I went back to the kitchen and dialed a number in the Pine Hills section of Albany.
A groggy male voice. "Yeah?"
"Don Strachey. I need a little assistance."
"Don't we all."
"Were you on duty last night?"
"Till three hours ago. I didn't go to bed when I got home though. I sat up in case you called."
"Don't give me a hard time, Lyle. I told you I probably wouldn't call. That I had a lover."
"Lucky you. Maybe I'll get one too. There's a hunk in the department I've got my eye on. He's gay, I know, and he knows I know. But he's shy. And has a wife and six kids."
"Better shop around some more."
"Uh-huh. Shop around."
"When are you going to make the move, Lyle? You're in the wrong town for your situation."
"Are there any right ones?"
"Probably not yet. Stockholm maybe. Or Copenhagen."
"Yeah. Too bad I don't speak Hindu. What do you want, if it's not what I wished it was?"
"Information. I was wondering if maybe the night squad goons were up to a bit of queer-bashing last night. Midnight or after, on Central, around the Green Room."
"I didn't hear about anything. But I probably wouldn't that soon. Unless it made the blotter, and even then I couldn't be sure. Some of the arrests that get made are the genuine article. You know, there are some real lawbreakers out there, Strachey. In case you haven't heard."
"I suppose those guys do stumble over an actual criminal once in a while. A matter of mathematical probability. But this one would be the other-the hate stuff. A phony rap on prostitution, solicitation, resisting arrest. Whatever they're dropping on people these days. A guy by the name of Peter Greco disappeared outside the Green Room at about a quarter to twelve.
Slight, dark, curly-haired, cute. A bit boyish for your more mature tastes, Lyle, but ripe for picking by the bash-a-fag crew."
"I'll check around. But disappearances aren't those guys' specialty. You know about it, Strachey.
They just grab people, drive 'em around, call 'em some names, maybe rough 'em up a little, then dump 'em. Some make it to the lockup, a few to the ER at Albany Med. A total disappearance would be something new."
"I know. It would."
A silence. "Uh-huh. Oh, yeah. Jesus. Well, it was only a matter of time, I guess. They're nuts completely out of control. Maybe this time they've really done it."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
"Shit."
"Leave a message with my service if you pick up anything." I gave him the number. "I'll check now and again and get back to you. And one other thing. See if you can sniff out any recent coziness between guys in the department and Crane Trefusis. There might be a connection."
"The shopping mall wizard? That Trefusis?"
"The same."
"That one might be trickier. But as soon as I grab a cup of coffee I'll be out asking around. Sure as hell nobody here is gonna miss me. You know what I mean?"
"So long, Lyle. And thanks."
"'Thanks,' he says. Oh, sure."
Timmy agreed to stay at the farm and keep an eye on Dot and Edith. I put him to work phoning more Friday night revelers who might have been outside the Green Room around midnight and seen something unusual, or, if it involved the Albany PD, not entirely unusual.
Down at Dot's pond, Edith was seated on a flat stone with her feet in the moss green water, her skirt held demurely four inches above the water line.
"Good morning, Mr. Lovecraft. Going for a dip?"
"Hi, Mrs. Stout. I just want to cool off the old brainpan for a minute. Maybe I'll get a chance to dunk the rest of me in later."
I leaned down and stuck my head in the water for twenty seconds, then stood up and shook off like a dog.
"Does your head swell in the heat?" Edith asked.
"Right. And then I can't get my hat on."
"That's what happens to my feet." She glanced back toward the house. "I guess I'd better watch my language. Dorothy can't stand the word 'feet.' Dorothy's rather eccentric, in case you haven't noticed. I'm terribly afraid she's going senile. But she's a grand girl and I don't know what I'd do without her. It's not easy for our kind, you know."
"I know about that. I'm one too."
She gazed at me for a long moment, thoughtful and a little puzzled. "Well," she said finally, "I suppose you know what you like, Mr. Lovecraft. But-two big hairy men? Hmmm. I hope you don't mind my saying so, but I can't imagine anything duller."
Chasms everywhere. Though this one we could laugh about. I said, "I can."
The old woman peered at me confusedly through her spectacles for a moment while the connections in her brain slowly got made. Then she said, "That's all you know, sonny."
Driving back toward Central, I slowed as I passed the Deem house but saw no sign of life.
Neither car was in the driveway. I figured I'd catch up with Joey Deem later in the day.
Meanwhile, Dot and Edith were being well looked after.
At the Wilsons', Kay was airing herself in the chaise alongside the new porch. A mammoth '71
Olds with rusted fenders and a gash along the side was parked under a maple tree. The car had a Howe Caverns sticker on the rear bumper and a sign in the back window that said MAFIA STAFF
CAR. It was the kind of sad heap you see in front of K Mart, blithely or defiantly parked in the fire lanes.
