"Sure, that's part of it," he agreed. "But I could be a shoe salesman or you could be a telephone operator and I know I'd feel the same way. It's more than just the job. This is something strictly between you and me."

Then she turned to look at him. "Don't think I haven't been aware of it. At first I thought you were just a stud looking for a one-night stand. Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am. But now I think you're telling the truth because my feelings toward you have changed." She laughed nervously. "I can even tell you exactly when it happened: when I suddenly realized I should have bought you a maroon cashmere muffler for Christmas. Nutsy-right? But as I've said many times, I'm married, and as I've said many, many times, happily married."

"And that's the most important thing in your life?"

"It was. Damn you!" she burst out, trying to smile. "You've upset my nice, neat applecart. You're the one who's making me question what really is important to me. I was sure before I met you. Now I'm not sure anymore."

They'd never know whether she kissed him first or he kissed her. But they came together on the front seat of that ramshackle car, held each other tightly, clinging like frightened people, and kissed.

He was the first to break away. "I'll take that nightcap now," he said hoarsely.

"No, you won't," Dora said unsteadily. "You'll drive home carefully and grab some Z's. And I'll go up to my bedroom by myself."

"It doesn't make sense," he argued.

"I know," she agreed. "But I need time to figure this out. Good night, darling. Get a good night's sleep."

"Fat chance," he said mournfully, and they kissed just one more time. A quickie.

"Hiya, lady. This is Gregor Pinchik."

"Hello, Mr. Pinchik. I'm glad to hear from you again."

"Mr. Pinchik! Hey, you can call me Greg; I won't get sore."

"All right, Greg. And you can call me Dora instead of lady; I won't get sore."

"Sure, I can do that. Listen, this guy you got me tracing, this Turner Pierce-it's really getting interesting."

"You've found out more about him?"

"I'm almost positive it's him. About five years ago or so a hacker shows up in Denver calling himself Theodore Parker. Same initials, T and P-right? Like Thomas Powell in Dallas. But in Denver he's got a wide black mustache just like you described, so I figure it's gotta be him."

"Sounds like it. What was he up to in Denver?"

"Still pulling telephone scams. But now he's selling access codes. Those are the numbers companies issue to their employees so they can call long distance from outside the office and have it billed to the company. Like a salesman on the road can call headquarters and have the charges reversed by punching out his access code."

"How did Theodore Parker get hold of the codes?"

"Oh hell, there are a dozen different ways. You invade a company's computers and pick them up. Or you buy software that dials four-digit numbers in sequence until you hit one that works. Or maybe you steal the salesman's code card. Then you're in like Flynn. It's easier when the company has an 800 number, but you can also get on their lines through their switchboard."

"And he was peddling the codes?"

"That's right. Mostly to college students and soldiers away from home, but also to heavies who made a lot of long-distance calls to places like Bolivia and Colombia and Panama and didn't want to run the risk of having their own phone lines tapped."

"What a world!"

"You can say that again. Anyway, this Theodore Parker had a nice business going. He was even selling the codes to penny-ante crooks who were running what they call 'telephone rooms.' These are places you can go and for a buck or two call anyplace on earth and talk as long as you like. It would all be billed to the company that owned the access codes the crooks bought from Parker."

"Beautiful. And what happened to him?"

"The Denver hackers I contacted told me the gendarmes were getting close, so Theodore Parker skedaddled. For Kansas City. How does that grab you?"

"I love it. Any mention of a woman skedaddling along with him?"

"I struck out there. Everyone says he was a loner, just like in Dallas. Plenty of women, but no one resembling Helene Pierce the way you described her. That's all I've got so far."

"Greg, I've received your hourly bills and sent them on to the Company. But you didn't list the expense of all the long-distance calls you've been making or your modem time. The Company will pay for that."

"They are. I'm using their access codes."

"You stinker! Did you invade their computers again?"

"Nah. Listen, you can buy a long-distance access code on the street for five or ten bucks. But I didn't even have to spend that. Your Company's access codes are listed on an electronic bulletin board I use. I picked the numbers up from that. Well, I'm going to start on Kansas City now. I'll let you know how I make out."

"Please. As soon as possible."

"Nice talking to you, lady."

Dora hung up smiling and then jotted a precis of Pin-chik's information in her notebook. She sat a moment recalling her initial reaction to Turner and Helene Pierce: supercilious people with more aloof pride than they were entitled to. It was comforting to learn that Turner was apparently a two-bit lowlife scrambling to stay one step ahead of the law.

She glanced at her watch, then took a look in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door. She was wearing the one "good" dress she had brought from Hartford: a black silk crepe chemise that wasn't exactly haute couture but did conceal her tubbiness. She fluffed her red hair and vowed, again, that one of these days she was going to do something with it. Then she went down to the Bedlington cocktail lounge, hoping Felicia Starrett wouldn't be too late.

Surprisingly, she was already there, sitting at a corner table and sipping daintily from a tall pilsner of beer.

"Surely I'm not late," Dora said.

The woman looked up at her. "What?" she said.

"Have you been waiting long?"

Felicia shook her head. "I'm out of it, Nora."

"Dora. What's wrong? Are you ill?"

No reply. Dora looked at her closely. She was thinner, drawn. The cords in her neck were prominent enough to be plucked. Her nose had become a knuckle, and her stare was unfocused.

Dora went over to the bar and ordered a beer. While she waited, she observed Felicia in the mirror. She was sitting rigidly and when she raised the glass to her lips, her movements were slow, slow, as if she had planned every motion carefully and was dutifully obeying her mind's command.

She was wearing a belted cloth coat, buttoned to the neck although the cocktail lounge was overheated. And she had not removed her soiled kidskin gloves. She was hatless; her long black hair appeared stringy and unwashed.

Dora carried her beer back to the table. "Would you like something to eat?" she asked, taking the chair opposite. "Perhaps a sandwich?"

"What?"

"Are you hungry?"

"No," Felicia said, and looked about vaguely. "Where am Ir Dora wasn't certain how to handle this. Felicia didn't appear drunk or high on anything else. But certainly she was detached. The woman was floating.

"The cocktail lounge of the Hotel Bedlington," Dora said. "I'm Dora Conti. Thank you for meeting me for a drink."

"A cigarette," Felicia said.

Dora fished a crumpled pack from her shoulder bag. But when she offered it, Felicia made no move to take a cigarette. Dora put the pack on the table.

"I see you're drinking beer," she said as lightly as she could. "No Chivas Regal today?"

The woman looked at her blankly. She said, "That's for me to know and you to find out."

Dora was shocked by this childish response. "Felicia," she said, "is there anything I can do?"