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seriously. Forcing him to really think of the theatre, and not of the girls, the good times, the swagger of being a man of the theatre. Trying to make a man of a boy, and what the hell else would a mother do?
    Ted Marshall laughed. ‘A real selfish old hard nut, yes she is.’ He sat on the arm of the couch, put his arm around her. ‘Sorry, Ma, you know? I’ll get rich for you. Okay?’
    ‘You’re all blarney, Theodore,’ she said, smiled up at him. ‘Now I must go to work. Try to get some sleep, Theodore.’ And to me, ‘Not too long, Mr Fortune, please.’
    She got up only a little slowly, and went out without waiting for an answer. I heard her walking toward the elevator. Ted Marshall stared at the closed door.
    ‘I do live on her. Thanks, Ma, maybe you can take it easy when you’re a hundred. Damn, I will make it up to her. Now all my loot is for the theatre, the big front.’
    ‘Where do you work?’
    ‘Nat Brown, the agent. Four days ’til three.’
    ‘Tell me about Ricardo Vega?’
    ‘Vega? What about Vega?’
    ‘Anne was having an affair with him, right?’
    ‘Not that I know. She’s in his class, that’s all.’
    ‘You’re a boyfriend?’
    ‘We make it. No strings, she got to live, and our theatre needs money. I never see her weekends, I don’t ask about it.’
    ‘You don’t know of any trouble with Vega?’
    ‘Trouble? No, I don’t.’
    I thought. ‘She said to me once that Vega was the power, the action. She wanted to talk to him about something private. Did she ever talk about him backing your theatre, helping, or maybe about getting money from him?’
    ‘No,’ he said. ‘You know Anne?’
    ‘A battlefield meeting once,’ I said.
    He puzzled me. Was he so naive, or jealous, that she hadn’t told him? Because if he knew about Vega, why hide it? If he had nothing to do with her disappearance, he should want Vega’s possible role investigated. If he was part of whatever had happened to her, if anything, why not jump at the chance to put suspicion on Ricardo Vega? He wasn’t putting suspicion on anyone.
    ‘Hell,’ he said, ‘she’ll come back soon, you see.’
    ‘Come back? You know she’s gone somewhere?’
    ‘Just an expression. I mean, she has to be somewhere, right? I don’t have a clue, believe me.’
    ‘Do you know a tall, gaunt man?’ I asked, and I described the man I had seen with her in the cafeteria.
    ‘No one like that. He doesn’t sound her type.’
    A key turned in the door. It meant nothing to me, but it did to Ted Marshall. He got up with a grunt, clutched at his ribs. A short, dark man in army fatigues came in. The newcomer took three quick steps into the room.
    ‘Ted, I—’
    He saw me, gave a small gasp, almost rose up on his toes, and his hand flew to his mouth. A girlish gesture, startled and automatic. He looked like a girl, a delicate face, a slender body. Yet he was no boy. Over thirty, his face lined, his bare forearms muscled. His hands were stained, had broken nails. He tried to recover, smiled coyly, wagged his hips—girlish.
    ‘You mother,’ he said, ‘she leave. I think now is good time … well.… So introduce me to your friend.’
    A woman’s phrase, coy. The tone, the manner—one of the boys. Ted Marshall. His pallor was flushed pink. He ground his teeth as he spoke.
    ‘Dan Fortune, Frank Madero—our night super. Mr Fortune’s a detective, Frank. Private.’
    His voice was tight. It was there all right, a ‘thing’ between them. Both of them vibrated like nerve ends. Ted Marshall had been quick to tell Madero that I was a private cop, no threat from the vice squad. Oh, hell.
    ‘Francisco,’ Madero said, bowed. ‘I am from Cuba. I come later, Ted, of no importance. The leak of the faucet. A pleasure to know you, Mr Fortune. I am not always the janitor. Maybe I see you sometime.’
    He went as fast as he had come. Here to fix a leak, okay, but he had expected to find Ted Marshall here, and alone. I let Marshall break the