"She is that," I said.

"Who? Beg your pardon?"

"On the radio—Donna. Driving out here, I dialed around and picked her up on three stations. 'Dim All the Lights' once and 'No More Tears' twice. My own favorites, though, are 'Bad Girls,' 'Hot Stuff,' and 'Wasted.' Donna always cheers me up."

"She's okay, I guess, but she sure as heck isn't Patti Page." This was said with a straight face, no irony intended. He was losing his hair and looked to be a little older than I was, forty, and I guessed he'd had his good times twenty years ago and wasn't living his life backwards.

"I'm Donald Strachey and I'm a private detective." I showed him the photostat of my license. "Billy Blount's parents want to help him, and they've hired me to locate him."

He felt around inside his beige V-neck sweater, brought out a pair of glasses with pink plastic rims, and studied the laminated card. "No kidding, a real private eye! Jeez. I'm Elvin John, pleased to meet you," he said and offered his hand. I wanted to say, Hi, Elvin, I'm Nick Jagger, but I supposed he'd heard it before. His moon face and blinky blue eyes showed confusion.

"Billy's parents are helping the police capture him? Golly, I sure don't understand that."

I wasn't certain I did either, but I said, "They think it's best that he turn himself in and then let a good lawyer handle it. They're probably right. Billy can't have much of a life as a fugitive."

"They don't think Billy actually killed that guy, do they?"

"Well—no. I take it you don't either."

Elvin John set down the stack of records and shook his head. "Nope, I don't. Billy's a messed-up guy, I suppose you could say, and he was kind of mad at the world. But actually kill somebody? I'm no expert, but—holy cow, no. I don't believe it"

"You said Billy's messed up. How so,"

He gestured, and I followed him. We went into an alcove, where John slid onto a metal stool, retrieved a cigar from behind a carton of plastic bags, and unwrapped it. "When I say messed up, I don't mean what you think I mean." He gave me a knowing look and fired up the cigar, which definitely was not Cuban, though still possibly communistic. Albanian, maybe. "I don't know how broad-minded you are," John said, "but I'm tolerant of minorities myself, and I wasn't talking about Billy being a homo or anything like that." He said it with a trace of smugness, a challenge to my liberal sensibilities.

I said, "Good, I'm gay myself."

His pale eyebrows shot up. "Oh yeah? Jeez, you don't look it!"

"Well, you don't look Jewish either."

"I'm not. I'm Lutheran."

"Well then, you don't look Lutheran. You look—Methodist."

"I'm half. My father's a Methodist."

"I can always spot one," I said. "There's something about the way they move."

He gave me a wary look.

I said, "In what way was Billy Blount messed up?"

"Oh, just a little bit paranoid—well, not paranoid, actually—defensive. Always ready with some lip. Always thinking you were going to criticize him."

"Were you?"

"Heck, no. Billy was always a good worker—clean, neat, polite. And always on time, even when he showed up looking a little the worse for wear, which he sometimes did on Monday mornings. I asked him once when he was looking like an old sleepyhead if he'd had a heavy date the night before, and he said yeah, the date's name was Huey and he was a real hunk. Said it just like it was a woman, except he said 'hunk.' Lord, I didn't know what to say."

"If it had been a woman Billy had gone out with, what would you have said?"

"Oh heck, I dunno. 'Get any?'"

The quaint observances of the straight life. I said, "What was Billy defensive about? What would set him off?"

"Oh, just the one thing, really. The first time he told me he was gay, I won't forget that. I made a crack about a swishy kid who came in—nothing derogatory, you know, just a joke—and Billy really lit into me. He said he was gay and he'd appreciate it if I kept my homophobic thoughts to myself. That's what he called it, 'homophobic'—I'd never heard that word before. I'm from Gloversville, and nobody back home ever uses that word. Anyway, I said I was sorry, but he thought I meant I was sorry he was gay. He started carrying on like I was some kind of Hitler and I started to get mad, but then some customers came in and we dropped it. The subject came up again every once in a while, and to tell you the truth, I was sort of interested in hearing Billy talk. He's quite a speech-maker. Of course, I

didn't always agree with him. He's just too much of a radical. Golly, I don't think most people give a hoot about anybody else's sex life, do they? C'mon now, admit it."

"Some don't," I said. "But you run into a surprising number who consider homosexuals as dangerous as the Boston strangler, but not as wholesome. This can make you edgy. Has Billy been in touch at all during the past week?"

"I've got his paycheck, but he didn't pick it up. He didn't show up Monday morning, and at first I was plenty ticked off. I called his home and he wasn't there, sick or anything. And then my wife called—she'd seen the paper—and she said Billy was wanted for murder. Gee whiz, I just couldn't believe it!"

"And you still don't."

He flicked his cigar ash in a tuna can. "No, not hurt somebody like that. He wouldn't, as far as becoming really violent. Billy's a talker. If he got mad, he'd just make a big wordy speech."

"It runs in his family."

"'Homophobic' Whew."

"Did any of Billy's friends ever come in? I've got to locate some of them. I need names."

"Sometimes there were people he knew, but Billy never introduced any of them. It would have been nice if he had. After all, everybody's welcome here. You know, come to think of it, the one time I saw Billy get really upset, I mean lose control and just go bananas, wasn't with me at all. It was when a guy came in Billy thought he knew, but it turned out to be somebody else. This guy was just going out the door when Billy came out of the back room and saw him and started yelling Eddie! Eddie! and running after the guy. The kid turned around and looked at Billy like he was some kind of weirdo, and when Billy saw it wasn't who he thought it was, he came tearing back here and started cursing and throwing stuff around like he was a little bit nuts. Then he sat down and started shaking like a leaf and said he was sick, so I sent him on home. Billy scared the bejesus out of me that day. I'd never seen him act like that before."

"When did this happen?"

"Maybe six, eight months ago."

"Billy thought it was someone named Eddie? That was the name he called?"

"Yeah, but when I asked him who Eddie was, he said it was none of my effing business. Except he said the word. You know the one."

"Right. But you don't recall any other names of Billy's friends, other than Huey?"

"No, they'd come in sometimes, but I never knew their names. They'd buy the disco stuff. That's what the younger ones go for, you know. I mean the, uh, middle-aged ones, too. I mean—some of them." Elvin John shifted on his stool and took on a confused look.

"What do the elderly ones go for?" I said. "I'll make a note of it for future reference."

His round face tightened. "It sounds to me like you're pulling my leg. In a mean kind of way. You gays are real cynical, aren't you? I've heard that."