming, but I didn’t bother to ask because Arnie was no more into full disclosure than I was.

“Let’s go, Bruno,” I said. We did, in one of those black limousines Arnie was so fond of. Bruno drove me out Claiborne Avenue to an Army and Navy Store that’s been there as long as I can remember. A retired first shirt from maybe the War of 1812 runs it.

Fortunately, I was wearing black shoes. While Bruno inspected camping equipment, I bought a shirt and pants in blue cotton wash material and a web belt. I didn’t need a cap. The owner was pretty bored till I started sorting through the samples of military decorations.

“You got authorization for those things, Mac?”

Bruno joined us. The owner shut up when Bruno started making speech. “Why you buying all this war surplus, Frisbee?”

“Looey vanished from the air base. That’s where I start looking. I want to fit in.” I turned back to the ancient clerk.

“I want one of those, one of those, and that neat red one with the white stripes.” I’d pointed out ribbons for the Distinguished Flying Cross, the Air Medal, and the Good Conduct badge. The clerk gave me a sour look and said he’d run them up in the back room.

I put on the shirt and pants and inspected electronic gear that was sold by the pound while Schmettler went back to the camping equipment. The clerk returned ten minutes later, in a dead heat with a couple of air police, a sergeant and a corporal.

“This the guy trying to impersonate a hero?” the sergeant said, as much to me as anybody.

When Schmettler came up to see what was going on, the APs undid the flaps of their holsters.

“Who’s this guy?” the sergeant wanted to know.

“You may well ask,” I told him.

But the sergeant didn’t like my answers when he asked for leave papers and dog tags. Then he noted I wore no cap and consequently was out of uniform. Without any further ado, they shoved me ungently into the air police jeep and away we went. Schmettler pursued us in the black limo and only broke off at the main gate. In the provost marshal’s office, I was cooperative but not too talky. They had about decided to nail me for impersonation until the provost asked if I had a serial number.

When I gave it to him, they took my fingerprints. That was the end of due process. They decided the stockade was where I belonged. I spent the remainder of the afternoon sitting on a bare mattress waiting for chow.

It wasn’t jambalaya, and the only exotic sauces offered were catsup and mustard, but it was plentiful, whatever it was. The armed forces have changed since my day. They seem to be accepting Boy Scouts, even though some of the young men looked as if their camp-out had been rained on.

Except for me, only one of the men in the dining hall was over thirty. He filled one side of a mess table all by himself, something like a basking sea lion. The food hadn’t struck me as all that remarkable, but he was shoveling it in as if Julia Child did the catering. Unlike the other diners, he seemed happy. I took my tray over to join him.

“Looey,” I said, “Arnie Buttons wants to know where you are.”

He didn’t stop chewing. “Thass tough,” he said. “They frisked you, so get lost, shortie.”

“I’m not going to be here long,” I told him. “I got in by making them think I was AWOL. When I get out tomorrow, people will be coming to see you. He’s putting up a lot of money to lower your shades.”

Looey finished his tray and looked at mine as he continued to chew. I passed it over and took a medicinal sip of something similar to coffee as he vacuumed up my supper.

“Whass he got on you?” he asked. “You’re Frisbee, state attorney’s office, right?”

I confessed my career change and my new assignment.

“A broad as hostage? Arnie’s good at that. Well, like I always say, win some, lose some. Take me. They say I got something germinal. Six weeks or six months at the best to go. I can’t remember which, so thass bad. But I been on a diet all my life. Now I eat as much as I want, no worries about hypertension or nothing. Arnie pro’ly can’t tag me here, and all my tapes and depositions are going to stick it in his ear good. I go, and he follows. On the whole, thass good. You tell him for me.”

I wondered how Arnie was going to take the news that modern medical science was going to achieve what he couldn’t.

“Looey,” I said, preparing to become persuasive, “Arnie tells me you’re the only witness left. The others are missing or forgetful. They’ll put you in a civilian hospital at the end. Then Arnie will do his number on your deathbed. After all, he found you here.”

Looey’s eyes were tiny slits in his enormous face. “I got this plan. I hit four hundred pounds, real sick, they won’t move me out of here because they can’t. In the meantime, I catch television and eat and think about Arnie sweating. Too bad about your broad.”

In a lot of ways, Looey Flowers resembled a sea slug. The only place he was vulnerable was in his hatred of Arnie. Just as he was telling me he was maybe ninety percent sure his evidence would send Arnie down, I interrupted.

“I can make it one hundred percent.”

He stopped eating to ask how.

My mother and my aunt say that I was it mean to my father. At least, they used to say it when he was alive. They said that whenever he put his arms around me, I would make a face and pull away, and then he would feel sad.

And that’s true.

