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gently.
    Trudy idly twirled the overturned photograph with one long green nail. “Sometimes I wish I’d just dedicated myself to the kitchen,” she mused and flipped the photograph over. “Is this your picture, Clarisse?” she asked curiously.
    â€œIt was left here by a ruggedly handsome man called Searcy. As you can probably tell by the name, he’s a pig.”
    â€œA cop?” Trudy asked, and looked harder at the picture.
    â€œIt’s a morgue shot, Trudy. That’s why it looks so strange,” said Clarisse. Valentine was at the other end of the bar.
    Trudy’s thickly lashed eyes fluttered up. “Morgue…?” she asked hesitantly.
    Clarisse nodded and pulled the newspaper around so Trudy could see the headline. “That’s the little boy who embarrassed Scarpetti.”
    Trudy turned the print facedown again. “I heard on the radio,” she muttered. “Hustlers are such sweet little boys. Who’d want to kill a sweet little boy?”
    â€œThat’s what this cop Searcy wanted to find out. He was in here just a little while ago asking questions.”
    â€œWhat kind of questions?”
    â€œYou know, was the kid ever in here or not. That sort of thing.”
    â€œThe boy was never in here,” said Trudy firmly.
    â€œThat’s what Valentine told the man.”
    Valentine returned with another drink for Trudy. She downed a swift swallow. “The police follow trouble, the police cause trouble. It’s all so upsetting. I haven’t been touched by a cop since ’59. Five of ’em marched in here on Valentine’s Day and arrested me for impersonating Doris Duke.”
    Valentine smiled. “You don’t look a thing like Doris Duke. Of course, I’ve only seen pictures of her.”
    â€œThe police thought there was a great similarity. Maybe there had been complaints. We do both have tasteful wardrobes, and in ’59 it was illegal to impersonate Doris on the street.” Trudy sighed. “Well,” she said, “time to see how many hearts I can break. It’s a ‘Send in the Clowns’ night. Can I have the newspaper to read on my break, Valentine?”
    He nodded and she folded the paper under her arm. After greeting several of her admirers, she sat at the lacquered piano and played the promised song.
    Clarisse turned to Valentine and found him staring blankly toward the foyer. She touched his hand that rested on the bar. “When are you going to call Searcy?” she asked.

Chapter Five

    L IEUTENANT WILLIAM Searcy was angry with himself when he left Bonaparte’s. He had entered as a cop, with authority and with purpose, but everyone there had seemed to get the better of him: the bartender Valentine, the woman Clarisse in her fur coat, even the hatcheck woman who wouldn’t look at him. He returned to his car, which was parked beside a fire hydrant, and sat inside it until the heater had warmed him.
    Searcy rested back heavily in the seat. He lit a cigarette, drew the smoke deeply into his throat, and released it slowly as he rubbed his eyes. He was grateful that only half an hour more of duty remained tonight.
    Searcy was thirty-six, and his life had been such that he showed every day of his age. After a short and uneventful tour of Vietnam, he had joined the Chicago police force, where his record in undercover vice work had been outstanding. As his superior infelicitously wrote in his record, “Searcy has an affinity for vice.” Though he had grown up on the South Side of Chicago, and his mother lived there still, Searcy had not been reluctant to leave the city when the opportunity arose. That chance was a temporary transfer to Boston, as a consultant to the vice squad there. When a large promotion was offered as a bribe to stay on, Searcy unhesitatingly accepted.
    He had been in Boston six years now, but gradually was working his way out of vice. Most of his time now was