"Call the real estate man, Kurt; tell him Wells Newspapers will take it. I'll have Charley Davis handle it from there. Do it now."

"And what if Louise doesn't like it?"

"She's a dutiful daughter, Kurt," Wells said, and laughed, "who will recognize a bargain when she sees one."

The barrier to Stockton Place consisted of a black-painted aluminum pole, hinged at one end. A neatly lettered sign readingSTOCKTON PLACE – PRIVATE PROPERTY – NO THOROUGHFARE hung on short lengths of chain from the pole. A switch in the Colonial-style red-brick guard shack caused electric motors to raise and lower it. The Wackenhut Private Security officer flipped the switch when he saw the yellow Cadillac convertible coming. It was too far away to see the Stockton Place bumper sticker, but there weren't all that many yellow Cadillac convertibles, and he was reasonably certain this had to be the goodlooking blonde from the TV, whom he thought of as "6-A."

The barrier rose smoothly into the air. It was only when the car passed him, moving onto the carefully re-laid cobblestones of Stockton Place, that he saw she was not driving, but that a cop was. And that the convertible was being followed by a police car.

He was retired from the Philadelphia Police Department, and it automatically registered on him that the numbers on the car identified it as being from the Second District, way the hell and gone across town, in the northeast.

The first thing he thought was that they'd busted her for driving under the influence, and the lieutenant or whoever had decided it was good public relations, her being on the TV, to warn her and let her go, have her driven home, instead of writing her up and sending her to the Roundhouse to make bail.

But when the convertible stopped in front of Number Six and she got out, she didn't look drunk, and she walked back to the police car and shook hands with the cop driving it. And 6-A didn't look like the kind of girl who would get drunk, anyway.

He stepped out of the guard shack and stood by the curb, hoping that when the police car came back out, they would stop and say hello, and he could ask what was going on.

But the cops just waved at him, and didn't stop.

Louise Dutton closed the door of 6-A behind her by bumping it with her rear end, and sighed, and then went into her bedroom, and to the bathroom. She saw her brassiere and panties where she'd tossed them on the bed. A plain and ordinary cottonunderwear bra and panties, she thought, which she'd taken off to replace with black, filmy, damnednear transparentlingerie bra and panties after Captain Dutch Moffitt had called and she had gone to meet him.

She leaned close to the mirror. She had not removed her makeup before leaving the studio, and there were streaks on her face, where tears had marred the makeup. She dipped a Kleenex into a jar of cold cream and started wiping at the makeup.

The door chimes sounded, and she swore.

Who the hell can that be?

It was 6-B, who occupied the apartment immediately beneath hers.

Six-B was male, at least anatomically. He was in his middle twenties, stood about five feet seven, weighed no more than 120 pounds. He paid a great deal of attention to his appearance, and wore, she suspected, Chanel Number Five. His name was Jerome Nelson.

"I was going to bark," Jerome Nelson said, waving a bottle of Beefeater's gin and one of Johnnie Walker Black Label scotch at her. " It's your friendly neighborhood Saint Bernard on a mission of mercy."

Louise didn't want to see anyone, but it was impossible for her to cut Jerome Nelson off rudely. He wasn't much of a Saint Bernard, Louise thought, but had puppylike eyes, and you don't kick puppies.

"Hello, Jerome," she said. "Come on in."

"Gin or scotch?" he asked.

"I would like a stiff scotch," she said. "Thank you very much. Straight up."

"You don't have to tell me, of course," he called over his shoulder as he made for her bar. "And I wouldn't think of prying. I will just expire right here on your carpet of terminal curiosity."

She had to smile.

"I gather you saw the cops bringing me home?" she asked. "Let me finish getting this crap off my face."

He came into the bathroom as she was cleaning off what she thought was the last of the makeup, and leaned on the doorjamb.

"You missed some on your ear," he said, delicately setting two glasses down. "Jerome will fix it."

He dipped a Kleenex in cold cream and wiped at her ear.

"There!" he said. "Now tell Mother everything!" She smiled her thanks at him and picked up her drink and took a good swallow.

"Whatever it was, it was better than the alternative,"

Jerome said. "What?" "The cops come and haul you off, rather than vice versa," he said.

"I was a witness to a shooting," Louise said. "A policeman tried to stop a holdup, and was shot. And killed."

"Howawful for you!" Jerome Nelson said.

"Worse for him," Louise said. "And for his wife and kids."

"You sound as if you knew him?"

"Yes," Louise said, "I knew him."

She took another swallow of her drink, and felt the warmth in her belly.

He waited for her to go on.

Fuck him!

She pushed past him and went into the living room, and leaned on the wall beside a window looking toward the river.

He floated into the room.

"Actually, I was going to come calling anyway," he said.

"Anyway?" she asked, not particularly pleasantly.

"To tell you that I have discovered we have something in common," he said.

What, that we both like men?she thought, and was ashamed of herself.

"Actually," Jerome said. "I'm just a teensy-bit ashamed of myself."

"Oh?" She wished he-would go away.

"It will probably come as a surprise to you, but I am what could be called the neighborhood busybody," Jerome said.

The reason I can't get, or at least, stay, mad at him is because he's always putting himself down; he arouses the maternal instinct in me.

"Really?" Louise said, mockingly.

"I'm afraid so," he said. "And I really thought I was onto something with you, when you moved in, I mean."

"Why was that, Jerome?"

"Because I know this apartment is leased to Wells Newspapers, Inc.," he said. "And because you are really a beautiful woman."

I've had enough of this guy.

"Get to the point," Louise said, coldly.

"So I went to Daddy, and I said, 'Daddy, guess what? Stanford F. Wells has an absolutely gorgeous blonde stashed in 6-A.' "

"What the hell is this all about, Jerome?" Louise demanded, angrily.

"And Daddy asked me to describe you, and I did, and he told me," Jerome said.

"Told you what?"

"What we have in common," Jerome said.

"Which is?"

"That both our daddies own newspapers, and television stations, and are legends in their own times, et cetera et cetera," Jerome said. "My daddy, in case I didn't get to that, is Arthur J. Nelson, as in Daye hyphen Nelson."

She looked at him, but said nothing.

"The difference, of course, is that your daddy is very proud of you, and mine is just the opposite," Jerome said.

"Why do you say that?"

"Why do you think?My daddy knows the odds are rather long against his becoming a grandfather."

"Oh, Christ, Jerome," Louise said.

"I haven't, and won't, of course, say a word to anyone," Jerome said. "But I thought it might give us a basis to be friends. But I can tell by the look on your face that you are not pleased, and I have offended, so now I will take my tent and steal away, with appropriate apologies."

"I wish you wouldn't," Louise heard herself say.

"Pissed off I can take," Jerome said. "Pity is something else."

"I knew the cop who got shot," Louise blurted. "More than just knew him."