I never meant to be that way. I always promised myself that the next time he came to me, I would hug him back. Maybe even kiss him on the cheek.

But then he would be there and I could smell his breath and see the red veins on his nose and something inside me would twist up. It was like what the nuns in school called a reflex, except that when they talked about it, it had to do with knees. You hit your knee and it would jerk away, even if you didn’t want it to. Well, that’s the way I was about my father.

My mother and my aunt said I was a cold fish, and I guess they were right.

I wasn’t always like that, though, except that I used to go down in the cellar sometimes and sit all by myself. When I was real little. I guess, if you think about it, that was a sign.

I would sit behind the cabinet where my mother kept cans of soup and stuff and smell the smell of bleach and ammonia. She only did the wash on Saturdays, but it smelled that way all the time. It smelled clean.

And it looked clean, too. We had a coal bin down there for the furnace, but you couldn’t really tell over on the side where I used to sit. The walls had been whitewashed and they were bright-white, because once a week my mother took a broom and swept the soot off the walls, swept them the way she did the floors. I made that part of the cellar my thinking place.

Not that I was that much of a thinker. The nuns in school were always yelling at me, and they would hit me, too, with a ruler across the palms of my hands. The only good thing about school was Nancy Killian, who was my friend.

At least, she was my friend in third grade, when she came to our school. And in fourth. The first part of fourth. Around the middle of fourth, she died.

She didn’t just die. She was stabbed thirteen times. They said her brother did it and he was sent away, but not to jail. To a hospital. But they said he would never get out and, as far as I know, he never did.

Nancy Killian was just like me. She wanted to work in an office when she grew up, just like me. She wanted a puppy and her mother wouldn’t let her have one, just like me. Except that she had a brother, a brother who was home all the time or else at the river, down by the trains. Or hanging out at the store where the pinball machine was. She had a bum for a brother, that’s what my mother said.

Nancy Killian didn’t come to school the day she was stabbed. She had a fight with me the day before and she ripped half of the hem out of my dress. And I said I would never talk to her again, never, and went home.

But my mother yelled at me about my dress and told me money didn’t grow on trees and that decent little girls didn’t go around fighting. I went down in the cellar to my thinking place and wished that I could be friends with Nancy again.

I was going to make up with her at school the next day, the day she didn’t show up. The day she was stabbed.

Most of the kids ate lunch at school every day because their mothers, like my mother and Nancy Killian’s, worked at the linoleum factory down the street. And their fathers worked, too, the way mine did and hers did, in gray shirts and gray pants, and big, heavy shoes. But my aunt lived up the street from Nancy’s house and she would make me soup for lunch, so I was allowed to go there.

I went to Nancy’s house first, though. I knocked on the back door and I went around to the front door and knocked there, too, even though we weren’t allowed to come in that way. But Nancy didn’t come. And then I felt as though Nancy was mad at me forever and we would never be friends again.

So I went home just to be sad instead of going to my aunt’s house to eat. And I went to my thinking place and I thought, not just about Nancy, but about how mad my aunt was going to be that I didn’t go there for lunch and what the nuns would say and my mother.

I heard the cellar door come open and I saw the bottoms of my father’s legs on the top step. Then he came down and I watched him, more of his legs and more and then all of him.

“Oh,” I said out loud. His shirt and his pants had blood on them. Not bright red, but darker. Still, blood. And I went over and even grabbed his hand. I wasn’t mean to my father then. But his hand was bloody, too.

I asked him if he got hurt at work and he said yes. And then he told me to go upstairs and get ready to go back to school. That he wouldn’t tell my mother I was there if I didn’t tell her he got hurt at work. And I said okay.

When I went up the steps I saw him taking clean work clothes off the line that my mother had hung in the basement. And then I heard him running the water into the laundry tub. And then I heard the big roar that the furnace makes when somebody opens the door and the whole cellar turns orange.

And after that, everything was different Nancy Killian never came back to school and the newspapers had her picture in it almost every day for over a week. And her brother got sent away, like I said. And I started being mean to my father.

We had an hour before they brought the woman to Captain Pearce’s office, went over the whole scheme. Pearce himself, Lieutenant Schatz from the precinct, and me. The captain had an open mind, Schatz didn’t. Schatz doesn’t like theories, and he doesn’t like private detectives because they have too many theories.

Pearce said, “Castro planned to kill Roth from the start?”

“It was all that made sense.”

Schatz made a noise. “You’ve got no proof Castro planned anything, Fortune. How about some facts?”

“All right,” I said. “Fact one: Three years ago Roth was Castro’s junior partner. Almost overnight Roth had a big contract that should have been Castro’s, was in business for himself, had stolen Castro’s wife, and Castro hated him.”

Schatz shook his head. “Three years is too long to wait.”

