Way up on the slumbering blackness of Cotter's Ridge, an owl hooted. It wasn't a monk, but it was the best Maggody could do on short notice.

"Jesus!" Marvel said as he kicked the side of the station wagon. "What kinda cars are they makin' in Detroit these days? No wonder the Japanese are running us off the road. Jesus!"

He took a knapsack and a carton of milk from the car, kicked it once more, and took off down the road, asking himself why he even bothered to steal American cars. There wasn't anything patriotic about having to walk on his own two feet like an army recruit.

He drained the milk, crumpled the carton, and hurled it at a squirrel at the base of a tree. "Have yourself a feast of cardboard, my fuzzy little man."

The squirrel, having chanced into a scattering of cracker crumbs, failed to acknowledge the missile as it sailed over him and landed in a mass of poison ivy.

Marvel continued to hike along the rocky road, determined to have a fine time and not to think about what his mama would do when he got home. He still couldn't believe that Dwayne and Terence had fingered him for the holdup at the liquor store-and that not one of the lily-white, myopic librarians could back up his story. All he'd gotten in return for three hours of reading up on dead presidents was a warrant for his arrest-and a sudden desire to visit Monticello. Maybe Tommy Jefferson might have some suggestions how to go about keeping his life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness.

"Could we get back to the story?" I said, amazed that I could speak so clearly through clenched teeth. "What happened last night?"

Ruby Bee lay on the bed, fanning herself with a church bulletin from her handbag. I almost felt sorry for her. Her dress was stained and wrinkled, and her hose looked as though she'd staggered through brambles. Her face was pale, her hair chaotic, her eyes pink and vague. "It was terrible, just terrible," she said wearily. "The only thing that might help is a cold can of soda from that machine by the elevator."

Estelle sat down on the edge of the bed and patted Ruby Bee's arm. "Arly's on her way lickety-split to fetch you one. You just lie still and rest. Nobody's gonna pester you to talk when anyone with an ounce of decency can see you're smack out of spit."

As I said, almost sorry for her. I grabbed some change from the dresser and marched down the hall to buy the damn soda. Okay, so she was entitled to play the martyr, but so was I and nobody appreciated it. The airline ticket had cost me all of my savings and most of next month's salary-if I got it. I'd stuffed clothes in a carry-on and driven like a charioteer to the airport to catch a plane with ten seconds to spare. I'd endured a cramped commuter flight, only to race to the opposite end of the terminal to catch a larger plane and be smothered for nearly three hours by Toledo Ted. I was in the middle of the one place I didn't want to be, and there was no way to ignore its omnipresence outside the hotel.

I jammed coins into the slot, pushed a button, and bent down to get the damn can out of the tray. No damn can rolled into reach. I banged the plastic facade, which in no way resembled my exhusband's face. "You sorry son of a bitch," I growled, pulling back my foot to kick it like it'd never been kicked before.

"I wouldn't do that," said a morose voice from behind me.

I looked over my shoulder at the man in the doorway. Despite his shabby bathrobe and bare, hairy ankles above slippers, he was intriguing enough to stop me from breaking a toe or two. The bathrobe hung oddly, and after a moment, I realized it was draped over a sling supporting his arm.

"Are you Durmond Pilverman? " I asked.

He nodded, smiling just a bit. "I'm sorry to say I am. Were I an employee of this hotel, I would take it upon myself to kick that machine for you. However, I am merely a guest, and all I can do is suggest you try the machine in the lounge below. The light was flashing, which may indicate it works." He sighed. "But very little works in this city."

"I'm Arly Hanks, daughter of your…assailant," I murmured, confused by his gallant little speech, and less than pleased to be caught in the act of attacking a mindless machine. I was even less pleased that I was doing so in a grimy outfit that had looked much better seven hours and two thousand miles ago. "I'm…uh, glad you're okay, Mr. Pilverman. I still have no idea what's going on, but it's encouraging to know Ruby Bee didn't…"

"Please, call me Durmond. A silly name, I know, but my mother had a brother with such a name who was killed in a car wreck, and she was a very determined woman. I should have half her determination."

I liked his chuckle, his quirky smile, his eyes that were as placid as pond water. Hell, I even liked his hairy ankles. "I guess I'll go down to the lobby and try the machine," I said. "Can I bring you one?"

"If you were to do that, I might spend the time searching for a functional ice machine. When you returned, I might invite you in for a drink and offer some enlightenment as to what took place last night."

"I might accept," I said, reminding myself he was my mother's victim, not a potential date.

The machine in the lobby functioned nicely. Cradling four cold cans in my arm, I returned to the second floor and went down the corridor to 219. As I lifted my hand to knock, I heard Ruby Bee say, "I'm not altogether certain, but there's something downright fishy about him." She lowered her voice to a level inaudible to eavesdroppers and continued.

Estelle gasped. "Are you saying he's a-"

The final word was drowned out by a sudden spurt of hammering from the floor above me. At least I hoped it was hammering, since it very well could have been a local version of Particular Buchanon engaged in a bit of de-Nazification. I waited for a moment, but the racket did not abate and I was beginning to imagine what it might feel like if the ceiling crashed down on my head.

I knocked on the door and yelled, "It's me!"

The door opened. A hand plucked one of the soda cans from my arm. The door closed and the lock clicked sternly.

"You're goddamn welcome!" I went back to Durmond's room and knocked once again. My reception was a good deal more cordial in 202, I must say. Durmond thanked me gravely, gestured to glasses, an ice bucket, and a bottle of bourbon on the desk, and shortly thereafter we were knee-to-knee on the twin beds.

"Would you please tell me what's going on?" I said, trying not to stare at the visible sliver of the sling, nor to be overly aware of his knee brushing against mine. As distasteful as it was to admit, Estelle had been right about Durmond Pilverman, although I'd read bedtime stories to Raz's pedigreed sow before I ever told her as much. "Ruby Bee's back, but she has yet to find a moment to tell me why she shot you."

"She didn't shoot me. She did fire a shot through the door, but I doubt the police will do anything about that."

"Who shot you-and why were you in Ruby Bee's…room?" I couldn't quite bring myself to mention the most interesting element of the story.

He studied me as he took a drink. "After dinner last night, I took a stroll around the block. When I returned, the elevator balked and I decided to use the stairs. It was a poor decision, I fear. It was very dark, and a punk was lurking in the stairwell. He requested my wallet, I declined, and he reiterated his request while waving a gun at me. I stupidly tried to knock it out of his hand, and it discharged, striking me in the upper arm and causing me to lose my balance and fall backward. At that point I lost consciousness. That's all I remember of the incident."