I pulled in and shouted, "Crane sends his best, Kay.
He wished also for me to convey his warm greetings to your husband. Is Mr. Wilson in?"
"Oh. Hi there. It's you." She sat up looking wary. "Yeah, Bill's here." She heaved up her great chest and screeched, "Willl-sonnn!"
I got out and walked toward the house. The screen door flew open.
"What you hollerin' about now?" He spotted me. "Who's he?"
"Dunno. Says he's lookin' for you."
He was a good four inches taller than I was, broader, thicker, a jaw like an old boot, a flat cockeyed nose, and eyes full of simmering resentment. He wore dark green work clothes, and in a fist like a small hippo he was gripping a length of cast-iron drainpipe with a jagged end.
"Good morning, Mr. Wilson. I'm Donald Strachey, representing Crane Trefusis of Millpond Plaza Associates. May I have a moment of your time?"
His eyes narrowed. "Maybe. Maybe not. What's in it for me?"
"Crane Trefusis asked me to drop by and convey his fondest best wishes. And to ask for your assistance in looking into a problem that's cropped up."
He sneered. "Crane Trefusis is a lying, shit-eating, pig-fucking phony. I'll lend Crane Trefusis a hand the day he comes across with his big fat hunnert and eighty grand. Meantime, you tell Trefusis he can take his wishes and blow 'em out his ass. Now get outta here! I got a busted drain to fix."
"But, Bill! This man-"
"And you shut your trap!" Still watching me, he said, "You got them big bucks with you, mister?"
I shrugged.
"Then you climb back in that piece of Jap junk of yours and drive on out of here."
"It's German," I said. "And they make them in Pennsylvania now."
He looked as if his sense of humor was about to fail him. I said, "Y'all have a real good day now," and acted on Wilson's suggestion.
Heading on back into the city, I wondered again how Bill Wilson planned on making his wife rich any time soon. I could only be certain it wasn't going to be in the diplomatic service. But whatever Wilson's shortcomings- and I'd have to use other means for looking into them-I had to concede that he was an excellent judge of character.
Tad Purcell's address, as listed in the Albany phone book, was on Irving Street just off Swan. The block was a peninsula of gentrification jutting west from the South Mall renewal area. In another five years the orderly plague of marigolds in window boxes and white doors with brass knockers would likely spread as far as Lark Street, and where the dispossessed poor would go, no one knew. The local machine was preoccupied with obscure larger matters, and UNICEF was busy in Somalia.
"Hi, I'm Don Strachey, a friend of Peter Greco's. Could I talk to you for a few minutes?"
A quizzical look, not entirely friendly. "I've seen you somewhere recently," he said. "Where was it?" A cloud of Listerine breath hit me in the face like a visit to New Jersey.
"Last night at the Green Room," I said. "I was with Peter."
He tensed up, glanced over his shoulder, then looked back at me, undecided about something. He ran a well-manicured hand through his freshly blow-dried black waves that were touched with white.
"Oh. Sure. I guess that's where it must have been.
What was it you wanted to talk about?"
"Peter. He might be in trouble."
I watched him. His faintly creased oval face, on the brink between youth and whatever was coming next for him, was aglow with after-shave, and the pink now deepened. He pursed his lips, lowered his head as if to consult the alligator on his polo shirt, then looked at me again.
"Any friend of Peter's is a friend of mine," he finally said with a nervous laugh. "I have to go out in a couple of minutes, but I've got a second. Sure. Why not? C'mon in. You said your name was Rob?"
"Don. Don Strachey."
"Take a load off your feet, Don."
I followed him into a small living room decorated with menus from famously expensive local restaurants, and lowered myself into a canvas sling chair. To my left was a large console color television set with a framed photo of a young Peter Greco resting atop it. Purcell perched on the edge of the couch and lit a Kool. Somewhere above us water was running.
"Well, I must say, I'm not completely surprised to hear that Peter is in trouble," he said. His tone was sarcastic, but the apprehension came through. "Is he in trouble with the law?"
"Maybe. In a way. The thing is, Peter never showed up at the house where he was staying last night. Dot Fisher's farm, out on Moon Road. His friends are pretty worried about him."
He blew smoke at the ceiling and thought about this. "Is that right? Well. Where do his friends think he might have spent the night?"
"I thought you might know."
"Ho, really? Well. How about that. Now, where would anybody ever get such an idea?" He colored and bit the inside of his cheek, making it look as if he wanted to smile but was trying not to. Either he knew something and was acting coy, or he was simply enjoying the idea that I might think Greco had spent the night with him and was going to insist that both of us savor the fantasy, however briefly.