“Castro didn’t wait,” I said. “That’s fact number two — when I started investigating the killing I found out Castro had been working hard to ruin Roth’s business as soon as he realized what Roth had done to him.”

“But murder?” Pearce said. “After three years? In hot blood, maybe. But Schatz’s right, a smart, educated man like Castro should have cooled down by then.”

“Revenge,” I said, “and his ex-wife back, and his sons.”

“You think he really figured the wife would go back to him after he murdered Roth?” Schatz said.

“Yes,” I said. “She’s a practical woman.”

Schatz shook his head. “Theory, Fortune, and crazy theory.”

“Theory,” I agreed, “but all I had. No clues, no evidence, no real facts. From the start I didn’t have a damn thing to go on except the theory and my imagination.”

It was called the Celebrity Club, but the closest thing to a celebrity that had ever sipped stale, warm beer from a chipped bar glass at Johnny-O’s joint was Marblehead Dexter Simpkins, especially the night before his picture was on the front page of the Jamestown Journal as the prime-and-just-apprehended suspect in the rape and murder and then mutilation of the fourteen-year-old daughter of a very prominent man-about-town who just happened to be a white accountant, public and certified.

Marblehead’s rise to fame in the city at large was meteoric, but he has faded from memory fast. He is scheduled to make the front page one more time about four years from now, when his appeals run out and he gets to choose three witnesses to his untimely and unnatural demise. One way or the other, Elgin Balfour means to be there.

Marblehead was the main man to the Celebrity Club regulars, who still talk, three years later, about how he got framed. And the man had such promise, such talent, such style, they say. They remembered when Marblehead played football, and oh, how he dived into that line — head first and feet driving, never stopping till he was down, and even then always grinning like he had the world by the balls and knew just when to squeeze. He was just biding his time, they all said then.

Marblehead Simpkins used to walk like a king through Roosevelt Village, and the boys stood back and the girls came forth and Marblehead showed the girls that he was the man, their man. He was six-feet-four of prime fullbacking scholarship meat, wrapped in proud and shining ebony the year he left high school. That was the summer a going-on-drunk rent-a-cop caught Marblehead behind the concession stand by the football field one moonlit night, his shiny black ass pumping and glistening between the unshaven legs and turned-down toes of Marissa Balfour, who didn’t practice discrimination and never stopped screaming that she wanted it all, till it was all gone.

Marblehead wanted her to have it, too, but the DA felt their desires were improper and that the man had to learn some humility, or at least discretion, even if he was just eighteen and Big-Ten-bound, so he put the boy’s ass in the can for two to ten on a charge of rape statutorily. There he could ponder what might have been if Marissa’s daddy, Elgin, had his way.

“You’re gonna have to get used to white boys from now on, son.” The bailiff laughed, and Marissa cried, because Elgin was sending her north to get her head straight and her ass in line in a place where the moon might as well never rise and the sun might as well never shine.

Marblehead emerged from stir a changed man. “I used to be the best-dressed motherfucker in Roosevelt Village, before I learned to spend my cash making my body feel good instead of look good,” he used to say after they set him free. And Marblehead knew how to feel good when he came back to Jamestown. Speed-balls, red devils, white magic, and soul dust, 99 percent pure. Mainlined, streamlined, down-the-hatch, and gone. Marblehead took it the way it came. And he learned that every front door has a silver lining, especially if you go in through the back, real quiet, when nobody’s home. A man with a habit has got to cop seven days a week, every week of the year.

Big appetites don’t attract attention at the Celebrity Club, but Marblehead’s hungers left the regulars in awe. It took twenty-four long-neck bottles of Miller High Life beer, two long-legged, pelvis-pumping sugar plums, and one pop every four hours of vein-warming glory dust to keep Marblehead satisfied, each day, every day, and he got mean when he wasn’t satisfied.

That’s how he came to fall hard. He got mean when he should have been patient, and talked when he should have listened, and he forgot that you don’t have to be big to get revenge. Like Papa Monk Sanders says, “You fuck over a man that’s got balls, and you better kill him, because beating him’s not enough.” Elgin Balfour’s got balls like tangerines.

Marblehead’s rise to the heights of celebrity, his subsequent fall, and his understanding of the wisdom Papa Monk spoke began at 7:00 A.M. Thursday morning, August 13, 1981. Marblehead was having the first beer and third cigarette of the day, standing outside the Celebrity watching the honkies motor officeward down Chesnutt Street. He felt bad. Sherrille Ann Cleveland — Pucker Puss, she was called in the Village — had kicked his ass out of bed. The cost of her affection came high, and Marblehead was short the price that night because his coffers were close to bare and he could cop for one, but not two. “You want to light my fire, you come back with the fuel,” Puss said firmly, and she turned her man out into the street.

