Murder by Candlelight

Book #3 in the Z-Detective Series

John G. Stockmyer

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 John G. Stockmyer

Discover other titles by John G. Stockmyer at www.johnstockmyer.com/books

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NOTE: This is the third of 10 books in the Z-Detective Series. Book #1 is Of Mice and Murderers. Book #2 is Good Lord, Deliver Us. The first three books are free. The other books in the series can be purchased for $5.00 each at the author's web site.

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Acknowledgements

Cover Art: Ronald L. Brink

Ronald L. Brink, a self-taught artist and illustrator, has been drawing and painting most of his adult life. Watercolor is his medium of choice. He has illustrated the covers of several published works. His work was chosen for the President's Christmas card at William Jewell College for six years. He has created over 40 paintings for the College; most of them for clients and has sold many works of pets and homes. He has taught at Maple Woods Community College in Kansas City for over 40 years. His works are displayed annually at the on-campus gallery. Brink received a B.A. degree from Missouri Valley College in 1964; an M.A. degree in 1967 from the University of Denver; and a Ph.D. in Curriculum and Instruction from the University of Missouri-Kansas City in 1983. He served as Chair of the Communications Division at Maple Woods from 1990-1998. He resides in Kansas City.

Ebook Conversion: John L. Stockmyer

John L. Stockmyer is an Associate Professor of Marketing at Eastern New Mexico University in Portales, New Mexico. In his spare time, he dabbles in ecommerce, audio-book production and eBook design. He is also an avid disc golfer. His current ambition is to help talented "undiscovered" authors (like his dad) find an audience through the use of non-traditional media and innovative technology. Thank you for helping us shake up the publishing industry!

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Introduction

The time: 1991.

The place: Kansas City, Missouri.

* * * * *

Chapter 1

Finished with the most important of his preparations -- zapping the little man, tying him to a chair, and slapping a piece of duct tape over his mouth -- Big Bob Zapolska was ready to do a little quiet searching of the Kunkle "mansion." Just another Sunday night in the P.I. trade.

Z had dressed carefully for this evening's work in his "night fighter" outfit -- black pants, shirt, jacket, and "gum" shoes.

Before entering the house, he'd pulled on his ski hood -- only his lifeless eyes showing through the holes -- the clingy black fabric not only sweaty, but also itchy in the barely reduced heat of this August, Kansas City night. He'd slipped on his skintight, black leather gloves, of course. (Fingerprints had not tripped up a professional for twenty years.)

He'd staked out the place from the Cavalier; letting two hours pass after the house lights went off.

Certain that Kunkle would be asleep by then, Z had eased out of his car, padded down the walk, and slanted across the street, pausing to give Kunkle's junker of a car a fast toss, the trunk yielding old oil cans and rusting tools -- crescent wrenches, tire iron, screwdrivers, and a greasy scissor-jack. The glove compartment had the usual insurance and registration papers, a flashlight, and a box of pre-lube Trojans.

The back seat was littered with McDonald's cartons, empty beer cans, old newspapers, a wadded-up grocery sack, gum wrappers, and a scattering of muscle magazines.

Finished with the car, Z had sneaked up the grass-grown walkway to the front door stoop. Stepping up, he'd slipped a plastic card through the door crack, a flick of the wrist putting Z inside.

Z's penlight the only light necessary to the immobilization of shrimpy Howard Kunkle -- muscle magazines indeed! -- these early preparations had taken less than an hour.

Everything going well, detective case in hand, Z now had time to take a peaceful look around, first ducking into the bathtub-dominated crapper, the "powder room" a separate privy at one time, now enclosed by the back wall. The indoor "outhouse" ... smelling ... like shit! The reason? Two floating turds and a soggy mass of toilet paper were "marinating" in the bowl's yellow-brown water.

Z backed out of there fast into what passed for a kitchen, a niche so small it was overwhelmed by an apartment-sized stove and a chipped "camper" refrigerator.

Not much food in the fridge -- cheese, bologna, a couple of six-packs, and three wine bottles lying on their sides, the vino of a vintage featuring screw-on caps.

The kitchen workspace was a yard-long counter top, under it, two pull-out drawers containing bent-up "silverware," a pack of plastic sandwich bags, torn wash clothes, and five cheap candles -- for when the power went out?

The stove used bottled gas. One end of the rusty porcelain sink featured a pump handle for drawing water, helping to explain why Kunkle hadn't flushed the stool. To flush, he had to pump water to "prime the toilet tank" -- too much trouble just to get rid of two turds and a mess of toilet paper. (He'd have to lug a ton of water to fill the claw-footed, worn-out bathtub in the john -- not that he'd ever get it into his head to take a bath.)

Nothing in the 8 X 10 bedroom but a cot and a scuffed wood chest of drawers, a dark-splotched mirror on the wall behind the bureau. The drapery-covered closet had a rod sporting "Good Will" shirts and pants, plus a shelf holding a couple of dented felt hats and a medical, neck brace.

Dirty laundry festered inside a wicker hamper at the far end of the clothes closet.

And that was the house -- no place to bring a ten-cent whore, to say nothing of a hundred-dollar hooker.

Back in the living room, Z took another quick look at the furnishings, nothing there of interest. Except for a tied up, but still passed out Kunkle.

Garage sale sofa. Mismatched chairs.

All trash ... except for a single high-dollar piece, a walnut desk with locking roll top, linen-fold scroll work on either side of the lower drawers. Prompting Z to wonder how a low-rent loser like Howard Kunkle came to own such an expensive piece.

Probably stole it.

Or bought it at a Mafia outlet.

The experienced detective attracted by anything out of the ordinary, Z approached the desk, the excitement of prowling in the night easing the pain in his knee. That, and the handful of aspirin Z crunched down before jobs like this.

Setting his satchel to one side, he began by examining the desk in the razor-thin beam of his penlight. Roll top and drawers -- locked, Z learning a thing or two about locks the year he worked for Sam Picket of Picket Locks. For instance, that a desk this old probably had one locking mechanism controlling the whole shebang. Not enough time to search for the key.

Nothing else to be done, Z eased himself down to the dirty floor to stretch out on his back, scooting around until his head was toward the desk.

Drawing up his knees (as far as the bad one would go,) he "footed" his upper body under the desk -- a tight fit through the leg hole for a man his size.

Wiggling his way in, shining his light up at the back, Z located the locking device, reaching up with his free hand to pry the flat connecting bar toward the center of the desk. Was rewarded with satisfying clicks as the upper and lower locks snapped back.

Squirming from under the desk, levering himself up, he paused to brush the floor dust off his pants. .... Disgusting!

The desk unlocked, Z turned to roll back the louvered top, impressed already by the solid smoothness of the old piece's works.

Nothing was quality-built anymore; modern stuff just knocked-together. It was like his Mom had predicted: the world had gone to hell in a hand basket.

Directing the penlight inside the open desk, Z found nothing but bare surface -- not even the usual paper, stamps, and envelopes in the pigeonholes at the back. Ditto for the tiny pull-out drawers to either side of the paper slots, there for pens, pencils, rubber bands, paper clips -- anything along that line you might want at a moment's notice.

Stooping down, Z pulled out the deep, ball bearing-smooth side drawers, inspecting them as carefully as he had the tiny drawers up top. Found the same "nothing."

So, why lock a desk to guard a lot of lint?

Could it be that Howard Kunkle was the orderly type? (Just a joke to keep himself amused. Even to pose a "tidiness" question about Howard Kunkle -- friend to roaches -- was to court insanity.)

The first question -- what such an obvious antique was doing here in all this filth, had "hatched" a second query: why lock an empty secretary?

Unless ... the desk was more than what it seemed.

Remembering how he, himself, had fixed a hiding place beneath his surprisingly movable fireplace (Z not wanting to have to answer the questions that would follow someone discovering his detective satchel,) Z had to consider that the desk might be similarly rigged.

Hidey-holes were often built into desks of this vintage, he remembered.

With secret spaces in mind, Z examined the desk again.

Found zilch.

Clamping the penlight in his teeth, Z ran both hands over the surface of the desk, feeling for irregularities through the rubber-thin leather of his gloves.

A dead end.

Taking the little light out of his mouth, wiping it off on his jacket sleeve, he flashed it at the bottom drawers again, pulling each drawer open once more, this time pausing to caress the insides of each. ..... Discovering that the drawers seemed to be ... of different depths?

Standing back to eyeball the drawers, it did seem that the right one was ... shallow .....

Bending down to feel under the right drawer bottom, Z thought he detected an irregularity .......

Snap -- the false bottom of the drawer popping up and swinging to the back!

Glad to be getting somewhere at last, Z flashed the light inside at the true bottom .... Saw... a three-inch stack of folding money, padded together with a red rubber band. (A fact that explained Howard's ownership of the desk; Illegal currency had to be hidden someplace.)

Thumb-scuffing the bills at one corner of the neatly banded pile, Z counted out a hundred dollars, pulling out the bills to jam them in his back pocket.

Not stealing! Only following today's judicial practice of making the criminal, Kunkle (not the victim, Bud Izard) pay for his crimes.

Z put the rest of the money back. (Big Bob Zapolska was a P.I., not a thief.)

Reaching into the drawer again, he took out a leather notebook; flipped it open to see names and phone numbers on the first page -- the rest of the pages blank.

Yes. There was Bud Izard's name, followed by what had to be Bud's phone number. Next in line: Lee Dotson. Beside that listing, another phone number.

Other numbers seemed to be stores.

Leo's -- probably Leo's Pizza. They delivered.

Standard -- had to be a service station.

K-Mart -- undoubtedly the place Howard Kunkle purchased his terminally rusty car.

What Z failed to find in the little book was an entry he expected to see there: Carrara Marble.

Back to the drawer, a quick scramble turned up no evidence of drugs ... something of a surprise.

What the drawer contained for the most part, was decks of playing cards, Z's preliminary toss scattering a loose deck about the bottom of the drawer. As for other decks, some were in their individual boxes, some out of their boxes but still sealed in plastic.

He also found cellophane wrappers -- so carefully removed from card decks that the wrappers were intact, plus undamaged revenue stamps, the blue kind the feds stuck on the ends of card decks.

Could that be what this secret drawer was all about? Instead of tearing the tax stamps like you were supposed to when opening decks of cards, was Kunkle steaming off the stamps? Did that mean he'd found a way to turn tax stamps into cash? ......... No way!

First scraping up the loose cards to consolidate them, Z stacked that deck, then the unopened decks, on top the desk.

Again reaching into the secret drawer, feeling around, he came out with an aspirin-sized bottle, inside the capped container, a clear liquid.

Ah! Drugs dissolved in water, most likely. Heroin. LSD. Angel dust. Ready to be mainlined. ... Except there was no accompanying syringe. Also missing was the standard length of surgical tubing, for binding your arm to bring up a vein.

Clamping the flashlight in his teeth, directing the stab of light at the bottle so he could see what he was doing, Z unscrewed the bottle's cap.

Took a cautious whiff. ............

Alcohol.

Not grain alcohol, like you found in liquor, but wood alcohol -- found in ... trees?? Poisonous to drink.

Screwing on the cap, more puzzled than ever, Z set the bottle on the desk.

Dipping into the rigged drawer again, feeling around, Z fished out a pair of sunglasses -- only the faintest tint to the lenses.

Could they be magnifying glasses, the kind K-Mart sold to people who couldn't afford corrective lenses? Didn't seem like it.

The drawer's false bottom nearly empty, Z patted down the inside once more to discover, in a back corner, a small tube of super glue, the kind they advertised on TV by sticking a laborer's hard hat to the ceiling, the glue strong enough to hold up the worker hanging from his hat.

And that was it ....

No. Z had almost missed the last item -- the object so thin it hardly registered through Z's gloves. A circular ... something ... no bigger than a dime.

At first, Z thought it was a sequin -- like those sewn on party dresses, a woman in that kind of get-up glistening like a wet-scaled mermaid. On closer examination, saw it was a mirror. Silver nitrate backing on it. Perfect reflection. The kind of looking glass an ant would hang on his living room wall ....

Silly thought!

The drawer empty at last, Z paused to reflect on the items he'd plucked out and carefully stacked on the desktop.....................

Suddenly inspired, he picked up the loose deck -- its cards greasy, dog-eared. Holding the fading light in his mouth once more, brushing back other decks to make a space, he dealt the cards (face up and by suit), finding what he'd hoped he would: that the queen of spades was missing, Z pleased that the black queen's absence backed Bud's story.

To be strictly truthful, one of the things Z hadn't liked about this case was taking it without checking out Bud -- a violation of the Zapolska code -- Z happy to find that Bud had told the truth about Kunkle's threat.

And that was it for the desk.

Replacing the money, cards, and other items in the drawer -- but leaving the false bottom up -- Z switched off the light.

Leaning back on the desk, there was nothing for Z to do but wait.

Then wait some more, his eyes adjusting to the dark enough to pick out shapes. All the time, listening to ... silence. To the blood pulsing through his brain.

Until he thought he heard a Howard Kunkle groan.

An inspiration!

Returning to the kitchen, Z pocketed the candles he'd found and took out one of the sandwich bags.

In the bedroom, "borrowed" the neck brace.

Returning to the living room, Z opened his case to got out the straight razor and what was left of the nylon cord, cutting off a short piece of cord, using the nylon line to bind the candles together at their base.

Now came the tricky part. To keep what was left of the burned-up candles from setting fire to the house, Z returned to the kitchen to pump water into his confiscated plastic bag, after that, tying the top end of the bag to make it watertight.

Returning to the living room, he got out his grey duct tape, taping the water bag to the candle bottoms.

Holding the candles with their wicks pointed down, water bag on top, Z cut another short piece of rope, then got a straight chair, stepping up on its seat to tie the upside-down candle package to the living room's central ceiling fixture, the inverted candles dangling down about a foot.

Oh, yes. The collar. Stepping over to Kunkle, getting the neck brace out of his pocket, Z "Velcro-ed" the collar around the little man's neck, Z then pushing Kunkle-in-chair to the center of the room, positioning the man's head under the upside-down candles.

Light snapped off again, with nothing else to do for the moment, Z continued to stand in the dark, trying to detect Kunkle-movement by what little star shine penetrated the grime of the front windows. .......

There! Another moaning sound from the man.

Judging it to be the right time, Z switched on the flashlight to find that Kunkle was awake and struggling, the nylon cords pulling tighter with every jerk and twist.

Show time.

Z's light pinning Kunkle to the chair, Z slowly turned the beam toward himself, allowing the little man to see the very definition of a black-masked menace.

"A warning," Z hissed, his voice even more strangled when squeezed through the close-knitted ski mask. "Bud Izard is connected."

Z had seen The Godfather; was pretending to be a member of the mob: an enforcer, shooter, bopper, button man, hitter. Z was even using Johnny Dosso's Americanized accent -- without much success. "One warning. No more."

With Kunkle bound as he was, it was hard to tell if the "mummy man" was getting the message. On the other hand, you'd have to be pretty stupid not to know you were in one hell of a hole when you awoke to find yourself as naked as the day the world was born; tied hand and foot in your own chair; being threatened by everyone's nightmare of a terrorist. (A promising sign, Z thought, was that Kunkle was sweating, his dark eyes opened wide.)

Now for the clincher.

Padding up to the little man, Z extracted the Bic lighter from Z's pants pocket and flicked on the flame, in the glow, seeing genuine fear in Kunkle's eyes.

Good.

Reaching above Kunkle's head, Z lit the wicks of the five upside-down candles.

Ah!

A lovely light!

Z had always been fond of fire................

Wrenching himself back to the situation at hand, Z found that the inverted flames were already licking into the wax, the candles beginning to melt, the first drops of wax pattering down on Kunkle's head.

Hot. But hardly hot enough to burn the man -- even on his bald spot. At least, not seriously.

The first drip of wax was now oozing down Kunkle's forehead -- slowing -- congealing -- another drop sliding down, traveling a little farther before it, too, solidified.

With the medical "dog collar" holding Kunkle's head, the man's body lashed tightly to the chair, Howard was trapped under what would soon be rivulets of molten wax.

Z visualized what had to happen. By the time the candles had burned down (up) enough to melt through the plastic sack of water at the top, the water running down to put out the candle stubs, Howard's upper face would be encapsulated in a hardened shell of paraffin. Probably stick his eyelashes together before long. Seal his eyelids shut.

All in all, a terrifying experience.

At least Z hoped so.

His mission accomplished, Z could not help but think about the excesses someone less dedicated to peaceful persuasion might have performed on Kunkle's body. Shook his head. For Z's money, there was too much violence in today's world.

Going further, Z was prepared to defend the position that there was no excuse for brutality: not when other methods could obtain the desired result.

Considering this night's work again, Z's judgment was that Howard Kunkle would cease to harass Bud Izard. Going further, Z wouldn't be surprised to hear, in the near future, that Kunkle had moved to Mexico. Even to the moon.

All business now, Z picked up his satchel and glided swiftly to the front door, leaving the little man behind to struggle feebly to free himself, all the while the recipient of a steady rain of molten wax atop his head. By the time the tapers had melted, Howard should look like a drip-wax bottle in a fancy Italian restaurant.

Through the door, pulling it shut behind him, remembering to take off the ski mask, Z sat on the stoop to unsnap the case and put the mask inside. He also took off his gloves and shrugged out of the increasingly hot jacket, tucking the gloves into the satchel, folding the jacket over his arm -- no one on such a warm evening wearing more clothing than necessary.

Closing the case, up again, slipping past Howard's car, Z went down the walk to turn left on the hardly-more-prosperous side street where he'd parked the Cavalier, all the while feeling good, like he always did after doing his best for a client. In a couple of hours, he'd call in an anonymous tip to the cops about strange goings-on at the Kunkle place, Z leaving Howard's front door unlocked to make it easy for the police to enter. (Like any public-spirited citizen, Big Bob Zapolska tried to aid law enforcement when he could.)

Nearing his car, only one thought troubled him: a situation similar to the Arthur Conan Doyle mystery about the dog that didn't bark. (Z had read all the Sherlock Holmes stories: Holmes techniques plus what Z learned from other detective novels, the only "formal" training Z had to be a private eye.)

Thinking back, Z had been surprised not to have found the one item that should have been in Kunkle's car; or certainly, in the secret drawer.

So ... where was the gun Kunkle had used to shoot at Bud?

Not that it really mattered. Most likely, Kunkle's shot had scared the little guy more than it had Bud Izard, Kunkle going on to deep-six the pistol for fear that the next time he pulled the trigger he'd shoot himself.

* * * * *

Chapter 2

There was never a pattern to the work that came Z's way, the Kunkle case an example of how a job could sneak up on you. Not much of a payday, Z had to admit, but a piece of work that had produced a hundred he wouldn't have had if he'd stayed home two days ago like he'd wanted.

As Z headed off for Bud's Tavern that Monday afternoon, driving past the North Kansas City turn-off he'd taken Saturday, Z had little to do but remember how he'd felt just two days ago. Remembered the heat. Remembered his unreasoning fear!

* * * * *

Bob Zapolska -- Big Bob Z to anyone he was likely to meet this Saturday afternoon -- was shaking.

Fear would do that to you.

To add to his troubles, his armpits were sweaty, the heat causing at least some of the moisture -- though 90 degrees wasn't bad for Kansas City on the 5th of August.

This was ridiculous! In the course of his work, he'd been threatened by experts, chopped in the larynx enough times to pound his voice to a whispered purr, and been knocked unconscious. It hadn't been that long ago that he'd picked up a slug in the lung that had nearly finished him, his old body taking longer to heal with each new violation.

By contrast, today's "danger" was nothing compared to the real threats of the P.I. business. All he had to do was pry himself out of his faded blue Cavalier, cross the cracked concrete sidewalk, and enter the park.

Z -- as he called himself -- wondered if he was dressed properly. He'd done his best, putting on his medium blue poplin short-sleeved shirt, the one Susan had given him for his birthday. Also his light-weight black slacks, another present from Susan.

If that didn't get it -- to hell with them!

Now that he'd slid to a gravel-crunching stop in the line of parking spaces flanking Macken Park, the air inside the car was building to the heat of a brick shithouse in July. Through the rolled-down window, he smelled gravel and dirt and tar and bark and old, tired grass, and rusty steel.

Looking to his left, Z saw men and women climbing out of other cars. Old people for the most part. In clothing that could only be called "deliberately casual."

Just inside the park's six-foot chain link fence, was a black asphalt path, farther in and to the left, a rusty jungle gym, three pipe-bars to swing on, each at a different height. Behind one of several white-bark trees with bug-chewed leaves, was a silver-painted swing set, its chain swings with red plastic seats, children in short pants and cut-down shirts either pumping themselves into the hot blue yonder or yelling at harried parents to swing them. Please!

Twenty feet more would get him to the first of several open-sided pavilions, each with rusty, brown-painted steel supports holding up a wood-braced roof, the center one to be today's meeting place.

Beyond the park's people-worn grass were ballfields, one with low bleachers.

Time for Z to go in.

And still he sat as others continued to get out of cars; slam doors; cross the sidewalk to enter the park.

Men. Women. The men dressed any which way, the women in colorful silk skirts and loose, bulge-hiding blouses.

Shorts and shirt people were walk-jogging on the running path, one determined sixty-year-old thumping along heavily as others passed him, his wrinkled upper body a sheen of sweat, his face a pleasant shade of purple. A nearly naked teenager with tiny earphones on his head flashed past on black, in-line skates, skillfully weaving in and out of the walkers, flipping to skate backwards, all the while fiddling with his belt radio.

Far to the right, over the trees, Z could just make out the tops of the buildings of his old school, Northtown High.

A year or two as a high school football star ... and they threw your bare butt out into a kick-ass world.

Damn Susan, anyway!

In the first place, it was Susan's fault he was here at all, in the second, it was her miscalculation that he was here alone. (Not that Susan knew she'd be called in to work today, though Z thought she could have told her boss to stuff it if she'd wanted.)

Susan liked her job at the insurance company. Imagine! A bright, beautiful girl like Susan working for an insurance company!............

Z felt guilty.

He was lucky to have Susan; any way, any time. Gorgeous Susan. Long legs that led right up to heaven; figure of an "enhanced" starlet; full, red lips; tousled black hair shining even in the moonlight. Teeth not too daddy-daughter-sent-to-the-orthodontist straight. Hell, she was even stunning with her clothes on!

Susan Halliwell.

What she saw in an ugly old man like him, he'd never know, face all cracked to hell, eyes the color of lukewarm spit.

She was too good for him on any day he'd ever lived. A class act. Too bright, too stunning to be the girl of a big, dumb fuck like Bob Zapolska!

Z felt another wave of guilt. Z's Mother -- may she rest in peace -- wouldn't approve of Z using language like that, or in this case, thinking language like that. Dead all these years, Z's Mom still had a say in her son's life. All Moms did.

Now, even his hands were sweating!

High school reunions would do that to you.

"You'll never forgive yourself if you don't go to your reunion," Susan said. In bed at the time, Susan had emphasized her words by "gesturing" with her hands. "I remember my first high school reunion," Susan continued, her sexy low voice like the rumble of distant thunder in his ear. "Seeing all my friends. Remembering the good old days."

They'd already discussed why this was Z's first reunion, Z explaining he and the other kids, as a joke, had elected dumb Harry Jenner as class president. Decades was as fast as Harry's brain could arrange a party.

Z's thoughts returning to his oven of a car, Z looked left, then right, to see a number of expensive automobiles parked down the line, luxury vehicles that had to be the "goin'-to-the-reunion" chariots of the successful members of the class.

And there Z sat, in his old Cavalier. Useful for surveillance work, but not for making the "right kind" of reunion-impression.

On the other hand, if no one saw Z slide out of the little blue econo-box, some might think he belonged to the black Mercedes three cars down. Or the British-racing-green Jag after that. Or the cherry red Caddy. Or -- my God! -- the silver Rolls!

Z had already mailed in his fifty bucks -- far from loose change in Z's world -- the money paying for today's catered lunch in the park and this evening's sit-down dinner.

Saying he wasn't going without her when Susan told him she'd been called in to work, she'd called him a coward .....

And that did it!

Even cowards wanting to seem brave.

Now or never, Z popped the door latch and swung the door as wide as it would go, levering his leg out, groaning like he always did when his foot hit the ground.

Bracing his bad knee, keeping it stiff, he eased his two-hundred-twenty pounds out and up.

Grateful for what little breeze there was, Z slammed the tinny door.

Better. He was feeling better for having thought up a strategy. Though Z tried to tell the truth -- part of the Zapolska code he'd made for himself to follow -- a guy didn't have to go overboard in the honesty department, the code allowing him to tell Susan he'd gone to the reunion without saying how long he'd stayed at the party.

To hell with the lunch!

To hell with the dinner!

He'd get in, find a corner to hide in, and get the hell out.

Behind him and to the left, Z heard a heavy crunch of gravel, the smell of disturbed rock-dust coming to him a moment later. Down the line, a black stretch limo was pulling in, followed by a squeal of brakes and a bump as the huge car's tires rammed the cement barricade between the parking and the sidewalk, the car jolted to a stop with a heavy rocking motion.

Hadn't Z seen that ... bus ... before? Something about it ....

Johnny Dosso!

One of the Three Musketeers. At least that's what Z's "gang" had called themselves back in high school.

Big Bob Z. Johnny D. And Teddy Newbold.

Good! Particularly since Z now had the excuse of waiting for John to get out of the "stretch" before Z approached the party.

While waiting ... remembering.

Z had gone to grade school with Johnny, Ted joining as the third musketeer when the three of them went out for football their freshman year. As seniors, they were on the winning Northtown football team: Johnny the quarterback, Ted playing back, and Z where he was needed. In those days, you played both ways, not the sissy platoon football favored by today's pros. You think modern players got tired? Think they got hurt? They ought to try playing both offense and defense!

It was in the Raytown game for the championship that Z hurt his knee. More accurately, had help from the Raytown players in hurting his knee. For Z was the Northtown star. As a back. As a receiver. On defense. The kind of player you took out any way you could -- when you thought you could get away with it.

Those were the glory days, Z less than a year away from a college football scholarship. At least, that was the plan -- about the only plan a poor boy had of going to college -- especially way back then.

It was something other than the Raytown game that reminded Z of the three musketeers, however -- though Northtown had won the championship; Z making the difference, even though he had to be hopped to the sidelines late in the fourth quarter, never to make another play in that -- or any other -- game.

It wasn't football that had united the three of them, but the trouble they almost got into when they were juniors. (Anyone who thought today's kids were dumb and dumber ... didn't know much about yesterday's kids.)

What made them the Musketeers -- all for one; one for all -- was that day after football practice in the fall of their junior year. Giddy-tired, they were helling around the Northland in Ted's old car, looking for girls, wishing they could get a beer without running the risk of being caught breaking training.

It had been so long ago Z couldn't remember whose idea it was; to fake a murder as a way of scaring someone on the street.

To simulate a killing, of course, they needed a gun -- which should have been the end of that stupid idea. And would have, if any kid but Johnny Dosso had been involved.

As it was, it hadn't taken Johnny five minutes to go into his expensive house on Enrico and return with a revolver, the gun's silencer having a lot to say about Johnny's family.

Laughing like fools, they'd driven to the seedy part of the northern Kansas City suburb of Riverside, arriving just before dark, soon finding what they were looking for: a family sitting on the front porch of a house near the road, taking the air like folks did who couldn't afford air conditioning.

As Z remembered, John and Ted had made up the plan while Z drove, the three of them passing the family to stop a half-block farther on to let Teddy out.

Z then turned the car around to wait while Ted walked back down the block toward the family on the stoop.

Ted drawing abreast of the family, Z had come roaring back, screeching to a stop opposite Ted, Johnny sticking the gun out the window and firing.

As planned, Ted crumpled to the sidewalk, Johnny scrambling out of the car to drag Ted's "body" into the back seat, Johnny jumping in the car, Z peeling out of there.

A block later, Ted making a miraculous recovery, the three of them drove off laughing fit to kill at having scared the pee out of the people on the porch.

Good, clean, old-timey, stupid fun. To be replaced -- the world going steadily into the shitter -- by today's drive-by shootings.

Nothing like an "almost" crime to bind the old "gang" together ... just dumb white boys, playing hit man in the "hood."

Funny, how the three of them turned out. Ted with the cops. Johnny with the robbers. Z ... somewhere in between?

The past relived (wasn't that what reunions were for?,) Z was still waiting for Johnny Dosso -- if that's whose car it was -- the man in the limo still inside.

Maybe it wasn't John after all; maybe it was a successful lawyer, coming back to lord it over guys like Z; probably screwing a teeny-bopper to get himself in the mood to bugger the rest of them.

Damn, Z wished Susan was on his arm! With something that juicy standing next to him, he could face them all!

No help for it. Z would have to go it alone.

Pivoting on his good leg, careful to avoid limping on the bad one, Z stepped over the curb and crossed the parking to the uneven sidewalk, there to step through one of the entrances to the park.

Crossing the jogging track, veering left on the park's patchy grass, Z found himself in the company of older folks, the others headed in the same direction, the men balding, the women fixed-up, but with wrinkled faces.

It was another ten yards before Z realized these other people were headed straight for the open-sided pavilion in the center of the park. His own destination.

My God!

These faded people around him were his classmates at Northtown High!

Z was suddenly embarrassed. Embarrassed to be a witness to the decline of these ... others.

Z, himself, had grizzled gray hair, sure, but at least had a full head of it. He also had lines in his face. Had to admit that. But couldn't look as ... bad ... as these unrecognizable others.

Trying his best not to limp over the people-scarred grass, Z (and five or six others) entered the open-sided pavilion to wander through the press of summer-clothed, tag-wearing men and women, Z knowing none of them.

At least Z seemed to be dressed right for the occasion: few of the others in clothes more formal than his. The women were mostly wearing lumpy-leg-concealing slacks; the men in their "goin' to the Royals' game" garb.

Looking for a familiar face, Z saw a portable table set up at the center of the long house, a man and woman seated behind it, paper name tags laid out on the table's surface. Beyond the sign-in pair was a trestle board covered with white butcher's paper, the far end spread with cheap, white paper plates, stacks of foam cups, and white plastic tableware. The rest of the table's surface was crowded with crock pots, bowls, shallow metal pans, chip packages, and beverage dispensers, folks already in the food line.

But first things first.

Shuffling to the center table, waiting his turn while a faded pair of oldsters got their name tags, Z stepped up, the neatly dressed man seated behind the table beaming up at him; Z getting a shocked stare from the woman. (Always the female reaction to big and ugly.) The man wore brown slacks and a tan shirt, the woman -- a stupid expression.

"Bob Zapolska."

"Bob ...," the man began, starting to paw through what was left of the stick-on name tags, the tags on the table in alphabetical order.

Suddenly, the man looked up at Z again. Squinted.

"Bob Zapolska? Big Bob Z?" The man's voice rising in pitch and volume, others turned to see what was wrong. "Hey, everybody," the man announced. "It's Bob Z!"

Turning to Z, the man said, in a lowered voice that begged for absolution, "I never played football, so you wouldn't know me. My name's Harry Jenner. This is the wife."

Z nodded to the woman, a clown face of cosmetics.

By the time the happily smiling little man had handed Z the proper tag, other men had crowded around.

"Remember me?" said a big-boned, completely bald giant in out-sized jeans and orange tank top, the man a head taller than Z's six-foot-plus.

There was something familiar about the man's heavy face, but ....

It was then that Z remembered the tags, a tactful glance at the man's thick chest solving Z's problem.

"Otto Warner," Z mumbled, shaking hands with the colossus.

"Your left tackle," the man boomed, grinning. "We gave 'em hell our senior year, didn't we? I laid 'em out, and you ran all over 'em." Otto had already been at the beer. Just like the old days.

"Hey, Z!" said another larger than life hulk, this one with a fringe of white hair at the edges of his dark-spotted scalp. Below, the man had a gut big enough to jam a doorway. "Larry Holt. Center." The fat man laughed, his belly jiggling. "Don't look so embarrassed, Z. I didn't recognize you, either."

Didn't recognize ....? Z hadn't changed that much. He'd gained a little weight; but a lot less than Larry. An extra inch or two on the waist was to be expected with the passing years, Z gaining ... maybe ... thirty pounds. And Z had his hair, still clipped short like he wore it in high school.

"Hi, Big Bob, remember me?" said a short woman with painted-blond hair. Younger looking than the rest, she was shoe-horned into a red, size-12 miniskirt. "Angie. Angie Roberts."

Angie Roberts.

Every high school boy's wet dream.

Angie Roberts, cheerleader.

Swing and sway the Angie way, they all yelled when Angie took the field.

Z managed a smile. Hoped, for Angie's sake, she'd take it as lustful as in the old days.

"Remember our special cheer?" she said, snapping her orthopedic shoes together, fists ready to punch the air. "End! Center! Tackle! Guard! Hit 'em! Hit 'em! Hit 'em! Hard!"

Horrible!

Z knew it would be bad, but ....

"Over here, Z!"

At last, someone Z recognized! Teddy Newbold. Dressed in a blue and green and gold ... and black and pink ... flowered shirt, over black and white, zebra-patterned pants.

Nodding to his former fans, Z murmured his way through the knot of people who'd gathered around him, managing, as he did so, to "lose" his name tag in a wastepaper drum on the way to the "goodies" table, arriving to find Ted nearly through the food line, Ted's never-popular wife beside him, the woman's personality revealed in her selection of apparel: unrelenting black.

Though Z wasn't hungry, he got a plate and speared himself a couple of melon pieces and two small wieners-in-barbecue-sauce, the latter rescued from a dangerous-looking crock pot.

A can of coke from an ice-filled plastic cooler, and Z was ready to follow Ted to one of the aluminum-and-steel park benches under the shelter's wood canopy.

Ted looked the same, at least. Of course, Z had seen Ted from time to time over a lot of years. Like the others, Ted had put on weight, most of it in the fatty inner tube he carried around his middle. As for the rest of him, Ted, like his mind, was nondescript. Suspiciously brown hair, brown eyes, brown skin, brown ... teeth.

Ted's triangular-faced wife was younger. Thin as an assassin's dagger, she had all the warmth of a sack of broken glass.

They'd had Z over to dinner a couple of years ago; Z had taken them to a restaurant as payback; both meals filed under "enough's enough."

Ted and his wife began eating, Ted shoveling in a wide variety of items Z hadn't even seen on the food table: potato salad, bread slices, spaghetti with meatballs, pasta salad, fried chicken legs. Ted's wife was taking tiny bites of a forked-through wiener -- the very image of a praying mantis delicately dissecting an impaled bug.

Practically everyone arrived, the party was settling down to a conversational buzz, people splitting off in the same cliques they'd formed in high school.

There were the "circulaters," of course, men dressed in tailored, tasteful summer suits and handmade shoes. Dropping by table after table to say a pleasant word about how well they'd done in life. A couple of doctors, one retired in the Bahamas. Several lawyers. All worth millions, to hear them tell it. Asking polite questions about Ted's and Z's occupations in the pretense of showing concern for the welfare of the less fortunate.

"Outrageous," said Ted's wife, a celery stick grasped in the pinchers of her short, front legs, the woman chewing steadily with her powerful mandibles.

"Wot?" Ted asked, his mouth full of sliced turkey sandwich.

"What we had to pay for this." She nodded sullenly at her plate. "Get better stuff at Shoney's salad bar -- at a cafeteria, for Christ's sake."

It always hurt Z to hear a woman swear. His Mother's influence.

"The fifty bucks also pays for the dinner!" Ted -- defending the honor of his class.

Never what could be called a tower of intellect, Teddy could be loyal ... provided it didn't cost him.

"Rubber wieners," the woman said scornfully.

"Wha' 'bout 'em?" Ted asked, chewing fast, swallowing. "What you want, caviar? It ain't ... isn't ... that kind of party."

"As if we get invited to that kind of party."

"What?"

"A caviar party, is what. We're not exactly on the A-list in Gladstone."

"There isn't no A-list in Gladstone," Ted said with some dignity.

"We're on the shit list."

"That's not true."

"Because of your job."

"What's wrong with my job?"

"You get no respect is what."

"What you mean I got no respect?"

"A crummy cop."

"What you mean, a crummy cop?"

"Crummy."

"Not a cop, neither. A detective."

"Same as!"

"Is not!"

As for Ted being a detective, Z was the one to blame for that, Teddy unable to "detect" his dick with his fly unzipped. It was Z who'd passed Ted enough tips to cause Ted to advance, Teddy sometimes favoring Z with information only the cops could get.

It was then that Z was aware of someone behind him, hovering, a situation Z tried to avoid by sitting with his back to a wall -- when possible

Carefully, Z turned. Saw ... Bud Izard ... Z recognizing Bud because Z had recently been in Bud's Tavern on Oak. Z wasn't much of a drinker, but had been feeling down that day.

Back in high school, Bud had been the senior right tackle when Z was a junior. Since then -- like so many here -- Bud's impressive muscles had sunk to the bottom of a tub of lard.

Like other big men Z had known, Bud was quiet, almost shy, as if apologetic for taking up so much of the world's space.

"Hey Bud," Ted said, Ted also getting a drink at Bud's from time to time.

"Teddy."

"Join us, boy. The more the merrier." With a wife like Ted's, "the more the merrier" made a lot of sense.