"Peter had been speaking with you just before the time he vanished," I said. "You asked him for three thousand dollars. Demanded it, he told me."
A jittery laugh. "Did he say that? God, Peter didn't take that seriously, did he? He must have known I was just bitter about… what happened between us." He went all pink again, bright as Dot's phlox, and rocked on his hams. "After ten years! God. You'd think he'd have remembered how I get after a drink or two. I mean, you know how it is."
I thought I was beginning to see how it was with Tad Purcell, but I wasn't sure yet. He dragged deeply on the cigarette, then flicked the ash several times, even when it was no longer there.
"You know, Peter and I used to be lovers," Purcell suddenly announced with a proud, shaky half-smile. "Did Peter mention that?"
"He did," I said. "Peter spoke well of the time you two had together."
He relaxed a little and sat back, gazing at the photo on the TV set.
"Peter was a very, very important part of my life," Purcell said softly. "My memory of him is something I cherish deeply."
"I can see that."
"You see, the thing is, Peter was mostly on the streets before he met me," he said with a look of distaste. "Running around with hippies and flower children and so forth. But by the time we met, Peter was really fed up with street life. All that pointless rebellion and immaturity. We all have to grow up sometime, am I right?"
"Right."
Clearly grateful to have a new audience for this old story-his only one, I was afraid-Purcell warmed to the topic. "Well, I could tell immediately that first night I picked him up while he was crossing the park that Peter had just about had it up to here with his rather juvenile lifestyle.
Peter was really disillusioned, ready for a change of course into something safe, and comfy, and sensible. He'd had a bad bout of hepatitis, and maybe that had something to do with it too. But I mean, not that the hepatitis was the most important thing."
"It would have been chastening."
"Anyway, we ran into each other and-can you believe it? — we just fell in love on the spot.
Bingo! God, I was so head-over-heels nuts about that guy that I just went ahead and- Well, I did something, something reckless and foolish, I suppose you could say. Something that I hardly ever do. What I did was, I offered Peter the kind of life I could see he needed. I offered him my home to share with me. My home, and my love. I mean, every once in a while you just have to throw caution to the winds and take a chance in life, am I right?"
"Right. Once in a while."
"Well," he said with a nervous grin, "for once in my life, my kindheartedness-which is my biggest weakness-actually paid off. Peter agreed to stay with me. To accept my offer of stability, a home, someone to depend on to be there when you needed another human being.
Except"-his face fell-"except it didn't work out. I mean, it did last eleven and a half fabulous months. But then, well, you see, the thing was, Peter had not really changed. No. Peter, as it turned out, was not ready to grow up. He was still too immature to accept my gift."
He sighed again and gazed at Greco's photo. "Oh, God, Peter was so sweet. So beautiful in so many ways.
But you know," he said, pursing his lips and leaning toward me confidingly, "I realize now that it wasn't just immaturity. There was something else Peter lacked. I can see that now. Do you know what I mean? Something missing in his upbringing, I suppose. A psychological type of problem that prevented Peter from learning to appreciate the true pleasures of hearth and home. Which is such a terrible shame. Poor Peter. I'm sure he's had his regrets. Missing out on such a golden opportunity. I know I have."
I nodded lamely. Purcell looked at me as if he were hoping for a more expansively sympathetic reaction, but I was unable to summon one up. Finally, I said, "You and Peter must have gotten to know each other pretty well, Tad. It seems odd that Peter would have misunderstood your statements last night about the three thousand dollars."
"Absolutely! That's what I think. How could he have taken me seriously about that silliness?
Except… I guess it is true that I could handle my liquor a little better back when Peter knew me.
Back then, I didn't used to get quite so… hyper. Not so sharp with people sometimes. I guess I got that way later, as a matter of fact, after Peter. And after a couple of other relationships that didn't work out. Relationships with people who were sort of like Peter. I'm sure you know the type I mean. People who can't appreciate what you have to offer. A lot of faggots are like that, I've noticed. Oh, well. What can you do? I suppose it's just my fate in life to be.. unlucky in love."
The water upstairs was shut off with a clank. My mind attempted to construct a coherent thought, but again it failed. I said, "Sorry to hear about your run of bad luck, Tad. Good luck in the future.
So. Tell me this. When did you last see Peter?"
"When? Last night. What do you mean?"
"I mean, what time? Did you speak with him again after your conversation at the bar, when I was with him? That was around eleven-forty."
He laughed dryly and tapped another nonexistent ash into a blue ceramic ashtray the size of a hubcap. "Well, I wasn't really keeping track of the time last night. Anyway, not until desperation hour rolled around. But, no. I didn't see Peter again after our… initial discussion."
Footsteps sounded above us.
Purcell said, "Would you excuse me for one minute. Back in a sec."