It was all a matter of coincidence that morning that Marblehead flipped his butt just a little too hard; and Elgin Balfour drove by just a little too slow; and the window of the 98 Oldsmobile, four-door deluxe with luxury package was down just a little too far; and Marissa was in the front seat, just back from boarding-school-and-locked-room exile; and that still-lit butt landed in the lap of her pretty, off-white, not-quite-virgin silk dress; and — well — there was smoke where there used to be fire.

Marissa screamed, and Elgin slammed on the brakes, and Marblehead didn’t notice, because he felt too bad, until Elgin Balfour stood, his nose six inches from the gold medallion around Marblehead’s neck and spit out a threat: “You’re going to be sorry, boy.”

Marblehead said, “Ain’t nothing stinks like Listerine and Jade East cheek by jowl, so would you get outta my face?” And he laughed like a man without a care in the world and looked at Marissa and said, “Hey, baby, long time no see.” Spitting in the wind.

Elgin pronounced a death sentence and left. Marblehead adjusted his dick and had another beer. He had his day to plan, opportunities in suburbia to explore.

This day Marblehead would be a plumber’s helper. He took off his gold and put on his old clothes. He borrowed for $50 an about-to-be-painted pickup from Shine Like New Auto Repaint, and stole into the bright morning of Quail Pointe Estates, shovel rattling in the back. He had a rag in one pocket, a bag in the other, a beer in his fist, and Puss on his mind. When he found a house that looked just right, he parked his truck in front and dug a hole in back — by the flower garden. That was just for show, while he waited to see if some busybody housewife, bored with soaps and call-in-to-win radio, would spoil his day. Forty-five minutes of digging, and Marblehead was ready to work.

He wrapped his rag around the end of that shovel like a craftsman, and broke a windowpane so skillfully that even he didn’t hear it shatter. He climbed inside, dirt-clogged feet first, gave himself a pop, and started separating the dross from the gold, as they say.

Marblehead was a careful man, but quick about his business, and inside of an hour, he was out and grinning, on his way to liquidate his assets. He left behind a dirt-stained hand-knotted Persian rug that drove the lady of the house to trembling, fearsome fury, and an unfilled hole in a zoysia carpet outside that cut to the quick of her husband’s soul. Never mind insured losses of $18,384.98, replacement value covered. State Farm paid that. A fence named Mouse the Mule paid Marblehead seven bills even and the matter was closed.

The main man went hunting sweet, soulful solace at Puss Cleveland’s, his pockets bulging. She lifted his burden and relieved his tension, hauled his ashes and stoked his furnace before they went to the Celebrity to party. Drinks were on the man; that’s how a celebrity acts at Fifth and Chesnutt. And that’s why a roomful of gentlemen of leisure and ladies of the evening know damn well that Dexter aka Marblehead Simpkins perpetrated neither rape nor the least degree of assault, not to mention mutilation, on anybody fairer than sweet, dark chocolate, more or less the shade of Puss Cleveland, that night.

But somebody did.

And he left his mess in Elgin Balfour’s backyard.

Screaming and yelling, weeping and wailing were the Friday-morning sounds on Chesnutt Street when four carloads of determined young officers of the law, shotguns loaded and billy clubs drawn, descended on one slightly buzzing ex-fullback who could not comprehend their anger. They dragged him off fighting to await the opportunity to plead his case before the bar of justice. A speedy trial was his right, and Elgin saw to his rights.

“I didn’t do no wrong,” the man lied, but we knew what he meant.

“Fry his ass,” Elgin Balfour cried.

“I saw Dexter Simpkins in the vicinity of the crime,” Marissa Balfour wept spitefully; “he tried to get me, but daddy scared him off.

“He was with me and fifteen others at the Celebrity,” Puss Cleveland countered.

“You’re a whore, and reliable witnesses don’t frequent that haven for the lawless,” the DA replied.

“You’re a nubbin-dicked piece of shit,” Johnny-O piped up.

“You’re in contempt,” the judge declared. “Order in the court.”

The jury said guilty in the first degree.

“Fry his ass, Judge. You owe it to the community,” Elgin Balfour demanded.

The judge concurred, Elgin winked. A hod carrier named Andrew breathed a sigh of relief. And that settled it.

The night of the judgment there was a mournful gathering at the Celebrity Club. Puss Cleveland sobbed and bought for the house, courtesy of her used-to-be old man, and they drank to his honor.

“We were gonna get married,” Puss announced, tears swelling up in her eyes.

“Be glad you didn’t,” Johnny-O allowed, lust swelling up in his pants.

Papa Monk Sanders said, “The boy had it coming. He was predesigned for a big fall. But Lord, he knew how to act at party time.”

And they drank one more bottle of beer to his memory.