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would put a stop to that. Show business is full of fags and whores. I know. I used to own a nightclub.”
    I sat quiet for almost a minute, lips pursed, tapping the edges of the two pictures against the palm of my hand. I could feel his eyes on me. Finally I took a deep breath and put them away in my inside breast pocket along with the notebook and pencil. The pictures, not his eyes. They were right behind them without my having to do anything. I got up.
    “My fee’s two hundred a day plus expenses. First day in advance. I report when I have something, not before. Does that suit you?”
    “The money’s all right. I don’t know about the report. I’d like to hear something daily if that’s possible.”
    I was going to say no, but something had happened to his eyes. The plums had dried. The shine was gone, I sighed. Walker, you weak-kneed son of a bitch.
    “I’ll give you what I can.”
    He nodded. The mere effort of moving his head down and up seemed to have taken his last reserves. “See Paul on your way out. He’ll give you your first day’s fee and a copy of the other dick’s report, if it’s any help.”
    I stepped into the bedroom and got my hat and coat. “One thing,” I said, stopping before his chair. “I’m working on an insurance case at the moment. I’ll be spending some of my time on that. But you’ll get a full day’s work every day. I don’t sleep. Got out of the habit.”
    “So did I.”
    I said a farewell of some sort and set out for the door.
    “Walker.” Barely audible. I turned back. His lids were closed behind the thick spectacles and his head was leaning back against the chair’s cushy support. His weight wasn’t enough to make it recline.
    “If I see my name in tomorrow’s paper, yours will be in the next edition. Bordered in black.”
    I let myself out.
    It was after two when Wiley dropped me off back at my place. I was too keyed up to sleep and all the good movie stations were off the air, so I snapped on the lamp next to my chair and settled down with a glass of Hiram Walker’s, no relation, and the sheaf of papers Paul Cooke had given me to read. The Lansing P.I., some guy named Stillman, couldn’t spell FBI and his grammar was strictly Remedial English 302, but he had a definite flair for narrative. The record of his nine-month search for Maria Bernstein engrossed me for a full five minutes before I passed out.
    The strident jangling pierced whatever I was dreaming without deflating it and I slept on, waiting for the alarm to wind down. It didn’t, and after a moment I realized it was the telephone. I untangled myself from the chair and the litter of typewritten pages scattered over my lap, stumbled over to the irritating instrument, tried to pick it up with my left hand, the one that was still asleep, gave that up and used my right.
    “Twelve rings. That’s some kind of record even for you.”
    It was John Alderdyce. I let my eyes focus on the dial of the watch strapped to my slowly wakening appendage and asked him if he knew it was 4 A.M.
    “I’ve been telling time for years now,” snarled the voice. “I want you to get your ass down here yesterday.”
    “Down where?”
    “The morgue. You ought to enjoy it. It’ll be like an army reunion.”
    That took a second to sink in. When it did I told him to expect me in twenty minutes and had my coat half on before I realized I was still holding the receiver. I replaced it and finished the job on my way to the garage.

5
    I DRIVE THE KIND of car you don’t park next to if the itemized price list is still stuck to your side window. As Cutlasses go it’s no heap, but it has that archaic look that falls to any automobile more than two years old in this day of neurotic change, and in the right light it shows more dings than I can properly blame on General Motors. You’d never think to look at it that there’s a 455 Cadillac Coup de Ville engine under the hood, or that it can hit sixty-five while you’re still closing