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thought you'd want to know that one of your players was in trouble."
    "He's not one of my players anymore," Petrie said. "Not after tonight. We're going to get him released from custody. But he's not welcome back at camp. When you get out of here, take him home, Stoner."
    "Why me?"
    "You brought him to this dance. You dance with him."
    I stared at him for a moment. "Where's home?"
    "Somewhere in Clifton. Ask him." Petrie turned to go.
    "Can I ask you something?" I said. He nodded at me over his shoulder. "Why'd you cut him?"
    "Because he's twenty pounds overweight, he's had three knee operations, and he's got a bad attitude," Petrie said bluntly. "The man's almost thirty-five years old, Stoner. If he plays another year, he's going to get hurt and he's going to hurt the team. The plain fact is, he's through."
 
 
    Petrie's lawyer -a fat, pompous man with cheeks like dewlaps and the black, bulging eyes of a Chihuahua sprung me at seven in the morning. I caught a cab to the Waterhole, picked up the Pinto, and drove to the hospital on Goodman Street. The lawyer had said that Bluerock would be released from custody at eight. I was waiting in the downstairs lobby when he stepped off the elevator. He had a white bandage on his head and his shirt was a little worse for wear, but on the whole he looked as if he'd been enjoying himself.
    "Hey, sport!" he said in his croaking bass. "Where'd you spend the night?"
    "In Station X," I said sourly.
    Bluerock slapped me on the shoulder so hard he almost knocked me over. "You could be all right, Stoner."
    We walked out to the Burnet Avenue lot. The sun was early-morning bright, a flat, blazing disc in the eastern sky. Bluerock glared at it as if he wanted to punch it out.
    "My fucking head hurts," he growled.
    "You probably have a concussion."
    "That's what they tell me." He touched the bandage on his head and winced. "What did that son-of-a-bitch hit me with? Lead pipe?"
    "Billy club," I said. "What happened, anyway?"
    "Some guy gave me some lip, so I popped him one," he said.
    "Lip about what?"
    Bluerock grunted. "You ask a lot of questions, you know that?"
    "And I get damn few answers," I said. "Are you planning to talk to me about Parks or do we have to get drunk again first?"
    He ducked his head and sucked some breath in through his front teeth. "Look, I know I owe you something, sport. But this is a funny situation. You spend four years in the trenches with a guy, four years rooming with him, it's kind of like a partnership. You don't piss on something like that without thinking it over." He gave me an abashed grin. "What were you planning to do if you did find Bill?"
    "Tell Petrie," I said.
    "That asshole," Bluerock said.
    "That asshole got you out of a lot of trouble last night."
    "He got me in a lot of trouble, too." I didn't say anything.
    "I don't know," Bluerock said, squinting up at the morning sky. "Maybe it is time to get on with my life's work." He looked down at the pavement, as if the thought weren't a bit comforting.
    "You want to get some coffee?" I said.
    He nodded. "Then I got to get some sleep. I feel like I could sleep for a week." He laughed grimly. "Maybe I will."
 
 
    We drove to Newport to the Anchor Cafe and had eggs, goetta, and coffee in one of the spare wooden booths in the back room. Bluerock scarcely fit into the seat. With the bandage on his head and a day's growth of beard on his fierce, bulldog face, he awed the teenage waitress who'd brought us our menus. She eyed him closely as we gave her our orders and kept staring at him after we were done, as if she were afraid to turn her back on him.
    "Quit looking at me, will you?" Bluerock said testily. "You're making me nervous."
    The girl laughed giddily and practically ran out of the room.
    "Women," Bluerock said with disgust. "You can't find one decent one in a thousand. And even if you do, she'll change. Everything fucking changes for the worse."
    "You're a cheerful guy, aren't you, Otto?"
    He frowned at