"Can't."

"Can't? Where you goin' in such a rush? The party's just started."

"Got to get back to the business."

Bud was dressed as Z had seen him at the tavern: black slacks, white shirt, black "bolo" tie with a turquoise and Indian-silver clip.

"What about your counter man?" Ted shrugged, at the same time managing to stab a slice of barbecued beef into his mouth, a dribble of sauce dripping down to be forever lost in the jungle of Ted's shirt.

"Sick," Bud said. "Got to clean up before I open."

"Yeah. Tough. See you at the dinner tonight?"

"Maybe," Bud said uncertainly.

After that, Bud just stood behind Z, swaying, shifting his massive weight from one foot to the other. "Actually," Bud began again, looking pained, "I need ta talk ta Z."

Seeing that the big man was serious, Z nodded; scooted painfully to the end of the bench seat; swung his legs out; stood up.

Good old Bud to the rescue, was what he was thinking!

Z taking the lead, they headed for the nearest way out of the steel and wooden "tent," soon on the mostly bare ground beyond.

Sprung from the trap of auld lang syne, Z took a calming breath. Smelled: flat beer, rotted banana skins, stale cheese puffs, cigarette smoke, urine of dogs and kids, hamburger, sunburned skin, dust, bruised grass, baked beans, old catsup, plastic plates, strawberry pop ....... After losing his sense of smell for a time as a teenager, Z like to smell ... everything.

Away from the crowded pavilion, they lost themselves in the park's other "doings": teenagers throwing frisbees, dads rattling charcoal into braziers, bare-topped little kids running, falling down, wrestling, throwing dirt.

Finally within the sheltering privacy of complete strangers, the two of them sat on a blue, fiberglass bench.

"First, a question," Z said, picking up on something "detective" Ted should have noticed, but didn't -- no surprise there. "You're a year ahead of me. So, how come you're at this reunion?"

Bud nodded soberly. "Heard talk of it at the bar. I came, hoping to find you here."

"So?"

"I got a problem, Z." Bud's voice as soft as the rest of him.

"Yeah?"

"Want to hire you."

Z nodded.

"I don't know how much you charge, or when I can pay. Things are a little short right now. You know how it is."

Looking over, Z noticed that Bud had his big fists clenched into boxing gloves.

Z nodded again.

"The problem is," Bud continued, going slow, "I got a maniac on my trail."

"Maniac?"

"Yeah."

From his back pocket, the gentle giant extracted what looked like a playing card, handing the card to Z.

Z took it. Looked at it.

Bicycle style.

Worn.

Turning the card over, Z saw it was the queen of spades.

Z handed the card back, Bud returning it to his hip pocket.

"I know it don't look like much," Bud said, begging Z's pardon with a sickly grin, "but that's the death card."

Ah! Hocus-pocus. Explaining why Bud Izard sought Z's advice.

Z could do nothing but regret the day he'd taken on the "ghost light" case at Bateman college in the nearby town of Liberty. Since then, all he seemed to get was "paranormal" work, receiving calls from respectable people and cranks alike. You got a reputation and ....

The occult was Jamie Stewart's line -- Jamie, the girl "ghost hunter" Z was paired up with on his last major case.

Every time Z thought of frolicsome Jamie Stewart, he felt like blushing; would have, if he were the blushing kind. They'd been on a job together, Jamie hunting the source of a "ghost light," Z hired as her muscle. They'd spent a lot of nights in this abandoned house; just the two of them.

Predictably, with Jamie's sexual appetites ....

Fun, but dangerous, Susan the kind of woman to make a "ghost" of Z if she caught him cheating.

Not that Z's playing house with Jamie was his fault -- it wasn't. Given the intimate situation, any man would have ....

Females!

Why they couldn't figure out that sex had nothing to do with love, Z didn't know. Even bright women, like Susan.

There was Paula, for instance, Z's ex. ....

But that was going far afield with Bud there beside him, a hang-dog expression on the big man's, little boy face.

"So?" Z had to learn more.

"It was like this." Bud looked all around to make sure no one was listening, like men did when they were about to embarrass themselves. "At the tavern a couple of weeks ago, this beautiful young girl came in. Blond. Big tits. But not showing them off more than what was tasteful. Friendly, you know?

"Had to be a hooker, but with class. Real class, you know?"

Z nodded. "Had legs on her like they was goin' out of style, what I could see of 'em from behind the bar. She had them crossed, you see. Short skirt slit up to China." Z nodded. B-girl. Had to be. "I was paying her the kind of attention a girl like that deserves."

In spite of himself, Bud smiled, a grin the size of coal lumps on the biggest snowman in the world. "And -- don't laugh -- she was comin' on to me, too."

Far from being surprised, Z was thinking that's what working girls did. Work.

"So I was gettin' all heated up like I hadn't been in years. I'm gettin' older. We all are. Not so easy to get it up as it was when we were kids." Z hoped Bud didn't think he was speaking for everyone their age! "So I hardly noticed this other guy that come in to sit at the bar. But then, I did. 'Cause he began tryin' to get the girl's attention, too."

"Joy-girl have a name?"

"Yeah. Her name was Carrara Marble. Beautiful, ain't it."

Z nodded. Maybe the girl did have a sort of class. After all, "Carrara" was the expensive kind of marble Michelangelo used for his important sculptures.

Back before Z and Susan were officially dating, Susan had gotten Z to go to Kansas City's Nelson Art Gallery. (This was after Z took a slug in the lung from Susan's crazy ex, the bullet putting Z in the hospital -- and almost in the ground.)

To recover, he'd had to walk a lot. Slowly.

What better place to walk out of the weather than the art gallery, a grateful Susan suggested. You try to walk slowly in a mall and health-chasing grandmas ran you down.

Z hadn't known anything about art at the time, but with Susan beside him to explain what he was seeing, had learned. More than learned; had come to love the gallery.

The silent, beautiful rooms.

The antique armor.

The Greek lion in the Ancient History room.

Particularly, the Monet.

Back to the present.

Called herself Carrara Marble, did she? Maybe the chippy was as classy as Bud Izard said, the kind of hundred-dollar hooker that those "in the life" called a racehorse.

"Well," Bud continued, swallowing hard, "she don't give the other man the time of day, see? And I could tell he was gettin' mad.

"Now, he's a little guy, so I don't expect no trouble." Bud stopped suddenly. Looked at Z. Hard. "But maybe you know him? He was in your class." Bud looked back at the party shed. "He's not here today, the little bastard. I was careful to look. Name of Howard Kunkle?"

Z shook his head. With four-hundred students in his graduating class ...?

"So pretty soon," Bud continued, "this Kunkle leaves. And to tell the truth, the girl leaves shortly after. She was just waitin'. Had a rich trick in the neighborhood, would be my guess. So I got to admit it. Maybe she wasn't coming on to me as much as I figured. Was just being nice, you know? You don't expect that from a whore. Just being nice for nothing." Bud paused again, thinking.

"So I figured that was the end of it. But then this Kunkle guy comes back in the tavern. And he's pissed. Claims I stole his girl. First thing I know, he's whipped out this card. And he gives it to me. Says it's a death card. That it means I'm goin' to die." Bud was shaking his massive head.

"I laughed it off. Told him to sober up. And again, didn't think nothing more about it 'till he took a shot at me after I locked up last night. Oh, it was him alright. I saw him. Across the street. The same little guy. By this time, he's running. But he took a shot at me. It was him."

Pretty poor shot, Z was thinking, to miss a target, broad as Bud. On the other hand, most people couldn't hit an elephant with a handgun. Z couldn't, that only one of the reasons he never carried a piece.

"Report it to the cops?

Stupid question, said Bud's look.

"What you want me to do?" Z asked, at the same time nodding his agreement about the helplessness of cops in such a case. Now if Kunkle had murdered Bud ....

"I don't know," Bud admitted. "But could you do something?"

"Cost a hundred."

"Like I said, I don't know when I can pay. If you was a drinker, you could take it out in trade ... except you're not. But I'm good for it. You know that."

"Got an address?

"What? ... Oh, I see. Yeah."

Unbuttoning the pointed, fold-down flap on his western-style shirt pocket, Bud fingered out a slip of paper. "I had my bar man look it up." Bud gave the scrap a nearsighted stare. "Thought you might want it. He lives at 1761 Jarbo."

"I'll have a talk with him."

"I don't know if that would do any good, Z," Bud said quickly, far from convinced. "I think he's crazy. I tried to run him off and it don't do no good. And I'm a big guy. If he doesn't scare when I give him the bum's rush, how's a talk from you going to help?"

An understandable concern on Bud's part, since Bud didn't know how effective Z's "talks" could be.

"My problem."

"Yeah. That's your rep around the neighborhood. Good ol' Z. Takes good care of his friends."

The deal struck, Bud rocked his weight forward. Then back. Then forward, finally gaining enough momentum to stand.

Z got up, too.

"Well. I'll be goin', then. But one more thing. When you plannin' to see this guy?" Bud was pleading now. Rare in a man that big. "I got to know."

"Tomorrow."

"You got a time in mind?"

"Midnight."

"Good. How you goin' to get in? ... But that's what you're good at. Being a P.I. and all. That's your business. I don't mean to pry."

"Yeah."

"Tomorrow night. At midnight." Bud nodded to himself. "I don't mind admittin' I'll rest easier after you fix this guy.

"So ... I'm goin'. Thanks, Z. You were my hero back in high school. Hell, everybody's hero. I was all broke up when those bastards fixed your knee. I was out of school by then, but I come back to see you play in the Raytown game. Hell, I come back to see you play in all your games. You was somethin' to watch, believe me. If only you could have been in the stands and seen yourself. A streak of light. And power, too. They don't teach that. It's natural. You got it or you don't."

"Yeah."

"So, I'm going."

And ... he went.

And that was that.

Except it wasn't.

Z's talk with Bud springing Z from the party, Z let Bud get a head start for the parking area, then followed slowly, careful to avoid dog-dug holes that might twist his knee.

Across the asphalt jogging strip, through the fence, over the parking and off the curb, Z headed for his car, thinking about the bake-job he was in for in the sun-fried oven of the Cavalier. Roast Z, basted in his own sweat.

The car had air conditioning at one time ... no way Z could get it fixed this summer.

At the car, ready to open the door, Z noticed that the black stretch Lincoln was still down the line, its tail end sticking out almost to the street.

Just something about that car that reminded him of Johnny Dosso's monster-of-a-machine. Same kind of black Lincoln. Something about the way the sun slanted off the car's side windows. A "dense" look to it.

And that was it!

John had bulletproof glass in his car, in John's world, a necessary precaution. Extra thick glass did funny things to light. Hard to explain.

Convinced the car did belong to Johnny Dosso (the "shooter" of the Three Musketeers,) Z didn't see how he could have missed John at the party. Though their infrequent talks were mostly on the phone, Z had seen John now and again.

Raising the question, could John still be in the car?

Unlikely, but ....

Johnny had been of help to Z; gotten Z hard-to-get items like fake identity cards and dynamite fuse. Unfortunately, there was little Z could do for John in return, except be a friend.

Deciding he'd better check, Z walked along the parking strip, more certain as he approached that it was John's car.

Detouring around the back of the limo, the car's engine idling, Z came up on the other side to bend down and look through the inch-thick driver's side window -- seeing someone slumped behind the wheel.

John.

Was John sick? ........

My God! Carbon monoxide!

Frantically, Z tried the door! .... Locked.

Pounding on the thick window with no effect, Z bent over again, shading his eyes with his hands to look through the darkened glass ... to find himself staring into the barrel of a gun!

Startled, Z pulled back; saw the black-tinted glass whisper down; felt the cold, inside air spill out.

"It's the Z-man! How are ya, Z-man?" Johnny was drunk. "Didn't mean to scare you," Johnny continued in his unnaturally high voice, reaching under his hand-tailored summer-weight coat to fumble the gun into its shoulder holster.

"Come on in." John waved at the other side of the car. "Too damn hot out there. Got it cranked down to zero in here. Come on in and have a drink."

Drunken friends to be humored, Z walked around the back of the car; opened the heavy passenger door; backed into the sofa-soft black leather seat, and dragged his bad leg inside.

Swallowed in the cave-like luxury of the custom Lincoln, Z tugged on the silk-handled door pull, the door closing with the "thunk" of a tank turret.

It was cold inside.

The car smelled like new leather and Old Crow, a capped pint between them on the seat.

"Forgot. Forgot you don' drink, Z-man." John was slurring his words. "Cause of your sainted Mama."

Picking up the whiskey bottle, twisting off the cap with a practiced motion, John took a long pull. "Nev'r be too 'shamed to drink right out'a the bottle, my old man used to say. Better 'an breaking off the neck on the edge of the bar, booze and glass all over." Johnny looked over at Z, John's eyes glazed. "He use'a do that, you know that? Even after he got rich. So's he don't get too high-falutin' was his excuse."

"Yeah."

"You been ta the reunion?" Drunk, John changed subjects like a jukebox flipping records.

"Some."

"I'm goin', soon as I get myself 'nother nip." John uncapped the bottle again. Took a drag. Replaced the cap. "See anybody you know?"

"Ted."

"Be jus' like him to come to a shindig like this. Show off his tin badge. He was always a dumb ass. It's just that bein' a dumb ass don't show as much in high school."

They sat there for awhile, John taking sips of booze.

John looked ... old ... his face a map of Bermuda-tanned lines, his substantial nose more hooked than Z remembered. Johnny was wearing a monogrammed, white silk shirt with diamond cufflinks. White wool pants. Italian shoes.

"I can't go," Johnny said at last, more to himself than to Z. "Can't go."

Z glanced over to see tears running down John's cheeks.

Johnny always felt things more than other people, as a child, cried more than anyone when he fell and hurt himself, laughed too loud and too long.

Why did kids have to grow up?

"You know me, Z. ... I'm not a bad guy. Hell, I'm no wors' 'an most. I'm in the entertainment business. Just like Worlds of Fun." John giggled at that thought. Took a wet wheeze of breath. "Only I'm in the adult entertainment business while they're doin' children."

Johnny Dosso frowned. Looked mean. "I can buy and sell 'em. The whole damn lot of 'em!" He shook his head. Was dizzy. Recovered. "Fuck 'em! They all used to cheer me when I was quarterbackin' the team. Even if it was you that made the scores. It was me got you the ball."

Johnny seemed to soften again, the liquor ruddering him one way, then the other. "I know I didn't throw so hot. I know it was you with your fuckin' fine hands that made me look good." John shook his head to clear it. "They don't understand. I had ta go into the business. Didn't have a choice.

"My son ...." The tears were flowing again.

John was thinking of the son who'd killed himself over ten years ago. Z had gone to the funeral; big Catholic brouhaha with not a word about a hell-bound sin like suicide. Gun accident, everybody said. Priests, as well.

As for John's wife, also at the burial, the two of them had been estranged for years, John's string of hookers having a lot do with the bust-up. Like any good salesman, John used the merchandise he peddled.

"Well," Johnny said, wiping his hands quickly across his eyes, brushing away the tears, "piss on 'em all. Piss on the kids whose families pushed 'em into bein' doctors. And fuckin' lawyers." John made an obscene gesture. "The girls at Northtown? All bitches. All of 'em. Pretending to be virgins, so some rich bastard'ed marry 'em. That don't make 'em nothin' but whores. The cunts." John laughed. "Had my share of 'em in high school. Same ones as wouldn't spit on me today."

John had pulled himself together. Why he'd come to the reunion at all, Z couldn't guess; maybe to remind himself of the friends he used to have; maybe to recapture long lost innocence.

"Been good talking to you, Z, but I got to go."

Dismissed, Z tripped the catch, pushing back the massive door to ease himself into the August oven.

Nothing else to be said, he shut the door. Again, the heavy thunk.

Z clear, John jerked the car into reverse, the limo's tires slipping, twin clouds of rock dust shooting under the car as it swerved into the street. Wheels cranked the other way, John revved the Lincoln's powerful engine, then jumped the car into gear to squeal off down Howell, turning left to careen along 32nd, headed for North Oak.

All of this happening a long two days ago: a "reunion experience" Z would never subject himself to again -- though he hoped Bud would be pleased with the result.

* * * * *

Chapter 3

Though business types drank wine with lunch in fancy restaurants, Bud's didn't open until 4:00, Gladstone's lowlife tanking up later in the day.

Bud's Tavern was located near a ramshackle of empty warehouses along the Missouri river, north of the ASB bridge, Z arriving a little after happy hour.

Leaving the Cavalier, he crossed the cracked concrete walk to the tavern's paint-flaked door.

Hesitating before going in, Z turned back to check on the Cavalier (the car hunkered down to seem not-worth-stealing,) then looked up to admire the rusty, rivet-angled superstructure of the ASB, the old bridge no longer carrying cars but still transporting trains. The ancient span's auto lanes had been recently torn down a viaduct replacing them: the substitute, another soulless concrete road that accidentally crossed a river.

Turning with a sigh, tugging open the tavern's door (the door solid enough to keep in the riffraff,) Z paused to let the stale smell of hops and malt leak out. (Some beer joints like this had taken to calling themselves "Drinking Establishments," Z speculating that the difference between "joint" and "establishment" was about a buck a bottle.)

Bud's was the sort of place where a person in a clean, checkered work shirt and steel-toed boots was overdressed; would have looked that way if the light inside was better, Bud keeping the wattage low to shield the regulars from the reflection of their red-veined noses in the mirrored glass behind the bar.

Dim light also helped to hide the roaches.

As it did in fancy restaurants.

Stepping inside, closing the door, waiting to let his eyes adjust to the gloom and his nose to the sour smell, Z made out Bud's barman, Olin Brainbridge, sloshing beer for two retirees. Further down the bar was a scraggly haired man in a well-greased baseball cap; a guy who might have been taken for a muffler welder if he'd been a little cleaner.

Behind the bar was a black-and-white TV. Tuned to the sports channel, what else? Volume kept low so as not to disturb the dedicated drunk.

Figuring Bud might not like his business spilled out on the bar, Z sat down at one of the round tables that huddled near the "cocktail lounge's" dilapidated pool table.

Seeing Z enter, Olin Brainbridge finished "gassing up" the regulars and headed toward Z's table.

Arriving, Olin paused to sneeze; after blowing his nose on his wipe rag, grinned his apology.

Z remembered Bud had said his counter man was sick.

"Bud here?" Z asked.

"He's in back."

From the look of the tavern's "action," Bud was keeping out of sight for reasons other than to count the day's receipts. "Get ya something?"

"No."

"A man don't normally take up a seat, less he has a drink." Not said to be unfriendly, Olin just making the constant conversation of the dedicated barkeep. Z wondering if barmen kept yammering in their sleep.

"What's on tap?"

"Got Old Milwaukee."

"OK."

Olin smiled at making a sale. "Ain't I seen you in here once or twice? You that friend of Bud's he's been talking about? Old high school buddy?"

Z nodded.

"You want me to get Bud for you?"

Z nodded again.

"You fellows OK down there?" Olin called, turning.

All three drunks happy for the moment, Olin sauntered to the bar, slipping behind and along it to disappear through curtains at the counter's other end.

Abruptly, curtains billowing, Bud burst out of the back room, Olin trailing him, Bud heading for Z's table.

Big grin on Bud's face.

Reaching the table, Z waved Bud to sit, Bud showing confidence in the sturdiness of his chairs by thumping down on one.

The fat man safely seated, Z's nod said everything Z had to say.

"You did it, boy!" Reaching across the small table, Bud wrung Z's hand.

There was something ... odd ... about Bud's manner, about his tone of voice (other than that the sound was too high for the size of the big man's body.)

"I knew I could count on you," Bud enthused.

Sweating.

Whatever Bud had been doing in the back had made him sweat, Z putting his hand below the table to wipe off Bud's damp shake.

"What I'm saying," Bud said more quietly, Z's look chilling the big man's enthusiasm, "is I don't know a thing about what you did. You get my meaning? But that I'm grateful." Bud lowered his voice even more. "And you got my promise that this stops with me. I'll never tell if you don't." This time said with a grimace and a nervous chuckle.

"Yeah."

"Good to know he'll never bother me again, though."

Z nodded.

"That's fine. That's just fine. I owe you." Bud looked up, then all around. "And I'm going to pay up now so we can both forget this. Forget all about it, isn't that right, Z? No sense bringing it up again. Am I right?"

"Yeah."

"Good ol' Z. Best damn footballer ever. And best damn friend a man ever had. I can't tell you what this means to me, Z. I told you, I wasn't sleepin'. Now, I can get a good night's rest. Have to have that, running the bar all night. All night until closing, is what I mean."

"Yeah."

"This old place's my whole life," Bud said, looking around like a child grins at a toy. "I couldn't do no better, 'cause I never learned, much, how to read. You know that? The letters all go wiggly on me when I try."

"Dyslexia."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Don't own a TV," Bud rushed on, expecting Z to be amazed.

Z pointed to the TV behind the bar.

"Don't own one at home, that is. Don't even watch the bar's TV cause it's locked on the sports channel. Don't like sports no more, now that I can't play myself. No siree. This joint's my life, for sure. Got all my happiness wrapped up right here. Not your usual day job. I been asleep all day. Just got up, in fact."

For being so happy, there was still a lot of "sad" clinging to Bud Izard. Of course, Bud had a mountain of meat for sadness to cling to. Though you always heard that fat people were jolly, Z had never seen one yet, who was. A fat man would pretend to be happy-go-lucky, sure, but that didn't make it so. It was probably the same for fat women, though Z didn't pretend to know much about women, fat or thin.

"But what am I runnin' off at the mouth so much for?" Bud said, starting up again. "You said a hundred? Am I right? And I said you'd have to wait. But I just wouldn't feel right making one of my best friends in all the world wait for his money. Nosiree. I got the money right here."

Proving he was heeled, Bud bent forward to pull a folded-over stack of greenbacks from his back pocket.

Z wondered if Bud kept the money on him for fear of a stick-up, figuring a hood would go after the cash drawer in the register.

All in all, Z was glad he didn't have Bud's job. Too many fights. Too much chance of a drug-crazed kid gutting you.

Meanwhile, Bud had unfolded his wad and started to count.

"No charge."

"That's crazy!" Bud protested, waving a hand so huge it made a breeze. "I got the money now. Hell, I was going to make it two hundred. A man's got to take care of his friends. Easy come, easy go, I always say."

Z shook his head in such a way that Bud stopped counting.

"Well, hell, Z. I owe you a favor, then. Matter of fact, if its' action you're looking for, you come to the right place."

"Got a girl."

"I know that. Hell, I know that. I wasn't talking about that kind of action. I meant, if you was interested in a game of skill, I got a room at the back for that. You'd make a fourth. I guess now, a third." Bud winked, at the same time leaning to one side to reach behind him and stuff the bills in his wallet pocket. "I'm too far from the river to get me a license to be a gambling casino, but I do all right."

Z shook his head.

"Nothing I can do for you?" Z shook his head again. "If there ever is, you just come to see old Bud Izard. You got a friend in this establishment, you can bank on that."

Another sweaty handshake, and Bud Izard launched himself to his feet, the big man thumping off toward the bar, going behind it to enter the back room again.

Never wanting the beer Olin Brainbridge had forgotten to bring him, Z got up and pushed his way out the door into the dazzling sun.

* * * * *

The next day -- no rush to get to his two-holer of an office in the Ludlow building on Chouteau -- Z got up at 9:00.

Dressed in his usual slacks and shirt, he shuffled into his living room to turn on the twin air conditioners he'd installed to either side of the front (side) door.

Cold air blasting, Z was shocked to realize his living room was even smaller that Kunkle's.

On the other hand, you didn't expect apartments to be as big as houses.

Reaching the circular metal firebox Z had situated in the archway between the living room and the kitchenette, Z paused to admire his work. Hidden compartment underneath. Black metal pipe rising to penetrate the ceiling and the tar paper roof outside.

Bending down to the "fuel box," Z layered in paper and split oak. Reaching down again to get the jar of kerosene, he splashed some coal oil in the round fireplace, touching off the flammable mixture with his lighter.

Z was an old hand at making fires; had been doing that -- one way or the other -- since he was a boy. Loved to see flames dancing up! Loved the smell of burning oak.

The air conditioners and fire neutralizing each other, Z opened the door between the chugging coolers to step out into the heat, taking the path to the front where he picked up his Star, the paper one of three thrown each day to the building's renters.

Returning to the apartment, he put the paper on the table and went into the kitchenette to fix himself his usual breakfast: a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a Diet Coke chaser.

Bringing the paper plate of food to the shaky table, sitting, Z picked up the newspaper, stripping off the plastic wrapper.

First taking a bite of sandwich, he unfolded the Star and scanned the headlines, wondering how he'd solve the world's problems outlined there. Decided he'd do as well as the politicians. Which didn't say much.

A swig of Coke and another bite took him to the back page, where he was more likely to encounter Gladstone news.

Saw a piece about river boat gambling in Riverside.

Ah! That was what Bud Izard meant about his tavern being too far from the river to qualify for a gambling license -- making the point about it being unfair to let river boats have gambling, but not places on shore, a restriction that didn't make a lot of sense to Z, either.

Z turned the page.

Bizarre Murder North of the River

Killings were so common anymore, it hardly made an impact to read about them. Always the same. Kids, killing kids over drugs, over tennis shoes. It hadn't been that way when Z was young. What was common then, was fights, two guys getting into it over a girl, or punch outs after drunks got liquored up on Friday nights. And, of course, there was the once-a-year brawl under the stands after the big game.

Now, it was normal for teenage quarrels to end in death.

Why?

Guns.

In Z's day, nobody got killed cause all you got hit with was somebody's fist.

It was guns that did the killing. Without them, kids would go back to the fun of beating on each other -- like kids should.

Fortunately, murders north-of-the-river were more rare, the Northland a backward place where "Everything wasn't up-to-date in Kansas City."

Straightening out the paper, leaning forward, then backward to find the right distance for him to see the paper's increasingly small print, Z began to read:

Police report that on the night of August 6th, a murder was committed North of the River. Operating on a tip, Gladstone police were dispatched to the scene, a house on Jarbo, officers finding the dead man in his living room. While details are not yet available, it was learned that the murdered man had been smothered .....

On Jarbo ..................

Z was sweating.

Smothered?

How?

Z did a quick run-through of the events of night-before-last, careful to review the precautions he'd made to keep things from getting out of hand.

Smothered?

Impossible!

Sure, Z had taped the poor man's mouth, thereby closing off one way to breathe. And the melting wax from the candles were supposed to cover Howard Kunkle's head. But how that little bit of wax could have closed Kunkle's nose ....?

Anyway, Kunkle could have snorted out any wax threatening to seal up his breathing.

Couldn't he?

Unless the little man had a problem to begin with.

Like asthma.

Was it possible Howard Kunkle suffered from asthma attacks. That he used an inhaler. That tied up as he was ....?

Z didn't see how. Z had searched the house, after all. If Kunkle had asthma, there would have been some evidence of it -- an inhaler right there by his bedside, for instance.

Shutting his eyes, Z pictured the narrow bedroom again. .....

No medication of any sort.

The same could be said of the bathroom. Z had left the potty room PDQ, but had seen all there was to see.

Returning Z to the question of how too little wax had choked a healthy man to death. ......

His mind slipping sidewards to avoid the obvious, Z tried to comfort himself with the fact that Howard Kunkle had brought this trouble on himself by taking a shot at Bud Izard, Howard Kunkle's death in the same category as what the cops called a "righteous shoot," -- cop talk for someone who had it coming.

Still ....

Z's hands twitching, Z locked his fingers together.

Could the police -- more likely, the Star's reporter -- have been mistaken about how Kunkle died? Might it even be that Kunkle had a heart condition?

No heart medicine in the place.

Or that the mental pressure had caused the poor guy to have a stroke?........

Z had to find out more; Ted Newbold possibly of some help.

Getting up from the table, almost knocking over his straight chair he was so distracted, Z circled the fireplace to reach the two-seater, green sofa. Turning, he sagged down near the black rotary; managed, after a couple of wrong numbers, to dial the Gladstone police station.

Funny how the dancing flames in the black metal fireplace now seemed so ... cold.

"Gladstone Public Safety," said a bored female voice.

"Detective Newbold."

"Who is speaking, please?"

"A friend."

Z had to be careful when calling Teddy. Ted's captain, Philip Scherer, didn't like Z; didn't like his men having anything to do with Z. Hated Z, would be more like it, ever since Z had messed up the Betterton bust, Mrs. Betterton to be the political horse Scherer was to ride to officeholder glory.

A click broke the hostile silence on the line.

Then a ring.

"Detective Newbold, speaking."

Z could picture Teddy leaning back in his new, but cheap, swivel chair, one of his carefully polished shoes on his particle board desk.

Teddy had once said that the best advice his Mother had given him -- one he'd patterned his life on -- was to keep his shoes shined. ... Said a lot about Ted's Mother. ... Said a lot about Ted.

"Z."

"One moment, sir."

Always the same, Ted now scrambling to shut his office door in case Captain Scherer went past and caught Ted talking to Z.

"Yeah, Z, what you want?" Ted, back at his desk; being his old, unpleasant self. "And anyway, where'd you go at the reunion? One minute you're there, ugly as shit on a shingle, and the next you're gone."

"Bud Izard ..."

"Yeah. Yeah. I remember. Wanted to see you about some five-buck job. I don't know how you could have been so big in high school and turned out like you did. Not that you're not scraping by. But ... well, you know what I mean."

"Yeah."

"Anyway, you missed a great party. Not in the park, but later on. At the dinner that night. Pretty classy. Even my wife thought it was classy. All catered. At the Carlton hotel out by the airport. Thick-sliced roast, you could cut with a knife." Ted meant fork. "Strawberry pie.

"Course, it was dress-up. Got to wear my new blue suit. Got it at a half-price sale at the Factory Warehouse. Would have cost me a hundred easy, if I'd had to pay full price for it.

"Jason Yount was Master of Ceremonies for the formal part after dinner. Told some good ones about this one and that, you know, sort of rememberin' the old days and all the shit we pulled. How Eddy Rogers -- always was an electrical geek -- found the wiring to the school's fire alarm running through the ventilator in the boy's john. Shorted out the wires. Hell, it took 'em half a day to trace it down and get the friggin' siren turned off, all of us freezing our asses off standing outside, wondering when the fire department was going to come. What a laugh!" Teddy was chuckling to himself.

"Ted?"

"Yeah?"

"Got a question."

"Oh. OK. But you missed a good time, believe me. ... So, what you got? Get it out quick while I'm in such a good mood. You know, the captain don't -- doesn't -- like me to have anything to do with you. Particularly in my official capacity."

"Yeah. ... Last night's killing."

"I know about that, sure. Though it wasn't my squeal." Ted was generally kept off cases the department didn't want screwed up.

"Murder?"

"With the dead guy all tied up like a Christmas tree stuffed into one of them plastic net bags? Didn't take a genius to figure he'd been stiffed."

"Paper said suffocated."

"Right. Those dumb M.E.'s don't get it right half the time, but even they couldn't screw up this one."

"Could have been a heart attack?"

"Of course the coroner is going to have to say, but the way they tell it at the station -- this is Bayliss's baby -- some sick bastard poured hot wax all over the dearly departed's head. Shut off his breathing."

"How?"

"Had tape over his mouth. Wax sealed off his nose. ... Listen, Z, I got work to do."

"Identify the perp?"

"Not a clue in a carload. Leastways, that's what the techs say. No prints. No nothing. The door had been rigged. Looks like a pro done it. That's the whole deal."

"Money?"

"Nope. Nor drugs, neither. ... Anyway, what's your interest in this?"

"Just ... interested."

"You got a client who done it?"

"No."

"Don't shit me, Z. You don't call, less it's important to you. Not that you got an important job. But this means something to you. ..... OK. ..... I won't ask what. ... And Z?"

"Yeah?"

"You're doin' good not to have hinted for me to break the rules, like beggin' that I give out the name of the victim. Which I figured you'd do, soon as I heard what you wanted."

"Don't want to meddle."

"Since when? You must have had a powerful change of heart since the last time you called."

"Yeah."

"That it, then?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

"Sure. And remember, I done you this little favor. So you owe me."

"Right."

"You get a tip for me, let me know."

"Right."

Z heard the click of Teddy hanging up.

Though not realizing it, Ted had answered all the important questions, first and foremost, that the medical examiner and the technicians hadn't found anything that pointed to Z. If, in a day or two, the cops continued to turn up zilch, the odds said they'd never find a thing. That's why the first twenty-four hours in a homicide were so critical -- cops always saying that. Either something breaks right away in murder cases, or it never does. ... Unless an eyewitness comes forward: little chance of that.

Something that should have made Z feel good ... but didn't.

A more recent puzzle had been solved, however: about Bud Izard's exaggerated reaction to Z scaring off Howard Kunkle. The sickly grin on Bud's fat face; the sweating; the offer to pay two hundred; the vow of eternal gratitude; owing Z a favor; the two of them swearing never to speak of the incident again. All of it, just ... too much.

It was now clear why Bud had been so ... strange.

He was scared of being involved in murder, scared of being swept up as an accessory before, or after the fact. Just plain scared.

Maybe, even afraid Z would find some way to blackmail him for being in on the kill .......

Could be, even scared of Z, people generally afraid of murderers.

For it was clear as could be that Bud already knew of Howard Kunkle's death -- thought Z had killed the little man on purpose.

The difficulty was how Bud could know, when Z, himself ...........

Easy.

Z had tipped the cops sometime after 2:00 in the morning. By the time they'd responded, The Kansas City Star had been "put to bed," so, no mention of the Kunkle affair in yesterday's morning paper. Nothing that night, because the Star's greedy owners had shut down the evening paper, Z having to wait until the next morning -- this morning -- to discover what had happened.

What was clear was that Bud knew about the murder by the time Z arrived at 4:00. Probably got it from noontime TV.

Except it wasn't murder -- just an accident.

That's what it was all right, an accident; that's what Z had to keep reminding himself; that accidents ... happened.

It was not his fault that something had gone wrong.

Not his fault.

At least, that's what he told himself ... to stop his hands from shaking.

* * * * *

Chapter 4

Another day had passed with nothing else happening. Another day meaning that, while Z was still concerned about what had gone wrong in the Kunkle affair, the odds of Z being discovered were falling. He was eating again. Sleeping again -- though he'd been having bad dreams. Something he never did.

What were dreams, anyway? God, or nature, or something "out there" trying to reveal hidden information? He didn't know. Nor could he remember just what he'd been dreaming about. Only that he would wake up dripping with sweat, the bedclothes twisted into nightmare shapes.

Surely, those dreams would go away in time. If not, he could put in a call to Dr. Calder at Bateman College.

He'd worked for Calder on another case; had come to know and like the chubby little psychologist. If anyone knew about dreams, Calder would.

All this thinking done while Z was sitting at his battered desk in his sweltering office, trying to read a detective novel -- having a tough time even doing that, his mind wandering.

Since the telephone repairman had just fixed his desk phone, Z was again located in the second of the connecting cubbyholes that passed for his office. As before, when the telephone on his "secretary's" desk rang, Z's phone would also ring in back: a blessing because Z's knee made it difficult for him to reach the front phone in time.

Not that Z had that much call-in business to take care of -- or any other kind of business, for that matter.

Since Bud's plea for help, no other cases had materialized, leaving Z hurting for money. Z could have accepted Bud's two hundred, adding it to Kunkle's contribution ... but that would have been against the Zapolska Code. (One of these days, Z's "code" would starve him to death.)

Z picked up the novel again; a good one about a black detective back in the fifties; by a writer named Mosley.

But ... couldn't keep his mind on the plot.

Damn! There was simply no way that five candles of wax could have plugged up Kunkle's nose! For Kunkle to smother, the wax would have had to have been snorted up inside ....

The phone rang -- right there on his desk -- startling him.

Recovered, Z picked up the receiver.

"Bob Zapolska Detective Agency." If Z's pipes were only stronger, he'd sound more impressive ....

"This is Dan -- 'the D.J.'-- Jewell, fourteen hundred and ninety-two!" The voice that boomed out this sing-song gibberish was deep, cultured ... and unrecognizable. Z waited. "Am I speaking to Robert Zapolska in person?"

"Yeah."

"Well, how are you, Big Bob?" Had to be someone from Z's past; no one called Z "Big Bob" anymore.

"Fine."

"Didn't get to renew old acquaintances with you at the party. Too sad. But that's the way of life, sometimes."

Renew old ....? Ah! Someone coming out of the left field of Z's high school days.

"The reunion?"

"But of course. We ran in different circles in the olden days. You, Mr. Football. Me, Mr. Journalism. But, of course you've heard me since ...?"

"Ah ...."

"On fourteen ninety-two radio? Shock jock with town talk? Shock plus rock. The Morning Show? Dan -- 'the D.J.' -- Jewell?"

"Ah ...."

"No matter. There are only two kinds of listeners. Fans and soon-to-be fans. Just a question of tuning in once or twice." Followed by a dry chuckle. "But, to business. Within a week, I begin a new feature. Not yet titled. Something like 'Law and Disorder.' Something like that. Discussion of law enforcement in the Kansas City area. With call-ins, always with call-ins. Dan 'the D.J.' wants to hear from his people. Vox populi, don't you know.

