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in Italy?"
    "Where it was set when Shakespeare wrote it is immaterial," Dinky Holloway informed me. "It's a love story about two star-crossed young lovers caught in the middle of a blood feud. We don't change dialogue. Setting comes primarily through costumes and stage business. Have you ever seen Romeo produced before?"
    I shook my head. "Not that I remember."
    An effusively sweet young man sashayed up to our table and batted his eyes at me. He did wear an earring. "Care to start with a cocktail this evening?"
    Most of the time, that's a fairly innocuous question, but not tonight, not when I was dealing with my own particular pair of star-crossed young lovers.
    The waiter hovered expectantly. Dinky and Alex both ordered white wine. I gritted my teeth and ordered black coffee.
    "Where's the telephone?" I asked.
    I wanted to call Ralph and ask his advice. Since he has no children of his own, he is free to dispense the wisdom of Solomon when it comes to other people's kids.
    The waiter smiled. "The pay phone at the top of the stairs is out of order, sir, but there's another in the bar."
    The bar was the very last place I needed to go right then. A glance at the menu told me I wasn't the least bit hungry. "Order me a Caesar salad, would you please?" I said to Alex. "Excuse me, but I've got to use the phone."
    She looked at me and frowned, then nodded. "Sure thing."
    The bar was dark and smoky, full of laughter and the comforting clink of glassware. Walking into it felt safe and familiar, like coming home after a long, difficult absence. When I paused by a barstool, the bartender caught my eye. "What can I get you?"
    It would be all too easy to perch on a stool and order a hit or so of my old pal, MacNaughton. Within minutes the welcome haze of warm oblivion would settle over me. Even one, I thought, would lessen the weight of my disappointment about Kelly.
    "Mac and water," I said.
    The bartender frowned. "What's that?"
    "MacNaughton's and water," I answered loudly, turning up the volume as though the guy was partially deaf or maybe someone who didn't exactly speak English.
    "That's Canadian, isn't it? We don't carry that brand, sir. Sorry. How about CC?"
    It may have been nothing but a fluke of the international liquor-distribution system, but heavy drinkers are a superstitious lot. And J.P. Beaumont is no exception. I took their not carrying my brand as a sign from the Oracle.
    "Forget it," I muttered irritably. "Where's the damn phone?"
    The bartender shrugged and pointed. "Down the hall," he said.
    We've come a long way from "Number please" days. The sound of a human voice—even a telephone operator's—would have been welcome right then, but no such luck. By the time I finished punching in Ames' number as well as the fourteen digits of my telephone calling card, my hand shook so badly I could barely hit the right buttons. On a Saturday night, naturally, Ralph was out. I didn't bother leaving a message on his voice mail.
    I slammed down the receiver and grabbed for the slender Jackson County phone book. I thumbed through the pages, scanning down the column until I located a listing for the local office of Alcoholics Anonymous. A telephone volunteer directed me to the only meeting available that evening, an N.A. (Narcotics Anonymous) meeting that would start at seven in the basement of a downtown church. Any port in a storm. I took down the address.
    Still strung too tight, I went back to the dining room and managed to limp my way through dinner with Alexis and her friend. Alex and Dinky, caught up in girl talk and in reminiscing about old times and acquaintances, never noticed anything wrong. At the end of the meal, I made arrangements to meet Alex outside the theater just before our eight-thirty curtain. Engrossed in their conversation, the two chatting women happily waved me on my way.
    Twelve-step meetings frequently attract unusual people. The N.A. meeting in Ashland was more unusual than most. A lot of Oregon still