Randolph shrugged. “You watch the news on this station?”

“No,” I said.

“Well, if you did, you might next see me covering a fashion show.”

“Or modeling them,” I said.

“Ah, if only,” Randolph said.

“Was it Lamont that was doing the blackmail, you think?”

“I don’t know. The letter was unsigned, appeared to be written on a computer. The voice on the phone was anonymous. I have no idea who I talked to, but how big an operation was it?”

“Maybe bigger than I thought,” I said. “Could you tell anything from the voice? It was male.”

“Yeah, male. Native English speaker, I’d say.”

“How old?”

“Couldn’t tell. Wasn’t a kid, or an old person. Twenty to sixty, somewhere in there, I guess.”

“Race?”

Randolph shook his head.

“Anything to indicate that it wasn’t Prentice Lamont?”. “Given that I don’t know who Prentice Lamont is, no.”

We sat for a moment. Outside his cubicle the newsroom clattered and hustled. Monitors gleamed. Assignments were being given. Phones were ringing. Computers were being keyed.

“You talk to any other people who’ve been featured in OUTrageous?” I said.

“No.”

I nodded.

“How come you get a cubicle?” I said.

“Senior correspondent,” he said.

“Wow,” I said.

“Yeah,” Randolph said.

We sat for another moment.

“You know what my real name is?” Randolph said. “My real name is Dick Horvitz. Media consultant said it didn’t have sympathetic overtones.”

“Gee,” I said, “I choked up the minute you said it.”

“You ever wonder why people care about shit like this?” he said.

“Often,” I said.

“You have an answer?”

“No.”

He leaned back and put his feet up.

“Senior correspondent,” he said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

It was time to find out more about Prentice Lamont. So I drove over to the university and parked my car in a space marked faculty only. Actually it was past time to find out about Prentice. If I knew any less I’d be in some sort of informational deficit.

I started with the Dean of Arts and Sciences, whose name was Reynolds. We sat in his first-floor office with a view of coeds in the student quadrangle. His desk was neat without being barren, and a picture of his wife and three daughters was displayed on a side table.

“I can get you Prentice Lamont’s transcript,” he said, “hold on.”

He stood and walked to the door and stuck his head out and spoke to one of the women in the outer office.

Back behind his desk, he smiled.

“Things move quicker,” he said, “when it’s a request from the dean’s office.”

Reynolds was a tall trim man with a bald head and hornrimmed glasses. He wore a dark suit with a red silk tie, and a matching pocket square.

“The information from the English department tenure committee will be harder. Requests from the dean don’t impress them, and legally, they have the right to keep their proceedings secret.”

“Legally in a court of law?”

Reynolds shrugged.

“I don’t know. Legally under university bylaws.”

“Even if the proceedings may in themselves have violated university bylaws?”

Reynolds smiled again.

“My guess would be,” he said, “especially then.”

“Did you know Prentice Lamont?” I said.

“No.”

“How about Robinson Nevins?”

“I recognized him if we passed in the corridor, I don’t think we’ve ever talked.”

“How about Amir Abdullah.”

Reynolds leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head.

“Ah,” he said, “Mr. Abdullah.”

I waited.

“I understand you’ve already had an altercation with Mr. Abdullah.”

“I prefer to say I’ve already won an altercation with Mr. Abdullah.”

“Not everyone can claim that,” Reynolds said. “You appear to have the build for it.”

“How’ve you done?” I said.

“Our altercations are somewhat different,” Reynolds said. “But I guess we’re about even.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“Officially? Professor Abdullah is an esteemed member of our faculty.”

“And unofficially?”

“A great pain in the ass,” Reynolds said.

“I need to know as much as I can,” I said.

“About Abdullah?”

“About everything. You seem to know about Abdullah.”

“I know something about Abdullah, and I have some opinions, but they are not for dissemination.”

“It is not in the best interest of a guy who does what I do,” I said, “to blab things told him in confidence. And you have my word that it will be in confidence unless I am legally compelled to repeat it.”

“Fair enough,” Reynolds said. “Abdullah is a poseur. He is intellectually dishonest. He exploits his blackness and his gayness for his own advantage. He cares only about his own advancement. He does not like to teach, and his publications are polemic rather than scholarship. He is, I believe, though I’ve not been able to catch him, a sexual predator who preys on young men in his classes.”

“If you catch him?”

“If I catch him,” Reynolds said, “he’s gone. Tenure or no tenure.”

“And you win,” I said.

“And I win.”

A tall good-looking black woman with gray highlights in her short hair came in carrying a copy of the transcript.

“Who gets this?” she said.

Reynolds pointed at me and she handed it to me and smiled and walked out. I gave the transcript a fast eyeball.

“Prentice took three courses last semester in African-American studies,” I said. “Could they be Abdullah?”

Reynolds put out a hand and I gave him the transcript; he glanced through it.

“All of them,” he said, “would be Professor Abdullah.”

“What is Prentice’s major?”

Reynolds glanced at the transcript.

“He was getting a master’s degree in English literature,” he said.

“Is it unusual that he’d take all these African courses?”

“Yes.”

“What department does Abdullah belong to?” I said.

“English. The African-American Center is not funded by the university and has no official standing, though we are not opposed to it, and would be hesitant to oppose it anyway.”

“If you do find that he is hitting on young men in his class and you fire him, will there be a firestorm of protest alleging you are homophobic and racist?”

“Absolutely,” Reynolds said.

“But you’ll do it anyway.”

“There are no university bylaws that tolerate sexual exploitation of students by faculty, straight or gay, black or white.”

“I can prove he hit on a student at the community college some years ago.”

“Doesn’t help me here,” Reynolds said.

“Maybe it will,” I said.

Reynolds studied me for a moment. His eyes were both humorous and hard, like a turtle’s.

“One entry,” he said after a moment, “into the proceedings of the tenure committee would be to talk with the members. Some are fools, but one or two are quite human.”

“Who would you say is the most human?”

“Tommy Harmon.”

“Does he know all the words of ‘Hail to the Victor’?” I said.

“It’s a nickname, I believe his real name is David.”

“Doesn’t sound like you had to sort through a long list,” I said. “To come up with him.”

Reynolds smiled.

“I’ll call Tommy if you like and tell him you’ll be stopping by.”

“Do,” I said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Tommy Harmon had an office with a big bay window that gave him a sweeping vista of the MBTA station. There was a boom box on top of his bookcase and he had a CD playing.

“Carol Sloane,” I said.

“With Clark Terry,” he said. “Very good.”

He was a blocky man with a thick neck and a kind of healthy-looking redness to his face that suggested he spent time out of doors.

“I represent Robinson Nevins,” I said.

Harmon nodded.