"I've already lined up all the big names in town. Cops. Politicians. It was at the reunion where I heard that you're now a detective. And voila!, there you were in the Yellow Pages."

The Yellow Pages was about the only place Z was, his business hardly more than his ad: "Bob Zapolska Detective Agency: Quick, Inexpensive. Results Guaranteed."

"So I said to myself," Mr. Radio continued, Z getting the idea the man was talking more for his own benefit than for Z's,"you've got to call this man." There was a pause.

"Why?"

"To get a private detective's input, of course."

"Why?"

A booming laugh over the line. "The strong, silent type, is that it? Part of the old P.I. image?"

Just what did this Dan Jewell guy, a man Z had never heard of, want? More to the point, what could Z do to get him to say what he wanted?

"Look," rumbled the big voice over the little phone, "I'm not telling you anything you don't know when I say that the reputation of private detectives is less than good. Crooks, with licenses to snoop around, is what most people think."

In Z's case, without a license. But Z did take the man's point. A "gumshoe's" reputation was a seedy one, his own included.

"But I want to be fair about it. I'm covering all kinds of law enforcement: street cops, big city detectives, county sheriffs, highway patrol." Z could sense the man counting on his fingers. "And private detectives, who are quasi-law enforcement. If the police can't get action who do you call? Not Ghostbusters, but your friendly, neighborhood private investigator. Private dicks are society's back-up to failed police work."

Z had always considered himself to be in law enforcement, whether regular cops, like Captain Scherer, agreed or not. It was just that Z was such a little fish in the private investigator pond ....

"Why me?"

"Why not you?"

"There are big agencies."

"True. But, I feel I know you. Even though we didn't run around together back in high school. I saw you play. Anyway, I live north-of-the-river. It'd be easier to interview you. We could do it in the evening. You wouldn't have to come to the station. There's no money in this, you see. Just public service."

Z didn't know what to say.

"I'm doing this series because crime has gotten out of hand. Even in the Northland. Take that murder a few days ago, for instance."

Suddenly, Dan -- the whatever -- Jewell had Z's full attention!

"The police are no nearer a solution than they were when they found the body. Could be mob-related, of course, professional killings always more difficult to solve than family murder. Nonetheless, something must be done!"

What Z wanted to know was if the talk show host had special knowledge about the Kunkle death -- one of Jewell's "fans" calling in a tip that implicated Z -- or if Jewell's bringing up the Kunkle affair was just a coincidence.

"Actually, you'll be doing me a favor either way. Now that I've invited you, if you give me a little of your time, that's just great! If you refuse, I'll be forced to say I asked a certain local P.I., a Mr. Bob Zapolska, to talk to me but that, for some reason, he refused. The way the public takes a refusal like that is to figure the person who's ducked out has something to hide. So my advice is to talk to me. That way, you can put whatever spin on things you want, if you get my meaning."

"Yeah." And Z had gotten the D.J.'s meaning. The man would stoop to blackmail to get what he wanted. Not that Z gave a damn. Wanting to see if Jewell knew ... anything ... was why he said: "Yes."

"Great!"

"A condition."

"Shoot."

"That we just talk."

"You don't want to go on the air, is that it?"

"Right."

"No problem."

"And not quoted."

"Actually, the detective segment is a small part of the show. I just want to hear an honest P.I. tell of the services to the community a detective agency can offer. Skip tracing runaways. Deprogramming kids enslaved by cults ...."

"Never done that."

"I was just putting you in the picture. ... So. I'll get back to you. Probably be an evening. Probably soon. In my pad at the Valley Forge apartments."

"OK."

"Until then, this is Dan -- 'the D.J.' -- Jewell, signing off!"

Click.

Feeling like wreckage in the wake of a cyclone, Z recovered to regret agreeing to talk to the radio show idiot. Would never have done so except for the possibility the man might know something about Z's involvement in Kunkle's death.

Was it possible, just as a for instance, that Bud Izard had said something to Dan -- the Asshole -- Jewell?

Paranoid! Z was getting paranoid.

The phone rang again, Z snatching it up reflexively, half expecting it to be the police. "Hi, guess who?" Said before Z could get in a word.

"Who?"

"You mean to say you've forgotten me already?"

Unfortunately, no, now that he'd heard more of her sexy voice.

"Jamie."

"That's better. A girl's ego is a fragile thing."

Jamie -- the girl Z had been with on a recent stakeout -- Jamie Stewart, girl ghost hunter. Alone with her in an abandoned house -- night after night -- the inevitable had happened; tricky, given Susan's attitude about "something on the side.") Though Jamie had been exhausting fun, Z had hoped that, like the ghost they'd hunted, little Jamie would fade away.

"Hi."

"As uncommunicative as ever, I see," Jamie said in her "pouting" voice. "I got to thinking about you the other day and decided to ring you up."

Z didn't know what to say.

"Thought we might get together again sometime, for a drink maybe. To talk over old times."

No way. A drink wouldn't be enough to satisfy sex-mad Jamie Stewart.

"Can't."

"No? Why?"

"Susan."

"Ah, yes. Susan." There was a pause on the line. "I think I've been insulted."

"No." Z's fears that there could be repercussions from his Jamie-fling were being realized. Not that he could have done anything about it, thrown together with such an attractive -- and eager -- girl. Shorter than Susan by quite a bit, clipped blond hair, blue eyes, Jamie was ... built! Fun ... but touchy.

"What's Susan got that I haven't?"

Touchy. Enough for Z to take care what he said. For instance, it wouldn't be a good idea to say that the difference between the two women was that, while he'd enjoyed making love to Jamie, he was in love with Susan.

Meanwhile, time was marching on.

"I think I'd like to meet Susan," Jamie said at last. "Maybe you're right. Maybe she's terrific."

"I ...." Z had begun to sweat, something he seemed to do more frequently.

"Not a good idea."

"You don't have to be there, Z. Just Susan and me. Girl talk. Just to get to know each other a little better. After all, we've got a lot in common."

Was there any way Jamie could find out enough about Susan to trace her down? Z was thinking, and thinking fast! The way Jamie discovered there was a Susan was Z had a picture of Susan in his wallet, Jamie "lifting" his billfold, going through it to find Susan's picture, signed, Susan. Signed Susan, with Susan's phone number, an old number, thank God! A "dead" number plus no last name.

Still, no one knew better than Z that Jamie was resourceful ....

For a wild moment, Z thought of threatening Jamie -- how, he didn't know. ... Quickly gave it up. He didn't know how to sweet talk her either.

"That concludes our little talk, I think," Jamie said brightly.

On the other hand, sinister was what Z did best. "Listen," Z hissed. "It wouldn't be smart of you to bother Susan."

"Don't threaten me, Buster." Said less in anger than with amusement. "You may be bigger than me, but I'm the toughest little bitch north of the border." She laughed sweetly. "So, having made one mistake, you've just made another. You've upped the ante. And here's my call. I was going to settle for meeting Susan. No revealed confidences. I wasn't going to kiss and tell, if that's what you're worried about. And I still won't do that. But now, just meeting Susan won't be enough." She paused, thinking, "The only thing I'll settle for now, is seeing the bed you two make love in."

"What?!"

"Want to try to threaten me again and see what I come up with next?" This time, there was a long pause. "I thought not. Better quit while you're behind, Z." A laugh and the click of Jamie's receiver in the phone cradle.

Crazy! Crazy, the only explanation Z could come up with as he fumbled down his own receiver.

The girl was mad.

Wanting to meet Susan?

Wanting to see the bed Z and Susan slept in? ............

What a relief!

It was that last request that had done it: convinced Z that Jamie was only joking. An unmerciful kidder, little Jamie Stewart. Maybe she'd been serious about wanting to meet Susan; probably had in mind running into Susan and Z in a store -- accidentally on purpose. Would have enjoyed making Z squirm for fear Jamie would spill the beans.

But to actually demand to see the bed ....!?

Ridiculous.

Just kidding.

Had to be.

Z took a deep breath. Jamie Stewart was a ball of fire in more ways than one.

A fire, fortunately, that had ... gone out.

Two phone calls in one day. One right after the other.

Unprecedented. ..........

Where was he? Oh, yes. Reviewing his other problem.

It was while going over his talk with 'the D.J.' once more, that Z remembered something he'd barely heard the first time, a suggestion that the radio guy had slipped into the conversation. When bringing up the example of Howard Kunkle's death, Jewell had advanced the supposition that the murder might be Mafia-related.

A possibility that had never occurred to Z!

Not that Kunkle's death had been a mob hit, of course -- though Jewell may have had that in mind. No. What was troubling Z was the possibility Kunkle himself had mob connections.

Leading Z to ask himself if he'd been ... at least partly responsible ... for the death of a mob figure.

As far as Kunkle's death was concerned, Z was pretty much off the legal hook for that, the cops so pressed for time with other nasty business that the Kunkle case was already in the "cold case" file.

Interfere with "family" business, though, and you'd better watch your back ... forever!

Could it even be -- this being what everyone always said, a small, small world -- that Kunkle had been one of Johnny Dosso's boys?

Z didn't like that thought. Didn't like it at all!

Taking another minute to think about a possible Cosa Nostra connection helped to cool Z's fear. There's been no sign of organized crime activity in Howard Kunkle's place. No drugs. Some hidden cash, but small change in the drug business. True, there'd been those decks of cards. Could indicate Kunkle was a gambler, gambling and hookers John Dosso's part of the "family" business. Could be a rackets connection ... but Z didn't think so, mostly because Kunkle lived in a dump. While big-time crime couldn't promise you a future, it seemed to pay well in the present.

Still ... just to be on the safe side ......

And Z was up and shuffling to the office's flimsy front door.

* * * * *

Entering the south end of the Antioch Shopping Center mall ten minutes later, Z was still so upset he'd practically stolen a pay phone. (Done that by scaring off a sub-human-looking teenage boy.)

Feeling ashamed of himself but rattling in his quarter nevertheless, Z dialed International Imports.

"International Imports." Always a cultured, older female voice.

"A musketeer would like to speak to John Dosso, please."

"I'm sorry, sir. No one of that name works for International Imports."

"Sorry," Z said, hanging up.

All part of the routine. Johnny Dosso never worked for International Imports. The way it worked was this. Because of John's fear someone would tap Z's office phone, if Z wanted to talk to John, Z would go to a pay phone and call International. Hear, once again, that John didn't work there.

After that, Z would return to his office, someone calling within the hour with another phone number. (Always a different number. No sense memorizing it.) Leaving to find yet another pay phone, Z would dial the mysterious second number to find John on the other end of the line.

That being the arrangement, Z went back to his office to wait -- a wait that turned into three, long hours.

Troubling.

So worrisome that, on his way home, Z put in another call to International Imports. Was again told John didn't work there.

At 10 o'clock at the outdoor pay phone at the 72nd and Prospect QuikTrip, Z called again. Same story.

In the morning, at the Sinclair station just to the south of the shopping center -- same thing.

So, where was Johnny Dosso?

Could be on vacation -- John's nerves seeming to have been shot at the reunion.

Could be out of town on family business.

Could be holed-up so deep with one of his young call girls that even his own "family" didn't know where he was.

Or maybe, given the nature of Johnny's work, that he was pushing up daisies.

Z was sweating once again. And no wonder. Within the week, he'd had something to do with a man's death, had his relationship with his girl threatened, and had a friend ... evaporate.

Like straddling a California fault line, when your world rocked, all you could do was sweat!

* * * * *

Chapter 5

Finally, Johnny D. had called. Followed by tonight's adventure, reminding Z of the mission of Star Trek: "To boldly go where no man [Z] has gone before."

It was a dark night -- dark and hot and sultry. Clouds had moved in, snuffing out the moon and stars.

Even from across the street, Z could make out John's security-- some of it, anyway. A couple of infra-red, circuit breakers beams; a box near the house that looked suspiciously like the guts of a motion sensor. Doing some security installing himself, Z had a better shot than most at spotting the house's protection.

No sign of a dog. Neither the front or backyard fenced.

Z remembered. Johnny Dosso didn't like dogs.

John still lived on North Enrico, in his parent's house, his parents long gone to meet whatever "Maker" a crime family had to meet.

Traditional house, traditional "family" values.

Back to security.

Probably pressure-sensitive pads built into the decorative rock walkway leading to the front door. That would have been Z's recommendation, anyway.

With all the curtains and blinds drawn, no light showed through to interrupt the quiet blackness of the night. No other indication that the house was occupied.

Fortunately, Z didn't have to dismantle the security. This being a social call, Z the invited guest, all he had to do was get out of the Cavalier and walk right up to the house. Viewed that way, tripping the alarms was the friendly thing to do. Showed sincerity.

And still Z sat in the little car, looking at the house from across the street. Was John looking back? Did John have the latest in classified, "army surplus" night vision equipment? If so, it wouldn't be a surprise. John always seemed to get whatever he wanted.

Z was hesitating, he told himself, because it was bad for John's image to be visited by an "out of the family" friend, moreover, a friend who was a private eye. Z also didn't want whoever might be watching John's house to see Z.

Another fifteen minutes of watchful waiting went by, Z convinced that, at least on this night, he watched the Dosso house alone.

Good.

Opening the greased-silent door catch, Z eased himself out of the car, feeling ... strange. In all the years of their friendship, Z had never visited the Dosso home. Except for an occasional phone call, Johnny Dosso lived in a closed society.

Pushing the door shut, Z crossed the street, jolted his leg over the curbing, and strode up the front walk.

Nice yard, what Z could see of it in black silhouette: trees, with shadow pools of river rock around their trunks -- bushes, plantings.

The place smelled of new-cut grass, a variety of flowers, chemical fertilizer, and recently applied insecticide.

Not John Dosso's handiwork, the place with that "professional lawn care" look.

No trumpeted medieval knight made a grander entrance, Z was sure, meaning that silent alarms inside the house must be going off like crazy.

At the carved-wood-looking, solid steel door, Z was just ready to push the lighted buzzer when the door opened.

"Z!" Johnny Dosso, grinning. "Come on in!"

John standing to the side, Z entered, John shutting the heavy door and easing a thick bolt into its iron keeper. "Here you are in the flesh," John said, the two of them shaking hands before John turned to lead Z down the long, formal, laser guarded entrance hall and into a blue-walled living room where John motioned Z into a plush armchair to the near side of a fireplace, Johnny Dosso easing his bulk on a short divan not that far away.

Called a conversation "pit," this space was fronted by a huge, cut-stone, never-had-a-fire-in-it fireplace.

A number of dried cattails stuck up from a blue Japanese vase placed on the floor beside the firebox screen. The room was done in blues, expensive blue-flocked wallpaper for starters. Z sat in a gold-and-blue-striped Thomasville chair with saddlebag arms, John, in a matching love seat on the same side of the fireplace. A twisted-brass lamp and an antique clock decorated an early American table beside Z's chair. At the other end of the room was a blue velvet, sofa-for-ten, over it, five small pictures, possibly framed pages from an illuminated manuscript. A complex-patterned Persian rug covering the dark wood floor near the end wall, an ornate walnut sideboard centered on the rug.

The wood fireplace mantle held a tin ocean liner (an object d'art made to look like a toy,) two brass candlesticks, and three softball-sized rattan spheres. The oil painting over the mantle was of lions lying down with lambs.

Sure.

In spite (because?) of the perfect balance of the room's colors, shapes, and textures, the place had a mummified look; that of being done to no one's taste -- but the decorator's.

John was wearing a dark brown smoking jacket with leather elbow patches, fitted loosely over a blue silk shirt. Had on vanilla-colored slacks. And handmade shoes.

The whole place -- yard, house, Johnny -- reeked of money ... if not class.

"Saw you sweating your ass off across the street," John said with a "gotcha" grin. "Must of been twenty minutes. If I'd had a dog, I'd of sent a keg of brandy out to revive you."

"Someone might be watching."

"And you figured, could be a gunsel not liking me associating with a cop? Even of the private variety?"

"Something like that."

"Good old Z. Thinking of his friends. Don't any man have enough friends. Except for the kind who're thinking only of themselves.

But we've been together through a lot of years, Z-man. Since grade school. Been through a lot you and me, me supportin' you when I could, you supportin' me when you could."

"Yeah."

Johnny looked ... good. Not pasty, like in his big car at the reunion. Of course, being sober improved anybody's looks.

More than good, John looked ... relaxed, the smoking jacket hiding some of the fat, the light low enough to give John healthier-looking skin and shadow-enhanced hair.

"Get you a drink?" Z shook his head. John grinned again. "You got a problem. I got some news. Makes me no never-mind what we do first."

"Murder."

"That could be a problem, especially if it's you that's murdered." John laughed. Leaned back. Crossed his chunky legs as best he could.

"Howard Kunkle."

"That? Been three -- four days -- old news."

"I need to know if he was connected."

"Connected? You mean to our organization?" John laughed -- seemed to be enjoying himself. "Hell no, Z. What you think? We've fallen on such hard times we've got to hire a two-bit hustler?"

Z was relieved. Hoped he didn't show it. "You knew him?"

"Knew of him, if you know what I mean. Gambler. Penny ante stuff. Good to have his kind around, though. Chasing small fry gives the cops something to do. Convinces the taxpayers they're getting value for their dollar."

"Pimp?"

"You think a woman would work for a piece of shit like that?"

Z had the answers he'd come for.

Just one more question, pretty far out, but .... "Know a hooker named Carrara Marble?"

"Now you're talkin'. That one's a triple-crown winner. How'd you get mixed up with expensive goods like that? She's out'a your league, my man. Three hundred an hour, easy."

Z shook his head.

"If you're not diddling her, how'd you run into her?"

"Friend of mine asked."

"You're friend is having himself a hell of a good time, is all I can say."

"She belong to you?"

"I wish she did. But no. She's an independent. Don't know just how she manages that. Probably by servicing big-time clients. Judges, politicians."

It didn't seem that Carrara Marble had a Kunkle connection. Z hadn't thought so, but ....

"Funny thing about the Marble broad is she's a dyke. But then, a lot of whores are, low class to high. Makes them more reliable. Not likely to take off with a rich john."

The steam let out of the Carrara Marble topic, they sat in silence for awhile.

"Looking good," Z finally said, feeling he should say something.

"Yeah. You noticed? That's because I've got me a little secret. Well, not a secret to the in-crowd, but you haven't heard it yet." John grinned, like in the old days. "I'm retired."

"What?"

"You heard me right. I'm retired. As of three days ago." Z gave John a hard stare. "Now don't look like that. The trouble is, you don't know the business. All anybody knows is what they get from the movies. In the movies it's Godfather this and Godfather that. But that was in the big, bad olden days. It's not like that anymore. The days of the mustache Petes are gone. Today, we got investments. Legit investments. Stocks and bonds. Movies. Buildings. Farms, even. Got health insurance. Major medical. For years, I've had me a Keogh plan.

"So I got out. With what I've skimmed, I'll do good. Going to retire to someplace where the sun burns the cold out of my goddamn bones in the wintertime. Florida. The Bahamas. Live the good life. Hell, why not?"

"Retire?"

"I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that the organization don't let its members retire. But you're wrong. Not so many years ago, you'd have been right. But all that's changed." John grinned again; white teeth flashing. "Yeah. Going to retire to the sunny south. Me and my wife."

"Wife?" John Dosso was full of surprises.

"May be a little problem there," John admitted. "But I'm working on it. She's still an attractive woman. And, I'll tell you something you probably already know. A man don't need so many cuties after he gets past a certain age. A man gets tired of explaining every little thing to some twenty-year-old-bimbo who thinks the world started the day she was born. You want to talk about a movie you saw, and since it was in the 70's, it's before her time. Makes a man feel old."

John turned to the side to reach the end table; took a cigar out of an embossed-silver box. Havana, no doubt. Chewing on the tip to make a hole, he produced a kitchen match from the same box, struck the match on his pants, and took his time lighting the stogie, after it was lit to his satisfaction, puffing a blue contrail toward the ceiling.

With the same care, he finished the routine by blowing out the nearly burned up match and depositing it in a crystal ashtray.

"For awhile there," he said, settling back, watching the smoke rise, "it looked like my wife might be interested in .... But that's over. Nothing to it anyway."

"Well ...," Z said, trying to think of a way to say he had to go.

"Before you rush off to whatever pissant business you're chasin' these days, you got to have a drink with me. 'Cause somebody should. To celebrate my retirement. My wife don't drink. And I know you don't either. But, to honor my retirement ...?"

"Sure."

"Got this bottle special, from the man who's moving up to my spot in the organization. Marco Minghetti. A high and mighty prick if there ever was one, but what do I care? He hosted the retirement party for me. Everybody of importance was there. Presented me with this bottle of expensive booze as a parting gift."

"Ashtraying" the smoking Havana, hoisting his bulk off the love seat, John went to the sideboard, a fancy-looking, labeled bottle on top the workspace, still with a blue party ribbon around the bottle's neck. Holding up the dark container, John looked at the sticker.

"Malvasia Solera: 1863." Beats the shit out of me what that is, except for it being Madeira."

Getting a silver extractor from a drawer, twisting in the corkscrew, John pulled the cork with a hollow pop. "Don't like newfangled gadgets like these most of the time," John said, getting a couple of small snifters from the sideboard shelf, "but it's better than having the cork break off in the stem, old as this bottle is."

Splashing a little of the liquor in each glass, John set down the bottle and brought the brandy glasses over to Z, giving Z one of them, John returning to sit on the sofa.

Z lifted the glass of dark brown liquid. Smelled ... hazelnuts, orange rind, prunes, figs .... And ... something he didn't like.

"Don't," Z said as John raised his glass.

John looked over at him, puzzled.

"Don't like the way it smells."

John took a whiff. Shook his head. Set the glass down near the ashtray on the end table beside his chair. "You suppose it's gone bad?"

Z shrugged.

John laughed again -- this time without enthusiasm. "Just to be on the safe side, I know somebody who's got a testing lab. I can find out."

"Good." Z stood.

"I'll see you out," John said.

So ended the evening. Except that, as Z was walking down John's immaculate walk, past the perfectly trimmed bushes and the domesticated trees, he wondered, again, even in these modern times, if a mob man had the option to retire.

* * * * *

Chapter 6

Because Susan's bastard of an insurance company had plans to work her all day Saturday and halfway through the night, they graciously decided to let her have a long lunch.

Trying to make the best of it, Z had a suggestion about how they could use the time for something more interesting that eating, Susan vetoing that idea. Said she'd be too tired to go back to work.

Instead, they'd made a phone date to have lunch at Rembrandt's, one of the classier places to eat North-of-the-river.

Since it would save time, Susan drove her own car to the eating establishment, arriving just as Z nosed the Cavalier into the parking area nearest the front.

Meeting in the lot, they walked up the brick path, past carefully manicured flower beds, turning right to step onto the porch.

Built out in the country, only a whisper of traffic on Barry Road serving as a reminder that this wasn't the nineteenth century, Rembrandt's was a funny kind of place. Constructed solely as a restaurant, it was designed to look like an old house converted into a restaurant. Go figure.

Inside the lobby -- featuring dark woodwork and spindle-backed chairs -- they waited for the pretty young woman behind the counter to get off the reservation phone and seat them.

To the right, sweeping up, then cutting back to a bannistered balcony, was the grand stairway, the second floor used for private parties. On the wall, slanting up the steps, were oil reproductions of -- what else? -- Rembrandts. "The Man in the Gold Helmet" was the only one of the fakes Z recognized by name.

Finished making the reservation, the white gowned hostess led them through the arch to the left and into the place's main dining room, the lady escorting them past other luncheoneers??, seating Susan and Z in a cozy nook, framed prints of Rembrandt engravings to either side.

The table's centerpiece was a vase of artificial flowers, that decorative touch enough to add a dollar to the bill. Linen tablecloth -- another buck. The tableware -- Z looked -- was genuine Roger's silver plate -- an additional 25 cents.

A jacketed waiter brought the over-sized, leatherette menu, complete with wine list -- another 50 cents, at least.

Not that Z didn't like to eat at Rembrandt's. It was just that he objected to paying for what he couldn't eat. (Women, on the other hand, liked classy places. Having as good a meal, with twice the food at half the price -- but served at Mom's Eats -- turned women off.)

Susan ordered a Coke and a salad. Z asked for iced tea and the pork chop (in a delicate mustard sauce,) hoping when it said pork chop it meant two pork chops. He knew better, but ....

After the waiter's deferential withdrawal, Susan began to babble, not normally her style. "... and so I said, if someone files a claim, the letter should first go to correspondence ..."

This morning's paper had nothing new to add about the Kunkle death. Nothing to say about it at all, in fact. And that was that. The poor little man's memory would, forever, languish in the "open case" file -- Z thinking that was as good a fate as that of a rich man buried in the family vault.

Susan continued to jabber. A sure indication that something she wasn't talking about was bothering her.

The service was slow, Rembrandt's boast about fresh food meaning that, even now, someone in back was chasing the pig intended to provide Z's pork chop. Maybe, if Z had ordered a more easily catchable chicken ....

"... trouble is that, with women of talent able to have exciting careers today, the leftover jobs like secretary get the dregs. It used to be that a hotshot secretary could out think -- to say nothing of out type and out spell -- her boss. Now, we've got nothing but sweet young things who can't spell CAT, to say nothing of being able to find it in a dictionary. If they don't ...."

Worker inferiority, was a Susan theme. Verbal diarrhea, Z's father would have called it. Running off at the mouth.

Z's love affair with Susan was increasingly difficult. They rarely saw each other -- where it counted. Until recently, they'd been able to alternate weekends, one Saturday or Sunday at Susan's apartment, the next weekend at Z's place. (Z's apartment was crummy, sure. Purple linoleum had gone out of style sometime in the 50's. What counted, though, was being together.)

Z didn't much care for Susan's apartment, either.

Too clinical.

Too modern.

Too cold.

But once in bed ....

Thinking about bed reminded Z of Jamie Stewart, the girl rating quite a number of second thoughts to be truthful. And about her threat to meet Susan, to say nothing of Jamie's outrageous demand to see the very bed where Z and Susan made love.

Z had also been trying to make sense of what he'd discovered in Howard Kunkle's house. Funny, how a number of little things that escaped you when you first saw them, came back to haunt you later. For instance, Howard Kunkle's money. Z had put it back in the secret drawer. (All of it except what he'd taken to defray Bud's expenses for hiring Z.) Far from big money, but .... And yet, Teddy Newbold had said that no money was found in the house.

Leading to the next, logical question. Who swiped the dough? The sensible answer: the cops who'd tossed the place.

It was the rest of the items he'd found in the secret drawer that troubled him. In the first place, Z had to ask himself why Kunkle had taken the time and trouble to conceal what looked like mixed junk. A bunch of card decks -- new and old. A tiny mirror. Super glue. "Sunglasses." A bottle of wood alcohol.

An odd assortment, Z thought.

"Z? ... Z!?"

"What?" It hurt Z's mind to be reined in that hard.

"You weren't listening. You never listen to me."

"That's not true." And it wasn't. Z sometimes listened to Susan, though it was a fact that he'd rather look at her. What man wouldn't? She was gorgeous. Rich, brown skin. Fiery blue eyes. Shiny, rumpled-curly, medium-length hair. White teeth, just crooked enough to put a man at ease. And that was just her face. She had a neck to wake up a vampire who'd been dead a thousand years. Plus a figure, one sight of which would clean out monasteries. Today, she was wearing a white, raglan-sleeve sweater dress, large white buttons down the front. (Z liked dresses that announced what you had to do to get them off.) Below, he could feel Susan's knee against his, Susan's legs long enough to foster under the table conspiracies.

"What I was telling you," Susan was saying, "was why I'm having salad today. It's not so much the calories you eat that make you put on weight, it's the fat content."

Glorious Susan was talking about dieting? "I like you the way you are."

Susan frowned and shook her head.

If that wasn't the right thing to say, what was?

"Speaking of losing a little weight, you could stand to take off some flab," Susan countered, rounding on him.

"Me?"

"Big surprise." Susan scowled again.

Z had gained a few pounds over the years but found the extra weight useful for intimidation. "It's not how much you eat, it's what you eat," Susan lectured. "You practically live on peanut butter. Do you know what the fat content of peanut butter is?"

"No." Z's tone saying, enough.

Susan frowned again.

She was cute when she sulked that way, wrinkling up her classic nose. Cute: one of the words Susan had taught Z not to say.

"It's just that it doesn't help me to lose weight if you're not supportive."

"OK."

"OK, what?"

"I'm supportive."

"I guess that'll have to do."

Susan sighed. Drummed her fingers on the table. She still wasn't happy, but was trying to make the best of it. "So, tell me what you've been doing lately."

"Nothing."

"That's just like you, Z," Susan growled. "You don't talk to me about anything. Here you have this interesting job, and you won't talk to me about it."

"Not interesting."

"Let me be the judge of that."

"OK." This was an old quarrel, Susan wanting Z to talk more. About his job. About his life. About ... everything. When she got like that, he had to tell her something.

"Had some liability work."

"Go on."

"Guy claimed to be injured. I followed him. Took some pictures of him playing softball."

"Yes. My insurance company writes injury policies, though we're more an insurer of big business. What else?"

"A friend asked me to talk to a man who was hassling him."

"And ...?"

"I did."

"And?"

"He won't again."

"Surely, you've been doing more than that."

This was not the right time -- there would never be a "right time" -- to tell Susan that Jamie Stewart had called, even though Z had turned Jamie down for what she really wanted from him. Men got blamed for giving in to temptation, but never got credit for being virtuous. Z wondered why.

Oh, yes. Something else he could tell Susan.

"Got a call from a radio guy."

"Oh? That's interesting. What did he want?"

"An interview."

"Who was it?"

"Some D.J." Z shrugged.

"What D.J.?"

"Some guy from my old class. Name of Dan Jewell."

"What!? Dan Jewell? Only the hottest shock jock in Kansas City?"

Z shrugged.

"The girl next to me listens to his call-in show every morning. He's ... terrible ... but I can't help but overhear, she's got the radio turned up so loud."

"Ask her to turn it down."

Z got another of Susan's dirty looks, her face then softening into a smile.

"And he wants you to do an interview? On what?"

"P.I.s and crime."

"Will you?"

"Will I what?"

"Do the interview?"

"I said OK."

"I'm proud of you, Z!" Said with more enthusiasm than Z had heard from Susan in a long time. "One of your faults is that you're too modest. You need to push yourself more. Be more assertive. Getting on the radio will help you get new clients."

"Not on the air."

"No?" Susan was disappointed.

More than disappointed.

Testy.

Something in her life had to be messed up.

"What's wrong?"

"What do you mean, what's wrong?"

"Something."

Susan shook her head. But didn't say no.

The waiter came with the food.

One lonely pork chop, with a dab of slant-cut green beans and a spoonful of corn casserole, these tidbits cuddled in some tastefully arranged, but inedible, leaves. The "saver" was a basket of hot rolls you could fill up on after you'd inhaled the main course.

At least Rembrandt's food was good, what there was of it.

Both starving, they ate in silence, the waiter pouring more tea and bringing Z another glass of Coke.

After Susan had waved off the waiter's suggestions about dessert, Z tried again. "Tell me."

Carefully avoiding her problem for an hour -- like women do -- Susan was ready, at last, to "share."

"It's ... the apartment."

Z remembered Susan's old apartment where, because Susan's ex kept threatening to kill her, she'd hired Z as a bodyguard. One thing led to another, Z planning a setup, the husband popping up right on cue to make good his threat. That was when Z had been shot in the lung. Bad, but a whole lot better than what had happened to the husband, an undercover cop on that stakeout zapping Susan's ex into the morgue.

It was in the hospital, and later during Z's recovery, that Susan and Z had fallen in love.

Because of the bad memories associated with the old apartment, Susan had moved to her new set of rooms in the Bircane complex.

Could it be that Susan was bored with the Bircane and would find an apartment closer to Z's rooming house? Hope. Hope.

"Neighbors?" A likely reason for Susan wanting a change.

"You could put it like that, I suppose."

What Susan meant by that was anybody's guess.

She explained. "Not so much neighbors as ... noises."

"Plumbing?" Even new apartments had such cheap fixtures anymore they didn't hold up.

"No. Just ... noises."

Z thought of the many noises offensive to apartment dwellers. In addition to the enthusiastically copulating couple overhead, were creaking floors, rain on poorly insulated roofs, rattling windows, buzzing furnaces, moaning wind, "Bigfoot" pounding up the stairs, and assorted settling sounds. He'd had enough experience in carpentry to know that for every noise, there was a solution. At least, something that could be tried.

Before he could offer his services as Mr. Fix-it, Susan took another crack at explaining. "Noises. Banging noises. No, not banging. Knocking."

"Loose shutter, blowing in the wind?"

"I thought of that. Except the apartments in the complex don't have shutters." She looked down at the table. Swallowed. Straightened to stare across at Z.

"Late at night, there's this ... moaning sound. To say nothing of the furniture being ... rearranged."

"Rearranged?"

"Yeah. I leave for work in the morning with everything in place. When I return at night, something has been ... moved."

"Maintenance?" There was a service that cleaned apartments at the Bircane. Part of the lease.

"On days when no one should be in the apartment. I checked with power and light and the gas company. They sent people out to look, but couldn't find what was making those sounds. ... Spooky sounds."

People who heard "unusual noises" generally tried to hide it. Didn't want to end up in a padded cell in Tri-County.

"I don't want to admit it," Susan began again, suddenly whispering, "but I may have ... a poltergeist in my apartment."

"A ... what?"

"A noisy spirit. One who moves things around. It sometimes happens when a teenager is nearby, but not always. For the first few nights, I was scared. But I've almost gotten used to it."

"Can I help?" Z was expected to offer, even though ....

"Nothing you can do, Z. This is job for an expert."

"A priest?" When Susan got like this, Z had to jolly her along.

"No. The only thing that will help someone like me, with no connection to a church, is to have a seance in my apartment. Discover what the spirit wants so it will go away."

"Where'd you get that idea?"

"I know it sounds ... crazy. But that's what it takes. I found that out because I've been talking to a lady who knows all about these things. She came into the insurance company. Lost. Wanted to talk to someone about purchasing a policy. And while she was waiting, we struck up a conversation. It turns out she's quite knowledgeable in the field. Pretty soon, we were chattering away like old friends. Even went to lunch together.

"Anyway, talking about this and that, the topic came around to ghosts. And that led me to tell her about the noises. She seemed to understand just what I was talking about, because the same thing had happened to her, once. That's how she got so interested in the subject. She's done a lot of reading in order to find out what to do.

"So here's where we left it. She's going to conduct a seance in my apartment next Wednesday night. Several of the girls at the office are going to come. And I want you to be there too, Z. To sort of hold my hand." Susan gave Z a crooked smile.

No way Z was going to get mixed up with this. After the "ghost light" case Z had worked, he'd had enough of the "supernatural" to last a life time.

"Please? You'd really like this girl I met. She's not ... weird. Doesn't talk or dress or act funny. You'd like her. Her name's Jamie Stewart."

Z could feel the oxygen being sucked from Rembrandt's air. Barely able to talk, Z's last memory of lunch at Rembrandt's was croaking out, "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

* * * * *

Chapter 7

The odd thing about the recent Jamie-Susan meeting was that Susan hadn't tumbled to who Jamie was. And she should have, Susan worming out of Z that he'd worked with a "Jamie Stewart." Why diamond-bright Susan hadn't connected her Jamie Stewart with Z's Jamie Stewart, he didn't know, perhaps because "Jamie Stewart" was such a common name. If that was the case, thank God Jamie's parents hadn't named her Penelope Stewart. Or Hildegard Stewart. Or Flossie Stewart. Or Hortensia ....

It was only a question of time, however, before ....

Z had to stop that line of thought! Torturing himself wasn't going to help. For now, his Jamie-secret was holding; for the future, he had to find a way to keep Susan and Jamie apart!

Adding to his troubles, Susan had called Friday night with some additional excuse why she couldn't see Z on either Saturday or Sunday.

No fun times planned with Susan, he'd slept most of Saturday morning, going out for something less fattening than a peanut butter sandwich for lunch -- a double pepperoni pizza at Pizza Hut. It was at Pizza Hut, in fact -- nothing satisfying the inner man like gooey cheese and hog jowl drippings -- that he'd begun to put together a plan to regain control of his life. (While Z seemed to be having a lot of trouble with Susan these days, he still loved her too much to see brash Jamie Stewart threaten his and Susan's relationship.) It was bad enough that Jamie had found Susan's workplace and had been talking to Susan. Simply impossible to have Jamie invited into Susan's apartment. To say nothing of the sick feeling Z had about what Jamie would want to see once she'd gotten herself inside.

At the same time, Z was thinking about a way to shore up yet another uneasy front of Z's increasingly chaotic life, Z deciding -- just before scarfing down the last pizza piece -- to give the Kunkle house another once-over. No way the cops would be watching the house now. Anyway, Z was pretty good at spotting a stakeout. No. Z was determined to give the Kunkle place another toss.

Thinking about what he'd found at Kunkle's house, Z remembered something John Dosso said about little Howie, that Kunkle was a small-time gambler, A bit of information that explained the decks of cards Kunkle had in the secret drawer. As for the rest of the stuff in there ....?

