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to Otto, it never stopped.
    Bluerock's philosophy may or may not have been so much macho bullshit, although I'd seen him live some of it out in the Waterhole parking lot. But even if it was bullshit, it was appealing bullshit. It was principled bullshit. It was a couple of steps above the greedy, selfserving crap that the man on the radio was handing out. Of course, it hadn't done much to prepare Otto for that long, lonely walk up to his front porch. What fact or fiction would have? But it could pull him through later on, I thought -if there was a later on for Otto. If he didn't turn his machismo inside out and destroy himself with it.
    And that could happen, too. I'd seen it happen to other hard men -to cops and soldiers, tough guys who'd suddenly.found themselves on the outside, armed with a code and a sense of loyalty that only worked for them on the beat. Nights like the one we'd just gone through might even end up being Bluerock's life's work, and that fierce, combative pride of his might degenerate into ordinary paranoia, into a ceaseless conjuring up of enemies to fight. It all depended on him -for the first time, really. Up until then, it had depended on men like Petrie, men who had their own macho fantasies to live out, their own tough philosophies to preach. In a way they were the same guy, Bluerock and Petrie. The guy that Otto said Parks was -the one who played the game for keeps, on the field and off.
    Bill Parks was the last thing on my mind as I wandered off to bed. But that was because he didn't exist for me yet. He was just a name and a picture. But I knew instinctively that he wasn't the kind of man that Otto had made him into. And I also knew that somewhere down the road I'd find out who he really was, and that I wouldn't like what I found.
 
 
    The telephone woke me around eleven, two hours after I'd gone to sleep. I opened one eye and stared bitterly at the black box gabbling on the nightstand. When it didn't shut up, I snatched the receiver from the cradle and gave it a good hard squeeze before putting it to my ear.
    "Who the hell is it?" I barked.
    "Glad I caught you in a good mood," a man with a deep voice replied amiably. "This is Harry Stoner, isn't it?"
    "Yeah. So what?"
    The man laughed tunelessly, as if he were practicing laughing before a mirror. "My name's Walt Kaplan, Mr. Stoner. Perhaps you've heard of me?"
    "Can't say that I have, Walt."
    "I'm calling because I understand that you're looking for a client of mine."
    "And. who would that be?"
    "Bill, of course. Bill Parks."
    That woke me up a little. "You're Parks's agent?"
    "Not exactly his agent," Kaplan said in his deep, pally voice. "I'm his advisor and his friend."
    "And just who told you I was looking for your advisee?"
    He went on as if he hadn't heard the question. "I'd like to have a little chat with you, Harry, if you've got the time."
    "You going to tell me where Billy-boy is?"
    "I'm going to explain his situation," he said demurely. "After all, you've only heard one side of it. Then perhaps we can talk about the right thing to do -for everyone involved."
    Walt Kaplan sounded very much like a lawyer, and a smooth one, at that. But then some agents were lawyers. And some were second cousins. It was a weird business. I picked a pencil up off the nightstand and dug a scrap of paper out of the drawer. With all-pros for clients, I figured Walt for a suite in the DuBois Tower.
    "When do we meet?" I said.
    "Well, you sound as if you could use a few more hours of sleep. And I have a doctor's appointment at one. I've got this bowel problem."
    Tell me about it, I said to myself.
    "Let's say three thirty," Kaplan said. "Is that all right with you?"
    "Where?"
    "My place, I guess. It would be more convenient for me. I've got another appointment at five."
    I scratched an X through the square I'd drawn on the scrap sheet. "What's the address?"
    "Eighty-eight hundred Winton Road. Kaplan's Club. Right across from the Sohio station."
    "You run a