He bounded up the stairway behind the couch. There were muffled voices. I flipped through a copy of Food Product Management. I learned about the development of a square tomato to cut down on storage and shipping costs. Purcell bounded back, all pink again, like a winter tomato.
What was making him blush?
I said, "Tell me this then, Tad. What time did you leave the Green Room last night?"
He lit another Kool. "Why do you ask that?"
"I thought you might have run into Peter later."
"Hah. If only. But no such luck. For what it would've been worth, of course. No, I hung around the Green Room till three-thirty, thinking Peter might come back and try to make me feel better.
He always hated ending things on an unpleasant note. God, he was such a sweet person. But I guess he's changed. Gotten old and cynical like the rest of us, ha-ha. Anyway, about three-thirty I gave up on Peter and drove down to the Watering Hole. Last-chance gulch, right? Thought I might get lucky and fall in love again. It's been known to happen."
"I've heard. Peter said you told him you haven't been making out well lately. Had a bad year financially. I'm sorry to hear that."
He blinked, made a face, dragged on his Kool. "I lost my food supply business last year. Reaganomics did me in. And I voted for that phony. But what I've got now isn't bad," he said with a tentative shrug. "I'm in food services at Albany Med. The money there's not too bad. Maybe I'll be out of debt by the time I'm eighty." He smiled sourly.
More footsteps above us. "It sounds as if you did get lucky last night," I said, glancing up. "Or do you not live alone?"
He shifted and looked embarrassed, with a touch of irritation. "Oh, you noticed. He heard your voice and he's waiting for you to leave. He says he doesn't want to be seen. He's cheating on his 39 lover and doesn't want word to get back. I can't stand people who do that. I say either you're committed to another human being or you're not. There's no in between. Even though he says it's the first time he's done it in six months, I still hate it. The guy's really the dregs anyway. God, I must have been really plowed last night. My standards are not exactly what they used to be. Five till four at the Watering Hole. God. And I have this awful feeling the guy even has herpes."
I checked my watch. Eleven-fifteen. "Well, I hope your luck isn't quite that bad, Tad. You mentioned earlier that you weren't surprised to hear that Peter might be in some kind of trouble.
Why?"
"Because," Purcell snapped, his face suddenly tightening, "Peter uses people. Sooner or later, treating people that way is going to get you into trouble. Your chickens come home to roost. You just don't get away with it forever. Squeezing what you can out of somebody and then dropping that person as if they have leprosy. Some people get mad. Very mad. Of course," he added with a tremulous sigh, "I got over that a long time ago."
I thought about telling him that Greco had been with Fenton McWhirter in an apparently mutually satisfying and entirely healthy relationship for nine years. But Purcell must have known that already and chosen not to accept what it signified. He was going to believe what he wanted to believe.
"Just do me a favor and call me if Peter shows up here or contacts you." I gave him my card and headed for the door. "Hope you don't come down with herpes, Tad. I hear it's murder."
He glanced up the stairwell and winced. "The pits," he said. "The absolute pits. Miss Sleaze of Eight-two. Ecchh."
I closed the door with the brass knocker behind me, thinking, Prepare. Prepare.
I walked up Irving to where my car was parked in front of a house with petunia-filled window boxes under every sill. From a little two-by-five patch of marigold-bordered lawn, a wrought-iron post rose up to hold a bird-house, under whose single round opening was attached a miniature window box containing two tiny Johnny-jump-ups.
I unlocked my car and climbed in. The thing was ovenlike, hot enough to bake a quiche in. I rolled down the windows and sat there watching Purcell's house twenty yards down the street.
The windshield was clouded from my breath and I turned on the defogger. Although Purcell's bitter stew of a biography had been just confused, self-deceptive, and sad enough to sound drearily plausible, I still wanted to witness who his overnight guest had been, or hadn't been.
Within two minutes Purcell's front door opened and Peter Greco emerged. I did not fully believe what I was seeing. The slight dark figure moved quickly down the wooden front steps tapping the wrought-iron curlicued hand rail as he went, and turned east toward Swan.
I was out and running.
"Peter! Peter!"
I caught up with him. He turned. He said, "Hey- Ron, was it? How's it shakin', good buddy?"
"Hi. Hi, there. Hi, Gordon."
It was the Greco lookalike I'd picked up in the Green Room and spent twenty-six minutes with the night before. For sure.
He said, "Let's you and me get together again sometime, whaddaya say, Ron? But I can't right now. Sorry. Gotta visit my grandmother in the hospital."
"Oh. Too bad. What's she in for, herpes?"
He glared, then began to look a little worried, as if I might be someone not to be trusted, the Irving Street Toucher or something. He turned and walked quickly away, glancing back once to see if I was coming after him.
I wasn't. end user