The plan Z thought up, while munching down the final bite of pizza crust, was to kill two birds (Jamie and Kunkle) with one stone, so to speak. What he'd do was get Jamie to "aid him" on the Kunkle case; ask her to use her special "magic" to help him search the place. After tossing Kunkle's pathetic house and pretending to pay attention to whatever Jamie came up with -- women loved to be paid attention to -- Z would find a way to play on Jamie's sympathy in order to get her to call off the seance.

No matter what, Z had to keep Jamie and Susan apart. Nothing good could come from those two being together!

Going to his office from the Pizza Hut, Z found he had a message to call D.J. Jewell, Z dialing and getting the man sooner than Z expected.

The only day of the week Jewell wasn't either working on his radio show or doing it, the D.J. said, was Sunday. So he wanted Z's interview tomorrow evening at six -- Z reluctantly saying OK -- Jewell giving him directions.

The rest of Saturday, plus all day Sunday, passing slowly as it always did without Susan, Z set out at 5:30 for the address Jewell had given him, Jewell's apartment in the snazzy new Valley Forge complex a couple miles off Barry Road.

Easy to find, particularly since the appointment was in the early evening, the sun still two hours from going to ground.

Through the outer wall of the development, past an eventually-to-be-manned security station, Z had no trouble locating the row of two-story buildings Jewell had indicated.

Parking -- to the odor of recent macadam, new-sawn boards, fresh latex, and well-watered sod -- Z crossed the asphalt road inside the apartment addition, hopping the curb to pass toy shrubbery that in a year or two, would become bushes.

This particular group of apartments was designed to look like a New England town, the manager's apartment building complete with a clock tower sporting a copper weather vane shaped like a fish. The individual units were painted blue or gray with white board trim.

Jewell had said to go to the first fourplex down the right branch of the access road. Apartment A-1.

Easy. Z was a detective, after all.

At the proper door, set in the proper-shaded alcove, Z pushed the buzzer to hear chimes from inside.

Two beats and the door opened, the D.J. appearing, Jewell dressed in a white long-sleeved shirt. Also white slacks and shoes. Looked like he was wearing a hazmat suit.

"Come in," Jewell said in his rich baritone, Z entering.

Jewell was a short, small-boned guy with big ears, tiny nose, and the eerily unlined skin of a man who made his living under artificial lights.

Though Z knew better, he was again struck by how little a person's voice resembled a person's looks.

Closing the door, Jewell led Z into what builders were calling a Great Room, a peaked, story-and-a-half chamber that combined living room, dining room and den, these areas set off, not by walls, but by furniture groups. The space looked even larger because practically everything in the room was white. Walls, sofa, chairs, carpet. All white, with accents of dark green.

Fronting the sofa were two end-to-end, flat topped trunks, the containers serving as a coffee table. Two limed-oak chairs completed the "living room" part of the open area.

A freeze-dried tree decorated one wall.

A tall fern, another.

Covering what looked like an entire wall of windows, were full-length, pleated draperies -- also white.

Specialized furnishings marked off other areas, one end of the room set off by a bookshelf, a grouping of chairs and a low couch.

The other end of the Great Room contained a small, but formal

dining table -- enameled a dark shade of white -- and four slender, ivory-colored chairs with padded nubby-silk seats.

WHITE OUT, was Z's overall impression, Z feeling that without an Eskimo's slit glasses in this quietly howling wilderness, he would soon go snow blind.

"Nice," is what Z said.

"This is just temporary. Until the house I'm having built in Leawood is finished. For all I know, Kansas City may be temporary. My show's mix of talk and rock is doing so well it's attracting national attention. Could find a spot in L.A. or the Big Apple."

After proclaiming his excellence, Jewell pulled up one of the smaller wood chairs, then, the other, placing the chairs on either side of the trunks coffee table.

They sat.

"Before we start," the D.J. said, his voice a rich rumble even without amplification, "let me get us a drink."

"Don't drink."

"Never?"

"Well ...."

"I've found in this business that people being interviewed sometimes feel a certain amount of stress. Perfectly normal, I assure you. On my radio show, people call in from the comfort of their own homes. And even they have trouble saying what's on their minds. Hem and Haw. Stutter around. What I'm trying to say is that a drink would help you relax. Help you to just be yourself."

"OK."

Rising, Jewell went to a cabinet that Z hadn't seen -- its off-white hue blending with the wall's shadow. Opening the double-swinging doors, Jewell pulled down a foldout bar; took a flat bottle from a narrow glass shelf; got two medium-sized glasses.

Unstoppering the decanter, he poured each of them a drink.

Returning with the glasses in one hand and the uncapped bottle in the other, Jewell sat wearily.

Putting the frosted flask on the table, taking a quick gulp from one glass, he handed the other drink to Z.

Accepting the amber-colored liquid, Z took a swig. Stifled a cough.

Now and again, Z drank a little beer, but was not used to ... whatever this was. .........

The second sip went down more smoothly, though.

"That's better," Jewell said, wiping his mouth with the back of his free hand. "Being a D.J. looks easy. All the D.J. has to do is talk. Yak, yak. All day long. Men come up to me in the street and tell me their wife would make a perfect radio personality. Nag, nag, nag. Day and night."

"I've been doing this job, or one similar to it for twenty-five years, my friend. And this is the first time I've hit it big. Got to have snappy patter, sure. Helps to have transcripts of what other jocks are saying across the country. But the secret is something deeper. Talent. That's the secret. Some got it, some don't. I always had it. It just took me a long time to find the right vehicle. And that's talk radio.

"In the bad old days, I spun 'platters' -- golden oldies. Did weather. Hell, I did farm market reports when I was on Radio Nebraska. Sow bellies. Hog futures. Done about every damn thing there was to do around a radio station. When I was a pup and there were still a few radio dramas trying to compete with TV, I did sound effects. But the right vehicle is talk radio.

"There's a lot of competition, though. Got to be timely. Got to shock the listeners so the great unwashed will call in and shoot off their mouths. It helps to have a crazy or two out there. Regulars who call in. The kind of fools the rest of us love to hate. Ku Kluxers. Black militants. Fem libbers. Dykes. And if you pick up a mad bomber, that's heaven!"

Z didn't know what to say. He hadn't heard much talk radio; and what he had, he didn't like. Seemed to him like an opportunity for folks to show their prejudice. Display their hatred for people unlucky enough to be on welfare. Show disrespect for young people. Women. The government. (While, at the same time, hiding their faces.) He'd heard some people brag about how they'd made their pile all on their own, so they shouldn't have to pay taxes. What they meant -- but didn't say -- was that, though they'd gone to public schools themselves, they didn't want to pay to educate "nigger" kids.

Call-in radio was the place to say nasty things about community leaders who were trying to help the poor. Calling them leftists. Or liberals, said with a sneer. The attitude seemed to be, I got mine and to hell with everybody else.

Z didn't say that, of course. Took another drink to calm himself down.

Z's parents were proud, hard-working people who, through bad luck in the depression, never had a pot to piss in. The insurance company had reneged on his Father's life insurance policy, leaving his Mother destitute. His mother, who sewed and even did other people's wash, never could save up two nickels to rub together, to say nothing of being able to afford health insurance. It was because of self-satisfied people saying that folks like Z's Mother were trash, that she'd refused to go to a "charity" hospital. It was people like that who'd made his Mother too ashamed to live!

Z took another nip to bring some warmth back to his cheeks.

"Well, to business," Jewell said, picking up the bottle, freshening up his drink and Z's. "I know what the police are supposed to be doing, whether or not they're doing it. I know about county sheriffs. And federal law enforcement. And security guards of one kind or the other. Falling through the cracks, are private investigators. Just what is it you do?"

"Anything."

"By which you mean ...?"

"What the client wants."

"And if the client wants something done that's illegal?"

"That's different."

"I ... see. Perhaps if you told me how you make your living, it'll be a place to start."

"Security work, sometimes."

"By that I take it you shadow someone suspected of stealing business secrets. Stealing clients."

"Also protection."

"Being a bodyguard?"

"Yeah. And divorce work."

"I think we've see enough of that on TV to be familiar with the divorce aspect of your job. Unless you have something to add that will flesh out the popular perception of the P.I. breaking through the bedroom door, camera at the ready."

"It's not all taking dirty pictures. It's running down child support delinquents."

"Do much of that?"

"Not me."

"Why?"

"Costs to travel."

"I see. And what else?"

"There's warranty work."

"Yeah?"

"Had a case where a contractor provided poor service. Refused to honor his guarantee."

"So where did you come in?"

"I was hired to reason with the contractor."

"Threaten him?"

That was exactly what Z had to do, though Z didn't think it wise to admit it.

Z felt ... light-headed. Maybe it was the liquor. He'd have to be careful what he said.

"Just pointed out the problem. He made it good."

"I'm sure."

Was Jewell being sarcastic? It was hard for Z to tell, Z also having a little trouble seeing, at the moment. The whiteness of the place was beginning to get to him.

"Is it always private citizens who hire your services?"

"Mostly."

"Ever work with the police?"

"More beside the police."

"Could you give an example?"

"Parents of a missing girl. The cops couldn't find her. I did." Unfortunately, Z had found the girl's decomposed body in a Johnson County field.

"I guess what I meant was, do the police ever ask for your services? Like, for instance, police departments have been known to call in a psychic now and then, to help them locate a missing person."

"Not locally!"

"Ah! Have I struck a little gold here? If I'm not mistaken, you just said, not only 'no', but 'hell no.' Does this mean that law enforcement doesn't exactly appreciate your services?"

"Depends."

"On what?"

"Which law enforcement."

"Go on."

"I get along with K.C. cops OK. Did some cooperative work with Kansas City."

"But ...?"

"Don't see eye-to-eye with Gladstone."

"Let's see." From his shirt pocket, the D.J. took out a piece of paper. Unfolded it. Scanned the contents. "The Gladstone force would be lead by ... a Captain named ...."

"Scherer."

"I gather that you and the captain don't get along?" the D.J. said softly, tucking his law enforcement checklist back in his shirt pocket.

"Right."

"Why?"

Z wanted to say because Scherer was an asshole. But didn't. Z wanted to say a lot of things about Scherer. Instead, kept it low key. "I messed him up, once."

"Got in the way of one of his cases?"

"You could put it that way."

"Tell me about it."

"It was Scherer's Betterton bust. Scherer thought he had Mrs. Betterton for narcotics. Found a lot of weed in a van she was supposed to have been driving. Arrested her. That was to be his ticket to big-time politics in Clay County. Mr. Drug Crusader. Only I proved Mrs. Betterton was somewhere else at the time. Took the wind out of Scherer's sails."

"You say the captain's arrest was politically motivated?"

"It was to be his big claim to fame as a drug fighter. Except he didn't do his job."

"How's that?"

"If I could find out the whereabouts of Mrs. Betterton, he could have, too."

"What you're saying is that Captain Scherer is incompetent."

"I wouldn't say ..."

"But isn't there the possibility of that?"

"Yeah. Maybe."

"And now he blames you for his own carelessness?"

"You bet."

"If he's so bad, how does he keep his job?"

"Criminals are generally dumber than cops. That's how they get caught. Anyway, there's not much real crime in Gladstone. If there was, Scherer couldn't locate it. Judging by the Betterton bust, Scherer couldn't find rotten meat with a bloodhound."

"That's good! Anything else?"

Because of the buzzing in his ears, Z couldn't think of much of anything except how good it felt to stick it to that prick Scherer. "No."

"That'll do it, then. I think I've got what I was looking for." Jewell stood up.

Z stood up also, felt dizzy. Rallied. The trouble with being a near teetotaler was when you did take a drink, it got to you. Z was OK, though. Some sleep and a lot of aspirin would put him right.

At the door, Z turned. Tried to recall just what he had talked about in the interview; remembered he'd said some nasty things about that rat-faced Scherer. "You said, no quotes."

"That's right. I won't quote you."

"OK." And that was it.

As Z lumbered down the path toward his car, he was thinking that, though he'd been leery of the interview, it hadn't been a bad experience.

It hadn't taken long, either.

Maybe Susan was right. That he should talk more. He'd certainly gotten some things off his chest about Scherer that he'd been carrying around for a long time.

All in all, Z was feeling ... fine.

* * * * *

Chapter 8

Life was a football, Z often thought. (No doubt one of the lesser observations from someone who used to play the game.) And like a football, took crazy bounces. Though things hadn't been going Z's way, by Monday, the "ball" had bounced right into his hands.

Just another thought that had gone through Z's mind as he sat in the Cavalier, in the Monday midnight dark, parked in the shabby blackness of Jarbo. There was nothing to do but think as the Cavalier's hot engine ticked its response to the old street's chittering insects, Z smelling the unmistakable odor of late night: dew, the leather leaves of aged trees, dust, unmowed lawns. ... And poverty.

For starters that morning, Z had gotten a call from Harry Grimes, Kansas City's most respected private investigator, Grimes making his mark in law enforcement as head of security for Sunflower Ordinance during World War II. After that, he'd gone into the P.I. business where he'd developed the reputation as the best skip-tracer in the Midwest. Launching his business -- Deerstalker Detectives -- he'd taken on three partners in the 60's, in the 70's, adding two more. (Z wondered how many people, hearing the word Deerstalker, thought Harry ran a hunting club. Z knew better, of course, Z a fan of Sherlock Holmes.) Harry was now in his 80's (if not 90's) the old man in semi-retirement but still acting as Deerstalker's "rainmaker." Too old to do sleuthing himself, Harry spent his time making himself visible to the business community; had a membership at Wedgewood, Kansas City's premiere golf club, as well as playing at several other links. You wanted a detective agency who could work at the highest levels? You talked to Harry on this or that club's 18th green or in some posh clubhouse after a quick nine.

First based in Lenexa, Deerstalker was now headquartered at Corporate Woods in Johnson County, Kansas -- just a skip and a jump from Kansas City proper, positioned in that new, and quite exclusive, "executive park" to garner business from the younger generation of K.C.'s corporate leaders.

Z had met Harry a few times before Harry "retired," just brushed past him, really, Harry going this way, Z that. Enough contact, though, that Harry started throwing a little business Z's way from time to time. Always part of a larger case -- sometimes an executive kind of deal Z didn't fully understand. Like Harry trusted Z, Z trusted Harry, everyone calling Harry the Silver Fox (Fox, indicating clever rather than tricky.)

This time, Harry had called to say he wanted personal information about a man who'd moved to the Northland. Z's territory.

Z liked working for Harry Grimes. Made Z feel like he was going up in the world. (Also, Harry paid well. And paid in advance.) Harry hadn't discussed the case, just asked if Z was busy, getting the expected denial. Harry said he'd send Z a check, sort of put Z on retainer, like someone with potential legal problems would put a hot-shot lawyer on retainer.

Yes. It always made Z feel classy to be associated with Harry Grimes.

The second thing that had gone right this morning was Z's decision to ring up Jamie Stewart at her apartment (it still being summer) rather than at the Catholic girls school in Kansas City, Kansas, where she taught in winter.

In addition to teaching, Jamie "moonlighted" in Kansas City, Missouri, as the K.C. cops' "occult expert," which meant they used her to expose "supernatural" fraud of one kind or the other: palm readers fleecing gullible old ladies; people pretending to be ghosts to scare off unwanted neighbors. (Recalling Dan Jewell's mention of Klan callers, Z had read that was how the Ku Klux Klan got its start. Dressing up in sheets. Pretending to be ghosts.)

What amazed Z was that there were people who still thought there were ghosts, even Susan believing that kind of nonsense, Susan seeming to think there was such a thing as poltergeists -- whatever they were.

On the case where Z had met hot little Jamie Stewart, she'd been hired to hunt down "ghost sounds" and a "ghost light" in an abandoned house, Z paid to protect Jamie ... from whatever. (If anyone could fend for herself, Z had discovered, it was wise-in-the-ways-of-the-world Jamie Stewart, Z now doing his damndest to protect himself from her!)

Getting Jamie at her home, he'd told her about this house he had to investigate. (No sense getting too specific about Z being there before, or about the house where a man was killed. To say nothing of mentioning that Z might have had something to do with the man's demise.)

Jamie had seemed flattered when he'd asked for her help, even though he'd made it clear there was no money in it. (He'd have paid her something if she'd balked. But she didn't, so he didn't have to.) He'd given her Kunkle's address on Jarbo; told her he'd meet her a block to the south at midnight.

She'd asked if she should bring her equipment -- photoelectric cameras, luminous powder -- ghost-hunting stuff like that. He'd said no.

And that was that.

Z, of course, had arrived at the Kunkle house a half hour ago, at 11:30. Had spent some time driving up and down the street looking for a police stakeout; as he'd expected, found the house was clear. Gladstone cops had better things to do than shadow the shacks of unimportant dead men: like give teenagers speeding tickets, hassle whores, and nap at their desks.

Z had parked where he and Jamie were supposed to meet, a block south of Kunkle's place.

Numerous stakeouts in the dead of night making Z a good judge of the passage of time, it had to be nearing the witching hour, Z waiting for "witchy" Jamie Stewart.

The night was not as dark as Z could have wished, though half a moon was better than a full one, the clear sky with its usual, diamond dust of stars.

The street was quiet, not a house light showing that Z could see.

How many of the shanties in this unfortunate part of town were abandoned and how many housed old folks who went to bed with the chickens, Z didn't know. And didn't much care.

Z was dressed in his black "night fighter" clothes -- minus his jacket-of-many-pockets. Too damned hot for that. He had on his "gum" shoes, and more for good luck than because there was a prayer of needing it, he'd stuffed his leather-and-lead blackjack in his right back pocket.

As Z waited for Jamie, his only regret was forgetting to tell her to wear dark clothing, Jamie maybe showing up in fluorescent white, anything to be expected from a girl who liked colored condoms -- but that was another story.

Above the light murmur of wind and scrape of insects, Z heard what someone else might take to be an outboard motor; Z knowing it as the sound of Jamie's foreign truck. Its banging even worse than the last time Z heard it. Fortunately, the truck's worn-out muffler was attached to an engine so small it wouldn't wake the "dead" ... in a manner of speaking.

Z could now see headlights, the little carry-all slowing as it came, Jamie no doubt trying to see an address, probably also looking for Z's car.

To help her, Z flashed his lights; saw the truck straighten and speed up.

Passing him, Jamie made a U-turn at the next intersection, drifting up slowly to park behind him.

As Jamie killed her lights and her engine, Z opened the car door, levering himself out on the narrow, mostly dirt and gravel street, mindful of his trick knee, though the knee had been functioning better lately.

Jamie's dome light came on as she opened her door, Jamie getting out, the girl trying to be quiet as she shut her door.

Z waited, Jamie walking up.

Thankfully, she was dressed in dark clothing, slacks, shirt -- though he could see the outline of her perky face and the "moonshine" of short blond hair in the midnight shadow of hovering trees.

Seeing her brought back memories of the nights they'd spent together. Hot, sticky memories.

"Hi, Mister," Jamie said softly in her deliberately sexy voice. "If I go all the way with you, will you respect me in the morning?"

Z didn't know what to say.

"Don't worry. Your virginity's safe with me. At least for tonight. I'm having the curse. Of course, some men really get off on .... Now, don't look like that. Can't you tell when I'm kidding?"

"No." Which was the simple truth.

In spite of the quiet cool at that time of night, Z could feel moisture collect at his hairline. For being such a "cool customer," Jamie could make a man feel hot, in more ways than one.

"Well, come on," she prodded. "If we're going on a mission, let's get to it."

"OK."

Motioning Jamie to follow, Z crossed the street and stepped over the curbing, the two of them padding silently down the broken sidewalk, Z turning into Kunkle's cracked drive, Kunkle's "misused" car still parked there.

Passing the car, Z led Jamie into the deeper shadow of the stoop -- where the situation was as he'd expected. No yellow plastic police tape.

The cops had unsealed the Kunkle house. Case unsolved, but closed.

Using his plastic card to "key" them inside the sad little house, Z and Jamie crept in, Z closing the door.

Only then did Z take out his new-battery penlight and flick it on, the narrow beam punching holes in the blackness, the living room -- minus Kunkle -- seeming just the same ... but stuffy.

Stuffy, because the house had been closed up since the murder investigation.

With less of a dusty odor. ......... Because the police had vacuumed the place in the vain hope of sucking up a small, but useful, clue.

"What are we looking for?" Jamie whispered, keeping her voice down even though Z had assured her the house would be unoccupied. "You weren't very clear on the phone."

Z hadn't been "very clear" because he'd failed to think up a story about why he needed to break into someone's house in the dead of night. He wasn't too certain of what to say, now.

"Drugs."

The catchall. The single word that justified illegal law enforcement.

"We're looking for, what? Cocaine?"

"Anything ... unusual."

"Where do you want to begin?"

Jamie was being unusually cooperative. Even submissive. Z wondered how long that would last.

To make a start, Z "beamed" Jamie to the add-on bathroom. Found it looking much the same, except that someone had mercifully flushed the stool. No medicine, except that Z did find a bottle of aspirin this time, tucked in behind some wash cloths on the shelf.

No change in the bedroom -- no asthma medicine on the stand by the bed, or any other medication in the room. Ditto for the bedroom closet -- minus the neck brace Z had used on Kunkle.

The kitchen was also no surprise, the box of candles missing from the drawer, of course.

Back to the living room.

By this time, Jamie had switched on her own penlight, the two of them cutting at the dark like light sabers slashing up Star Wars movies. Jamie was still following Z around, but was also taking side trips of her own to look at whatever caught her eye.

They were both careful to keep from shining their small lights at windows. Above all, didn't want to alarm a neighborhood insomniac. It wouldn't do to have cop cars sirening down the street.

Though the police had taken down what was left of Z's innovative candle arrangement in the center of the living room, Z noticed a couple of wax spots on the floor where he'd put Kunkle-and-chair; a sad reminder of a scare-off job gone wrong.

Z still couldn't believe his candle wax approach had killed little Howie. ...

Denial.

Z had seen enough talk shows on TV to know that "denial" was what a psychologist would call Z's refusal to believe he'd been the instrument of the little man's death. Maybe Z would talk to Calder about this sometime. Would definitely do that ... if only the Bateman psychologist was a priest.

Shaking off this unprofitable line of thought, it was time to impress little Jamie.

Z walked over to the desk.

While he'd left open the secret drawer, someone, as he'd hoped, had closed it again; probably the same "someone" who'd shut down the roll top.

Z tried the top.

Found it locked.

Good!

"A locked desk," Z said, pointing it out to Jamie, the girl stopping whatever she'd been doing with a rickety magazine rack to come over.

"Hmm," she said.

"Locked for some people."

With that, Z got down on the floor, scooted himself through the knee hole, and under the desk. Reaching up, he tripped the locking mechanism again, the drawers clicking open as before.

"Clever," Jamie admitted as Z backed himself out, Jamie giving him a thumbs-up.

Facing the desk, Z rolled the top up and back, the two of them pointing their lights inside.

Nothing in the little drawers.

Nothing in the pigeon holes at the back.

Next, Z pulled out the large lower drawers, in turn.

Empty.

After that, making something of show of it, Z began to examine the secret drawer -- did the measuring bit again to demonstrate his wily discovery of the drawer's false bottom.

Pulling out the drawer to its full extent, reaching under it, he tripped the latch, the spring-loaded bottom popping up, revealing the compartment below.

Hearing Jamie's intake of breath, he knew he'd amazed her -- a difficult thing to do to worldly-wise Jamie Stewart.

Both of them pointing their little lights inside the drawer, the drawer "swallowing" the light to make the rest of the living room even darker than before, the first thing they saw was the same greasy deck of cards, scattered about.

The leather notebook with names and phone numbers ... wasn't inside. The police would have taken that.

Nor was the money anywhere to be seen, the odds saying that the first cop to inspect the drawer had pocketed the cash. With the owner of the desk safely dead, who was to say what the desk contained? Anyway, policemen were underpaid. Underappreciated. Their children undernourished ..... And a lot of that.

Gallantly, Z stepped back to let Jamie have "first crack" at the drawer's ... stuff.

As Z had done the first time, Jamie began by taking out the items, examining each in turn before putting it on the desktop.

First, she corralled the scattered cards, making a pack out of them, stacking that old deck on the desktop.

She took out the new unopened decks.

She retrieved the cellophane card wrappers that Howie seemed to have steamed off some of the decks.

The little mirror.

The instant glue.

The sunglasses -- though they were hardly sunglasses in the usual sense, since they had such lightly colored lenses they could pass for regular glasses.

And finally, the small bottle of alcohol.

Looking at each item again, Jamie turned to look up at Z.

"What do you make of it?" Z would like to have added, "Smarty Pants" -- but restrained himself. In addition to her tongue, the girl's ego needed trimming as much as anyone he knew.

"Whoever put these here is a gambler."

Good.

That was very good.

John Dosso had told Z that. On the other hand, from just a few decks of cards, how could Jamie have deduced that Kunkle gambled? He could have been a bridge player. Or played pitch, or hearts, for that matter. While he might have bet on the outcome of those games ....?

"Gambler?"

"Sure."

The famous "shoe" was now on the notorious other "foot." Jamie was so confident she was right -- and Z knew she was -- that she was not even bothering to offer her evidence for pronouncing Kunkle a ... wagerer ... "wagerer" the recent and more respectable sounding term for those who lost their shirt by "wagering" at rigged-against-you (but state-approved) casinos. The state makes money on gambling -- good. The state doesn't make money on gambling -- bad.

Figured.

Back to Ms. Stewart. If Z wanted to know her reasons for pronouncing Kunkle a gambler, he'd have to ask her -- something he didn't want to do, unless .... Ah!

"You're right, of course. And the tipoff?" Put like that, Z would seem to have already figured out any small thing Jamie had noticed that he hadn't.

"The glim, all by itself, is a dead giveaway."

Glim?

What was this glim?

This was going differently than he'd planned.

"And of course, you noticed the glasses."

"Umm. Yes."

Jamie reached down, picked up the glasses and put them on -- the frames too big for her, the girl having to hold them on with one hand to her temple.

With her free hand, she picked up the old deck.

Thumbed out several cards, looking at each.

"Not very sophisticated," she sniffed.

Satisfied with whatever she'd discovered, she passed the glasses to Z, who put them on.

Jamie's narrow light added to his own, Z looking carefully at the same cards Jamie had inspected, he suddenly saw what she'd been talking about. Though invisible to the naked eye, through the glasses, he could see that tiny spots had been inked on the cards' backs.

Marked cards! Wearing these special -- polaroid? -- glasses, a player could see spots no one else in the game would notice. Making it a dead cinch that, because Kunkle marked his cards, he was a gambler.

Moreover a crooked one!

Z soothed his wounded pride by telling himself that, if he'd known about the glasses trick, he would have seen the same thing Jamie had.

Z took off the glasses. Set them down.

Meanwhile, Jamie had picked up the worn deck again.

Running her fingers along the sides of the pack -- twice -- she laughed, her husky voice in the silent house sounding like a donkey's bray.

"He must have kept forgetting his own marking system, or else he had bad eyesight. Otherwise, why bother to rig a cut?" Again, she was using terminology Z had never heard.

Apparently seeing that Z was puzzled, Jamie cut the deck, lifting up the pack to show Z that the Ace of Spades was on the bottom. Jamie shuffled the deck. Cut again. Ace of spades on the bottom.

"How ....?"

"Maybe it's the way I shuffle," she said with a wry smile. "Here, you shuffle."

Z did. Three times.

He handed the deck back to Jamie, who made another cut before upending the deck. Ace of Spades on the bottom.

"OK," Z said, willing at last to admit that little Jamie had special knowledge he didn't. "How?"

"Kunkle shaved the deck. What you do is, you take out the card that, after the deck is cut, you want to appear on the bottom. Putting the other cards back in the pack, you sandpaper the edges of the deck. That makes the other cards bow in just a little along their sides. When you put the unsanded card back in and run your fingers up the sides of the deck, your fingers automatically "stick" on the unshaved card, that card now a little wider than the rest. When you cut, you cut at that card, making that card the bottom card. Most gamblers are more sophisticated than to make the bottom card the Ace of Spades, however. That's rather obvious. Overdoing it. Of course, when Kunkle is the dealer, he could deal seconds."

"Seconds?"

"Deal off the bottom. Got to watch a dealer whose fingers are flapping on the hand holding the deck. A sure sign he's dealing off the bottom."

"How did you ...?"

"Just part of my job when working for the city. I've been put into games so I could testify in court. Not much gets past little Jamie Stewart!"

Grudgingly, Z could believe it.

"One time, incredible as it sounds, there was a game in which the pigeon actually let himself be seated with a mirror behind him, the others able to see his hand in the mirror. Can you believe that? The raw stupidity of the human animal never ceases to amaze."

Z wondered if he would have thought of being seated in front of a mirror. Maybe not, but then he never played cards. The last time he could remember even holding cards was when he'd played "war" as a child.

"On another occasion" -- Jamie was in her lecture mode -- "there were spectators, a lady kibitzer knitting. By knitting slow or fast, she was giving signals to her partner who was in the game." Jamie shook her pretty head. Picked up one of the unopened packs. "I wouldn't want to play with these sealed decks, either."

"But if the wrapping's still on ..."

"Someone's been tampering with the seals. If you can steam them off intact," she pointed to the cellophane wraps Kunkle had gotten off, "you can put them back on after the deck's been marked.

"Let's see." Picking up what Z had taken to be an unopened deck, she shucked off the cellophane wrapper to thumb through the new cards inside. "Yep. I was right. These have been pre-dented. Which is also something of a surprise. Whoever did this, wasn't all that good a crook, if you ask me. What you normally do is, if you're dealt a card you want to keep track of, you dent it with your fingernail. When you're the dealer later on, you can feel the dent as you deal. That way, you know who got that particular card!" She frowned. "But pre-denting?" She shrugged her huggable shoulders.

"Never heard of that," Z said, impressed.

"First law. Don't gamble with people you don't know. Second law. Never play with professionals."

They seemed like good rules.

Since it was established that Jamie knew about card cheats and Z didn't, he might as well ask. "What's a glib?"

"Glim," Susan corrected. "This little mirror." She picked it up. "What you do -- using this instant glue," she pointed to the small tube, "is stick the mirror to the palm of the hand you use to hold the deck. When dealing, remembering to cup your hand so only you can see the reflection, all you have to do is make certain a corner of each card passes over the mirror as you deal. That way, if you're quick, and your memory's good, by the time you've finished dealing, you know every card in every player's hand. Takes some of the fun out of gambling, but has the cheat crying all the way to the bank."

"The alcohol?"

"That's new. I'd bet anything the small-timer who did this," she pointed at the items on the desk, "couldn't get the hang of that. In Vegas, they're having trouble with people surreptitiously swiping alcohol over the back of key cards. The alcohol evaporates, so there's no sign of it. The trick is, that someone with super-sensitive feeling can tell the difference between a treated and an untreated card. Like in the days of Jesse James, when a safe cracker twiddled the dials of a bank vault to feel for the faint vibrations when the lock tumblers fell in place. A genuine mechanic would first sandpaper his fingertips. Sort of bring the nerves to the surface as a way to improve his touch."

Z couldn't help but shudder.

So, he thought, trying to forget the agony of raw fingertips, Jamie knew a lot of about card sharps. It was just that he hadn't realized gambling was in her line of fraud detection.

"Anything else?"

"Besides the fact that the owner of the house was a homosexual? Nothing."

"Homo ....?"

"Sure."

"And how can you tell that?"

Z had her there, his advantage over her, that he'd checked out Kunkle's car. Though shrimpy in size, Kunkle was a man's man. And how did Z know that? Two ways. First, the muscle magazines Z found in Kunkle's car. Second, there was the box of condoms in the glove compartment.

"Just a guess," Jamie admitted. "Over there in the magazine rack. Muscle magazines."

"Indicates he's a body builder." A guess that was as far from the truth as you could get, though Jamie couldn't know that.

"So, where's the weights?"

"Couldn't afford them?"

"Maybe. But how much do free weights cost? Then, too, there are the missing magazines."

"Missing ...?"

"Girlie magazines. No Playboy. No Penthouse." Even in the dark, Z could see the ghost of her smile.

"I found condoms," Z said by way of rebuttal, indicating he'd discovered them in the bedroom when he'd actually seen them in Kunkle's car.

"You ever hear of AIDS?" Jamie wasn't accepting the discovery of rubbers as proof that Kunkle was straight. "If you're going to bugger your brother, you got to have protection." She grinned again. "By the way, did you know that when Cosmo began putting in male centerfolds, the circulation of the magazine rose?"

"So?"

"Not from increased sales to women. From sales to homosexuals."

Z hadn't known that.

"Women are not as turned on by looks as men are," she said matter-of-factly. "Which is good for old guys who look like you."

Though Jamie smiled to show she was teasing, that hurt.

"In my case, it's your outgoing personality that drives me wild."

Kidding again.

"Yeah."

"To say nothing of your subtle communication skills."

Jamie could be a real pain, when she wanted to be. Which was most of the time.

Still, Z had to admit she'd come up with observations he hadn't made himself. Of course, providing proof that Kunkle was what Johnny Dosso thought, a gambler, didn't add much to Z's knowledge. Knowing that Kunkle was a crooked gambler did help Z feel a little better about Kunkle's accidental death.

And that seemed to be that. They had given the house the once-over Z wanted.

The conclusion? That the death of Howard Kunkle had to have been some kind of accident. In a vague way, Z may have had something to do with it. But chance played the greatest part.

One bird (the Kunkle bird) down. One to go.

Leaving the house, Z and Jamie walked side-by-side down the dark, deserted street to their cars.

"One more thing?"

"What?"

"Something else you wanted to see."

"Oh?"

This was taking a risk, but you couldn't play everything safe all the time.

"At my apartment."

"My, my," Jamie said slyly. "Whatever could interest me about your apartment? Anyway, what have you got to show me I haven't already seen?"

Z was afraid his answering grin was more queasy than mysterious.

"On the other hand, since you've already popped my cherry, why the hell not?"

His invitation accepted, with Jamie following in her truck, Z pointed the Cavalier home, down Vivion, right on Oak, north until the turnoff. Down the side street and right again, Z parking in front of his rooming house.

The two of them sliding out, he guided Jamie through the dark, along the sidewalk to his door.

Strangely, Z felt like he should be picking his own lock. It had been that kind of night.

Using his key, Z unlatched the deadbolt, holding the door for Jamie, coming inside himself, closing the door, switching on the ceiling light.

Jamie, now that he could see her clearly, had packed herself into a pair of dark blue jeans. Was wearing a black long-sleeved shirt. Also packed.

"This place looks just like you," Jamie said, turning her head slowly to take in the small living room and the kitchenette at the back. "It doesn't have a lot to say."

"Yeah." A smart mouth could damage any girl's looks. "The bedroom's this way."

"Got some etchings back there?"

Z didn't say anything, just led Jamie through the short hall into his "boudoir" where he snapped on the overhead light.

"Not much room," Jamie said, looking around, "reminding me of the old saying, 'Head for the roundhouse, Nelly. He can't corner you there.'"

As usual, Z had no idea what Jamie was talking about.

"There," he said, pointing to his bed.

"Want to flip me for it?"

"I mean. That's what you want."

"What ....?"

"To see the bed where Susan and I make love."

"That wasn't exactly ...."

"Now that you've seen it, you can call off the seance."

"Oh! Is that what this is all about? Not luring me to bed, but protecting little Susan?

"When you called, I wondered what the deal was. You're going on and on about what a professional I was, how you needed my expertise, how much respect you had for me, all that kind of crap. That's why I came. Followed you around like a little lamb. To find out what kind of shit you'd pull.

"And now I really do feel insulted."

"But, you said ...."

"And how did you hear about the seance? ... Of course, Susan told you. Has she figured out who I am, yet?"

"No!"

"And you got to pray she doesn't."

"No more games." Z was getting irritated. "How did you find Susan?"

"Tracking Susan wasn't hard. In addition to her picture, you had her business card in your billfold. As for the seance, if you got ghostly noises in the house, you want to talk to someone about it."

Suddenly, it hit Z! "You're the one who made those noises."

"He catches on, at last."

"But why go to so much trouble ....?"

"Like I told you, to see the bed you and Susan make love in."

"But ...." Z pointed to his bed again.

"Cute," Jamie said, unimpressed. "You knew what I meant. Not your bed, Susan's." Jamie shook her head. "You just don't learn, do you? That you can't mess with Jamie Stewart." She grinned the smile of crocodiles. "After losing this round, buster, I'm not even going to tell you what it'll take to tear up your marker!"

And turning on her heel, the girl was gone ... Z left with the echo of the front door slam.

* * * * *

Chapter 9

Goddamn son of a bitch! Motherfucking asshole of a cocksucker! Frigging, fart-faced, corn-holed buggery! Shitfaced, whore. That bull dyke, flit of a hairy-pawed pussy licker, muff diver! ... Fork-tongued weasel-snatcher .......

Weasel-snatcher?

For the last two days, Z had been sitting at his desk, cursing his shabby, wood file cases, the old cabinets taking it pretty well. It was with "weasel-snatcher," that he'd been brought to his senses; made to see that he'd run out of both curse words and steam.

It was early Wednesday afternoon.

The seance was this evening.

And he'd thought of nothing he could do to stop it.

Susan had called yesterday evening, all excited about the coming event. Two of her friends from work would be attending, she'd said, young women who Z had probably heard about but had never met.

