“Fair’s fair,” I said.

Struggling with her crying she said, “Could you… could you come and sit beside me?”

“Sure.”

I went and sat on the couch beside her and she leaned over and put her face against my chest and sobbed. I put an arm around her shoulder and patted. Uncle Spenser, tough but oh so gentle. After a while she stopped crying, but she stayed with her. face pressed against my chest, and turned a little so she had snuggled in against me.

“So in fact you broke it off,” I said. “Not him.”

“All he had to do was leave his wife.”

“Which he wouldn’t.”

“He can’t. She’s too dependent.”

“But he’d have been willing to have you as his girlfriend.”

“Yes.”

“Being the only one cheating in fact didn’t bother him.”

She shrugged.

“No,” she said. “Sometimes I say things because they sound right.”

“Most people do,” I said.

She seemed to wriggle a little tighter against me, though I didn’t see her move.

“You’re very understanding,” she said.

“Yep.”

“And you always seem so clear.”

“Clear,” I said.

“Have you ever cheated on Susan?”

“Once. Long time ago.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“She ever cheat on you?”

“That would be for her to answer,” I said.

“If she did would you care?”

“Yes.”

“Did she care the time you did?”

“Yes.”

“How’d she find out?”

“I told her.”

“Would she have known if you hadn’t told her?”

“Maybe not.”

“Why did you tell her?”

“Seemed a good idea at the time,” I said.

“If you did again would she care?”

“Yes.”

“Would you tell her?”

“I’ll decide after I do it again.”

“Do you think you’ll do it again?” she said.

I couldn’t figure out how she had moved so much closer to me, since she had started out leaning on me.

“Day at a time,” I said.

My voice sounded a little hoarse. She turned her head slightly on my chest so she could look up at me. One hand kneaded my left bicep.

“You’re awfully strong, aren’t you?”

I cleared my throat.

“It’s because my heart is pure,” I said.

I was still hoarse. I cleared my throat again. Her face was so close to mine that her lips brushed my face when she spoke.

“Really?”

“Sort of pure,” I said.

She raised her head a couple of millimeters and kissed me hard on the mouth. It seemed ungallant to struggle. She pulled her head back.

“When you kiss me put your tongue in my mouth,” she said.

Her voice had thickened and grown richer, so that it had acquired the quality of butterscotch sauce. She kissed me again and opened her mouth. I kept my tongue to myself. She pressed harder. I thought that somewhere there must be laughter, as I clung to my chastity. Finally she pulled her head back and looked at me.

“Don’t you want to fuck me?” she said.

“Very respectfully, no.”

“My God, why not. I know you’re aroused.”

“You’re very desirable,” I said. “And I get aroused at green lights.”

“Then, what?”

“I’m not at liberty, so to speak.”

“My God, you’re Victorian. A Victorian prude.”

I disagreed, but arguing about my prudishness didn’t seem productive. I shrugged.

“It’s because of Susan?”

“Sure,” I said.

She had sat up and was no longer leaning against me. This was progress, it would help my arteries relax. KC poured some more white wine and drank a swallow.

“What’s so great about Susan?”

‘The way she wears her hat,“ I said. ’The way she sips her tea.”

“Seriously, what’s so special about her? I mean I’ve known her longer than you have, since we were in college. She’s so vain, for God’s sake.”

“I’m not so sure it’s vanity,” I said.

Better to be talking about Susan than about what to do with my tongue.

“Well, what the hell is it, then. Hair, makeup, clothes, exercise, diet, always has to look perfect.”

“Well,” I said, “maybe she thinks of her appearance as a work of art in progress, sort of like painting or sculpture.”

“And she’s so pretentious, for God’s sake. She’s always like lecturing.”

“And maybe not everyone gets it,” I said.

“Gets what?”

“Susan’s pretty good at irony.”

“What’s that mean?”

“She understands herself well enough to make fun of herself,” I said.

“You’ll defend her no matter what I say, won’t you?”

“Yep.”

KC got up and walked to the other side of the room and stared out the window at the blacktop parking lot behind her building.

“Do you think Louis is the stalker?”

“Could be.”

“But why would he?”

“Maybe he feels like he’s lost control of you.”

“But we love each other.”

“Not enough for him to leave his wife,” I said. “Not enough for you to sleep with him if he doesn’t.”

“Of course I won’t. Why would I give him what he wants when he won’t give me what I want.”

“I can’t think of a reason,” I said.

“Well, I don’t believe it. I don’t believe a thing you’ve said about him.”

“Just a hypothesis.”

“Why isn’t my ex a hypothesis?”

“Doesn’t seem the type,” I said.

“How the hell would you know what type he is?”

“I talked with him.”

“And you think that’s enough?”

“No, but it’s all I’ve got. I’m not a court of law here. I am allowed to go on my reactions, my guesses, my sense of people.”

“And you sense that Louis would stalk me and Burt would not?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, I don’t have to listen to you. And I won’t.”

“Reading cops still checking on you,” I said.

“Like you care.”

I stood. “Time to go,” I said.

“Past time.”

I walked toward the door. She turned slowly to watch me, her hands on her hips, her face flushed.

“I would have shown you things that tight-assed Susie Hirsch doesn’t even know.”

I smiled at her. “But would you have respected me in the morning?” I said.

“Prude.”

“Prudery is its own reward,” I said, and left with my head up. I did not run. I walked out the door and toward my car in a perfectly dignified manner.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

When I came into my office in the morning there was a message on my answering machine from Prentice Lamont’s mother. It had come in late yesterday while I was in KC Roth’s condo preserving my virtue.

“Mr. Spenser, Patsy Lamont. I need to see you, please.” I had some coffee to drink and some donuts to eat and the tiresome-looking pile of homosexuals-to-be-outed list still to read. Reading it while eating donuts and drinking coffee would make it go better.

I called Patsy Lamont.

“Spenser,” I said. “When would you like to see me?”

She sounded like I’d awakened her, but she rallied.

“Could you come by around noon?” she said. “I have my support group in the morning.”

“Anything I can do on the phone?” I said.

“No, I, I need to talk with you.”

“Be there at noon,” I said and hung up.

I took a bite of donut, a sip of coffee, and picked up the Out list. There were some surprises on it, though none of them seemed like a clue, and by 11:30, with the coffee a dim memory, and the donuts a faint aftertaste, I put the list down and headed for my car. All I could think of was to talk with each of the people on the list. This, coupled with trying to find out who else Louis Vincent had been hustling, meant a great deal of boring legwork that made me think about becoming a poet.

I parked illegally near Mrs. Lamont’s three decker and rang her doorbell at noon. Prudish but punctual. We sat at her thick wooden kitchen table with the high sun shining in through the upper panes of the window over her sink. There was a big white envelope on the table in front of her. It had been mailed and opened.

“Would you like some coffee?” she said. “I have instant.”

“No thank you.”