A silence. "How did you know that?"

"Because another of Billy's friends has gotten them. Describe the calls."

"There's nothing to describe. Someone calls, and then listens, and then hangs up. There have been eight or ten."

"At your office, or just at home?"

"Just at the house. But I'm out of there now."

"Were you home during the break-in attempt? What happened?"

"I'd been asleep for about an hour," she said, "when the burglar alarm went off. I thought I heard a banging or thumping noise out behind the house, and I called the police right away. I was just scared to death, and I locked my bedroom door until the police came, in about five or ten minutes. They looked outside and found that our stepladder had been taken off the back porch and propped up under the kitchen window. The policemen helped me put the ladder away and said I was safe with the burglar alarm working and to keep everything locked up and not to worry. It frightened me, though; I could hardly sleep at all last night, and I'm not going back there until Chris is home."

"Good. Stay with your friend until I've been in touch again, okay? You could be in danger if you're anywhere near that house, so will you stay away from the house until you've checked with me?"

"Yes, but—who's doing this?"

"I don't know. I think I know, but I'm not sure. When I know for sure, I'll tell you. And I'll let you know about Sunday."

"You can reach me at the office on Friday."

"I'll do that."

It was the goddamn phone book. Bowman should have

confiscated it. I should have taken it from Blount's apartment before some lunatic with a lethal contempt for Billy Blount's friends had gotten hold of it and used the listings-by-number directory to locate Chris, Mark, Huey, and—Zimka? He hadn't been bothered. I guessed I knew why.

I reached Huey Brownlee at his work number. "Huey, Don Strachey. Would you mind moving into my apartment for a couple of days?"

"Heh, heh."

"No, I won't be there. Sorry to say. It's all those phone calls you were getting—have you gotten any more?"

"Yeah, three last night. I was gonna call you. Fuckin' motherfucker. I'm just waitin' for him to show up, Donald."

"Huey, if you don't get out of there, you could be in for some trouble from a very dangerous screwball, the man who killed Steve Kleckner. Will you do it?"

"Say, you ain't shittin' me, Don?"

"I am not," I said, and he reluctantly agreed to move over to Morton Avenue. I gave him the address, told him where to find the key, and said I'd see him on the weekend.

I phoned Mark Deslonde at Sears. "Mark—Don Strachey, I have a funny question that isn't really funny. Have you gotten any weird phone calls in the last few days?"

"No, have you?"

"You haven't?"

"No, but I haven't been home. I moved in with Phil— Saturday night."

Another peripatetic gay male. The killer must have been having one hell of a time locating a victim at home in his own bed. I said, "Oh. It's that serious with you and Phil?"

"Yep."

"Well—I approve. Entirely."

"Entirely?"

I said, "Well, you know. But yes."

He said, "I know."

"Are you going to Trucky's tonight? I'll see you."

"We'll be there."

We'll. "Great. Us too. Look, do something for me. Whatever happens with you and Phil—and I do wish you all the best— whatever happens—I mean even if one of you has an attack of

second thoughts or whatever—do not move back into your apartment until you check with me. Will you do that?"

"Sure. I guess so. But why?"

"It has to do with the Kleckner killing. There's nothing to worry about if you just stay away from the apartment with your phone in it. Look, I'll explain it all in a few days. Will you just do what I say?"

Deslonde told me he would do what I said, although, as it happened, he did not.

I made coffee on my hot plate. I thought about going out for cigarettes. I went back to my desk. I looked up Frank Zimka's number and stared at it. I thought about calling him, but I concluded that I'd probably be tipping him off, so I didn't call. Instead I slit open the envelope Zimka had given me for Billy Blount.

The letter was handwritten on old, yellowing, three-ring notebook paper.

My Dear loving friend Billy,

I don't know where to get in touch with you, but the guy who is giving you this letter said he would give it to you. I miss you so much. Even though our relationship is quite strange, it has meant so much to me, as I told you many times. Is it an impossible dream that we will be together again one day? I don't think that is too much to hope for in this life, though sometimes I think it is, and I don't know what is going to happen to me. I guess I'm just a real crazy fuck-up. When I think about our relationship, I get depressed, but I am willing to continue it if the opportunity presents itself. I hope you are happy and healthy, and whatever befalls, remember that someone loves you. It makes me joyous just to be able to write that

With all my LOVE,

Frank

(Eddie, ha ha)

Eddie again. The name in the record shop and the name in the Blounts' letter to Billy. Zimka was Eddie? I had to talk to the Blounts, both senior and junior.

I phoned Timmy at his office.

It looks as if I am going to Denver tomorrow. I'll know for sure by the end of the day."

"Did your friend in L.A. call back?"

"Not yet. But he'll come through. Harvey is relentless."

"Have you ever been to Denver? You'll go for it."

"I spent twenty years in Salt Lake City one summer, but that's the extent of my acquaintanceship with the mountain states."

"Denver's a nice town. And it's not called the Queen City of the Rockies for no good reason."

"A mile-high San Francisco."

"Hardly that, but still—nice. Lots of opportunities for immorality."

"In your ear."

"I hope you've spent a moral morning. If so, you're on your way. Did you know that after twelve years your soul heals, like your lungs after you've quit smoking?"

"What about immoral thoughts? Do they count? I had one awhile ago."

"Hey, now you've got the idea! Yes, they count. But not as much as deeds."

I said, "By the way, Mark and Phil are now living together. I called Mark to find out if he'd been getting funny phone calls like Huey Brownlee's. Margarita Mayes has been getting them too, and somebody tried to break into her and Chris's house last night. I suggested they stay away from their apartments for a few days, and that's when Mark told me. I'm worried."

"They're a good pair—it should work. Is it Zimka you're worried about?"

"I think so, yes. The only thing I'm sure of is they're all connected in some messy, volatile way—Kleckner, Blount, Zimka, Truckman, Chris Porterfield, Stuart Blount, Jane Blount—the lot. And then there's this Eddie—the wild card." I told him about the two letters, from the Blounts to their son, and from Zimka to Blount. "I'm seeing the Blounts at one. Maybe they'll clear things up, out of character as that might be for them." Then I told him what I had decided to do that night.

"Do you want me to go with you? And bring the Leica?"

"Yeah. I do. Wear your track shoes."

"Am I gay, or am I gay?"

Soon after I hung up, the mail arrived. There was a thank-you note on a little engraved card from "Mrs. Hugh Bigelow." A lapsed feminist. That was depressing, but I guessed everybody found a way. Also among the bills and clutter was an envelope with a check for two thousand dollars from Stuart Blount. I signed it over to the Rat's Nest Legal Defense Fund and stuck it in my wallet along with Mike Truckman's check.