Keith, tilting back his chair, then said, "What was it, a hoax? And he had to kill himself?"

"We left it up in the air. It's tough to make movies based on true stories. You have to pamper reality."

Meg laughed at this.

Keith suddenly squinted at Pellam. "You seem real familiar."

Pellam said, "Really?"

"Were you ever famous?"

Meg said, "Keith-"

Pellam said seriously, "In my mother's eyes."

Meg laughed. Keith shook his head. "It'll come to me." He squinted again in recognition but apparently the thought vanished; he began talking about his company, new product lines. Stories only a businessman would love. Pellam nodded and ground his teeth together to squash the yawns. He was pleased that Keith wasn't a movie hound and hadn't asked for one iota of Hollywood gossip. On the other hand he was a major bore. Pellam hardly listened to a word he said-until he realized Keith was talking about someone dubbed Miss Woodstock, who knew the astrological sign, as well as a few other intimate facts, of every single man in town. Meg leaned forward and with a coy smile caught Pellam's eye. He knew what she was up to and kept his eyes on Keith until she disappeared into the kitchen of dishes.

The womenfolk gone it was time to talk about serious stuff. Keith lowered his head and asked, "Have you talked to the insurance agent? About the accident?"

"Not yet. Meg gave me his name. The doctor said he'd have a bill ready for me in a couple days. He was waiting for the X-ray lab's bill."

"If you have any problems, you come to me, okay?"

"Appreciate it."

"How long you think you'll be in town?"

"Don't really know. I-"

Meg returned. "Coffee's almost ready." She sat down.

"So tell us, you married?" Meg asked.

He'd told her. In the clinic. Maybe the question was for Keith's benefit, to show that she hadn't known. It meant a bit of intimacy existed between them. Pellam's eyes swept over her dress. The pin on above her breast. She looked a lot younger today. The makeup was better. Maybe she had to wear realtor camouflage when she was selling houses.

He realized he was staring at her and still hadn't answered the question.

"Nope," he said. "Was divorced a few years ago."

"That's right. You'd mentioned that."

Oh. A bad memory. That's all.

"There's a girl I've been dating off and on. Nothing too serious. Her name's Trudie." (Damn! He'd forgotten to call. He would tomorrow. Definitely.)

A timer bonged in the kitchen. As Meg rose Pellam glanced at the pin on her dress again. Thought of Janine's pin. And her breasts. She'd had a moon. Meg was wearing a sun.

"Dessert," Meg said, walking back in from the kitchen with a tray.

Keith said, "Meg's a whiz with desserts."

She set the tray down.

"Brownies," Pellam said.

"You like brownies?" she asked.

"Can't get enough."

The beige car pulled off the highway and into an asphalt parking lot, which was slowly turning into black gravel.

Sleepy Hollow Motor Lodge.

"Here we be," Billy said.

The twins got out of the car and Bobby snagged a big bag from the backseat. "Heinekens," he said, proud he'd bought imports in Gennie Ale country.

They inhaled deeply and Bobby said, "Fall. I love it."

Billy looked at his watch. "Late."

Bobby walked past him and opened the door. Inside was an ugly square room, too hot, too brightly lit.

Billy followed him in.

"Toasty," Billy said. He opened a window.

"Fucking hot. Heh."

Neither of them really liked the hotel that much. Cheap, plastic, tacky. It reminded them of Brooklyn, where they'd been born, or Yonkers, where they'd lived until their junior years in high school, when their father had been laid off from the Stella D'Oro bakery and had moved the family up to Dutchess County. He'd bought what he said was an antiques business, but which turned out to be-to the young twins' delight-a junkyard.

They'd finished high school. Bobby, just barely, though he was captain of the rifle team. Billy, with a B average. When their father died they inherited the family's lime-green split-level and the junkyard, which they renamed after themselves, Robert and William. They'd promised each other that they'd only marry another set of twins-which didn't make room for a lot of matrimonial material in Dutchess County-so their social life was pretty limited.

They had a few other business dealings that took them to New York every couple of weeks and they were always glad to hightail it back to their house, which happened to be in the first tract of land that Wex Ambler had ever developed in Cleary. It was a nice house. Big and filled with the things they loved-dark still life paintings of dead birds and rabbits, prints of leaping fish, carved wooden statues of horses and bears, a Franklin Mint model car collection. The twin leather recliners, Sears Best, were aimed right at a huge stereo TV. Within arm's reach of Billy's chair was a Better microwave, which was perfect for heating nachos and chili during Jeopardy or The Tonight Show.

A perfect home for two boys on their own.

Exactly what this dingy hotel was not.

Billy expressed this sentiment, as he stepped on a silverfish in the bathroom.

His brother shrugged. "We don't have much choice. Can't do this at home."

"Don't mean I have to like it here."

Bobby shrugged in reluctant agreement. Then sat down on the bed and opened two beers. The twins drained them. Billy turned the TV on, grumbling that the remote was broken.

In five minutes there was a knock on the door.

Billy opened it. Ned, the boy from the pancake breakfast, stood there, in jeans, a T-shirt and a varsity football jacket.

"Ned, hey, how you doing? Come on in."

"Hey, guys, what's up?"

"Nothing yet," Bobby laughed, beating Billy to the punch by a millisecond.

Ned frowned, not getting what seemed to be a joke. "Kinda hot in here," he said.

"Yeah, a little. Funny weather."

"Hey, totally fine place here. Totally." Ned looked around.

The twins exchanged wry glances as Ned studied the brown and orange shag, the laminated brown furniture, the prints of flowers bolted to the wall. Looked like he was examining the grand ballroom of a Fifth Avenue hotel.

They cracked open more beers and turned on a rerun of the Bill Cosby show.

Bobby said, "He's stupid in this one. Cosby, I mean. He just mugs for the camera and counts his money. I liked him better in I Spy. That was some real acting."

"I never saw it," the boy said.

"On before your time. These two CIA guys. White guy, he was Robert Cummings-"

"Gulp," Billy corrected.

"Robert Gulp. Right. And Bill Cosby. Man, it was a good program. They knew some real shit karate."

"Course, this show's got Lisa Bonet," Bobby pointed out.

Billy called, "Hey, Ned, would you get a hard-on kissing Lisa Bonet?"

"I get a hard-on looking at Lisa Bonet."

"Hot as hell in here," Billy said. He took off his shirt and wiped sweat from his face with it. Underneath he wore a sleeveless T-shirt. "Hey, Ned, you're one strong dude. See if you can turn the heat down."

The boy pulled off his red and white jacket and dropped it on the bed. He wrestled with the radiator knob for five minutes until he was crimson-faced from the effort.

"Damn, it's frozen."

"Aw, forget it," Bobby said. "We'll just sweat." He unbuttoned his shirt to his navel-no tee underneath-and flapped it to cool himself. The twins dropped into the room's two chairs. Ned started to sit on the floor but Billy said, "Naw, take the place of honor." He nodded at the bed and Ned flopped onto the spongy mattress. Bobby handed him another beer. They watched TV for a half hour.