The devil of it was that Z no longer had any idea what Jamie Stewart was up to. He knew he might be making a mistake by having Jamie out to his apartment -- but thought it was because it was risky to let Jamie know where he lived. He hadn't expected Jamie to react like she had to the reason Z had her over.

Women were funny creatures.

Not so funny when they had their hooks in you.

All Z could do now was go to the seance himself. Surely, with him right there, Jamie would be reluctant to go too far. It was just that Z was afraid of what Jamie might consider as not going too far. Then, too, Susan's coworkers would also be at the "party," women neither he nor Jamie knew, Jamie not apt to pull a fast one in front of total strangers. That's why, if you wanted to break up with a girl, you'd take her to a fancy restaurant to tell her, a place where she couldn't very well make a scene. (Not that Z had ever done that. He'd seen it in a movie, though, and thought it was a good idea.)

On the only other topic worth thinking about, the one good thing that had happened since the row with Jamie, was Harry Grimes' check coming in yesterday's mail: five hundred much-appreciated dollars. Since Z was back to eating peanut butter and jelly, Z could stretch that kind of money into several months of survival.

Back to ... the problem.

Z didn't know anything about seances, except what he'd seen in movies: people sitting around a table in the dark, holding hands. There was also something about table rapping -- the favorite way "spirits" got messages to the living. Apparently, the afterlife couldn't produce something as technically advanced as a megaphone -- to say nothing of a Mr. Microphone. ...... So much for "pie in the sky, by and by."

He also remembered seeing a TV program about seances; gauzy ghosts appearing from nowhere to hover over the table, ghosts looking sad and, for want of a better word, dead. He thought he remembered the seance table itself flying up in the air. And clanking chains -- or was that Marley's ghost?

He'd also seen movie versions of turban-headed Madams going into trances so that "spirits" could enter their bodies. (The best reason he could think of for stocking up on Ex-Lax.)

The phone rang.

Now used to the phone ringing right at his elbow, Z picked up the receiver.

"Bob Zapolska Detective Agency."

"Z. Susan."

This was the second time that month Susan had called Z at his office.

"Yeah."

"I just had to ring you up to tell you how proud I am of you!"

Better than the opening line a newly enlightened Susan might have used, the one that started with, "You two-timing rat!"

On the other hand, what did Z say when he didn't know why he was the object of Susan's "pride." Better to wait until he received enlightenment.

"I thought you said it wasn't going to happen?"

"What?" Z asked, still mystified.

"The interview with Dan Jewell, on channel 1492. The Morning Show."

"I did talk to him."

"I know!"

Something wasn't connecting. While Z had promised Susan he would talk to Jewell, he hadn't told her he'd done it. How could she ...?

"And I said it would be good for business," Susan explained to show she remembered their conversation. "You said you were not going to be on the radio."

"Yeah."

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Well, when did you change your mind? You don't ever listen to my suggestions, Z, so I didn't think there was a chance I was getting through to you."

"Talked to him, but said no quotes."

"Technically, that's right," Susan said, a frown in her otherwise elated voice. "The man doesn't have to quote you if you're speaking for yourself."

What was she talking about? "What are you talking about?"

"This morning's radio show. The start of the series about law enforcement in Kansas City."

"So?"

"So tell me all about it!"

"Didn't hear it."

"You know what I mean!"

"Didn't hear it."

"Of course you didn't hear it, dummy," Susan growled in her cute, low voice. "How could you when you were on the program?"

Not connecting.

What was needed here was a little detective work.

There had to be a reason for Susan to call, just as clearly, she wasn't going to tell him what it was. It followed, then, that it was Z's job to ferret out the missing link in this conversation.

Perhaps the way to start was to provide some information of his own. "I did go for the interview. At Jewell's home. Last Sunday."

"Go on."

"That's all. Haven't seen him since."

"Haven't seen ...." There was a pause. "Of course. You taped your comments when you were at his house."

Taped ......

Suddenly, Z had a sick feeling. "You heard ... something on the radio."

"Sure."

"Me?"

"Sure. It must have been part of the conversation you had with Dan Jewell last Sunday. I'm sorry. I didn't realize you'd taped the interview. I thought you'd gone to the studio in person ......"

The blood rushing through Z's veins drowned out whatever Susan said next.

Tape.

Without Z being aware of it, Jewell had taped their conversation. No quotes, the slippery little man had promised. And as Susan had pointed out without realizing what she was saying, Jewell hadn't "quoted" Z. The little bastard had used Z's comments directly!

Z's next thought was of pulling off a Howard Kunkle-style "accident" for the D.J. -- though it didn't matter whether or not Dan, the P.P. Jewell met with a similar fate. The damage had been done, moreover, done all over Kansas City, the radio carrying Z's "running-off-at-the-mouth disease" faster than a rat could spread the plague. The only remaining question was what Jewell had used of their conversation.

Thinking back -- Z apparently more "liquored up" than he'd realized at the time -- Z had trouble remembering what he'd said.

"What was used?" He'd gotten a grip on himself at last, Susan's jabber petering out in the meantime.

"Something about what detectives do for a living."

Good news! Drunk as he was, he hadn't told Jewell the truth about that.

"And about some of your successful cases."

Z's memory was a good bit fuzzier about what he'd said in that regard.

"Let me think." Susan paused. "You said you did divorce cases. And sometimes were a bodyguard, like you were for me." So far, so good. "Something about getting a contractor to honor his agreement. You never told me about that."

"It wasn't much."

"I'll bet!" Susan never liked being left out. "Then you lowered the boom on the police captain."

Lowered the ... boom? "Were any names mentioned?"

"Oh, yes. The captain's name was Scherer. Mr. Jewell said the captain's name a number of times. Like he would ask you a question about Captain Scherer and you would give one of your short answers, but with a lot of force, if you know what I mean."

"Like ... what?"

"Let's see." Susan, thinking. Z trembling. "The D.J. asked you about the captain, and you said he was more interested in his political career than in law enforcement."

"I ... what!?"

"Not in so many words, but that was the idea. And ... Oh, here's something I thought was particularly good. So good, it stuck in my mind. Let's see. The D. J said, 'If he's so bad,' meaning the captain -- 'how does he keep his job?' And you answered, 'Criminals are generally dumber than Scherer.'"

Z had no memory of saying that. At least, not that way.

"Then you said that the captain couldn't find rotten meat with a bloodhound." Susan laughed. "I didn't know you had a sense of humor like that."

Humor.

"And then something about your being smarter than the captain because you tracked down a lady when he couldn't."

As humorous as setting fire to your balls.

"Anyway, I wanted to call and congratulate you. I'm sure you'll be getting a lot more business soon."

Z was also sure he'd be getting "the business."

"I know you're coming over tonight, but with all the hustle and bustle at the seance, I didn't want to forget to tell you I'd heard your interview."

"Right."

"See you, tonight."

"Right."

They hung up.

Z had been had. The liquor. The interview being taped without his knowledge. A little "cut and paste" here, some "out of context there." But nothing like what would happen to him once Scherer heard what Z had blabbed to all of Kansas City.

To say nothing of still having to face the uncertainties of tonight's seance!

And so it was that the afternoon ended like the morning had begun, with a quantity of "goddamn son of a bitches" fired at one file cabinet and an abundance of "hairy-pawed pussy-lickers" hurled at the other.

* * * * *

Chapter 10

By that evening, Z had gotten enough control of himself to feel sheepish about how he'd been acting -- particularly, about sitting around his office, swearing. Since his Mother had been dead set against profanity, he'd not done that much cussing -- wasn't that good at it. While an experienced swearer raised blaspheming to an art, Z was in the minor leagues when compared to the professional cursers of this world -- sailors, drill sergeants, and anti-gay moralists.

Susan had called once more to tell him that the time of the seance was ten o'clock, total darkness necessary for "spiritual manifestations." Spiritual manifestations? Over the phone, Z couldn't tell if Susan had said that tongue-in-cheek or with a straight face. In the one case, he was still talking to the girl he loved; in the other, he had a duty to call for the men in the white coats.

Z had put on his best shirt: the short-sleeved blue one with the white Z monogram on the sleeve, the shirt Susan had given him for his birthday. He had on his black slacks, the ones she liked. Taking a page from Teddy's book, he'd even found a can of mostly dried-up shoe polish at the back of his hall closet to have a go at shining his shoes.

"Ready" at last, he'd cranked up the Cavalier on this mildly hazy summer night and drifted off down 72nd. At the light, he'd turned left on Oak, to be immediately caught up in what appeared to be mostly teenage traffic, Z herded along at twenty miles per hour above the speed limit. High schoolers -- with nowhere to go and nothing to do after they got there -- were always in a hurry. Another of life's mysteries.

Approaching the private access road to the Bircane apartment complex, Z came up on the newly built sex shop in a national chain of soft porn stores. "Sex toys," said a billboard out front. "Party gags."

Z wondered what was meant by "gags." Could mean jokes. Could mean .... But he didn't want to think about that. A flashing light marquee on the red and white facility promised "adult" videos (in Z's day, called stag films.) As for "adult entertainment," from seeing similar movies, Z knew there was nothing "adult" about them. What was "adult" about pointless sex scenes so badly plotted, acted, and filmed they could barely arouse the perpetually horny?

On the other hand, watching staged contests between man and silicone made more sense to Z than the placards carried by religious people who routinely picketed sex shops, the favorite sign of today's Jesus Jumper saying: "Real Men Don't Use Porn." Z wondered if that slogan meant what it seemed to imply: that "real" (meaning religious) men were so overheated they didn't need sex shows to arouse their lust.

Seeing the beat-up old broads who picketed with their oversexed mates, Z couldn't help but feel inferior to the lumpy ladies' husbands. If Z was expected to "make it" with women that ugly, he'd need a crane to get it up.

Past the sex "toys," shop, leaving the traffic by turning right, Z now coasted down a two-lane, blacktop road, then into a country lane that led to the Bircane. A complex of moderate to upscale apartments, the Bircane's wooden structures trimmed with used brick, dark-stained timber, and expensive shake-shingle roofs. Wood and brick duplexes, triplexes, quads -- none with shutters.

"Weather-wise," it was a perfect August night, low clouds, but no threat of rain, a cool, woodsy-scented breeze rustling the trees.

Rolling through the outback parking lot, Z pulled into a slot beside a large, bent-up (but newly painted) green dumpster behind Susan's building. Switched off the engine and killed his lights.

Leaving the lot, he climbed a four-step wood stairway that led to a log bridge spanning a moat.

Going down the other side, Z entered the breeze way bisecting Susan's quad; then hooked left to Susan's front door.

Susan's privacy -- to say nothing of her safety -- was "guarded" by the cheapest possible door, the hollow kind today's builders put on all apartments and most high-priced homes. (High dollar didn't mean high quality like it used to.)

Z had installed a deadbolt for Susan. But if the door itself shattered ...?

He knocked. Two thuds.

Sounded ... timid. If you tapped just twice, it seemed like you were afraid to disturb the occupant -- in this case, close to the truth. An aggressive, four-time knock, heralded either a cookie-wielding Girl Scout or two Mormon missionaries. Knocking three times sounded ... just right. Z wondered why.

The door opened, a dark-haired young woman peeking out, a girl he'd never seen before. Did he have the wrong ...?

"Mr. Zapolska?" she ventured timidly, her small face screwed up like a baby with the colic.

"Yeah."

She brightened. "Susan's busy in back. Asked me to answer the door. Come on in." In spite of the impact of Z's looks, she was now able to smile.

Stepping inside the tiny, wallpapered entranceway, Z saw that the woman -- girl, really -- was dressed in what looked like a World War II sailor suit, round canvas gob-hat on the back of her head. She had on a navy blue pea jacket (except in summer-weight material and cut shorter than its seagoing counterpart,) the jacket altered to become an open vest. A white neckerchief was slip-knotted around her throat to support what looked like her high school ring. Dark blue pants, flared at the ankles over white canvas "deck" shoes.

She was wearing perfume. Something ... fruity.

Pretty, but without Susan's figure ... or length of leg. She did have a cute, button nose.

Even though the girl looked brighter than the normal "insurance toiler," she had to be one of the "colleagues" Susan had spoken about inviting.

Another step took them into the living room.

The apartment was the same -- formal, in an ultra-modern way. Blue and black. Steel and glass, Z feeling that Susan had decorated the apartment like this because she associated her former, more comfortable, residence with her maniac husband -- now safely dead.

Closing out that sad period of her life, she'd needed radical change. In living quarters. And, lucky for Z, in men.

Z hoped this cubist phase would eventually wear off, Z longing for the day Susan would go back to restful furniture, to thick rugs before the hearth, to sofas suitable for romance.

Meanwhile, with brief apology, the girl had disappeared, probably to help Susan "in back."

The doorbell buzzed. ....

That's right!

There was a button out front. Somehow, Z had never learned to use it. Had always knocked. ....

Could this be why Susan seemed to know when it was Z at the door?

Feeling a little foolish, Z walked back to the door and opened it to find another woman-girl, this one looking about as scared of him from the outside as the first girl had been from within. Big and ugly did that to people.

"Susan's busy. In back," Z said. "I'm Bob Zapolska."

"Oh, yes. I've ... heard about you. The detective." She managed a wan smile on her thin but pleasant face.

"Come in," Z said, standing aside for her.

Stepping inside, then into the living room, the woman's rapid appraisal of the place told Z this was the first time she'd been invited. "This is ... nice," she said appreciatively. Since Susan was older, had been with the firm longer, Susan no doubt made more money than the girl -- was what she really meant. Not that any of the company serfs were paid a fraction of what the top guys made: executive salaries, plus perks, plus bonuses all "earned" by cheating the little guy.

This young woman was taller than the first one, though shorter than Susan. Slender, more because she was young than because she was exercise-firm. She had straight, semi-long blond hair that curled under at the edges, dark eyes, and an aristocratic -- sometimes called Roman -- nose. Was wearing a pink, boat-neck sweater of summer-fluffy rayon and slim khaki slacks. Inch-and-a-half loops of lacquered brass dangled from her ears, a single serpentine of gold around one wrist.

She smelled like ... girl.

Pretty classy for a secretary.

Z was beginning to think he should get to know more of Susan's friends.

"I see you've met." No longer "in back," breathtaking Susan had slipped into the room. Tonight, she wore a softly draped, gray/green linen dress, with long sleeves cuffed at her slender wrists. Open-throated, convertible collar. Flap, chest pockets ... looking delightfully full. The dress buttoned halfway down to be cinched at the waist with a two-inch belt, its hem cut well above the knee to show off a considerable length of shapely leg.

Giving Susan's outfit an appreciative look, Z concentrated on the real Susan. He loved her hair -- vinyl-shiny black. Shoulder-length. Gently curled in a rumpled sort of way. Her eyes were so deep a blue they could look black at night. Her lips, generous -- in more ways than one. Teeth, not perfectly straight, the kind that spoke of sincerity and making it on your own.

As usual, she looked fit and tanned; tan, her natural color. Susan never tanned.

"We haven't met formally," the second girl said. "I'm June." The girl bravely stuck out her hand.

Z shook, carefully.

"This is Z," Susan said.

"I know."

The first girl now came in from "the back."

"Rachel, this is Z."

While not offering to shake, Rachel did manage a nice smile.

"We might as well sit down," Susan said, encouraging them to do so by sitting herself on one end of the blue, uncomfortably low-backed divan.

Feeling he should do something to help, Z sat on the other end of the sofa -- squatted on, would be more like it, the sofa's iron frame digging him just below the shoulder blades when he tried to lean back.

The other women picked rigidly straight chairs, drawing them up on the other side of the steel and glass coffee table, then perched in them gracefully, as much at home in these anti-human seats as birds on power lines.

Silence.

A silence that gave Z hope. Maybe Jamie would do the decent thing and not show up. If that happened, the four of them now present would spend an hour in pointlessly polite conversation -- like people did who didn't know each other -- after that, the two insurance girls going home.

Leaving Z and Susan unchaperoned!

"Would you like something to drink?" Susan asked nervously. Z shook his head. Though his mouth was as dry as toast, he didn't think he could swallow ... air.

"I had a late supper," June said, also shaking her head.

"You got any gin?" Rachel asked.

"Uh ... No. I don't think so." Like Z, Susan wasn't much of a drinker. "The best I can do is white wine. And, of course, Coke ... Diet Coke," she said, looking apologetically at the women, then grinning down the sofa at Z to remind him she stocked the nasty stuff for him.

"Wine would be great," Rachel said, with a toss of springy curls.

Susan scrambling up to disappear "in back," the other women were trapped with Z in the silence of the room.

Z never knew what to say to women.

Just as clearly, the women didn't know what to say to Z. Did they ask him about his cases? If so, what was the polite way of going about that? He could see thoughts like that whirling behind their eyes.

If the women knew each other, they apparently thought it impolite to talk shop in front of Z, meaning that, without Susan to bridge the gap between her guests, Z and the women would remain, forever, mute.

As Z was considering an poignant comment about the weather, Susan returned, a glass, corkscrew, and magnum-sized wine bottle in one hand, a tray of uncooked vegetables and toy sandwiches in the other -- and Z's diet coke, in a glass, no less -- Susan putting the tray on the coffee table, the women making the proper murmuring noises about the variety of food and how good it all looked.

The wine ceremony took another minute, Susan corkscrewing the stopper, popping out the cork, pouring a full glass, Rachel accepting the medium-sized tumbler to drain the contents in four gulps, handing the glass back so Susan could pour her another drink before Susan sat down. Z's judgment was that, if Jamie didn't get here soon, Rachel might be sleeping over. Under the couch.

Putting the bottle within easy reach of thirsty Rachel, Susan sat down again. "We're all here, but ... the guest of honor." Susan tried to smile.

Silence. Except for the sound of Rachel swallowing.

The hostess with the duty of jump-starting the party, Susan tried again. "What did you do at work today?"

"Nothing," Rachel said, reaching for the bottle to fill her "flagon." (Remembering the dated word flagon reminded Z of a bit of silly movie dialogue that went: "The chalice from the palace has the brew that is true, but the flagon with the dragon ....")

"Me, either," June was saying, the girl looking at the ceiling.

Z knew what was wrong. Rachel and June were nervous. And why not? They were about to experience something (the seance) that was completely foreign to them. Attending a seance -- seeming like such fun at work, in the daytime -- now struck them as a little ... frightening. People talked about how much "fun" it was to have "new experiences," but found it more enjoyable to talk about flying to Tahiti, boating in the Everglades, or eating Mongolian "cuisine," than to actually do it. Most people found "new experiences" more frightening than pleasurable.

Z wasn't worried about the seance. Mostly, he had to admit, because on the nights he and Jamie had worked together on the ghost house case, he'd learned that Jamie, girl ghost hunter, thought all that supernatural stuff was bunk! Z's fear was caused by his having no idea what little Jamie had in mind for this evening's "entertainment." Always uncertain about any woman's desires, Z was terrified by what might be the imaginative needs of Jamie Stewart!

The doorbell buzzed.

So much for Z's prayer that the ghost hunter had a change of heart about this evening's torture.

Getting up quickly, Susan crossed the room to enter the "foyer."

An exchange of "Hi" at the door had the two women appearing in the living room, Susan towering over Jamie Stewart.

Jamie. Same short blond hair. Same perky, blue-eyed face. Same "endowed" look on top. And yet ....?

What was different about Jamie was that she was wearing a dress, a slinky, black, long-sleeved dress. V-necked. Plain. The skirt flaring dramatically into princess pleats, the hem swishing just below the knee. (While Jamie's legs were certainly pleasing to ... look at, the girl didn't have Susan's fashion model "gams.")

"Working" with Jamie at the "ghost house," the two of them tossing the Kunkle place, he'd never seen Jamie in anything but shirt and slacks. (At the ghost house, he hadn't seen her in much of anything.)

"Hello," Jamie said to the others in the room. Her voice low. Seductive.

Though Z had never noticed it, Jamie and Susan had identical voices. Could it be that the "sound" of a woman attracted Z as much as her looks?

What Z didn't need was more distracting thoughts than he already had!

"Jamie, this is Rachel. Rachel Roberts." Susan indicated the sailor suit, the "middy" draining her fourth glass of wine so she could nod at the newcomer. Z wondered if Rachel could still talk. Wondered if something about sailor suits drove whoever wore them to drink. .....

"This is Jamie Stewart," Susan said, introducing the newcomer to Rachel. "We met at work. Jamie had come in to check on a policy and we fell to talking. But I think I already told you that."

Susan was still nervous. Even though she babbled on sometimes, she rarely repeated herself. "And this is June Douglas. June works just across the aisle from me, but in the claims department."

"Hi," June said.

"Hello."

"And this is Z." Remembering to act the gentleman, Z lumbered to his feet. "That is," Susan rushed to explain, "Bob Zapolska, my ...." Susan stopped suddenly. What was Z to her, she was asking herself. More than a boyfriend. Less than a fiancee.

"Ah," Jamie said. "I'd know you anywhere."

"What?" Z's heart was racing.

"I've seen you in bed ... that is, in my dreams. ... Susan described you so perfectly."

"Oh."

Z sagged back on his end of the divan.

"Now that everybody knows everybody," Susan said, smiling crookedly, "what do we do?"

"Perhaps we should get to know one another a little better," Jamie suggested, crossing to sit down beside Z, Susan following her, sitting on the divan's other end.

Jamie wiggling to settle herself, she was ready to begin the con.

"We are going to have an experience shared by few," said Jamie, stating the obvious. "I would not go so far as to say it will be frightening. On the other hand, it may be ... strange. People who know each other seem to ...." Jamie didn't finish that thought.

"May I have a little wine?" Jamie asked, noticing that Rachel was filling her glass again.

"Of course," Susan said. "Anyone else?"

This time, June and Z raised their hands as high as old-time banktellers staring down the barrels of the James boys' colts. The nearer the seance, the thirstier everybody got.

While Susan was out of the room to get more glasses, Z avoided looking at Jamie, but couldn't help but smile at the other women ... to assure them he was there to keep them safe. He only wished somebody would protect him from Jamie.

Back in the room, Susan gave glasses to Z and Jamie.

With Rachel reluctantly relinquishing exclusive possession of the wine bottle, June, Z, and Jamie extended their glasses in turn, Susan pouring, Susan burbling a little wine in her own glass before putting the bottle on the coffee table and sitting down.

The five of them were now grouped around the low table, the wine bottle and "sadly neglected" snack plate the table's centerpiece.

Following Rachel's practiced example, Z belted down his wine; felt the glow of it in his throat; immediately took the pledge. (D.J. Jewell had taught him that after two drinks, a Diet Coke enthusiast turns into a wino.)

Looking around, Z noticed everyone but Jamie had also finished off their drinks, bottled courage better than none at all.

"I know I'm here tonight as spiritual leader," Jamie started, "but I'm just a normal person. In the winter, I'm a teacher. In a girl's school in Kansas City, Kansas. Psychology." Sober-faced, the other woman nodded. "You're all working at an insurance company. In fact, the only one of us here who is at all ... strange ... is Mr. Zapolska."

As if on cue, the women swung their heads to look at Z, their stare trapping Z like a bottled insect caught by a bug-collecting child. "Not many private detectives around," Jamie finished, explaining what she'd meant by Z being the "strange" one of the group.

"Z does other things as well," Susan said, trying to come to Z's defense without making it look like she was ashamed of his profession. "He's also a security installer."

The two insurance ladies nodded. June, because that's what she did. Rachel, because she was having trouble holding up her head, Rachel's sailor hat slipped to the side, the hat also a little "tipsy."

"So," Jamie said, leaning forward, setting her mostly-full glass on the table, the ghost hunter all business now that the pleasantries were over. "Let me tell you what we'll be experiencing tonight.

"First, since it's on everyone's mind, let me talk to you about psychic fraud." Jamie paused, as if feeling her way. "It's the simple truth that all kinds of people make their living cheating the public, swindlers in the business community putting the likes of gypsy fortunetellers, palm readers, astrologers, and numerologists to shame. You'll find rip-off artists everywhere: from gold-plated bank presidents who made fortunes raiding S and Ls, to the little guy who 'fudges' on his income tax." Susan smiled disarmingly. "The old adage, 'Don't believe anything you hear and only half of what you see,' is as good today as it was when someone thought it up.

"For instance -- getting back to what's called the supernatural -- I know a contortionist who's doing very well financially in the faith healing business. For reasons unknown to me, there are people obsessed with the notion that one of their legs is shorter than the other. So much so that 'growing' people's legs has become a stock-in-trade of religious 'healers.' This man I know works miracles that 'lengthen' legs. He's more impressive than most because he can lengthen his own legs, becoming as much as two inches taller right before your eyes. He does this by using his back muscles to stretch apart the bones of his spine.

"In the same vein, there was an old-time medium who used to grease up, then swallow, yards of cheesecloth. In that way, be able to vomit out 'ghosts' when she needed them.

"Given the lengths to which some people will go to fool the public, I can understand why you might think I'm here to do the same. Right now, you believe what you'll be seeing tonight is trickery. It's natural to feel that way. Particularly when trying to explain away ... unusual ... phenomena.

"In my defense," Jamie waved her hand airily, "let me say that I didn't offer my services: Susan asked me to come. Not because she'd seen an ad I'd put in the newspaper. Not because she'd heard I give 'readings.' Which I don't. Not because I was on TV's public access channel, a guest on the 'Psychic Voyages' show. We just happened to meet when I went into the insurance company."

So far, Jamie was giving an impressive performance: a con artist never more sincere than when setting up the mark. Z wasn't taken in, in part because he had the advantage of knowing exactly why Susan and Jamie "happened to meet."

"I'm not charging anything," Jamie said, waving off the mere thought of financial remuneration. "Nor am I going to ask for a 'donation' at the end of the evening. Susan told me she has a problem that might -- and let me stress the word might -- be a ... presence ... in the apartment. I'm here as a friend, to see if there's anything I can do about that. Which is why you are here, as Susan's friends -- to help if you can."

They all nodded. Except Z. So far, so good, was what Z was thinking. It looked like, whatever her game, Jamie was going to play this ghost business straight. As straight as you could play ghost business.

"Some so called spiritualists work with partners," Jamie explained. "With all the lights off, the medium's accomplice -- dressed in black, face and hands also blacked-out -- can wander about without being detected. In the old days, they used burnt cork to blacken skin. Today, there are water-soluble products that are easier to wash off. Anyway, the 'invisible' partner supplies the tricks of the trade. Touching up cheesecloth with luminous paint was an old-time favorite, then sliding the fluttering 'ghost' along on wires. Or, everyone knowing that the presence of ghosts in a house makes 'cold spots,' taking a pitcher filled with dry ice and pouring refrigerated air over people seated around the table, the shock of chilly air sliding down their necks able to convince even bright people that a ghost has just passed by."

Jamie picked up her glass and took a small sip of wine.

"And you can forget what you've heard about table rappings. A hundred years ago, two sisters in New England started the spiritualist craze. The Fox sisters. It all began with the girls playing 'ghostly' pranks on their religious mother.

"And speaking of religion, there's lots of talk in the Bible about spirits, witches, people being raised from the dead," Jamie expounded. "Making religious people particularly vulnerable to supernatural trickery.

"Getting back to the Fox sisters, they started by making bumping sounds on their upstairs bedroom floor. Sometimes by rolling apples.

"The mother confiding her fears of "ghostly noises" to friends, people were soon whispering about the strange goings-on at the Fox house, rumor adding that the girls could get in touch with the dead. People began to come over; would sit around the table in the dark, folks eager to believe the girls could put them in touch with dear, dead Uncle George; pry out of George's spirit where he'd hid ... the family jewels." The women laughed at Jamie's little joke.

Z wasn't laughing.

Z was sweating.

"After that," Jamie continued, waving her glass, "turban-wrapped mediums came out of the woodwork to hold 'sittings,' these so-called spiritualists advertising themselves as being able to communicate with the 'other' world.

"Psychics, first pretending to put themselves in trances, summoned 'spirit guides' -- sometimes Indians, sometimes children -- who 'spoke' through the medium's mouth or answered yes and no questions by 'rapping' on the table.

"Table-rapping could be pretty impressive. Particularly since it was standard procedure to instruct everyone seated at the table to keep their hands in plain view. Sometimes, palms down on the table. Occasionally, holding each other's hands to form a 'spirit ring.' A confederate of the medium usually did the rapping. In elaborate setups, the shill would be in a false compartment built into the floor below the table. All the accomplice had to do was push open a trap drawer and bang the underside of the table with a stick." Jamie shook her head. "There were a lot of ways to get the desired effect. As for the Fox sisters, one of them admitted late in life that their table rappings came as a result of the girls being able to crack the knuckles of their toes.

"So much for spirits from beyond the grave," Jamie said, dismissing the whole subject. "Particularly those who rap out messages like Rex the Wonder Horse counting with his hoof." Jamie chuckled, as did the others. "One thing I'd like to establish at the outset is that there's no one working with me. Is that right?"

"Right," Susan assured the others.

"And I can say that, too." This, from little Rachel. "Susan showed me her apartment before everybody else came tonight. The closets and everything. And nobody's here but us." She hiccuped prettily, covering her mouth in exaggerated atonement.

Rachel's last lucid moment, was Z's guess.

On the other hand, "truth" being in the wine, as the old saying went, Z believed her. Anyway, the Jamie that Z knew was so proud of her occult skills you couldn't force her to use a cohort.

"One thing that does happen at seances," Jamie cautioned, "is that the table itself sometimes ... moves. And believe me, when that occurs, no one is more surprised than the fakes who've stacked the deck! The trouble is that there's no good explanation for the table-moving phenomena. I'm not the world's greatest expert in these matters. All I know is that there is a possibility of table movement if a poltergeist is present. Which, from what Susan's told me, is what I suspect is wrong in this apartment." Jamie took another, thoughtful sip of wine, the ghost hunter's spiel captivating the others. "I wish I could explain more fully. But I can't." Again, a sip. Again, that introspective look. "Let me put it another way. When we leave this evening to go our separate ways, each of us will put our car key in the steering column and twist, fully expecting that movement to start the engine. If, before we could turn the key, each of us had to explain the process by which rotating the key starts the motor, not too many people would be going anywhere tonight.

"The facts are, we do many things without understanding the process -- just because doing those things ... works. In like manner ... things ... may happen tonight that I won't be able to explain. Which doesn't mean the experiences are phony. Only that no one understands them."

"What can we do to help?" Susan. Being ... helpful.

"I'm glad you asked that. Because that's another thing that's not perfectly clear. I can say that, just by being here, you're making the seance possible. With only one or two people, the poltergeist is in control; the spirit may or may not show itself, just as it chooses. It takes four or more people to force the poltergeist out in the open, so to speak. And though, as I explained to you the other day, Susan, it doesn't matter in what proportion, both sexes must be present."

Hah! A Jamie-condition that would force Susan to ask Z to the party. Clever little Jamie. Evil, but clever.

"Poultry guys?" Wine had just about canceled Rachel's evening, the girl reduced to a happy face in a sailor hat.

"Poltergeist," Jamie emphasized, but without much hope. "A noisy spirit. A ... presence ... that can move objects. In this case, from what Susan's told me, a peaceful one. Some of them have been known to throw dishes, even furniture. But this one is quiet."

"A ... ghost?" June didn't say much. But when she did ... she didn't say much.

"Not really. What we have with poltergeists is more like a force. Like lightning. While they sometimes seem to be fun-loving -- like to play pranks -- they have neither form nor personality. They're just one of nature's more unusual and unknown forces.

"For comparison, at one time, ball lightning was thought to be a figment of the imagination. But that rare electrical phenomena is now known to exist. St. Elmo's fire, an eerie glow that sometimes appeared on the masts and spars of old-time sailing ships, is another uncommon electrical manifestation."

"So, how do I get rid of it?" Tiring of talk, Susan wanted action.

"A good question. Generally, a poltergeist, while it can move around, is located in one place. Like one room in the house. Find that room, and the phenomena can be neutralized.

"But we're getting ahead of ourselves here. First, we have to determine that the problem is a poltergeist. That's where the seance comes in. We have to establish whether or not I'm right about the poltergeist. If I'm not. If it's something ... else ... you'll have to go to an expert. I'm not a professional in this field. Just a talented amateur." Z figured Jamie got "talented amateur" from watching reruns of "The Avengers," "talented amateur," Steed's description of the yummy-looking Emma Peel.

"So, what do we do?"

Jamie's unexpected answer was to stand up!

* * * * *

Chapter 11

However many lies Jamie had told tonight, she'd been a dramatic success; there was no question about the impact she was having on the others. As for Z, used to Jamie's tricks, his only fear was that Jamie would get carried away and tell the truth!

"Do you have a card table. Something like that?"

Jolted out of her Jamie-induced "trance," Susan now got up, as did June and Z, the three of them holding their places but ready to move at Jamie's command. As for Rachel ... she was lucky to remain seated. "There's the dining room table," Susan suggested.

"Too ... big," Jamie said, after leaning over to look past the fireplace, the firebox used as a divider between the living room and the small dining room. "Something more ... intimate would be better."

"OK. It's not that I don't have a folding table. It's just that I thought we might be more comfortable in there."

Though Z had considered helping Rachel to her feet, to his surprise, the girl popped up, still functional apparently, but with her reactions set on delay. Drinking regularly would numb you to liquor's effects -- working for an insurance company tempting you to drink regularly.

In the interim, Susan had gone to her utility closet in the hall, was bringing back a rickety card table, Z seeing why Susan hadn't wanted to drag the "less than new" table out for company.

"Would it be better if I put a cloth on it?" Susan asked, hopefully.

"It wouldn't matter. On the other hand, I think I prefer a bare table. That way, everyone is assured nothing 'funny' is going on under the tablecloth." Jamie put up her hand to stop Susan's protest. "It's natural for people to be suspicious. Just as it's natural for someone in my position, to want to allay that suspicion."

While the women were debating tablecloths, Z had taken the rickety wood card table from Susan.

Unfolding one leg at a time, making sure each locked into place, Z set up the table in the only open space in the snug living room. Men were expected to help out in that way, and do it without being told. In addition, men were required to undertake any project that took standing on frail chairs, climbing shaky ladders, or lifting gut-wrenching weights. (Z wondered why there seemed to be perpetual puzzlement about why women outlived men.)

The table set up, Z tapping its legs out at the corners to make it less shaky, Z had a "television" thought, the "latest revelation" in car manufacturing putting the wheels near the corners of the car to increase stability. An original idea filed under, "Take that, you sneaky Japanese!"

Z now fetched the punishingly heavy, chrome steel dining room chairs, placing them around the square table, filling in with one of the straight-backed, living room chairs. Adjusting the five chairs so they were spaced equidistant from each other ... the arrangement looked ... odd.

Five chairs around a four-sided table.

Z wondered if, noticing this, Jamie would make some comment that the chair-table combination represented the "mystic sign" of the pentagram. Decided she'd already so mesmerized the others she didn't have to.

"Though it'll be a little crowded, we'll all fit," Jamie commented, indicating the chairs. "I think I want Susan near one corner, catty-cornered from me. June on Susan's left. Rachel to Susan's, right. Mr. Zapolska ..." still playing the game of "first acquaintance," thank God! ..." between Rachel and me."

All locating their assigned seats except Rachel -- Susan and June guiding her to her place -- with some scraping back of chairs and hunching them forward, they all got seated.

Finally settled, each chair uncomfortable in its own way, the arrangement was: Jamie near one corner, Z at a right angle to Jamie's left (so close he could smell her dark perfume.) Susan, was clear across the table -- not that anyone was very far away, the other two packed in to Z's left and Jamie's right.

"In some seances, it's customary, as I think I said, to have everyone holding hands. This is generally done to keep someone from putting up his hand at the wrong time and feeling a wire that's been lowered into position overhead, a wire that a 'ghost' will eventually slide down. Or to prevent a person from feeling under the table, thereby discovering a lever that, when pulled, makes the 'ghost' groan." Jamie looked at the others meaningfully. "I'm not going to have you do that. But when the time comes, I will ask you to put your hands before you on the table, palms down. Just to rest your hands lightly on the tabletop."

"There are two reasons for this 'hands on the table' position. First, it's a posture that helps you relax. Secondly, since everyone can see everybody else's hands, it's a guarantee that no one's cheating.

"Of course," Jamie continued with a smile, "mediums have gone so far as to make flexible, rubber hands. Hollow, of course, so that hot water can be put into them to keep them as warm as human flesh. In the dark, it's impossible to tell if you're holding a real hand or one of the phonies. During a carefully staged, dramatic moment, the medium slips her hand away from the person holding it, immediately substituting the rubber hand in place of her own. This frees the spiritualist's hand to work her 'magic.'

"It only pays to make elaborate props if you have the opportunity to bilk people out of a substantial sum, however. Which is not the case here." Her smile became a grin. "Anyway, everything that's been done so far has happened in full light. The table setup. Chairs brought in. While I have on a dress with sleeves, they're tight as you can see. Nothing up them."

Everyone chuckled.

"Now for the big surprise." Jamie put on her "mysterious" look. "Even though it's customary to operate in the dark, I'm not going to ask Susan to turn the lights out." Speaking to Susan: "I did notice you have your dining room light on a rheostat." Susan nodded, completely taken in. "If we could turn the lights out in here, and soften the light coming in from the dining room, that would be perfect.

