Back at the bar I said, "When I was twenty-five, one of the things I wanted most in life was to go to bed with Paul McCartney, who was around twenty-one. Now I'm forty, and one of the things I want most in life is to go to bed with Michael Jackson, who's around twenty-one. What does this mean?"

Timmy said, "There won't always be youth, but there will always be youths."

We drank our beer. The DJ was playing Peter Brown's "Crank It Up."

"Hi there, big guy, you come here often?" A deep voice from behind me. Apprehensive, I turned. Phil Jerrold was laughing silently. Mark Deslonde was with him.

"Thanks," Deslonde said, doing his smile-and-tilted-head thing. "He was where you said he'd be last night."

I said, "Donald Strachey—Private Investigations—Discreet Introductions."

"Actually, we'd met," Phil said, smiling a little goofily.

Timmy said, "Maybe you'll run into each other again sometime. And each of you certainly hopes so."

They both grinned, Phil with his squint, Deslonde with his whiskers and angles. Timmy was right; they were looking very couple-y.

Timmy, in the two-and-a-half years I'd known him, had threatened at least once a month to compose a song that started: "I fell in love—in Washington Park/With a man who'd remarked on the weather," but he'd never gotten around to finishing it. I knew the moment was once again upon us.

Timmy said, "I'm going to write a song someday that starts..."

I sang along, and Phil, who'd heard it too, joined in.

"The trouble is," Timmy said then, "nothing apt rhymes with weather."

Phil said, "Feather."

I suggested, "Tether."

Deslonde said, "How about 'sweatshirt?"

We looked at him. We all laughed together, except for Deslonde, who looked embarrassed and said, "I majored in business."

Later, as we were about to leave, Deslonde asked me whether I'd made any progress in locating Billy Blount. Phil and Timmy went back to the dance floor for one last spasm, and Deslonde and I stepped out into the cool quiet under Trucky's portico.

I said, "No, but I've got a couple of ideas. Do you know about a woman in Billy's life? Someone he might be fairly close to?"

"He never mentioned any," Deslonde said. "If there is one, it'd probably be platonic. Billy told me he knew he was gay when he was sixteen, and that he's never had any sexual interest in women at all. He said a shrink his parents once sent

him to kept talking about his 'confused sexual identity,' but Billy said it was the shrink who was confused, that the guy couldn't understand plain English."

"Our mental-health establishment at work," I said. "Mob rule under the guise of science."

"I went to a sane one once. He was okay. Pretty cool, in fact, and smart. Where did you hear about the woman?" "From Huey what's-his-name. He's seen them together." "What about Frank Zimka? Did he know anything? Creepy, isn't he?"

"Frank has his problems. But, yes, he was helpful." "He must have talked to Billy not long before it happened. He was out here that night."

"Here? Zimka was out here the night of the murder?" "I saw him in the parking lot around one when Phil and I were leaving—that was the night Phil and I met." The head thing again. I loved it. "Zimka was sitting in the car parked beside mine," Deslonde said, "with the window rolled up. I figured he had the air conditioner on; it was a hot night. I said 'Hi, Frank,' and he just stared at me like he was spaced out. Which he probably was—I think he frequently uses his own product. Although he did look quite a bit less wasted that night than he usually does. He didn't tell you he was out here?"

What Zimka had told me was, when Billy arrived at six a.m., Zimka was asleep and had had "a busy night." That was all.

I said, "He was vague about it." "Yeah, he would be." "Was he alone in the car?" "He was. Maybe he was waiting for someone." "Describe what you remember about the car." "Seventy-nine Olds Toronado. Gold finish, new white side-walls. I'm not sure whether it was a standard or diesel V8. I didn't look under the hood." "You know cars."

"Sears Automotive Center wouldn't have it any other way."

Timmy and Phil came out. Phil and Mark Deslonde soon

left, and I told Timmy I'd just be a minute. I approached Mike

Truckman, then changed my mind—I'd try to catch him sober

on Monday—and went to the bar. I asked each of the bartenders if he knew Frank Zimka, and when I described Zimka, each said he knew who Zimka was. I then asked whether anyone had seen Zimka with either Billy Blount or Steve Kleckner on the night of the murder, and each said no, he didn't think Zimka had even been in Trucky's that night.

At three-fifteen Timmy and I drove back to his place through a cool drizzle, made love with a furious intensity that was reminiscent of the night after the night we first met, and set the alarm for ten.

7

Out of the house, through the breezeway, into the garage where the rental van with the fickle transmission was parked, we hauled books—me, Timmy, Brigit, the new hubby, the four daughters. Hugh Bigelow was a big, friendly sheepdog of a man who had been a widower for a year and did something in an office for the State of New York. Timmy said he thought he'd seen Bigelow in the elevator of his building at the Mall. The daughters, aged three through eight, were chubby, round-eyed and earnest, and they worked with an unchildlike, methodical determination as they moved the residue of me out of their new home.

When we'd nearly finished, Brigit beckoned me into the kitchen and said, "Thank you for doing this." She'd had her hair cut short and looked like Delphine Seyrig in a blond wig.

"Ultimatums work with me," I said. "I can be successfully menaced."

"I wouldn't know about that," she snapped. "I never gave you an ultimatum."

Christ, she'd pulled me aside to pick a fight. Or had I done it?

I said, "I guess you're just too forebearing for your own good." I grinned and tried to sound lighthearted, jocular.

"It was because I'm kind. And naive."

"Could I have some of that coffee?"

She poured a cup. I sat at the Formica counter. She stood.

"Would you really have tossed the books out in the rain? It may freeze tonight. Booksickles."

She tried to keep from smiling. She succeeded. "How are you doing?" she said.

"Well. Quite well. I like my life."

"Good. I like mine. For a long time I didn't."

I slurped at the coffee, trying to keep it from burning my lips. "He seems like a nice guy," I said. "Hugh."

"He is. You'd like him." She poured herself some coffee. "He's sweet, and funny."

"He's a bureaucrat, right?"

"Hugh's an inspector for the Public Service Commission." She eased onto the stool across from me. "Hugh really enjoys his work and he thinks its terribly important. Which it is, of course. Hugh doesn't become excessively wrapped up in bis job, though. He's extremely easygoing."

"He seems to be. You must be devoted to him—he doesn't exactly come unencumbered."

"Oh, I love the girls. Well, most of the time." Now she smiled a bit. "It's a big adjustment to make. But I'm doing it."

"Will you keep teaching?"