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resisting the temptation to get a few drags out of the butts still salvageable, typing my notes to be sure I had everything straight, and checking the phone book for the numbers of the deceased and/or their friends/lovers Tim had mentioned, it was close to five o’clock. I went home, defrosted a steak and made a salad, then spent the rest of the night staring glassy-eyed at the boob tube.
    I’d just gotten to bed, around eleven, when the phone rang.
    “Mr. Hardesty?”
    I’d have recognized Rholfing’s simper anywhere. So much for an unlisted phone number. I forced myself not to ask what the hell he wanted and how he’d gotten my number. After all, like it or not, he was my bread-and-butter for the moment.
    The thought flashed through my head that Phil’s and my professions were not really all that different. We both had to get into bed—Phil literally, me figuratively—with people we’d just as soon not.
    “Yes, Mr. Rholfing,” I said, assuming my most businesslike voice. “What can I do for you?”
    As soon as I said it, I knew he was going to jump on it with both feet, and I could have bitten my tongue off. Sure enough, there was a girlish giggle, followed by the inevitable “What did you have in mind?”
    Nothing, buddy, believe me—nothing!
    When I made no reply there was a four- or five-second pause. His voice, when he resumed talking, was all business.
    “I’m really sorry to trouble you at home, Mr. Hardesty.” He’d gotten the message on that, too, I was glad to see. “But I couldn’t find your phone number, though I was sure you’d given it to me.”
    I hadn’t.
    “You really should talk to those people at your answering service. Snip- py ! Anyway, I have this dear friend at the phone company who managed to get it for me.”
    I made a mental note to call the phone company in the morning and chew the asses off a couple of supervisors.
    “So, how can I help you?” Shit! I did it again!
    Fortunately, he let this one drop.
    “Well, I suppose it’s not really that important, but I rather expected to hear from you this evening to let me know what you’d found out. You know, when you’re all alone in the world like I am, without a soul except for old Ass-Face in Fort Worth, you’re naturally curious about who killed your lover. And I’d be more than happy to help you out in any way I can.”
    I ’ ll just bet you would , I thought.
    “Well, that’s really nice of you, Mr. Rholfing,” I said, “but everything’s pretty much under control. I’ve got a few leads I’m following up on, but I really didn’t want to bother you until I have something solid to report.”
    I got out of bed as I talked and, taking the phone with me (thank God for the fifteen-foot cord), went into the kitchen to get my billfold from the coffee bar.
    “Well, if there is anything I can ever do…”
    I fished the list out of the billfold and ironed it out on the counter with my hand.
    “As a matter of fact,” I said, “while I’ve got you on the phone…I’ve come up with a few names I wonder if you might be familiar with.” I read him the list of victims and their lovers/friends, without mentioning their connection with the case. “Any of them ring a bell?”
    After a short pause, during which I could picture him beetling his plucked little brows, he said, “Granger. Definitely Granger. What did you say his first name was?”
    “Arthur.”
    “Oh.” He sounded definitely let down. “No, I must have been thinking of Stewart Granger. I just loved him in King Solomon’s Mines , didn’t you? But there is someone else—a Rogers?”
    If he came up with “Ginger,” I swore I’d hang up.
    “Alan Rogers.”
    “Alan Rogers…Alan Rogers…yes, I definitely know that name. And Barker—Festus, was it?”
    “Cletus…Clete.”
    “Clete Barker! Yes, that one, too. As a matter of fact, they all sound familiar, but I’m absolutely horrible with names. I just call everybody ‘Darling’—it makes it so