"Again, what will take place," Jamie continued, addressing everyone, "could happen in full light. It's just that softer illumination will help us to concentrate more fully."

Wanting nothing so much as to be cooperative, Susan slid her chair back, got up and went into the dining room to turn on the light there. Strode back to the living room to switch off the mylar-shaded table lamps. Trekked back to the dining room to begin dimming the ceiling fixture.

"Perfect," Jamie said -- sooner than Z would have thought, Jamie allowing a stronger light than he'd figured. Expecting tricks, he'd imagined Jamie would have wanted a lower light level than she did.

Susan came back to the table, sitting down, drawing in her chair to join the compact group.

"Will you all put your hands on the table now," Jamie said soothingly. "Palms down. Just rest them there. The point is to relax."

First brushing back her short blond hair, Jamie put her own hands before her, palms down, to demonstrate what she wanted, everyone doing as she asked, putting their hands on the table's scuffed leatherette.

Z couldn't help but notice that his hands were twice as big as anyone else's, making him feel like Gulliver among the little people: more out of place than usual.

"Next, make your minds a blank." A cinch for boozy Rachel, Z thought. Though it was also fair to say that June had contributed nothing of an intellectual nature.

Bright as Susan was, Z wondered how Jamie's razzle-dazzle could have taken her in; at the same time, hoped Susan wasn't sharp enough to see through this farce.

"Try to sense a foreign presence," Jamie said. Whatever that meant. "What you're attempting is that feeling we all get sometimes, that someone 's watching us."

Again, a pause. And total quiet.

It was a little spooky sitting there in the half-light, no one moving, no one making a sound.

Just part of the effect, Z figured. Nothing like being in a strange situation to make you jumpy.

If Z tried, he could hear sounds that weren't there. Just a matter of concentration. Anyway, there was no such thing as complete quiet; if for no other reason than the sound of your blood singing past your ears.

Now that Z was paying attention, he even imagined he could feel ... a vibration ... in the table. As unlikely as it was, "sensed" the table ... shift.

It was then that the table began to rise, along with it, the hair on the back of Z's neck! At first, only a hint of elevation. Two legs. Then four, the table floating in the air at least a foot off the floor.

Quickly glancing across at June and Susan, Z could see shock on their faces.

Fear.

Not that table levitation, in itself, was anything to be afraid of. It was just that, having the table rise, was against ... the laws of nature.

Without warning, as it had risen, the table began to sink, until all four legs thumped down on the carpeted floor.

"Something is in the room," Jamie whispered, a bit of wisdom that was hardly a surprise. "Everyone just be still. There's no danger."

The next thing Z felt was ... pressure ... on his leg. Something creeping up his shin. ... Wiggling.

Sweating enough for drops to began forming at his hairline, Z tried desperately to think what it might be. Still crawling up his leg, the thing felt ... familiar. It felt like .......

Jamie's foot.

The crazy woman had slipped off her shoe and was playing footsie with him under the table! And not just along his lower leg. The girl must be a contortionist to get her foot up there.

How Jamie could be this "playful" after the table had just risen, he didn't know.

Jamie Stewart; without a doubt, the greatest mystery in the room.

The toes retreating, Jamie then said: "That should do it," her voice soft, but echoing in the quiet of the room.

She sat back in her chair. Took her hands off the tabletop.

The seance over, the other women lifted their hands from the table, too, looking around as if trying to locate a ghost.

Jamie nodded to Susan, Susan getting up to switch on the living room lights.

"That was some ... experience," June said as Susan came back to the table and sat down.

"Right," Rachel said, sleepily.

"But ... what ...?"

"I can't explain it," Jamie said, cutting off Susan's question. "For some reason, poltergeists get a kick out of lifting tables. Their idea of a joke, maybe, whatever they are."

"So, you're saying, I've got a problem," Susan said, quietly, the "rising table" phenomenon hammering everyone into submission.

"Yes. But it's not serious."

"It seems serious to me. I don't want to live in an apartment with a ... spirit. Making noises. Moving things around."

"And you don't have to. With this kind of presence, you don't need an expert. Though what I'm going to recommend may sound bizarre, if you'll all do as I say, the poltergeist will be gone in an hour's time. And what's better, never be back."

"I like the sound of that," Susan admitted.

The other two nodded their agreement.

If anything, the evening's entertainment had served to sober Rachel. She looked more "with it" -- if not as happy.

"Here's what we've got to do," Jamie explained, lacing her fingers together, elbows on the table. "As I think I said, the poltergeist, while having the power to move around the apartment, is 'living' in one room only. I know that to say 'living,' when referring to a poltergeist, is meaningless. A better word might be existing." Again, the encouraging look. "For what it's worth, none of this makes sense to me, either.

"What we've discovered, is that the spirit is here," Jamie waving her hands to include the apartment. "Somewhere."

The women nodded, Z stopping himself when he realized Jamie was getting him to nod.

Stupid.

This whole evening was stupid. Pointless.

Z didn't need this aggravation, particularly now, when all he had to look forward to -- tomorrow and forever -- was "good" Captain Scherer dropping the proverbial brick load on Z's head.

Z had to admit that Jamie looked good in her black outfit, though. In addition, what she'd done to him under the table had reminded him of the clever tricks that little girl could play. And with Susan right there in the room, too.

Jamie was as bold as they came, brazen and, though Z didn't want to admit it ... exciting.

" ... next phase," Jamie was saying, leaning back, her "lady-like" hands folded in her lap, "is find its room. In preparation for this evening, Susan told me there were five rooms in this apartment, and that is why I asked her to get three friends of hers to sit through the seance. Three friends, plus Susan, plus me -- makes five." Z wondered if Jamie thought the "sailor suit" was still so bombed she'd have trouble counting that high.

"The next part is easy. Each of us goes into a room of the apartment. What we do then, is be quiet."

Jamie shrugged. "There's no way to be rational about what I'm going to tell you. So, let me just say it and have done with it. What we're trying to do is to "bore" the poltergeist. So that the poltergeist goes 'home.' That is, returns to the room in the house where it 'lives.'

"This process can take an hour or more, each of us in separate rooms, pretending to be pet rocks." Jamie put on her most engaging smile.

"If you can go to sleep, so much the better. What will happen is that, by the end of the hour, one of us will sense that the poltergeist is in the room he and she is occupying. This will tell us that's the room the poltergeist has chosen for its 'home.'

"As for the rest of us, nothing at all will happen. We'll just be getting an hour's worth of relaxation."

About people being able to "relax," Z had his doubts. On the plus side, what Jamie was asking -- bizarre as it was -- wouldn't put a mental strain on Susan's friends.

The only uneasiness "haunting" the back of Z's mind, was the remembrance of a certain type of horror movie, the plot always about a number of people trapped in an isolated old house, one of them a lunatic who, one-by-one, is picking off the rest. The others, figuring out there's a murdering maniac on the loose, immediately go off to separate rooms to make it as easy as possible for the killer to do his dastardly work.

Not that the current situation was identical to horror movies, but ....

"And when one of us discovers the 'spirit's' home," Jamie was continuing, "I'll know what to do. There are rituals that drive off poltergeists. The trick is to find the room where it's holed up."

"But couldn't you have just done the ritual in each room?" Susan might have fallen for Jamie's gift of gab, but she was still as shrewd as ever. "Doing that, we wouldn't have had to undergo the seance."

"A good idea," said Jamie quickly. "And that would have worked if we'd gotten lucky and picked the right room the first time out. It's just that, if we started in the wrong room, there'd be the danger of the poltergeist getting wise to what was going on. Once the spirit is on guard, it's hell to pay to get rid of the little beastie."

Jamie stopped. Smiled. "I know none of this adds up. But then, poltergeist phenomena itself, is irrational. All I can tell you is that, from the experience of desperate people trying this and trying that, over hundreds -- thousands -- of years, the way I'm doing it ... works. Even if you're still skeptical, what have you got to lose?" Jamie was addressing everyone now. "Nothing but an hour sitting around -- or lying down if you want."

"Let's do it!" Susan was decisive. One of the things Z liked about her.

"All that remains, then, is to choose up rooms.

"I think," Jamie paused to play-act thinking, hand to her mouth, "that you, Susan, should take the bathroom. Can you spend an hour there without getting too tired?" Susan nodded. "The reason I'm suggesting the bathroom is that the odds say that's the room least likely to be the 'home' of the poltergeist. You've suffered enough already. No reason for you to be disturbed, even a little, if I can help it. What I would suggest, Susan, is that you take a long hot bath. While you'll be doing 'something,' taking a soak will relax you like nothing else. In that sense, it's as good as doing nothing. And let me say again, I really don't expect the poltergeist to be 'haunting' the bathroom."

That settled, Jamie turned to the rest of them. "The bedroom goes to Mr. Zapolska." Followed by polite snickering from Rachel and June, the girls figuring that the bedroom was a familiar place for Z to be. "For some reason," Mr. Zaposka, "you seem to me to be stressed out," Jamie continued, arching an eyebrow, knowingly. "I know all this is more disturbing for some people than for others. The bed in there will give you a chance to stretch out.

"I think maybe I'll take the kitchen. No reason, really, except that it's one of the room's that left. And how about June for the dining room. That leaves Rachel in here, in the living room.

"And this is important." Jamie, being stern. "Lights out -- everywhere."

That order delivered, she relaxed. Grinned. "But before we do anything, we'd better make sure we won't be disturbing Susan for the next hour."

A comment that broke the tension, bathroom jokes always good for a shy laugh.

Smiling pleasantly, Jamie looked at the group. "Is that OK with everyone?" everybody nodding -- like a line of cud-chewing cows. Contented. Dumb.

"Anyone have to go to the bathroom before we start?"

Rachel raised her hand. No surprise there.

* * * * *

By the time they were reassembled in the living room, even Z had dipped into the sandwiches, the strange experiences of the evening making everyone hungry at last.

The food "disappeared," Jamie was ready to give them their final instructions. "Remember, no one leaves his assigned room for the next hour. Room lights out. Close your door if you have one, but no need to lock it. I'll be the one who keeps time. I can do that because the stove has a lighted clock. Stay put. I can't stress how important that is. Just relax. Even if you're in the poltergeist's room, nothing bad will happen. OK?"

It was OK.

"Then let's split!"

Feeling like he was taking his marching orders from a laughing loon, Z tramped down the hall, when through what passed for a kitchen, turned into the bedroom, and closed the door. (Some, might have thought he shut the door more forcefully than necessary, though it would be going too far to say he slammed it. He never slammed doors, no matter how irritated he'd become!)

Z snapped on the bedroom table-lamp to reveal Susan's bedroom, a room he had visited on numerous (and always delightful) occasions -- as everybody in the whole damned apartment seemed to know!

On the other hand, he could have done worse. Actually, the bedroom would have been his first choice, if Jamie had given anyone a choice.

For half a minute, there was shuffling in the hall outside the bedroom door -- Susan headed for the bathroom, Jamie for the kitchen. Then, as everybody settled down ... quiet.

Like a good boy, Z switched off the table-lamp, finding that the others had already done the same, no light showing under the bedroom door. At least Z wasn't the only one playing this stupid game.

Now that he was alone, Z realized he was ... exhausted, first, from fearing that "frolicsome" Jamie might expose his affair with her at any moment. Then having to consider what would happen when nasty Captain Scherer came down on him because of the radio interview. Talk about men close to death having their entire lives pass before their eyes! Z's wicked ways were rotating around his eyeballs!

He was ... beat!

The darkness of the room making it impossible for Z to see, he felt his way to the bed.

Normally, Z didn't like Susan's bed -- in no way, a reflection on Susan in bed. His complaint was that Susan had a waterbed, that kind of "sleeping system" providing all the comforts of a lifeboat on the North Atlantic.

No matter. Though the shifty pallet was inherently unstable, tonight, he'd welcome a coroner's steel slab!

As Z sat on the edge of the rolling mattress to take off his shoes, then stretch out, lying as quietly as he could to get the damned bedding to settle down, he reflected on the evening. Clearly, Jamie had no intention of telling Susan that Jamie and Z had been lovers. Jamie had done what she'd set out to do, however: make Z sweat! The ghost hunter taking her petty revenge, the evening was about over. From Z's point of view, the important thing was that he'd gotten through without damage to his relationship with Susan.

The bed quieting at last, Z was feeling ... comfortable.

He'd beaten the Jamie-rap and, with luck, would get out of the radio interview mess -- whenever. What could Scherer do to him, after all? Z hadn't broken any laws. At least, that the captain knew about.

A plus was that it wasn't difficult to do what Jamie had asked them to do to finish out the evening. Relax.

Even ... on the waterbed .............

Z was alert! Awakened by ... what? ... A noise? Not so much a sound, as ... movement in the air.

There should be no breeze in the bedroom. Not with the door closed. Unless ....

In the dark, Z strained to hear .....

Yes, he'd been right. The blower of the complex's central air was off. Not a breath should be stirring in the bedroom.

Except ....

Z refused to believe that ghosts were possible! Rejected giving way to his fears! And yet ....

Though he hadn't felt motion in the room since the slight breeze had aroused him, Z thought he now heard ... whispering sounds. Faint, but definitely there. The rustling of cloth, dragged along the floor.

The sound of a ... shroud? .............

The floor creaked!

Not his imagination this time. It was a noise Z knew from making it himself; from Susan making that squeaking sound in the dead of night on her way to and from the bathroom. Not only did he know that sound but also where the loose floorboard that made it was located: five feet on this side of the bedroom door.

What he'd been feeling now made sense to him: the shift in air pressure had been caused by the bedroom door being opened, then quietly closed. As if ... something ... had slipped into the bedroom, that same ... something ... now moving slowly toward him.

Z held his breath. Within ten seconds ... "it" ... would be standing by the bed.

Eight -- seven -- six -- five -- four ....

There was an odor. Not unpleasant, but ...

The bed began to move, ever so slightly ....

Z tensed his muscles! Ready to spring off the other side! Ready to race around the bed and out the door!

"Z." A whispered voice.

Chills shuddered Z's body. The ... thing ... even knew his name! ....

Wait a minute.

Knew his name?

"Z, it's me."

Jamie Stewart.

Now climbing on top of him.

Jamie Stewart.

Naked.

"You're supposed to be in the kitchen," Z whispered, knowing at the same time, it was a stupid thing to say.

"So, I lied," Jamie murmured, nuzzling his ear.

"But ... this is crazy!" Z was whispering, also, partly because he didn't dare speak any louder, partly because his voice was shot. But mostly because Jamie -- tightly packed little sausage that she was -- was cutting off his air.

"Yeah. But fun, don't you think?"

Fun? This was Jamie's idea of fun!?

"I told you I'd want something beside just seeing the bed you and Susan made love in. And don't try to tell me you don't want me, buster. Not from what I felt under the table tonight."

She had him there. What had gotten him into trouble in the first place, was being unable to resist this girl's charms.

Though he'd hate himself later, he also knew he'd hate himself less and less as the "solitary" hour passed.

* * * * *

Z was awakened by a knock and Jamie's cheerful voice calling through the door that the hour was up, Z apparently falling into an exhausted asleep, Jamie dressed and gone.

Snapping on the light, Z pulled on his clothes. Was relieved to see that he and Jamie hadn't messed up the room. "Quiet" sex never more essential than at this moment!

Ready, at last, he opened the door and joined the others, the four women already in the living room.

By the time Z arrived -- at least to his surprise -- Rachel had announced she'd had the feeling the poltergeist was with her.

The group gathered, Jamie now herded them into the kitchen, Jamie going alone to the living room to confront the "spirit." From there, they could hear her mumbling in words intending, Z assumed, to sound like Latin.

Ten minutes of that and Jamie came back to them to announce that the spirit had been "exorcized" and that they could all go home.

The women friends saying their thank-yous -- for what? -- Rachel and June left, Z hoping Rachel had sobered up enough to drive.

Though Z tried to wait Jamie out, Jamie timed her departure so that she left when he did.

In the parking lot, on the dark side of the dumpster where Jamie had parked her seedy truck, Jamie insisted on a moonlit kiss, Z too chicken to refuse her.

"How did you ... manage it?" Z asked, still holding hot little Jamie in his arms. As long as Z was going to feel bad anyway, he might as well try to find out how Jamie had done the deed.

"You mean, rigging the poltergeist in Susan's apartment, or lifting the table?"

"Both. First, getting into the apartment. I put a deadbolt on the door. Even I have trouble getting past those."

"Simple. The apartment manager let me in."

"What!?"

"Sure. I told her I was a potential renter. Insisted on seeing a ground floor apartment before giving her my down payment. Said I wanted to see the view on this side of that particular building.

"Since Susan works in the daytime, the manager used her duplicate key to let me into Susan's apartment."

"The woman should be fired!"

"Standard procedure," Jamie sniffed. "She stayed with me the whole time. Made sure I didn't disturb anything."

"Then how ....?

"I had a 'fainting spell' when we got back to the manager's office, the nice lady rushing off to get me some water. Since I'd paid attention to which key on the lady's pegboard she'd used to let me into Susan's place, while the manager was gone, I made an impression of the key in a piece of wax I just happened to have brought along. After that, it wasn't too hard to cast my own key."

"You made a key to Susan's apartment?" Z could hardly believe it.

"I don't have it anymore, if that's what you're worried about."

"No?"

"No. I thought you could always use an extra key, so I put it in your billfold."

"When?"

"When do you think, dummy? It's a good thing you don't diddle whores. Falling asleep like that, they'd pick you clean." To demonstrate, Jamie gave her own variation of "picking him clean."

Getting nowhere, she sighed. Returned to the topic. "With my own key, I could come and go as I liked. As for the noises I made, there was nothing to that. I put a few creaks and groans on a small, battery-operated tape recorder. Hooked to a timer. Hid the recorder, first in a closet, then in a drawer where Susan is storing winter sweaters. No way she's going to open that drawer in the summertime. I set the machine to come on when Susan was home and to play just a short time so Susan wouldn't get wise. I moved a few small items. Nothing obvious, but something any woman would notice."

"And the table?" Z didn't see how she could have done that. Jamie's knees -- flexible as they were -- were too short to have lifted the card table off the ground. As for Jamie's hands, he'd seen her hands on the tabletop as the table rose into the air.

"Simple," Jamie said with a shrug. "It's just another old spiritualist trick. What you do is get the edge of the sole of your shoe under the table leg at the corner nearest to you. Card tables often have rubber 'bumpers' over each leg, making it easy to get the edge of your shoe under it. By pressing down with the palms of your hands, if you're strong enough, you can keep the table steady while you use your foot to raise the table off the floor."

So, that was the trick -- so simple, Z would never have guessed it. "How did you know Rachel would say the living room was the 'home' of the ghost?"

"Poltergeist. Ghosts are much more trouble to produce. True, there are a lot of body cavities available for storage." It wasn't so dark that Z couldn't see Jamie shrug in the still, late-night air. "I told you about the trick of swallowing cheesecloth." Thinking about that, Z gagged. It had been a rough night.

"Something more solid, can be trouble. In order to get out of handcuffs, Harry Houdini used to swallow lock picks. Not all the way, just until they'd lodged at the back of his throat ..."

"I'll take your word for it," Z said hurriedly.

"But you asked about the little drunk? Easy. I didn't know she'd hallucinate a poltergeist. It's nice, though, if you can get others to play along."

"Didn't know?

"No. But I thought it likely. After all, I put her in the living room."

"Living room ...?"

"Alone with the wine. If she hadn't 'ratted' on the poltergeist, I would have."

And that was where they left it: Jamie, whistling as she pulled out in her truck; an overly tired Z, feeling like the fool he was!

* * * * *

Chapter 12

By the time Z arrived at his office the next afternoon, the mailman had slipped a letter through the mail slot in Z's door. Retrieving the letter, sitting back on his "secretary's" desk, Z looked at the return address; was shocked to find the letter was from the IRS!

Tearing open the envelope, Z took out a single crisp piece of letterhead paper announcing that Z was about to be audited and that he should get his records together for the last five years.

Records?

One of the "joys" of Z's barely-above-the-poverty-line job, was that he paid hardly any tax; what tax he did pay, calculated for him by Millie-Across-the-Hall.

Audited.

More bad luck. Which, except for escaping the clutches (in a matter of speaking) of Jamie Stewart last night, Z had been having a lot of, lately.

And bad dreams.

Again this morning, he'd awakened in the grip of sweaty shadows that faded into unpleasant oblivion. Z's best guess was that the business with Howard Kunkle was haunting him more than any ghost stalked Susan. While Z could tell himself that Kunkle's death wasn't his fault -- over and over -- he seemed to be having trouble getting his dream-self to believe it.

Now this.

Z read the letter again. And then again. Then a few more times.

It made no sense. As little as Z made, as little as he paid in taxes, there was no reason for the IRS to be on his back.

Hating -- like any other man -- to have to ask for advice, a tap on the shoulder by the IRS was the exception. Meaning ... Millie.

He knew, of course, that the twenty dollars he paid Millie every year to do the 2+2 calculation of his taxes didn't include her accompanying him to tax court. Still, Z though his twenty bucks (plus what he had to go through when venturing into Millie's lair,) should include a simple question about what the Internal Revenue might want.

Screwing up his courage to ask for help, Z left the "secretarial wing" of his office to cross the shadowed hall at the back of the Ludlow to the office door labeled "Millie's Tax Preparation."

First knocking on the badly lettered door, he pushed it open and stepped inside to find birdie Millie hunched over her desk, papers spread out around her. Millie's office was the mirror image of Z's own "two-holer" across the empty hall, except that her space had wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling file cabinets. Gun-metal gray. One drawer pulled-out, stuffed with folders.

What Millie was working on now -- forms, yellow post-it notes, and receipts surrounding her -- was anybody's guess. If, in late summer, she was still calculating someone's delinquent taxes, the offender would do better to fire Millie and hire the slipperiest lawyer he could find. On the other hand, anyone who had Millie at work on next year's tribute, had to be a tax-phobic basket case.

Millie looked up, her pale eyes froggy-big behind thick lenses; one of those early-faded women who could be thirty, but who looked fifty. She wore a plain long-sleeved blue dress with lace flounces at the wrist. Had gray, bee-hived hair, some of it her own.

"I'm Bob Zapolska."

Millie blinked once.

"From across the hall."

Blinked twice.

"You do my ...."

"I'm well aware who you are," the woman said, impatiently, her voice the whine of mosquitoes buzzing past your ear. "Do you think I don't know my own clients?" Millie took offense easily. But her price was right.

"Well ... no."

"What do you want? I assume this is not a social call. If it is, it's been years in coming."

"Ah, no."

"As you can see, I'm busy. I'm a very busy woman. So much to do and so little time to do it in." She began to disco-tap her pencil on the desk.

"I got this letter ..."

"What letter? If you'd learn to be more precise we wouldn't be wasting so much time, would we? No time to waste. We aren't getting any younger. Time flies, you know."

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"This letter. From the IRS."

"Oh!" It was clear from the sudden respect in Millie's tone that Z had just trod on sacred ground.

"They want my records. For five years."

"I can't think why," she jeered, hooking off her rimless glasses, staring about blindly while polishing the shiny lenses on the edge of her lace sleeve. "It's not as if you've got any business to speak of."

Millie could be blunt.

"Yes, Ma'am," Z said.

"Unless ...." Snagging on her wire-frame temple pieces, adjusting both lenses, tapping the nose bridge to lock the heavy specs in place, she stared at Z across the clutter of her desk. "Unless you've been failing to report everything to me."

"What?"

"Do a cash business, do you? To avoid paying your rightful due? Not that I haven't suspected it. Nobody can live on what you're reporting. Didn't you think I'd figure that out?"

"No, Ma'am. That is, yes, Ma'am. What I mean is I report everything."

Millie snorted. "Your business a front? Money laundering? What illegal activities are you involved with, young man?"

"No. That is, none."

"Selling drugs, are you? Marijuana? That's the third leading cash crop in America. There's a lot of it in Missouri. Most planted during the war. There's a monument to it somewhere in the state, I hear tell. 'Course, they didn't call it marijuana. In those days, they called it hemp. Planted this 'hemp' to help the war effort. Made rope out of it. But it was marijuana. Once you get it growing, it's like a weed. You can't root it out. It's like crabgrass. I got crabgrass growing in my front yard and can't get rid of it, either. Even had the Lawn-Guard men out. They said to spray. So I hired them. What they did, is they sprayed poison that killed every sprig of green in the lawn. Said they had to kill everything to get the crabgrass. But they didn't get it. I called the company and demanded satisfaction!"

She glared at Z.

"I'm not into drugs."

"Well, give me the letter, then."

Stepping forward, leaning across the paper-piled desk, Z handed it to her.

Snatching the envelope, Millie extracted the page. Unfolded it. Adjusting her glasses, read the letter, then looked up at Z again. "This your idea of a joke?"

"No, Ma'am."

"'Cause if it is, it's in bad taste. Yessiree. In very bad taste."

"Joke?"

"You're trying to tell me this is from the IRS?"

"That's what it says."

"Well, things aren't always the way they seem. You can't judge a book by its cover, you know."

"But ...?"

"This isn't from the IRS. Wrong logo," Millie was stabbing at the paper. "Wrong paper. Wrong sentence structure. Wrong ... everything!"

"Not ... from the IRS?

"How many times do I have to say it? It's not from the IRS. It's a joke. And not a very funny one, if you ask me. The IRS is no one to fool with, you know."

"No, Ma'am."

Cramming the page back in the envelope, with a flick of her wrist, she handed the letter back to Z.

What Z was feeling, was ... relief. "What do I owe you?"

"Owe me? For what?"

"For telling me the letter is a phony."

"You don't owe me anything. Unless you waste any more of my time, that is. I don't know what this world's coming to. People always barging in, asking foolish questions. Always interrupting a body when they're busy. And I'm busy. So much to do and so little time to do it in."

"Yes, Ma'am," Z said. "Sorry to bother you."

"And next year, try to get your records -- such as they are -- in to me earlier than you did this year. Even though you don't have that much to report, it's never a good idea to be late. You should have more ...."

By this time, Z had back-stepped to the door and slipped out, easing the door shut behind him, Millie's voice still audible as she continued to berate his afterimage.

Quickly across the hall again, safely inside his own office, retreating to the back room to barricaded himself behind his splintered desk, Z turned the letter over in his blunt hands.

A joke.

Not a funny joke. He could agree with Millie on that.

Not something any of Z's friends would do -- not that Z had that many friends.

Jamie Stewart? .......

Not her style.

Z was relieved, of course, that Internal Revenue wasn't breathing down his neck, but still bothered by who'd sent the letter and why.

In fact, was still thinking about the "joke" in the late afternoon as he pulled the Cavalier into the sagging back alley garage behind his "pad" in Mary Urquhart's house-cut-into-apartments.

Was still considering the joke's "punch line" on the way up the cracked back walk, past the litter that was the backyard.

Thinking .... when he looked up to see Peg-Leg Mary hobbling along the walkway from the front. Clearly, she'd been watching for him out the back window on the elevated first floor where she lived.

Z didn't think it was about his rent. He remembered being paid up. Anyway, Mary wasn't that concerned about money. He'd gotten to "rent" the apartment in the first place because Mary Urquhart had been unable to pay him for a little job he'd done for her. In addition, she liked to have a detective living on the premises. Made her feel safe. So when he fell behind, she never complained, to say nothing of his having enough money, lately, to catch up. Taking him full circle to the original question about why Mary was waiting for him along the walk.

Mary had been in terrible shape last winter because of her diabetes. In January, had to use two crutches to get around. But had stabilized. Maybe having only one leg left had helped.

Z came up. "Ma'am," he said, nodding down at her.

"Mr. Zapolska." Except that Mary pronounced it Thapothka because she had to lisp his name through missing teeth. Mary's voice was as weak as Z's, but was more the grate of gravel than a tiger's purr.

Z noticed she was holding a piece of paper.

"I got this," she continued, waving the page, "in the mail." Balancing on her crutch, bird-bright eyes upon him, she handed Z the sheet.

A letter.

Typed.

Brief.

The gist of it, that someone in the building department of the Gladstone Government was asking Mary to produce her permit for adding the unit at the back of the house, the apartment Z now rented, the letter claiming there was no record of the permit, going on to say that, if Mary couldn't produce her copy, the city would tear down the add-on.

Mary had built that extension out back a lot of years before Z had moved in, of course.

"Did you get a building permit?" Z asked.

"I did. I very well did. I couldn't'a b'ilt on if I'd'a not got it."

"You had a regular contractor?"

"I did."

"Then you've got nothing to worry about."

"About the paper, I don' know if I got that."

"You remember the contractor's name?"

"Ace. The name'a h's company."

"Still in business?"

"Th'll on the TV."

"Then you call them. Tell them about this. I think they'll straighten it out."

"I hope," Mary said doubtfully, but giving Z a big, toothless grin. (Not that there was no such thing as a small toothless grin.)

Z stopping that way of thinking. He liked Mary; didn't want to make fun of her afflictions.)

Satisfied for the moment, Mary pivoted on her crutch and hobbled off around the corner.

And that was that.

Except that Z's experience told him that was rarely that.

Going inside his own -- now threatened -- apartment, Z switched on the two, window air conditioners, then lit the fire in his firebox.

Snapping on the ceiling light, he sat down at the kitchen/dining room table to listen to the kindling pop and to savor the smell of heating oak: all the while considering what was happening.

Coming to the conclusion he didn't have to "conjecture" any longer.

Because Mary's letter, added to the phony message from the IRS, had told him the name of the game, the name being: Captain Scherer!

The police chief had gotten someone to send the fake IRS letter to Z, then fired up the building code department to question Mary's right to have built Z's add-on apartment.

Not that any of these dodges would come to anything. They were just Scherer's way of letting Z know that the "good" captain had heard about Z's radio "attack" and was striking back.

Threatening Z's financial situation -- such as it was.

Threatening to have Z's apartment torn down, Z to be thrown out in the street.

The real question was, what would come next? .....

All Z could think of was arrest. (Z wondered if the Gladstone department owned any rubber hoses. Didn't think they did.)

Still, when the cops had it in for you, there were ways they could make your life miserable.

Thinking about this nasty situation from another perspective, Scherer had already screwed up -- in much the same way the captain had messed up the Betterton bust -- by being overeager. He'd struck out at Z the quickest way he could think of, but in directions that put Z in no real harm. Had Scherer been more patient, he might have caught Z doing something "criminal." Like speeding. (Hardly likely, with Z driving the old clunker of a Cavalier.) Or, Z might have run a red light, or done something else that the captain could have used as an excuse for cracking down.

Now that Z was warned, he'd be looking over his shoulder for unmarked cop cars; be driving a good five miles under the speed limit.

The phone rang.

Getting up, crossing the space to the telephone, Z turned to sink into the sagging green sofa as he picked up the receiver."

"Z." At the office, he used his full name. At home, since his unlisted number weeded out everyone but ....

"It's Susan."

"Yeah."

"It went well, don't you think?"

Z didn't want to answer that. Last night had gone well for him, but ....

"I mean, I think I got rid of the noises. I haven't heard anything since."

"I'm sure," Z muttered.

"I don't know what I believe about poltergeists. I really don't. But she was impressive, wasn't she."

She certainly was, Z was thinking. "Who?"

"Jamie."

"Oh."

"A bit too tricky for my taste, though."

Tricky.

"All that about how she wasn't going to cheat like other spiritualists. I kept remembering the old saw about how, when people begin talking about their honesty, you should count the spoons."

Z's mother had used that saying, also. "Yeah," Z agreed.

"And I know something else that you don't know I know," Susan said, mysteriously.

Oh, oh.

"Something that makes me about as good a detective as you."

Z's mind was a blank.

"At the end of the evening. When each of us was in a room? I know what you were doing!"

"What ...!?"

"And I'm ... flattered ... really I am."

Z's mind was a double blank.

"In my bedroom. What you were doing in my bedroom."

Normally, Z didn't know what to say to women. This time, he really didn't know.

"How ... did you ...?"

"The smell. Isn't that the way you told me you solve some cases? That you have a keen sense of smell?"

"Ah ...."

"Guess what I smelled. In my bedroom. When I was getting ready for bed."

"Ah ...."

"And, like I said, I'm flattered. I promise I'll make it up to you. I know we haven't been able to get together as much as both of us would like. But I'm going to make every effort to remedy that situation. I don't know. We both get busy. And then, I've been worried about this ghost business. It's been taking a lot out of me."

"I don't know what you're talking about." While playing dumb wasn't part of the Zapolska Code, you couldn't go far wrong that way.

"About what I know about ... the bedroom?"

"Yeah."

"It's not the first time I've smelled ... you know ... sex there. So I figured out what had happened. You were in the bedroom. And got to thinking about me being in there with you. And that got you hot and bothered. So, since you were alone ...."

Alone?

"Well ... you know. What men sometimes do when they're alone," Susan finished plaintively.

"Yeah," Z said, grateful to whatever-might-be-out-there-in-the-universe that Susan wasn't as good a detective as she thought!

He'd been lucky so far ... not to say the situation couldn't turn against him any time Jamie decided to pull another fast one. Unless ... Z could defuse whatever that out-of-control lady might try.

"Something else," Z said, knowing that what he'd say next could mess everything up. Depending on Susan's reaction.

"What?"

"Jamie Stewart?"

"What about her?"

"I wasn't sure before when you told me her name, but I think I've met her."

"What?"

"I think I mentioned her to you. We worked different sides of the same case."

"She didn't seem to know you."

"No. We barely met. Even I wasn't sure it was the same person. But I think it was." Better to admit a little, than have to confess a lot. "Even after I saw her at your place, I wasn't that sure. But it fits. The lady I met does occult work for the city. This one did the seance. Has to be the same one."

"Could be."

And that was that, as in take that, Jamie Stewart! No way now that little Jamie could raise suspicion by just sort of "letting it slip" to Susan that Jamie had known Z before.

Off the phone at last, Z was unable to remember what else Susan had gone on about, except that they should both reserve the weekend for each other.

Getting up, needing fresh air as much as anything, Z decided to take a little stroll; to go up the walk to the front of the house; suck in a couple of calming breaths while seeing if one of the daily "shoppers" someone kept throwing might still be in the yard. It always calmed Z to read a newspaper, no matter how inconsequential.

Which is what Z did, or at least, started to do, until -- approaching the front of the house -- Z saw something that locked in his theory about Captain Scherer having it in for him. For there, across the street and down the block, was what had to be one of the police department's unmarked cars.

Brown.

Old.

A stakeout -- Z now alert enough to make out the driver, hunched down as far as his stork-like body would let him. None other than one of Gladstone's finest -- Detective Paul Bayliss.

The Scherer counterattack had begun in earnest!

* * * * *

Chapter 13

It was a day later that Z was dragged out of the abyss of dreams that had dark creatures clawing at him.

The sheets were wet and twisted.

So, what else was new.

He heard a banging on the front door.

Groggy from poor quality sleep, Z couldn't make out the dial of his watch.

Holding it at any distance.

Morning, he thought, the angle of light through his single bedroom window backing that idea.

Again, banging.

Fumbling up the aspirin bottle from the night stand, pouring himself a generous handful, Z palmed then into his mouth and crunched them up, the acidic taste generating the necessary saliva for him to swallow.

Giving his throat a moment to stop burning, Z sat up.

Swiveling to the side, he put his foot on the linoleum and tested his trick knee.

Standing, Z reached inside his open closet, getting his old terrycloth robe off the hook to the right. Throwing on the robe, belting it, not bothering to find his bedroom slippers, he shuffled out of the room, down the short hall, and left past the sofa to the front door.

Clicking back the deadbolt, Z opened the door, squinting into the daylight to see a tall shadow, the figure gradually coming into fuzzy focus.

A figure with a ... hat. Black snap brim. Black hair and eyes. Light shirt. Dark pants.

Tall enough to be ....

Bayliss.

"Yeah?" Z asked, his mind not yet ready to crank up anything but questions.

"Captain wants to see you."

"Captain ....?"

"Captain Scherer."

It was gradually beginning to come back to Z. In reverse order.

Mary's letter.

The IRS.

The radio show.

"I'll be at my office in an hour. Have him call."

"See," Bayliss corrected. "Wants to see you." Like Z, Paul Bayliss was a man of few words. Unlike Z, Bayliss had missed his calling as a funeral director; not a completely accurate thing to say. What Z meant was that Bayliss looked like a mortician. Tall. Gaunt. Solemn. Lincolnesque.

"His office?"

Bayliss nodded.

"What's up?"

"Think he'd tell me?"

Four words, but enough to show that Bayliss didn't like Scherer any better than Z, plus indicating the captain didn't trust his own men enough to take them into his confidence.

Z liked sepulchral Paul. Thought he was the best man on the force.

"Can I get dressed before you cuff me?"

Bayliss cracked a grin. Meaning, yes. Also showing he had no intention of putting handcuffs on Z.

What this summons to Scherer's office boiled down to, then ... was nothing much. If the captain had anything important on Z, Scherer would have had Z brought in "in irons."

Z invited Bayliss inside.

Then visited the bathroom, after that, dressing in an almost presentable white shirt and dark slacks.

Returning to the living room, he and Bayliss went out the door, the August heat smacking Z in the face!

