"I guessed. Blount's difficult, painful secret. I knew he'd

been locked up and hated it, but where? He'd told Huey Green—Brownlee—that it hadn't been jail or reform school. Which wouldn't have been the Blount family's style, anyway. A little nuttiness, though, would not have been out of character among the Blounts. And Margarita didn't deny it. She seemed to confirm it."

"Or maybe he'd been locked in a room a lot as a kid or something. That would have left scars."

"No. I've hit on something else. For what it's worth."

"Is all this necessary? All this probing around in Blount's psyche and his past? It seems like there should be an easier way. It's not pleasant."

"I don't know. I'm finding out what I can. Then I'll see where it points. A murder charge is not pleasant. Nor a murder."

We turned onto Madison. Timmy said, "Maybe it points to Mexico."

"Unlikely. He could get into the country easily enough with just a voter's card or some other proof of citizenship. But there'd be a record of his entry, and I think he'd have thought of that. My guess is, he's in this country. Wherever."

"If Blount was in a mental institution, I wonder what particular variety of mental problem he had?"

"I was wondering that, too."

"Margarita was showing the strain of it all. I felt bad for her. And the crazy phone calls can't be making it easier."

"Yeah, everybody seems to be getting them these days. Somebody called Blount's apartment while I was there Friday evening and hung up after a few seconds, and Huey Brownlee got two of the same kind of calls several hours before somebody came through his window with a knife early Saturday morning."

"So—it's the full moon. Or something."

"Yeah. Or something."

8

ON MONDAY MORNING I WENT TO THE OFFICE AND CHECKED MY

service—no calls—and my mail—no check from my "check is in the mail" former client. I made an appointment to meet the Blounts at one, then phoned Margarita Mayes to find out if she'd had a safe, uneventful night. Irritated, she told me she had, and that Chris would be in touch. I explained that patience was not one of my two or three virtues, rung off, then drove down to police headquarters on Arch Street in the Old South End.

Division Two headquarters looked like an Edward Hopper painting of an American police station in the twenties, plain and solemn in the sunlight, with tall windows set in a heavy brick facade and a sign hanging out over the street corner that said POLICE. It sat back to back with and was connected to the newer Albany Police Court building on lower Morton, presumably to facilitate the speedy dispensation of justice or its South End equivalent.

I was directed to a second-floor office, where I found Detective Sergeant Ned Bowman typing out forms on an old Smith-Corona. He had on a black sport coat and brown slacks, and his face, which had the usual human features placed here and there on it, was roughly the color of the institutional green walls around him.

Bowman lost no time in showing me his winning personality. "Yeah, I've heard of you," he said after I'd introduced myself. "You're the pouf."

"What ever happened to 'pervert'?" I said. "I always liked that one better. It had a nice lubricious ring to it. 'Faggot,' too, I was comfortable with. The word had a defiant edge that I liked. 'Fairy' wasn't bad—it made us seem weak, which was misleading, but also a bit magical, which was wrong, too, but still okay. 'Pouf,' on the other hand, I never went for. It made us sound as if we were about to disappear. Which we aren't."

"Don't count on it," he said. "What do you want?"

"Billy Blount."

"So do I. He killed a man."

"Maybe not. There are other possibilities."

"Sit down."

I did.

"Who hired you? Who thinks I'm not capable of delivering Blount?"

"His parents. They thought I'd have access to places and people you wouldn't."

"They would be wrong. I know quite a few of your people."

"Hustlers, drag queens, and bar owners. Your gay horizons are limited."

"You mean there are more of you? I'll be goddamned."

"Don't you read banners? We are everywhere."

"Not here. Not yet."

"Don't count on it."

He leaned back in his swivel chair and peered at me. "So. You've got Blount waiting outside in a taxi. Found him under your bed. Or in it."

"He's not in Albany. I'm reasonably certain."

"And where would you be reasonably certain he is?"

"I don't know yet. I want to deal."

"I won't need that. But talk to me."

I said, "I'll bring him in, and then you and the DA go easy on him until I locate the guilty party. Just don't rush it."

The lumps and openings on his face rearranged themselves randomly. A feeble smile. "There seems to be this opinion rampant in certain quarters that Billy Blount is nothing worse than a wayward lad who could stand a good talking to. Get sent to his room with no supper."

"The DA?"

"My own opinion is that he's a fucking screwball who stabbed a man to death. I've got evidence, and it's going to court. If, after he's found guilty, somebody wants to toodle Blount on out to Attica in a limousine with a full bar, I won't object. Just so the little creep gets locked away from society for the rest of his natural life. That's my opinion. That's my intention."

"Your evidence is circumstantial. Why do you call him a screwball?"

"He's taken a human life. Even the life of a queer has worth in God's eyes. See? I'm a liberal."

"I hope you'll come and speak at the next Gay Alliance meeting. You can increase the number of your already-countless gay friends. What evidence have you got that Jay Tarbell won't have a jury guffawing over? Blount was seen leaving Trucky's with Kleckner a few hours before it happened. That's it. Anything could have happened in that time."

"We've got this." He opened a drawer and held up a reel of tape. '"He's dead—I think Steve is dead.' It's Blount's voice."

"Who identified it?"

"The Blounts, Mister and missus."

"Swell, good for them. So many people don't want to get involved these days."

"And when we have Blount, we'll get a voice print and nail it down."

"The newspapers say you have the weapon. Were there prints?"

"There were."

"Blount's?"

He frowned, looked at his reel of tape.

"Ah. So. Whose were they?"

"We don't know." He put the tape back in the drawer, slammed it shut. "They're not on record."

"Diabolical devil, that Blount. He wore somebody else's hands that night."

"What the fuck. He held the knife in a towel, in a handkerchief. Who knows."

"That sounds awkward. Maybe he brought his mittens along."

"Screw you, faggot. Whoops—pardon if I got you hot."

Oi. "And the doorknob. When you got your picture in the paper, you were pointing at Kleckner's doorknob. A meaningless photogenic gesture, right?"

He laughed.

"You've got no case," I said. "And sooner or later you're going to have to admit it. Better now than when Jay Tarbell goes to work on you in Judge Feeney's courtroom. Also, there's the matter of another psycho out there who could kill again. Why wait?"

He sat for a moment looking thoughtful and a little bewildered. Then: "Tarbell won't be a problem. Not much, anyway. He's already been talking to the DA about a deal. That's not Jay's style, and I don't get it. Though if Jay assumes his client's guilty, who am I to argue?"