"Or even if he had."

"Yeah. There's that."

"He didn't tell Zimka anything about how it happened?"

"Not much. Either that, or Zimka is holding something back—-or even making the whole story up. This is possible; Zimka's brain couldn't have survived its owner's life unscathed. Zimka may lie as naturally as he blinks. Anyway, for what it's worth, Blount was there, Zimka said, but he didn't actually see the stabbing or the person who did it."

"He was in the bathroom. Had to piss."

"How long does that take?"

"Or brush his teeth."

"When you used to trick, did you carry a toothbrush?"

"That was too long ago. I don't remember. How about you?" He looked up at me from his plate and then down again.

"And another thing is, I can't figure out Blount's connection with Zimka. His other friends, so far, are nice wholesome folks. Like Deslonde, for instance."

"Right," Timmy said. "Like Mark."

"I liked Huey and Mark and saw what Blount saw in them. Zimka, on the other hand, is badly screwed up—not entirely lacking in the decenter instincts, but he's a slave to some unholy habits, and when he's down off his pills, his outlook on human life is decidedly gloomy. Why did Blount hang around a guy like that? There's a side to Billy Blount I don't understand yet."

"Money. You said the guy had ready cash. Blount used him."

"For what? Blount had no expensive habits. None that I know of." I looked at my empty plate.

"Coffee?"

"Yeah, I guess. And the knife attack on Huey what's-his-name last night. It probably doesn't have anything to do with Blount or the Kleckner killing, but still—have you ever heard of a white burglar operating in Arbor Hill?"

"That might be a first."

"Mm. It might."

"So. What's next?"

"There's a guy by the name of Chris I have to check out. And there's a woman Blount evidently was close to. Huey saw them together once."

"Ahh, a mystery woman. In an evening gown and black cape? Maybe it was Megan Marshak."

"In a VW bug. That's all I know about her. This one might slip through my ordinarily ubiquitous dragnet."

"Oh, I doubt that. You know, you're going to an awful lot of trouble to find Billy Blount, when the fact is, everybody who

knows him well is convinced he's not a killer. If Blount didn't do it, shouldn't you be giving some thought to who did?"

"I'm doing that."

"Ideas?"

"None worth mentioning. Not yet."

Timmy got up and started clearing the table. "What are we doing tonight? Working or playing?"

"Let's make the regular stops and see what turns up."

When we left the Terminal at nine forty-five, a light rain was falling. I went back in and called U-Haul on the pay phone and reserved a van for eleven-thirty the next morning. Then I called Brigit and told her to expect us around eleven fifty-nine.

We made our way up Central, paying the usual Saturday-night calls, and drove out to Trucky's just after midnight.

It was another good crowd. A sign by the door said five percent of the take that night was being donated to the Albany-Schenectady-Troy Gay Alliance, and a good number of the local gay pols and organizers were on hand, self-consciously clutching their draughts and trying to blend in with the looser, more blase types who were always readier to roll with whatever life shoved at them.

When we went in, Bonnie Pointer's "Heaven Must Have Sent You" was on, and whenever she growled "Sex-x-xyyy," the younger, less inhibited dancers yelped and shouted. I wondered what Norman Podhoretz would have made of it.

Truckman himself was at the door, tipsy and unkempt in green work pants and an old gray sweat shirt. He pulled me aside and asked me if I'd found Blount. I said not yet, that it might take awhile.

"Well, you keep at it," Truckman said, looking grim and nervous, "because the goddamn cops aren't going to do a thing."

"You mean because the victim was gay?"

"You've been around, Don. You know."

"Times have changed a little—"

"What?" He leaned closer in order to hear. The DJ segued from Bonnie Pointer into Nightlife Unlimited's "Disco Choo-choo."

"I said times are changing—partly because of guys like you, Mike. And anyway, as far as anyone knows, this is the first gay murder in Albany. Its novelty must have piqued a certain amount of curiosity among our jaded constabulary."

"Have you been in touch with the cops?" He leaned even closer to hear my answer to this, and I could smell the bourbon on his breath.

"Monday—I'll be seeing Sergeant Bowman on Monday. Do you know him? He's the one in charge."

"No." He shook his head. "Not that one."

"The thing is," I said, "even when I find Blount—I'm not so sure he's the one who did it."

Timmy came from the bar, handed me a draught, and stood listening.

Truckman glared at me, swayed boozily, and said, "Oh, he did it, the little asshole! And you just better catch up with the little sonovabitch before he does it again. The cops aren't gonna do it. You can't trust the fucking cops."

I nodded. "Yeah. I suppose you're right."

Truckman looked at me a moment longer. Behind the cold gray of his eyes there was anger, and hurt and, I thought, a kind of pleading. Then, abruptly, he turned and went back to the door to resume his lookout for minors, riffraff, and straight couples from Delmar in search of wickedness.

We started for the dance floor.

Timmy said, "I think you're right. Mike knows more about this than he's telling."

"He acts that way. Though guilty appearances are often deceiving. I do know he's been less than forthcoming on the subject of his relationship with Steve Kleckner."

"Should I say it?"

"Yes."

"I hate to."

"Say it."

"Where was Mike that night?"

"Here."

"Till when?"

"Four, at least."

"And what time did the—thing happen?"

The killing. It was a killing. It happened around five-thirty."

"You could look into that."

"I could."

We passed some people we knew from the Gay Alliance and stopped to talk—shout. Taka Boom's "Night Dancin'" came on. The guys from the alliance told us some friends of theirs had arrived at Trucky's from the Rat's Nest and reported that it had just been raided again by the Bergenfield police. This time it was violations of the building code. Jim Nordstrum, the owner, had lost his temper and started screaming about the US Constitution. It hadn't helped. They'd gotten him for disturbing the peace. The alliance was considering joining Nordstrum in a court case—though with a certain reluctance owing to the bad press the alliance would get by affiliating itself with an establishment of the Rat's Nest's rather too special ambiance.

Timmy, a sometime Catholic who was pretty consistently repelled by the darker side of gay life—just being homosexual was decadent enough for his Irish sensibilities—nevertheless volunteered to help set up a legal defense fund if the alliance chose to go ahead. The pols said the organization was divided over the matter but would decide soon. Timmy said he'd stay in touch.

We made it back to the dance floor and danced for eight or ten songs, then decided to break after Michael Jackson's "Don't Stop Till You Get Enough." For the moment we'd had enough.