Shading his eyes, Z locked up, then followed Bayliss to a white city car out front.

The short drive took them down 72nd toward Oak, then left on Howell toward the brick and glass front of the Gladstone "Public Safety" building. Going past the city's flag, hanging limply from its tall silver pole; past the cement ramp that allowed the "physically challenged" to roll up to the front door; past the rest of the less than impressive, but newly painted building, Bayliss hung a right, then another to turn into the back lot of the Gladstone Government Building/Police Station.

One, deliberately dirty, surveillance car was pulled just off the asphalt, under a shade tree. Two white-with-blue-striped Public Safety (police) cars were parked at going-too-fast angles. Cops loved to hell about in their cars at public expense, demonstrating the point that cops and crazies had a lot in common. Z had long thought that courses designed to make you a cop should be taught to men in prison, criminals already having the skills to join the force: the ability to drive at citizen-endangering speeds, practice at breaking and entering, and strong arm tactics. All that your average jailbird needed to be rehabilitated into law enforcement was the motivation to change sides. .... (And, of course, a seminar on how to survive on an honest cop's pay.)

Up the back steps they went, Z following Paul (who politely took off his hat,) the two of them going inside past a short line of mostly young men, paying parking and speeding tickets. (People with money and/or connections, never got caught speeding. For a price, their lawyers got "speeding" changed to "equipment failure." Looked better on the offender's record. Saved a little something in insurance costs.)

Back, and to the left of the ticket-processing police person -- hidden from public view -- were Gladstone's holding cells.

Skirting the bulletproof glass cage that protected the uniformed collector from self-righteous lawbreakers, Z and Bayliss veered right to take a cinder block hall past wood-framed photos of Gladstone's former mayors.

Passing Teddy's narrow office further on, a glance through the tiny window showed Z what he'd always suspected about Ted's "work ethic," Teddy "resting his eyes," chair tilted back, highly polished shoes on top his desk.

They went past Ed Tabor's office. ... Empty.

Tabor was new. Short. Fat.

Tabor and Bayliss were the Mutt and Jeff of the Gladstone Detective squad, Mutt and Jeff the kind of 'ol-timey remembrances that dated someone wishing to be ... younger.

Thinking about the "olden" days, Z missed the regulation size requirements for cops -- like some New Yorkers pined for the "days of yore" when most cops were Irish.

At the end of the hall was a large, open workroom, Bayliss threading Z though desks of female clerks -- sewage, water, recreation, city taxes, licensing -- to a wider front hall and another open space, Scherer's larger, but windowless office on the left. Bold black letters on the door said Captain Scherer, Scherer's office adjacent to the mayor's suite, Z couldn't help but notice.

Birds of a feather flock together.

Modified for the occasion:

Politicians of the party, grouped to poop.

Bayliss pointed at a maple chair opposite Scherer's door, close to the captain's secretary.

Taking the hint, Z sat.

To the captain's "desk person," Bayliss said: "Zapolska," Bayliss then "wading" off like a predatory stork with larger fish to catch.

The secretary -- older, weathered handsome -- almost smiled at Z, before remembering she was Scherer's flunky. Instead, pointed at her phone to indicate Scherer was on the line inside his office.

So, Z waited -- part of the cop game, keeping suspects waiting.

Around him, Z watched the pleasant buzz of city government, women at desks or rummaging through files, phones ringing, citizens wandering in to ask directions to this or that agency.

Though fairly new, the building smelled of ... upkeep.

Z's general impression was that, while not much was going on in Gladstone, what business there was, was being done efficiently.

Glancing occasionally at her phone, the secretary finally looked up to give Z the high-sign. Scherer was off the phone; time for Z to put in an appearance.

Z stood. Crossed the vinyl floor. Rapped on Scherer's door.

"Enter," said the inside voice.

Z pushed open the door and stepped inside, the door closing automatically behind him.

Scherer sat behind a small cherry desk at the room's far end, not a big room, but richly appointed compared to what Z had seen so far, the rest of the place furnished with government-issue schlock. The office floor was covered with light blue carpeting, the windows, draped with cream-colored cloth.

The visitor's chair had arms. Was done in brown leather. Looked comfortable.

Far from where suspects where forged into felons, this place was where a politician-on-the-rise could glad-hand party hacks.

"Be comfortable," Scherer said in his falsetto voice, indicating the chair.

Z sat. Found the chair to be as easy to sit in as it looked.

Across from him in the room's soft light, Scherer looked the same. (The paths of Scherer (social climber) and Z (just hanging on) rarely met ... except that time in court during the Betterton case.)

Dressed crisply in a suit of midnight blue, the captain looked a little older than Z remembered him, grayer around the edges of his razor-cut. But in general, was the same ferret-faced bastard he'd always been!

"I suppose," Scherer piped, a smile etching his narrow lips, "you feel you are here because of something you said on the radio."

"Taken out of context," Z said. He'd seen enough TV to know how the game was played.

"I'm ... sure," Scherer squeaked. "But let me just say this about that. When you're in the public eye, as I am, you're used to being a target. I've been unfairly criticized by better men that you, my friend. People jealous of my success. Fearful I may take advantage of my position to move up politically, thereby taking employment away from them or from their friends. It goes with the territory. One does not appreciate the libels told about one ..." Scherer's red rat eyes shot sparks, "... but understands the inevitability of it. That's politics."

And that's what was wrong with Scherer, Z was thinking. Seeing his job, not as law enforcement, but as a stepping stone to Clay County stardom.

"I'm not so naive as to believe that so-called talk radio has fairness as a standard. And, in particular, the Dan Jewell show. So I can almost believe you when you say you were misrepresented." Scherer, at his prissy, lying best.

To clarify the situation, Z could have added that, though he'd told the truth about Scherer, what had gone wrong was that Jewell had promised not to reveal it. On thinking it over, decided this revelation would hurt more than help.

"Mr. Slime," Scherer minced, a disgusted reference to Jewell, "called my office, asking for an interview for his Law Enforcement in Kansas City series. Knowing those types, I naturally refused." The captain smiled evilly. "Making me shrewder, media-wise, than you."

Z nodded.

Scherer was right.

"But, as I've said, that entirely forgettable incident is not the reason I summoned you this late morning."

"No?"

"No."

The conversation was about to turn serious. Though how Z knew that, he couldn't tell. Something in the feral slit of Scherer's mouth, the rigid set of shoulders, the squinch of his narrow, rodent eyes.

"Before we begin, I think it only fitting that I give you the chance to come clean."

"Clean?"

"Confession is good for the soul, as the old saying goes." Putting his elbows on his fancy desk, the captain tented his girlish fingers.

Z shrugged.

"No?"

Z shrugged again. The game -- whatever it was -- had begun.

"Be advised that I am aware of your -- extralegal -- activities," Scherer started, sitting back, still underplaying his attack. "Breaking and entering, for one."

The captain was guessing. A good guess, but just a guess.

"Attempting to corrupt police officers."

He meant being a friend of Ted Newbold.

"It's more than a little suspicious that one of our ... how shall I put it ... less energetic detectives manages to discover clues that others have failed to find." He meant Z passing tips to Ted from time to time, tips exchanged for "corrupting" favors.

"In countries where the police are allowed, shall we say, more forceful procedures, men like you would soon be off the streets." Scherer was beginning to warm himself up.

"So you better not get smart with me, mister. You better answer my questions and be quick about it!" Launching himself forward, red-faced, the captain had gone from rat to adder.

"OK." It paid to seem cooperative on another person's turf.

"I'm ... sure." Scherer wasn't having any of Z's helpful stance. "So, let me just ask, where you were last night?"

The Q and A had begun.

That's what the cops called it. Q and A: questions and answers. The trick was to have two or three detectives ask the same or similar questions over and over in the hopes of snarling up the suspect. Trap him into reversing himself. According to the 87th precinct novels Z had read, a tactic that worked pretty well. The only difference here was that Scherer was doing the questioning by himself, Scherer always the one-man band.

"Well?"

"Home."

"You say you were home last night?"

"Yes."

"What time?"

"From nine until late morning."

"It's late morning now."

"I just got here."

"Home from nine o'clock until Detective Bayliss picked you up? Is that your story?"

"Yes."

"Anyone who can collaborate your whereabouts?"

"Home alone."

"What were you doing?"

"Sleeping."

"No alibi," Scherer said, seeming to be taking mental notes.

"So?"

"I'll ask the questions."

Z shrugged.

"You went to Northtown High?"

"Sure."

"Were supposed to have been a big football hero while there?"

Z shrugged.

"Had a lot of friends?"

"I guess." Though fewer than most people seemed to think. People thought football players, cheerleaders, musicians, and kids in the drama group had lots of friends. But that wasn't the case. A lot of people said "Hi" to "popular" kids; but you couldn't count any of them as friends. Of course Z had what you could call "specialty" friends, guys he played football with. As a sophomore, he'd tried to run track and had some "track" friends. But as for "all-around" friends, he had only two. John Dosso and Ted Newbold.

"Had some, shall we say, low-class friends, even in high school, I'm told."

"No."

"No?"

"No."

"You saying you didn't know John Dosso, allegedly in the mob?" Scherer came down hard on "allegedly."

"No."

"No, what?

"No. I'm not saying that.

"Dosso's dirty."

"Not in high school."

"Mr. All-American Boy."

Z shrugged.

"You know somebody named Lee Dotson?"

"Who?"

"Lee Dotson."

Z might have heard the name, but couldn't place it. "No."

"In high school?"

"Don't think so."

"Which is it? 'No', or 'Don't think so?'"

"May have heard the name. A long time ago."

"In high school."

"Maybe."

"But not a close friend, is that what you're saying?"

"Don't remember him."

"Didn't associate with him in high school?"

"No."

"Or after high school?"

"No."

"Go out for a drink with him last night?"

"No."

"Because you were alone at home." Said as cynically as the captain's, Shirley Temple voice would allow. "Except no one can collaborate your story about that."

"I was home."

"You wouldn't happen to know where Lee Dotson lives, would you?"

Lee Dotson. Something about the name. Z did seem to have a memory about a Lee Dotson in high school. A little guy. Skinny. But they weren't friends. They might have passed in the hall, going to class. But didn't play football together. Z was certain the Dotson kid -- if Z had him right -- didn't play sports.

"Know where he lives?" Scherer repeated.

"No." Something about the name. And high school. Maybe, something since high school. ...... But Z couldn't come up with a connection.

Until he'd gotten hung up on the name Dotson, Z had been having as good a time as anyone being questioned by a cop; a good time because Scherer plainly had nothing on Z, meaning that Z could give truthful answers -- always the easiest to remember -- and spit in Scherer's eye while doing so. But with the name Dotson floating free in his mind, Z began to wonder if Scherer did have something that could be troublesome. If Z could only remember ....

Though Scherer was glaring at him, there seemed to be no more questions.

"That it?"

"Just remember that I'm watching you," the captain shrilled. "There may be some who think you're Mr. Clean, but I know better." Scherer gestured with his thumb. "Hit the road!"

Scrambling up, Z was glad to do just that!

Out the door, Z backtracked through the governmental secretaries, then past the fine-paying line to get out the back door. Only to stop at the pay phone just beyond the building: used mostly to summon bail bondsmen.

Z dropped in his quarter and pushed the buttons.

"Gladstone Public Safety."

"Ted Newbold."

"And your business ...?"

"Just get him, honey." Z was tired of being nice to annoying people.

"WELL!" But she did as she was told.

"Detective Ted Newbold."

"Teddy. Z."

"I'm pretty busy today, Z." Passng Ted's office for the second time that morning, Z knew how busy.

"Just a question. The name Lee Dotson mean anything?"

"Dotson. Dotson." Ted's mind was so rusty, it squeaked when turning over. "Oh, yeah."

"So?"

"Punk. Got himself killed."

"When?"

"Last night."

Z didn't like the sound of that.

"He from our class in high school?"

"Yeah. I think."

"Killed?"

"Yeah. Somebody broke into his place. And when I say 'broke in' I mean broke in with a sledge. Then broke his neck."

"You said, punk?"

"Con man. Gambler. Strictly small time."

"Got a line on who snuffed him?"

"It's Tabor's case." Said with disgust. Ted didn't like the new hire -- probably meaning that Tabor was more successful sucking up to Scherer than Ted.

"But ...?" The police department was so small, and murder so unusual in Gladstone, that Ted should have heard something.

"Nothing yet. No prints that help. No relatives. Lived alone in a crummy little house on North Georgia. That's all there is."

"Killed. For sure?"

"The way I hear it, the punk's neck was twisted so's he don't need no more rear view mirrors."

"Tipped off about the body?"

"No. Newsboy. Collecting. Saw the broke door."

"Yeah."

"Why the interest?"

"Scherer pulled me in to ask me about it."

"Good God, Z! You involved?"

"No."

"Better not be. Scherer don't like you as it is."

"Another thing he doesn't like is detectives who sleep at their desk."

"What??" Detective that he was, Ted would eventually figure out how Z knew that Ted had been dozing off. It might take some time, but ....

"See 'ya."

The phone, having nothing better to do, burped down Z's quarter as he hung up.

A second quarter had a cab coming. Z deliberately brought and dropped. No chance of a cop ride home.

* * * * *

Chapter 14

This time, it was at night, Z swimming toward the surface from the depths of fitful sleep, trying to escape from men in peasants' clothing. Men with pitchforks. Men with torches. Z running for his life through an enchanted forest, the ooze of the primeval floor sucking at his feet, slowing him down. He was panting. Exhausted. Could hear the angry shouts of the human pack, gaining on him, see the orange of torchlights reflected from black trees, high above.

Night.

Evil.

He had done something evil but couldn't remember what. It was only when he gathered himself to leap across a forest rill that he realized what he was; saw his reflection in an eddy of the slowly flowing stream; saw hair covering his face; saw his long furry ears and pointed, black-leather nose.

A werewolf.

He was a werewolf! Chased by men determined to put a wooden stake through his animal heart!

Because he had killed ....

Fighting clear of the dream's quicksand, his mind popping to the surface, Z was panting, his heart pounding as if he'd run a marathon.

Only a dream ... a dream ... already fading ....

Stupid.

Peasants with pitchforks chased Frankenstein's monster; you drove a stake through a vampire's heart; werewolves took silver bullets.

Dreams. So real at the time. So dumb, when remembered.

The only remaining ... strangeness ... was that Z's paralyzing dream had awakened him before the night had run its course.

Meaning his dreams were getting worse?

Z lay there on the wadded sheet, trying to cool down, wishing the thumping air conditioners in the living room did a better job of pushing cold air down the hall into the bedroom.

Except for the chugging old window boxes, it was a quiet night. No wind. No rain.

No precipitation -- a TV word -- for ... Z couldn't think how many days. But that was August in Kansas City, temperature a hundred or more every day for two weeks, recurring pieces on TV about the threat of heatstroke.

Z was getting ... run down ... not by Transylvania rustics, but because of escalating nightmares.

Though he didn't know how, he knew he needed to chase off these terrifying dreams.

Torches. Synonymous with candles?

Z, as monster, responsible for someone's death? A subconscious reference to ....

And yet he was certain his candle-gambit couldn't have killed Howard Kunkle.

Worn out.

Did criminals confess to crimes they didn't commit because, exhausted by questioning, they couldn't think straight? Did something as simple as fatigue explain why the police were frequently plagued by weak-minded people wanting to own up to someone else's crime? Anything to get some sleep!?

Z wasn't that desperate; was nowhere near dragging his pain-racked body before Captain Scherer to plead guilty to the death of Howard Kunkle.

Z had Dr. Calder as a last resort, Calder, Z's ace in the hole.

Ace in the hole -- in stud poker, an expression for an unbeatable ace, face down in front of a player, ready to be turned over to win the pot. A gambling expression that got Z to thinking about the recently murdered man ... Dotson. (So far, nothing but a name from high school.)

Con man, Ted said. Gambler.

With sleep drifting over him once more, Z's evaporating mind wondered if Howard Kunkle -- likewise, a small-time "wagerer" -- would meet Dotson in gambler's heaven. If birds of a feather flocked together, wouldn't it be true that players ... at the table ... shuffled .............

Z was awake!

A sound. ... A noise that shouldn't be there. Something other than a squeal from the decaying air conditioners. Wasn't a squeak or rumble. A ....

Tapping.

As if someone was outside, rapping at Z's bedroom window.

Quickly, Z was up and just as quickly, creeping to the sill.

Standing carefully to the side, Z eased back the yellowed blind to peer past the wood frame, Z hidden in the room's full dark, starlight silvering a cloudless night. Saw .... nothing but shadowed bush-shapes and black construction-paper trees.

Possibly a limb blowing rhythmically against the glass?

No wind.

No limb.

Too late for neighborhood kids, playing a prank.

Not a night bird, fluttering against the pane.

Could Z have begun to dream again ........?

With nothing else to see, Z shuffled back to bed, but lay there, staring at the blackness, muscles refusing to relax.

Until he heard ...

Another noise. Pitched higher than the fan roar of the window boxes, this time, from the dining room. ....... No. A sound at the front door. A scraping ....

And Z was up again, this time sneaking through the hall. Turning into the front room, the blast of air conditioning chilled his naked body as he crossed to the door.

Listening, he heard the noise again, cutting through the chug and rumble of the twin conditioners. Louder. Definitely outside.

Z had been in the breaking-and-entering business long enough to know those sounds; someone was working on the lock.

Either a dumb thing to do (the lock of the deadbolt variety and hard to pick,) or the act of a knowledgeable and, therefore, dangerous foe. (At the same time, someone unable to do the job quietly.)

Jamie Stewart?

Z didn't think so. Jamie's talents lay in other directions.

There in the dark, Z ran through the short list of who might be trying to get in; came up with no one, unless, for some unfathomable reason, Captain Scherer had decided to do his own dirty work for a change.

On the other hand, why Scherer would want to get into Z's place in the middle of the night, was anybody's guess.

No matter. Whoever it was, Z didn't like having his house invaded! (When Z broke past a lock, there was a good reason for it. Generally, entering in the interest of a wronged client.) The criminal who was trying to get in now was guilty of trespass, plain and simple.

Stepping back, the dark doing nothing to confuse Z's mental memory of the living room, Z backtracked to the cold fireplace. Squatting, slid the firebox to one side on the pivot he'd made, exposing the space below; reached down to pull his detective case out of the slanted compartment that held it against the floor joists.

Opening the valise, Z delicately fingered the shadowed "tools" inside, the assortment of fireworks: fountain, sparklers, firecrackers, punk. Felt the closed-up straight razor. Nylon cord. Lock picks. Lighter fluid. Penlight. And, of course, his sap -- the only item effective in this situation.

Slipping the blackjack out of the elastic band that held it, closing the case, returning the satchel to its hiding place, Z slid back the firebox.

Sap in hand, he eased himself to the side of the front door where he positioned himself in front of the left conditioner, shivering in its icy blast, waiting.

Now that he was ready, he was impatient for the person out there to find the right combination of tumblers. More eager than irritated. Interested, rather than anxious. A curiosity tinged with ... respect. It took moxie to attempt a modern deadbolt. Even, Z ....

Click.

The sound of the lock being worked.

Raising the sap, standing to the side so he'd be behind the door when it came open ....

Gentle pressure now applied to the door, its hinges squeaking just a little as the door came in. There was a pause ...then, a dark shape entering.

Someone ... squat. ... Expensive cologne. ........

And a thunk! behind the ear. Z then dragging a surprisingly heavy body into the room so Z could get the outside door closed and locked.

Secure again (as that kind of lock could make him,) Z was ready to switch on the light to see what "prize" he'd plucked from the cracker jack box.

Rolling the body on its sleeping back, Z stepped to the wall switch.

Snapped it on.

Turned to see ....

Johnny Dosso! Black suit. Blue silk tie.

Confused, Z's only thought was that this was the first time in all these years that John Dosso had "visited" Z's house. .......

A quick burst of questions clogged Z's mind, all resolving into the generalized query: what was Johnny doing, breaking into Z's apartment?

Attempting to get inside as quietly as possible, was the obvious -- though far from satisfying -- answer.

Crossing to shut down the rumbling window conditioners, returning to sit down bare-butted on the sofa, Z had a silence-inspired thought. John hadn't been trying to blind side him. Why? Because the tapping at Z's bedroom window had been John Dosso, trying to awaken Z. John had only come through the front door when he'd failed to rouse Z in the bedroom. Didn't want to pound on the door and wake the neighbors.

Z felt better. He didn't have so many friends he could afford to have one sneaking up on him. Though straining his knee, managed to get John propped up on the divan.

While waiting for John to revive, Z returned to the bedroom for a robe and slippers, coming back to open the front door and look out. No particular reason; just checking Johnny Dosso's trail.

Looking toward the back, he didn't see John's stretch Lincoln in the alley.

Stepping out, the night air clammy beneath his robe, he cold-footed it up the walk -- John's car not out front, either.

Someone had dropped John off. Or John had come by cab.

Strange behavior for a man of Johnny Dosso's style.

All of it -- window tapping, lock picking, traveling by cars unknown -- damn strange behavior! Soon to be explained, Z returning to his apartment to find John waking up, moving around, groaning.

The first clear sign John was conscious came a minute later when John opened his eyes; felt at the side of his head with one hand.

"Welcome back," Z said, quietly.

"Where ...?"

"Inside."

"I ... couldn't wake you up. At ...."

"I know. At the window."

"Sorry, Z."

"Sure."

Old friends didn't need a lot of words to understand each other.

Z backed off to sit in the old chair across the narrow room. "Trouble?"

"You got it."

"Want a drink?"

"Straight bourbon."

"Ah ...."

"That's right." For the first time, Johnny cracked a ghostly smile. "Your sainted Mama. Didn't like for you to drink." John shook his head. Regretted it. "What you hit me with?"

"Sap."

"Didn't have to hit so hard."

"If I'd known you were a dangerous mobster, I'd have shot you."

"Yeah," John said, trying out another grin.

"Got Diet Coke. And water."

"You want to rot my gut? ... OK. Water."

Z got a glass, cracked some ice from the small fridge's tray, ran the tap, and brought John the glass.

John drank a little, then set the tumbler down on the new, Walmart coffee table.

"Nice place you got here," John said as a little joke, waving feebly at the junky room.

Sitting back in the moldy chair, Z waited.

"Mostly," John began, thinking as he explained, "it's that I feel so fucking dumb."

Z waited.

"That night? The night you came over?"

Z nodded.

"You said something was funny about the wine?"

"Yeah."

"Right on, my man. I got me a lab guy I did a favor for a long time ago. A favor for a favor, isn't that the way it goes in the movies?"

Z nodded.

"Anyway, I got him to test the wine on the QT. Had enough shit in it to kill a horse. Heart attack. Looks genuine."

In the aftershock of that revelation (though Z had thought it possible,) all Z could think of was a hacked-off horse head in a man's bed. The movies made more reality than they reflected.

"Dumb. Just so damn dumb." John sighed, looked ... old. He'd always looked older than he was, more so, since he'd made a "lifestyle" out of booze and broads. "And another thing," he said, glancing over at Z, then quickly away. "All that crap about wanting to retire? That's bullshit. Bullshit!" he repeated. "It was him that forced me out."

"Him?"

"The guy who doped the wine."

"Who."

"Dago dandy, name of Marco Minghetti."

"Guy who replaced you?"

"Yeah. How'd you know."

"Think you mentioned his name."

Recalling that, John raised a black eyebrow.

"I knew something wasn't right. You just get an instinct for things like that. Or you don't get an instinct, and you never know what hit you." John shook his head. Carefully. "I got to confess something up front, which I wouldn't to no other man. While I'm always playing it big, I'm not that high in the organization. Gambling. Whores. That don't make money like they used to. These days, it's drugs, where the bread is. And I wouldn't do that kind of work. Me, I never took drugs in my whole life. It isn't healthy." All Johnny did was drink himself blind and smoke his considerable weight in Havanas every year. One man's drugs was another man's relaxation. Still, Z knew what Johnny meant. There were drugs, and there were drugs.

"Not that there's no money in my end of the business," John continued. "There is. And I made my share. It's just not the kind of coin that lifts a man up the family ladder, you know what I mean?"

Z did.

"But, not being ... what was it that punchy fighter kept sayin' in the movie, the old black and white? Oh, yeah. 'I could'a been a contender.' Kept saying that over and over. 'You was my brother and should have looked out for me,' he said. Well, that's what I never was, a contender." John took a wet breath. "The good thing about that was, not being slated to advance kept me from having to put up with wops like Marco, runnin' up my ass. So, anyway, since I wouldn't be much missed, I took the chance. Actually, I was given the opportunity to retire. Minghetti was moving up. I was in the way." He shrugged. "I'd made a pile. I thought, shit, why not? Got no future inside, except making the pile higher. Even living the good life, you can only spend so much. Had me a retirement banquet, just like the fuckin' CEO of a fuckin' bank. Minghetti himself, gave the talk." Johnny would have spit. If there'd been a place to do it. "I figured, if I got through the testimonial without some tommy gun totin' broad popping up from a cake, I was home free. But what I didn't calculate, was my wife."

"Your wife!?" Z was shocked. Though he didn't really know John's young-looking wife, he'd never have figured her for anything but the discarded helpmate.

"Not that way. Not the way you think. It's that this bastard took a shine to her, old as she is. Now you know, Z, that the wife and me haven't seen the same bed for maybe ten years. My fault, mostly. But a man's got to be a man, don't he?" Z didn't want to nod, but figured honesty required it of him. "What I figure is that I was right about being able to step down. Where I went wrong is that the bastard thinks that, with me put down for the count, he can waltz into Angelica's bed. He doesn't know Angelica. She'd cut off his greasy balls!"

Wishful thinking, was what Z thought.

"So, I don't get the dignity of having my guts splashed around the room. Instead, I'm to have a quiet heart attack from drinking too much of the celebratory wine. My wife don't drink, so the bastard figures he gets just me, and then Angelica falls into his lap in the bargain.

"So, soon as I find out about the doctored wine, I go turtle. Pull into my shell, so to speak. But the fuck has got somebody on my tail. A tracker. Young tough on the rise himself, I hear. Minghetti had better watch his back, hiring that kind of bopper. So, I'm here. One jump ahead. I been taking cabs. But have got reason to believe there's a dispatcher who's on Minghetti's payroll. The same with rentals. Been so long since I hot-wired a car -- they changed them so much -- I don't know how to do it any more."

"You want to borrow my car?"

"Hell no, Z. What would you drive if I did that? Anyway, I'd give you odds that Minghetti knows about you and me. You start taking cabs, and they'll be looking for your car. Trace me that way."

"You need a lift, then?"

"Right."

"You being followed?"

"Don't think so. But wouldn't want to be here for long."

"Right."

"I don't think you're in any danger, Z. I wouldn't do that to you. I took the cab to another block, a couple of streets down, so they don't trace it to you."

"Should do it." Should, but maybe not.

"If you take me some place where I could hole up, this whole thing will blow over. If for no other reason, than when the bastard puts the make on my wife, she'll give him what for. That's his real reason for wanting to snuff me. Angelica."

"Yeah." Z hoped John was right.

"You do that for me?"

"Sure."

"Got a place in mind?"

"Not luxurious."

"Hell, that makes no never mind."

"Maybe, more like a rat hole."

"Don't figure to be staying there for long. I got me some friends, too. See how Minghetti likes somebody putting the heat on him!"

"Got money?"

"Sure."

"Then let's get, before the marines come busting in."

* * * * *

Chapter 15

It was near noon of the next day when Z spotted the car as he was leaving his office.

Earlier, Z had spent most of that Saturday morning trying to get in touch with Harry Grimes. First, he'd called Deerstalker Detectives and been told that Harry was retired. Z knew that. Also knew it wasn't entirely true. Although Z had tried to explain to the thoroughly stupid receptionist that Z was supposed to do a job for Harry and needed to be told what to do, she wouldn't give Z any information about Harry's whereabouts, to say nothing of Harry's home number.

After cooling down, Z had to admit that the girl couldn't have helped him, at least with Harry's home phone. No employee -- no matter how dumb -- gave out unlisted numbers. As for Harry, man about town, Z had as good an idea of where to look as the girl.

After that, Z had called one ritzy golf club after the other, cheerfully subjecting himself to world-class snubs, and still hadn't been able to locate Mr. Grimes. He'd even called back as a "family" member, desperate to talk to Father-Uncle-Brother Harry. Emergency. Death in the family. Stock market crash. Twinkie shortage at the A and P.

That hadn't worked either.

Maybe Harry was out of town; if not, he might as well be.

In between calls, Z thought about last night's encounter with Johnny Dosso. After John had revived enough to travel, they'd agreed on a strategy, the first part, doing a little cosmetic change on John. Borrowing some of Z's clothes -- even a pair of Z's shoes, the shoes fitting better than the shirt and pants -- John "dressed down" to the type of person apt to flop at the flea bag where Z was going to take him.

Leaving John in the bedroom to admire his new "raiment," turning off all the living room lights, Z left the apartment to scout the neighborhood, Z wanting to make certain no one was shadowing John.

At last convinced the two of them were the only ones awake in the entire block, Z drove John to the Happy Hollow Inn -- off 3rd and Indiana -- Happy Hollow a low-rent dive; a "Happy-Whore Hunting Ground" where Z had once hidden Susan; an "establishment" whose "survival" hinged on having no knowledge about any of its "guests."

Though John wasn't pleased by the look of the Happy Hollow, John agreed with the strategy -- even to Z's suggestion that Z burn John's clothes -- Z returning to his apartment about four in the morning to build a fire for John's fancy duds, John's light summer wool suit making quite a stink. Z even tossed Johnny's beautiful shoes into the firebox. (Smelled about as bad.) He'd done this just in case Johnny's "tail" took it into his head to break in to search Z's apartment. Going all out, Z had even sifted the ashes for coat buttons, pants zipper and metal belt hook, going out back to toss these unburnables in the backyard where they'd disappear amongst the rotted paper plates, tin cans, paper bags, bent-up pans, plastic scraps, twisted coat hangers, bicycle parts, jars, hunks of concrete, smashed milk cartons, Z's stack of firewood, rusty lids, gravel, and a few scraggly blades of unmowed grass.

When Z lost something, he wanted it to stay lost.

That was last night. This morning, exhausted from the night's nearly fatal combination of bad sleep and no sleep, Z ended the morning by pointing the Cavalier at the Pizza Hut on Oak, intent on better fare for lunch than peanut butter. (Food sometimes substituting for lost sleep, this was not the first time Z had used pizza as a pick-me-up.)

As usual, he took Chouteau to Vivion, had just made the turn on North Oak when, checking his rear view mirror, he saw "the car" -- one time too many.

Blue.

Small.

Foreign.

Expensive.

Not the sort of automobile Z would have chosen for surveillance.

Too rich.

Too rare.

Now tipped to the fact that he'd picked up a "tail," coming up on a signal change, timing it perfectly, Z slid to a stop on a yellow light any normal person would have run; caught the trailing car speeding up to make the light, the car having to slam on its brakes to keep from running up Z's tailpipe, the "tail" coming to a stop a lot closer to Z than the driver wanted to get.

Sports Jag.

Called a 2+2, meaning, room in front for two regular-sized people, "plus two" quadruple amputees in back.

Twelve cylinders.

Guy driving. Big reflective sunglasses.

On the next green, the Jaguar lagging back again in hopes Z hadn't "made it," Z was wishing he'd had a chat with John about what the younger mafioso drove these days. Decided he'd just found out.

Z had no difficulty understanding how the punk had picked up Z's trail, of course; advertising in the Yellow Pages allowed anyone to "let his fingers do the walking" directly to your office. (In that respect, Z envied the "retired" Harry Grimes. With no specific place to be at any given time, Harry was difficult to locate, even for a pro like Z.)

At last turning in at Pizza Hut, slanting to a stop in a parking space beside the building, Z entered the crowded, red and white eatery, Z needing time to think more than he did to eat.

A pleasantly plump young waitress taking Z to the only unoccupied red, plastic-padded booth, he ordered a Personal Pan pizza -- sausage, Canadian bacon. and double pepperoni -- and a Diet Coke; passed the waiting time watching fat people load up at the pizza buffet/salad bar. When watching people paled, amused himself by smiling at suddenly terrified children. All the while endeavoring to ignore the over-loud music from the jukebox.

Only to find he didn't enjoy the pizza when it came. Not that the hand-tossed crust wasn't crunchy. The cheese gooey. The round, thin pepperoni slices glisteny with tasty grease. It was just that, being the center of hostile attention had cost Z his appetite.

Or maybe it was that he was too tired to either eat or concentrate. In any case, the only conclusion Z reached (as he nibbled off the pepperoni and sausage, leaving the rest) was that he, personally, was not in danger. No way the "Jag" could know Z was the key to Johnny Dosso. Somehow finding out that Z was John's friend, the thug was trailing Z in hopes of locating John; more an act of desperation than conviction.

Back on Oak, Z found the Jag still there, this time tucked behind larger vehicles.

Giving Z a choice. The reason -- and Z had a pretty good idea who -- had latched on to Z at the office was that the stalker didn't know where Z lived. Z's alternatives? To lose the Jag, keeping the location of his apartment a secret; or to lead the expensive sports car home, thereby giving the impression Z didn't know he was being followed.

Debating those options until his turn at 72nd, Z decided that playing dumb was best. Even if he managed to lose his shadow today, Z would have to ditch the Jag every time he left his office in order to keep his residence a secret.

So Z went home, turning up the alley to park the Cavalier in the open-backed garage.

Again, predictably, as Z came up the back walk, he saw the Jaguar flash past the front of the house, the driver racing around the block to make certain Z hadn't given him the slip.

Letting the pursuer know where Z lived was a calculated risk, done in the hope that the tail would think Z had nothing to hide -- in particular, the whereabouts of Johnny Dosso.

That was that day.

And restless night.

The following morning, Z decided there was something else he could do (something he did from then on.) Rig his front door.

While there were a number of ways to get the same result, Z's favorite was to catch a hair in the edge of the door jam, the "invisible" hair staying put until either Z opened the door or, more to the point, someone made a forced entry in Z's absence.

Sunday.

Followed by another routine Monday, Z trying -- and again failing -- to locate Harry Grimes.

That, plus another bit of business: getting a call from Glenda Cunningham at Old New England Life.

While Z didn't like insurance companies, he did like Glenda; had been aware of her since high school, Glenda a sophomore when he was a senior.

From a fifteen-year-old football "groupie," green-eyed Glenda had matured into a trim, medium-sized blond with decent legs. After his divorce, finding Glenda also to be separated, Z had thought about asking her out. (This was before he'd met Susan.) But had finally decided Glenda was too old for him.

Because he was in no mental shape to take on any new business, he'd called Glenda back to turn her down. Z didn't like doing surveillance work for insurance companies, anyway.

Four more dragging days -- the Jag still back there when Z cared to look -- and it was the weekend, a time reserved for Z and Susan to patch up their somewhat shaky relationship.

Since Susan had to work overtime all day Saturday, Z had gone to get her at the Bircane that evening, taking her to dinner at a little place where they'd eaten once before: a Mediterranean restaurant down Chouteau. An intimate bistro with miniature tables as part of a decor that included shelves of slender-spouted brass teapots and Aladdin lamps. The walls were hung with pictures of Beirut and Petra and with a primitive-looking flying carpet.

What really counted, though, was that the cafe had the real thing in eastern Mediterranean cooks and waiters.

Good, friendly food at a reasonable price. But expensive enough. There was no cheap way of playing up to women.

As for patching up his relationship with Susan, the conversation over dinner went like this:

"Nothing's been the same since universal health care came into the picture." Susan. Worrying about what might happen to the damn insurance company. "I mean, it's all very well and good to talk of cutting costs. But then I get to thinking that I'm one of the costs the government would like to cut out. About half the employees at American are actually just record keepers. Simplify the claims process, and they lose their jobs."

"Too bad," Z said, thinking there was nothing wrong with getting rid of dead wood.

"A lot of the actuaries spend their time calculating income against outgo, in order to determine -- I know this sounds terrible -- who not to insure. They also calculate when we should refuse to renew a policy, because we might be losing money if we did. If the government says you can't deny coverage to anyone, a lot of actuaries are out of work, too.

Z was careful not to say what he thought of that "disaster."

"You have a job with a company long enough, you get to ... love the firm. I know I'm just a little cog in the machine, but I'd hate to see American go down the drain."

"Mumm," Z said.

Not that Z had really been listening to Susan. Not when he could look at her, Susan wearing what Z always thought of as her "date" dress, because of the collar-to-hem zipper down the front. Body-hugging, cut off at mid-thigh, the dark blue dress was of stone-washed denim.

Silver earrings dangled from her delicate ears.

Susan. Gorgeous as usual.

And that, essentially, was dinner.

After supper, back at her apartment, Susan had wanted to keep talking -- now about the seance -- the apartment reminding her of the "gathering."

Z had wanted to go to bed.

So, they'd compromised.

They'd gone to bed -- where Susan talked about the seance.

Not the best bargain Z had ever struck. Though sex should be satisfying each and every time, it really wasn't. One thing women seemed to be right about was that "frame of mind" did make a difference. It occurred to Z -- afterward -- that what women were always calling love was what men called "setting the mood"; like most man/woman insights, a revelation that did him precious little good.

Sunday.

Sex taking more out of Z's already-exhausted body than usual, they'd gotten out of bed in the late afternoon, Z driving home to try to get some sleep, Z dragging up to the door of his lonely apartment ... to find the door-hair missing! Taking only a moment to remember he had trapped the hair when he'd locked up yesterday, Z unlocked the door and entered cautiously, becoming even more careful when, just inside, he picked up a foreign odor. A smell he "filed away" for later identification.

A quick look around telling him he was alone, Z turned on the lights to begin examining the apartment for traces of a "foreign" presence.

Found nothing that was obviously out of place. Which only meant that Mr. Jaguar had been careful. Knowing the place had been searched -- no doubt in a hunt for Johnny Dosso's spore -- gave Z an advantage, Z finding that little things were ... wrong.

What nailed down "breaking and entering," though, was that smell.

Z had always admired Sherlock Holmes's ability to "sniff out" clues, Z priding himself on doing the same, meaning it was "put up or shut up" time.

Back to ... the smell.

Too "light" to be pipe tobacco. Ditto for cigars. Equaled ....

Cigarette smoke.

Not from just any brand. Something ... exotic. Foreign. The kind of perfumed smoke that matched the expensive tastes of the owner of a Jag.

One more thing. The only reason anyone would smoke a cigarette while tossing an apartment was that he was really hooked, smoking adding complications to a thorough toss. (On second thought, Z had to throw out his theory about tobacco being addictive. He'd just remembered that, on oath before a government committee, executives of tobacco companies had solemnly declared smoking to be non-habit forming.)

Undertaking an even more careful search of his own, Z found short "tubes" of gray-white cigarette ash in his fireplace.

No butts ... because the man had been careful to toss the filterless stubs in the fireplace, knowing they'd burn up completely.

Z's conclusion about his adversary? He knew locks. Was a careful searcher. Chain-smoker. Liked exotic cigarettes without filters -- deductions that weren't getting Z anywhere, though he thought Holmes would have been proud of him, nonetheless.

The end result of search and counter-search? Z feeling more ... alive! A sensation he'd been missing lately.

But not alive enough to skip the nap he so desperately needed, Z under no threat at the moment.

The second thing to change Z's focus was an unexpected call from Susan, Z dragging himself out of bed to find his nap had taken him past sundown.

"Z, it's Susan," Z knowing instantly something was wrong. He'd heard this tone before. Too high. Too thin. Susan's little girl voice. Her scared little girl voice.

"Tell me."

"It's probably nothing. But I just went to QuikTrip to get a couple of things."

"Yeah."

"When I was driving there, I just happened to look in my rear view mirror and saw this expensive car behind me. When I came out of QuikTrip, there it was again, but parked around back. In the shadows where employees park. I got in my car and drove down Oak, only to look back and see the same car."

"Blue?"

"Yes, blue." Susan was so upset it didn't occur to her to ask how Z knew the car's color. "Anyway, I pulled off Oak, down the Bircane road. When I turned in to the park, I looked back in time to get a quick flash of what had to be the same car going past. Except -- and this is the scary part -- this time, the car was driving without lights!"

"Yeah." Z had gotten so used to seeing a spot of blue behind him, he'd become dulled to possible danger to himself or to anyone else. (Similar to the way bright, quick birds can be crept up on by slowly crawling tree snakes.)

"And I remembered the other time, when that man you were chasing slipped into my apartment, and ...."

"I know about this." But it's nothing to be worried about.

"Didn't think you'd be involved. No reason you should be. It won't come to anything. But just in case, I think I better put you somewhere."

"Not at the Whore House Inn!" Susan could get testy about the Happy Hollow, Z hiding her there, once.

"OK. You got a girlfriend you can stay with?"

"I think ...."

"Call her. Meanwhile, keep your door locked. I'm on my way."

"Do you think that's necessary, Z?"

"No."

"Then ...?"

"I'm on my way."

It was while driving to Susan's house that Z began to feel the glow of anger. When he was young, he'd had a bad temper; the kind that flared up unexpectedly; a blind anger that had made Z dangerous to anyone around him. But he'd conquered that. He almost never lost his temper anymore. And ... wasn't about to do so now. A temper like his, interfered with thought. With planning. It was just that he could feel a familiar heat begin to build, somewhere behind his eyes.

With the punk now bothering Susan, it was clear Z had to do something; what that "something" might be, to be delayed until Susan was safely tucked away.

From Z's house to Susan's parking lot, he'd seen no sign of a blue car.

So far so good.

Leaving the Cavalier, darting through the breeze way and around the building, Z rapped on Susan's way-too-thin plywood door. Said, "Z."

Obviously poised right behind it, Susan snatched open the door, Susan -- changed into "traveling" jeans and t-shirt -- doing an unsuccessful job of looking calm.

A detective's girl had its drawbacks; he'd never tried to fool Susan about that.

"Glad you're here."

"Ready?"

"Ready."

Susan had packed a bag, a big enough case to sustain a man on African safari. Packed with enough "stuff" to last a woman for a day or two -- long enough to ensure Susan's safety.

Straining up the suitcase, Z led Susan to his car. Packed her inside. Levered the over-sized case in the trunk.

"Where?" Z asked, sliding into the driver's seat.

"On North Main. At forty-second. Twelve twenty."

Starting the car, employing safe driving techniques by carefully looking both ways before pulling out of the lot, Z turned left, then cranked right on Oak -- Oak, one of the Northland's brightly lighted arterials. No way the Jag could hide on Oak in diminished, early evening traffic.

After that, they drove in silence, Susan worried enough to be unaware Z was making unnecessary turns, even doubling back to be certain they were in the clear.

"Tell me," she finally said.

"Nothing much."

"That's what you always say."

"Got a guy following me."

"Why?"

"To find Johnny Dosso."

"Your mob friend? Why would he ...?"

"I got Johnny stashed. He ran into a problem."

"I knew he was going to get you into trouble one day!" When frightened, Susan could get hyper. "One of your major faults is loyalty to your friends!" Susan sighed. "But, I guess, I have to admit that your loyalty is one of the things I love about you."

Thinking about just how loyal he'd been to Susan, Z winced. "I do love you," she continued softly, "even though you're such a dope."

Because of Susan's fear, Z was hearing the truth: THE TRUTH, deserving to be on the "endangered species list" as much as any cuddly animal.

Could be a dope, OK. But not all the time. For what the "threat" to Susan had done was convince Z of something he'd begun to doubt; that he truly did love Susan. He might get irritated at her now and then. He didn't pretend to understand her. But he loved her -- and this was a surprise -- loved her with something more than passion.

"Yeah," Z said.

Arriving at the address Susan gave him, Z let Susan out; lugged her suitcase to the porch of a moldering white duplex; retreated to the curb and stayed there until Susan was safely inside the house -- the sober seance friend answering the door, thank God!

After that, Z moved the car down the street, parallel-parking it between a station wagon and a long bed truck, squeezing the Cavalier into what proved to be the perfect hunkering place.

Killing his lights, he waited for more than an hour; just in case a blue car happened by.

Then, drove home -- where one more thing happened, this time, something that made him feel better about Susan's safety.

Hiking up the back walk, Z caught a glimpse of the distinctive rear end of the Jag, parked down the front street.

With the Jag shadowing Z's house again, Susan was in the clear. At least for tonight.

Every dog said to have its day, it was now Z's turns to make certain Susan was safe on every night!

And he knew how.

The time had come for Mr. Cavalier to have a "talk" with Mr. Jaguar.

Z continuing to his door, keying himself inside, snapping on the lights as usual, he "worked" the fireplace to get his case from its hiding place.

Snapping off the living room light, going to the bedroom, flipping on the back light, he put on his black outfit.

Leaving the bedroom light on -- Z wanting the possibility of activity in his apartment to keep the punk where he was for the moment -- Z eased open his darkened front door and, satchel in hand, slipped outside, Z just another shape among the many shifting shadows of the night.

Backtracking, Z entered the garage to toss his valise on the passenger's seat and slip into his car. Holding the car's door open, releasing the emergency brake, putting the shift lever in neutral, he stuck his leg out of the car; with considerable strain on his bad knee, back-peddled the little machine out of the garage and into the alley, after that, turning the wheel to line it up with the alley's ruts.

Straightening the wheel, climbing out to push on the doorframe, his other hand inside on the steering wheel, Z kept the car moving until it was stopped by a cross-rut in the eroded gravel alley, two houses down.

There, still with the lights off, he got in and cranked up the little engine; used just enough revs to move the car the rest of the way down the coal black alley to the side street.

Far enough away by this time to be beyond even the accidental sight line of the parked Jag, Z circled the block, building speed on the back side so he could turn off the engine and coast along the dark street flanking the front of his apartment house, Z drifting to a quiet stop behind a parked car half a block behind the lurking Jag.

It was only a question of time, now, before Z would be shadowing the shadower.

* * * * *

Chapter 16

His windows rolled down to take advantage of the night's seventy-five degrees, it took Z another four hours of Cavalier-sitting in the slumbering neighborhood before the man in the Jag decided to give it up for the night. (Maybe he figured Z had gone to sleep, leaving the bedroom light on.) Whatever the reason, Z's first signal that the man was taking off was the full-throated rumble of the Jag's big engine, the sound reverberating before gradually fading into the night.

A cautious man, the Jaguar's driver. Edging off without his headlights, Z playing the same game by starting the Cavalier to do his lights-off best to follow the fleeing shadow of the powerful sports car.

One block.

Two blocks, before the Jag's lights came on.

Good lights. Low. Focused.

It wasn't until the sleek blue car had turned on Antioch -- the second of the Northland's two brightly lighted North-South streets -- that Z risked turning on his own lights.

After that, their roles reversed, it was Z's turn to stay as far behind the Jag as possible without losing it.

The absence of traffic -- which had been in Z's favor earlier -- was now against him, hardly any vehicles on the road around midnight but delivery trucks. Plus a few cars driven by the kind of insomniacs who did their shopping in all-night groceries. And lovers, looking for or returning from a place to "park."

Adding difficulty to the game of "cat and mouse" was the certainty that the Jag's driver would recognize Z's Cavalier if he should notice it. Z could only hope the man was tired. Or that, as the "hunter," he'd overlook the fact that he, himself, could be the hunted.

Going north, they passed through blacked-out residential sections, an elastic string seeming to join the two cars.

Sixty-ninth. Sixty-ninth Terrace.

Finally to the brightly lighted, but doing little business, Hy-Vee.

Almost caught napping when a change of light at 72nd pulled the Jag up, Z ducked into the Hy-Vee lot, swinging out again when the light changed and the Jag accelerated.

Continuing north, they drove into darkness, winding along the new, four-lane road recently cut through a thick forested patch of mostly Maples.

All the way to Barry Road.

After another stop sign had protected them from the completely phantom traffic of the twelve o'clock night, they turned left, going uphill, topping the rise to drive past a semi-circle of new, two-and-three-story buildings of brown brick and green tinted glass. Maple Woods College; the name derived from the "Maple Woods" they'd just been driving through.

After the college, slowed by speed signs outriggering increasingly developed land -- houses, apartment complexes -- they passed strip malls and gas stations on the approach to North Oak.

Right-turned again, they drove through land that was increasingly rural: farms-soon-to-be-eaten-by-the-city. And, finally, another right, took them into the most expensive of "far north" developments: New Haven.

Passing a Doric-columned marble gateway, they wound through pretentious, three-story houses built too close together atop too little ground; skirted an artificial lake, eventually turning right to drive across the lake's small dam. (Big money could make a housing addition a very private kind of place.)

Z still trailing as far as he dared, lights off when he could see by other means, Z braked sharply as the lead car took a left hook into the semi-circular concrete drive of a pricey three-story.

As Z switched off his engine to drift to the curb a house away, he saw a light as a huge garage door lifted, the car purring inside the far left "hangar." At a second electronic command from the sport's car, saw the three-car garage door grinding down again.

The Jaguar was in its den.

And something else. Z had seen another, even smaller car, engulfed by the right stall. Could be one of the new Neons. Or a Miata. Z hadn't seen it long enough to tell.

Parked a short way down the street -- the Cavalier a shabby addition to that neighborhood -- Z's first reaction was surprise that the flashy mansion lacked any "old world" touch. Was "American" all the way. New. Lavish. Expensive. And (except for the inflated price) completely ordinary.

Maybe what you heard was true. Forsaking "family values," the younger mafia types had evolved into hard-eyed businessmen -- CPA's, MBA's -- the "organization" itself in the process of forsaking poor-paying blue collar crime for more lucrative white. Johnny Dosso had said as much.

Z wondered if this upper-class tough lived alone, a second car not necessarily indicating a second occupant. (Enough room in the "cave" for a troop of gypsies to set up camp!) The size of most modern houses representing wealth and status rather than family need. So, what else was new?

The sensible course for Z, was to back off, at least for the night. What he should do was take his time following the man, as the man had scouted Z; learn the thug's habits, see if anyone else was living in the house.

And Z would have done that ... except for Susan. Susan needed a normal life; a life lived without threat. And she needed it now.

Sitting there in the post-midnight dark, Z delayed thought by ... concentrating on the weather, the night air thick with moisture, the blackness as silent as a grave. Even the insects had gone to sleep. (Or, perhaps, were forbidden to take up residence in this rich man's paradise.)

Z also realized that clouds had canceled the moon and stars, crafting a night as dark as the worst men's souls.

Good. For what Z had to do, the darker the better.

Rousing himself, Z got down to mental business. First, he needed to check the house for security: far from an easy task these days, in particular, since the hood had the money to purchase the latest and the best. Not that the gangster's alarm system would be patched into the police. Certainly not, would be Z's guess.

Since Z also installed security, he knew something about electronic devices. "Interrupter" beams, pressure-sensitive ...

Z didn't get to finish his review because of a suddenly motor noise, at the same time Z seeing a line of light at the bottom of the garage door.

What he'd heard was the now familiar whine of the electric garage opener, the door continuing to come up, followed closely by a car starting, the door now fully up to show the second, smaller car, beginning to back out.

Classic MGB. British-racing green.

Prompting the quick question: had the man switched cars for some reason?

The answer, a quick no.

The person driving the MG was much smaller than the man in the Jag.

As the car thumped into the street to make its turn (fortunately backing Z's direction,) the reflection of the access light gave Z a glimpse of the driver's head before the garage door closed all the way.

A woman's head.

Though it was true that today's men sometimes had long hair, the driver was definitely female. From Z's fleeting impression, a knockout.

Wife of the hood. More likely, girlfriend.

What puzzled Z was that the girl would be leaving just as her "friend" returned. What kind of relationship did they have, anyway?

It didn't matter. Z was grateful she was gone. His job was hard enough with the man in the house; more than twice as difficult with a second party.

Back to the job of breaking in ....

"Move, and I blow your head off!"

A total surprise, that harsh voice! Also the cold, circular feel of a gun barrel poked through the Cavalier's window and into the hollow at the base of Z's skull.

"Hands on the wheel! Don't look at me!" Z put his hands on the steering wheel, Z stupid maybe, but not crazy.

There was the quiet clunk of the door latch release, the gun barrel leaving Z's neck, the door carefully swung out. Looking forward, Z couldn't see the man but had a good idea who he might be. Somehow, the punk who'd been following Z had seen Z trailing him. Easy to pick up Z's Cavalier in late night traffic, Z taking a calculated risk tailing the mobster. Z had already figured the man was bright, the fact that the man had caught him, not the best way to confirm that judgment.

"Come out slow or you're dead."

An easy task with a bum knee.

Standing in the quiet street for the "pat down," Z could see that the other man's shadow shape was formidable. Shorter than Z, but ... bulky.

Putting it all together, the hood had spotted Z tailing him. When getting home, had ordered his wife/girl to leave the house so the man could deal with Z in private, something Z had planned except for the variation of who would be "playing."

Satisfied Z wasn't "carrying," the thug shut the car door. "'Round back," the man ordered. "Don't wanna shoot you and wake the neighbors." A sensitivity to the feelings of others with which Z heartily concurred.

And that's what they did: Z in front, the man following so closely Z could feel the gun barrel bump his spine.

First slanting down the street to enter the thug's yard, Z was shoved down the side and around back, Z able to see by the soft flame of front and backyard gaslights. At least well enough to walk.

Passing behind the garages, crossing a deep patio, they came to a back door.

"Open it," the man ordered, Z turning the knob, going inside.

Utility room.

Nudged to the left, fumbling around, Z opened another door; stepped up into a lavish, lighted kitchen, Italian tile on the workstation in the center, huge refrigerator with ice and cold water available through the door. Two Viking stoves. Two microwaves. Out-sized dishwasher. Double sinks in stainless steel. Cabinets and more cabinets, breakfast bar with short, three-legged stools under it.

Z was then "directed" through the kitchen into a formal dining room featuring a cathedral ceiling, elegant walnut table and chair set, crystal chandelier, and glass breakfront displaying Waterford crystal.

Marched through a plaster arch into a fireplace-dominated study, Z's apparent destination was a chair near a small lamp table.

The house, the furnishings -- all "toys" of the successful executive. Except, the place smelled of .....

* * * * *

Z had difficulty thinking. His mind sticking, except to register a dull pain high on the back of his head. He tried to open his eyes, the light hurting them. He tried again; managed to keep them open -- little good it did him with his sight so fuzzy.

He was aware he was sitting in a chair. Slumped in a chair, he corrected himself, his mind functioning a little better. After blinking his eyes and concentrating, his vision was also clearing.

He felt .... numb. Except for the pain in the back of his head.

He was in a chair. Overstuffed chair.

Fireplace to his left. Sofa. Other chairs.

Uncomfortable.

Because ... he was leaning back against his hands.

When Z tried to get his hands out from behind him though, he ... couldn't.

Because they were ... tied behind his back.

No.

Taped.

It was coming back to Z, the sore spot on his head helping him to piece together what had happened.

He remembered he'd been surprised out front. Taken at gunpoint into the house. Into this room. Then ....

Zapped.

Z had to admire the man's thoroughness. He'd done just what Z would have under the circumstances.

Except for the tape. Z had never trusted tape. He was from the old-fashioned "rope school" of bondage.

Wiggling around as best he could, Z could tell he wasn't fastened to the chair. Nor were his ankles taped together. The man had knocked him out -- and Z hurt enough to guess the man had done it with the steel butt of his gun -- taped Z's hands behind his back, and sat him in the chair.

Exploring with his fingers, the tape felt like the gray duct tape everyone used for everything except the tape's intended purpose -- sealing the seams of galvanized steel air ducts.

Where was the villain of the piece? A little sloppy to be out of the room when Z woke up.

Not that Z was eager for the "fun and games" to start.

For the only thing that made sense was that Z was about to be questioned about the whereabouts of Johnny D.

Z knew he'd be roughed up some, but probably allowed to live. The man who'd been following Z -- undoubtedly the same one who'd snatched Z off the street -- had demonstrated patience; didn't seem to be the crazy killer type. Just another indication the mob had turned into a "professional" organization. Or, at least, was trying to. Meaning, Z hoped, they didn't kill any more folks than they had to these days, extra bodies bad for business.

Z's best defense was to play dumb, something Susan seemed to think Z did rather well.

A squeak of floor. The man entering.

A dark-haired man with thick brows joining above his nose. Dead, black eyes. Wide cheekbones. Narrow nose and mouth. Broad chest. Muscles. Indeterminate nationality.

"Piece of shit," was the man's evaluation on finding Z awake. "Spendin' all this time on a piece of shit like you."

Z kept his mouth shut, judging this to be one of the better times to do that.

Pulling his gun from a back holster, the man walked over to Z, standing over him, looking down, unfortunately, staying too far back for Z to kick the legs out from under him.

Dangerous.

That was the only word Z could think of for the man.

The hoodlum -- Z still didn't know his name -- was casually dressed in a light blue silk shirt, gray slacks, and black loafers. He had an expensive-looking watch on one wrist, a heavy gold "identification" bracelet around the other and a pinky ring that flashed a diamond the size of a faceted marble.

About the man himself, Z's first impression had been right. He was made of muscle: the kind manufactured in a lavishly equipped gym.

Keeping his flat eyes on Z, gun steady in his right hand, the hood used his left to slip a packet of cigarettes out of his front shirt pocket. Tapping up a cigarette on his gun hand, he lipped the cigarette into his mouth and replaced the pack.

Fishing a gold lighter out of his pants pocket, he snapped on the flame, glancing down to apply the fire to the end of the cigarette, at the same time taking a draw. Replaced the lighter, the thug hissed smoke through white teeth, Z smelling perfumed tobacco.

No mistake.

This was the man who'd tossed Z's place.

Z reviewed what he knew about the young mobster.

Bright. Chain-smoker. Careful. A check of Z's apartment.

"Gonna ask you only once." Though undistinguished, the man's voice carried the impact of the inevitable. On the other hand, that's what they all said: "I'm going to ask you only once." Cops and robbers. "Where you got him hid?"

"Who?"

"You know who."

Z tried to look confused.

"Dosso."

"Johnny? I know him, but ..." No sense claiming Z wasn't a friend of John's. Never deny anything they know you know. To either cops or robbers.

"But you don't got him hid out?" Cynicism.

"No. Haven't heard from him. Been awhile."

Reaching his left hand behind him, the trigger man took a thin pair of leather gloves from his back pocket. Slowly -- switching the gun from hand to hand -- stretched the gloves on.

A bad sign.

"You been shadowing me. Why?" Z might as well ask.

"You know why."

"You said, you're looking for John? That the reason?"

"Why you think?" The man wasn't buying the innocent routine.

"I've done some work that made me enemies. Could be you were one of them."

"When you spot me?" Taking the cigarette out of his mouth, the man reached down to flip ashes at an ashtray on the end table beside Z's chair; straightened up immediately to continue sucking on the shrinking cancer stick.

"Tonight. Out front." It was the best lie Z could think of at the moment.

"Piece of shit couldn't locate your ass with both hands. Supposed to be a private dick?" Emphasis on "dick." "I been back of you day and night for a week."

Z tried to look impressed.

"Spending a lot of my time. And for what? For a piece of shit."

His cigarette glued to his mouth, the mob man continued to blow smoke, the room filling with the tobacco's strange smell. Z wondered if the hood was smoking some drug (other than tobacco.) Decided if he was, it wasn't slowing him down.

The place smelled of smoke and ... something else, an odor Z remembered detecting when he'd first been herded in.

Something Z never smelled in his own apartment; but a scent he could associate with Susan's place. A "girl" smell.

The smell of ... fingernail polish. ......

No. Fingernail polish remover. Strong ... even though the thug's woman had been sent away some time ago.

Glancing around quickly, Z saw a large, open bottle of remover, upturned lid beside it, the bottle on the table next to his chair. And cotton balls. Plus an emery board and a bottle of pink nail polish.

The fact that the bottle of remover hadn't been capped was another sign of how dangerous the tough was. When he'd ordered the girl to leave, she'd jumped so fast she hadn't done the "woman thing" of putting the cap back on the bottle. A sharp blow across Z's face stunned him, the man's backhanded slap bringing tears to Z's eyes.

"Thought you might be goin' to sleep on me," the man said, grinning evilly.

As Z would have guessed, the gorilla had strong, too-perfect teeth.

"You hit me and I still won't know the whereabouts of Johnny D." Given the circumstances, the most sincere lie Z had ever told.

"Yeah," the man said, frowning.

Could this be an opening? "And you know it."

"How you figure?"

"You said you been following me for a week?" (It hadn't been a week.) "Then you know I got no contact with Johnny. You got a tap on my phone?" Z hadn't thought about that until just now. But it made sense (Z too upset lately to have picked up on this completely predictable bugging of Z's apartment.) Putting in a "bug" something the man didn't bother to deny. "And what you found out is I got no contact with Johnny."

For no reason, the man hit Z again, once more with the back of his gloved left hand. "That's for wasting my time on a piece of shit like you."

While attempting to look hurt, Z was careful not to sigh his relief. Apparently, the punk's ego had convinced him he'd have come up with a Dosso connection if there'd been one.

Again, the man grinned under lifeless eyes. "But I got me another plan, now, thanks to you." Z didn't like the sound of that. "You said, yourself, you're a friend of Dosso's. So maybe I can use you to smoke Dosso out."

The muscle-man paused, thinking, leaning over to snuff out the butt of his cigarette in an ashtray beside Z, all the time keeping his eyes on Z and the gun leveled at Z's chest. "If you took a hit, maybe he'd show himself, looking for vengeance."

"No." What else could Z say?

"You're probably right. But, what the hell? You don't know 'til you try." The man had made his decision. "Get up!"

This was going to end with a bullet to the back of the head unless Z thought of something fast!

With a corner of his mind, Z realized he was afraid, also discovering he was surprised to be afraid. His life had been going so badly Z hadn't thought he'd mind if .... Cancel that unproductive thought.

Back to the desperate present.

Slowing down his racing mind, Z tried to be rational about his situation. There was no way, for instance, he could get away with throwing his body at the man's gun. Not with Z's hands taped behind his back. The man was also keeping back far enough so Z couldn't kick him.

Z had to think of something else ...... the utter bleakness of his situation seeming to provide a new notion. A poor idea, maybe, but at least based on his knowledge of the man. If Z got the chance ....

"Get up!" the man repeated, threatening to hit Z again.

Nodding quickly -- no need to take more punishment than necessary -- Z hunched forward, as if trying to rise.

Finally struggled up, only to let his knee collapse, breaking his fall by leaning back against the small table beside the chair, bracing himself with his elbows.

Getting his feet under him, Z was finally able to stand -- but with a difference. While bend backward over the table, Z had gotten hold of the bottle of polish remover.

Thin plastic bottle, by the feel of it. From the weight, nearly full. A bottle Z maneuvered to keep hidden between his hands and his body, pressing hard with the backs of his hands to hold it there.

He'd get only one chance ... if he got that.

"Move," the hoodlum said.

And Z moved, Z as shaky as he'd been for some time.

Shuffling Z back through the dining room, kitchen -- the gangster stepping past Z to snap inside switches to light the utility room and garage -- the torpedo stepped back to let Z precede him.

Both of them arriving in the one-car emptiness of the floodlit garage, Z turned as if to ask for directions.

At which point Z got the break he'd been hoping for! Already in need of another cigarette, the man paused to slip the pack out of his pocket. Keeping his distance and watching Z carefully, the man hit the top of the pack against his gun hand, using his lips to extract a cigarette he'd tapped up.

Putting the pack back in his pocket, the thug reached into his pants pocket for his lighter.

Meanwhile, as the crook was going through his cigarette routine, Z was fumbling the open bottle of remover into his right hand; had shifted his hands sideways behind him so that the bottle top cleared his left side.

The man then flicked on the lighter, his eyes leaving Z to focus for a single second on the end of the cigarette -- all the time Z needed to squeeze the plastic bottle, the thin, flammable fluid squirting toward the lighter's flame.

Whoosh!

Fire everywhere! On the man's hand and on his face! Flame dripping to his upper chest!

Z had to admire the criminal for getting off a misdirected shot before dropping the gun to bat both hands at the searing flames.

Another second, and Z had taken the single step necessary to launch a kick hard enough to double the man over, a second kick to the temple, putting out the gangster's lights, a third kick skittered the man's gun into a dark corner, Z once again in charge of the evening's program.

No longer needing to "pour fuel on the fire," Z backed up to an open green plastic trash barrel and dropped in the bottle of remover.

Seeing what he needed next, backing up again, Z slid an old "garage" towel off a nail; used the thick cloth to smother the flames on the hoodlum's face, a process that took awhile with Z's hands taped behind him.

Too bad.

After damping out the flames, Z rose to inspect his work, the unconscious man on his back at Z's feet.

Satisfied, Z walked over to paw -- as best he could with his hands still taped -- through the usual, built-in tool cabinets at the back of the garage. Found what he'd expected in one of them: a gardening knife.

Able to saw through the tape around his wrists, a tough job with his hands fastened behind him, he pulled off what remained of the severed tape, wadding it into a ball and tossing it in the trash. Retrieving the man's gun from the corner where Z kicked it, he spent the time it took to figure out how the pistol "broke," upending it to dump out the bullets on the floor.

After snapping the trigger a number of times to make certain the piece was empty, Z chanced sticking the gun in his belt.

Checking to see that the mobster -- now developing the worst case of puffy sunburn Z had ever seen -- was still out, Z continued to riffle the garage until he found what he was looking for: three fat, strung-together plastic packages of braided clothesline rope.

Using the garden knife to slit the packs, Z cut short lengths of cotton rope, rolling the punk on his face to tie the man's hands behind him. Then tie his feet and knees. Finished the job by stuffing a piece of torn-off toweling in the man's mouth, securing the gag with a length of rope between the thug's teeth, and tied around the back of his head.

All Z had left to do was cut the remaining rope in two long pieces, fashioning a noose on the end of one of them. The ropes ready, dropping the knife, Z tossed the noose-rope over one of the open two-by-fours bracing the garage ceiling, pulling down the loop end to put it around the thug's throat, cinching up the slipknot.

The man secured, the rope ready, Z was free to go back into the house for one of the three-legged stools he'd seen under the kitchen breakfast bar, the seats about two-and-a-half feet tall, Z bringing a stool out into the garage.

What followed was the inevitable wait for the guy to wake up, Z trying to speed the process by locating, then filling a plant-watering can, returning to the garage to drizzle water over the man's red face.

The fellow groaned. Opened his eyes. Tried to struggle free.

"Now who's a piece of shit?" Z purred.

It was strange, Z thought, working without his black ski mask -- the mask still in Z's valise in the Cavalier. No need in this instance, of course, the punk knowing perfectly well who Z was.

Z's plan -- at first a desperate one aimed only at escape -- had begun to develop in interesting ways, ideas sometimes coming from nowhere.

If this worked right ... it might solve a couple of problems.

"You think tonight was the first time I made you?" Z started, sensing the man was awake enough to understand. "Outside my apartment? No way."

Though the crook was in obvious pain, Z was certain he was listening. "As for Johnny Dosso, he's dead. Yeah. Me. When I found you were trailing me, I got in touch with certain persons who put me in contact with Mr. Minghetti. Sure. I knew where John was. I just didn't know Mr. Minghetti wanted him. So, one of the times you weren't 'back of me' -- off somewhere on the crapper -- I squared things by bopping John myself. I'm in the clear. You? Mr. Minghetti's not pleased with you. Said you couldn't get the job done. Mr. Minghetti may even have gotten the idea you and Dosso were a team. So, after proving my reliability, he hired me to make sure you'd have a little accident." It was Z's turn to grin. "Get up!"

Z pulled out the gun. Pointed it at the thug.

With the same struggle Z had -- except more so since the mobster was flat on the floor, his feet and knees tied -- the hood finally did as he was told, getting first to his knees, then to his feet. (At least Z didn't have to listen to the "crime lord's" groans, the gag doing its job.)

Placing the stool under the spot where the rope went over the beam, getting behind the hood, pocketing the gun, Z boosted the thug up so he stood on the shaky seat. Pulling the rope tight, Z tied off the end around the frame of the garage door rail.

To complete the procedure, Z picked up the remaining piece of cord; fastened one end to the bottom of the nearest leg of the stool, the other end snubbed up around the inside handle of the closed garage door.

"Two things could happen," Z said, patiently explaining. "Either you go to sleep and fall off. Or somebody opens the garage door, the opening door jerking the stool out from under you. Since you're some kind of cowboy, I'd 'a liked to put the rope around a limb, and you on a horse, but this will have to do. So, while I got the chance, let me just say, a great big so-long from Mr. Minghetti."

Z's work completed, first wiping off his prints, Z tossed the empty gun on the floor near the knife and bullets, after that retreating through the house, exiting past the alarms -- which the thug hadn't bothered to reset -- into what was left of the night, grateful to be alive, satisfied with the night's work.

Driving the Cavalier through a pre-dawn drizzle, splashing his way out of the lavish sub-division, Z thought about the possibilities. If the man hanged, Z wouldn't be too unhappy, though that wasn't the plan. Since Z had been careful to arrange the "hanging" on the girl's side of the garage, the idea was for the girlfriend to return to the house later that night. Pushing the button on her electric garage door opener, the opening door would jerk the stool out from under the punk, dangling him there before her eyes, kicking and strangling. (Z hadn't arranged enough of a fall to snap the man's bull neck.)

At that point, either of two things might happen. If the hood had been a son-of-a-bitch to his girl, she might just push the garage door button again, driving off peacefully, leaving her abusive boyfriend to croak. Or, she might rush inside, setting up the seat, getting his feet on it so he could stand and take the pressure off his neck.

With the same knife Z used to do his "rope tricks," she would then cut the bully boy loose, the guy not so injured he wouldn't retrieve and reload his gun.

Z hoped the second of those two possibilities happened ... because, thinking this action out carefully, Z's long-range plans for the gunsel had not yet been realized!

* * * * *

Chapter 17

By the time Z got home, the rain had stopped, the night too far gone for Z to attempt sleep. Anyway, who could sleep with the sweat of fear still oozing from his pores?

The first order of business was to run a quiet bath.

Feeling better after soaking his weary body for twenty minutes, Z flopped down on his unmade bed, planning only to rest his eyes for an hour before the sun came up.

To find himself fighting to wake up from another in the "horrible nightmare" series. This time, Z was in the desert, faceless men on all-terrain vehicles chasing him, his feet sinking in the burning sand. Blazing yellow dunes, like giant piles of quicksand, lay in wait to suck him under. He was running, running, the machines roaring at his back, gaining on him, beginning to flank him, to get ahead of him. His only salvation was to top a rise of hard-packed sand. Except that the closer he dragged his weary body toward the top, the hotter he became. Finally, the machine-men almost running him down, Z was at the top ... only to find he'd fallen into the sun, his clothes catching fire, his face melting! ...

And he was awake. Basted in sweat. His skin, feverish.

Where did these crazy dreams come from??

The morning sun blasting in the bedroom window, Z covered his eyes until he could adjust to the punishment of the light, then choked down more than his usual handful of aspirin in a desperate attempt to reduce his head size.

Going to the bathroom for water to wash down the aspirin burn, he made the mistake of glancing at himself in the lavatory mirror, it always a shock to see his face before gravity drained the puffiness from his eyes. Today, he looked worse than usual, his skin discolored, lumpy. To complete the picture, his head hurt like the bang of a migraine drum, the cause of the pain, a touchy lump on the back of his skull.

Leaning forward, Z saw he'd grown a wino's broken-veined nose and a brawler's swollen eye -- his face, the perfect answer to a child's question about why, after a prize fight, boxers wore sunglasses to interviews.

Z could only hope his general state of health was better than he looked: his experience, that people who appeared to be at death's door, usually were.

It was not -- emphasize not -- going to be a beautiful day in the neighborhood.

Shaved, teeth brushed -- gently -- putting on shoes, shirt, and slacks, Z shuffled into the living room to get a fire going and the air conditioners chugging.

Now fully awake -- a state that made Z feel even worse -- his only interest was retrieving the morning paper from the front lawn.

Going outside and along the side of the old house -- enough rain fall last night to make a jungle of the returning heat -- Z picked up his paper (the other tenants' papers, long gone.)

Returning to his cooling apartment to sit at the table, Z shucked the Star from its plastic wrapper to find the front page shouting: health care, Korea, mayhem in midtown, and K.C. politicians vilifying one another. The usual.

The inside features were no better: in the order of their importance, the comics, the daily horoscope, and advice from Billy Graham.

Rethinking his disappointment, Z reflected that the paper was probably "put to bed" around three in the morning: too early to include dark deeds done in the dead of night, specifically, too early to include someone found tied up and hanged.

Willing to try an even more doubtful source of information, Z turned on the nineteen-inch black-and-white on the front room lamp table, switching channels to the station that broadcast local news at eleven-thirty. Only to hear a half hour of nothing but Missouri gossip. (On that station, even the national news was given a local slant. Z fully expected a report one day saying: "A Kansas City man was only three streets away when terrorists blew up the White House. Interview at ten."

Giving up his knowledge quest, Z fixed brunch, irritated to be scraping out the last of the peanut butter to make his sandwich. Got himself a Diet Coke.

It was only after he'd gummed down his peanut butter and jelly -- every chew a painful stretch of face and a thump of headache -- that he remembered about the bug. (Lack of quality sleep was becoming more than an annoyance.)

Wearily plopping himself on the butt-sprung divan, Z started by unscrewing the mouthpiece on the phone's receiver; immediately located the miniaturized electronic device the punk had put inside.

Removing the listening device, going to the kitchen, Z took delight in smashing the little gizmo with the handle of a tableware knife, Z cleaning up by scraping the even tinier bits and pieces off the counter and sprinkling them in the fireplace.

Discovering the transmitter motivated Z to search the rest of the apartment for a second bug -- a time-consuming, head-pounding process.

But a hunt that produced nothing. The thug -- and Z still didn't know the crook's name -- was so cocky about breaking in without being caught, he thought that one mike was all he'd need.

What was really dumb -- knowing that someone had searched his apartment -- was for Z to have overlooked the possibility of a thug-bug. Right then and there, Z took a solemn pledge to pay more attention to guys who had it in for him!

Z's mind skittering like a model T on a rutted road, Z was bounced back to wondering what the crook had planned for Z. Surely, not to shoot Z in the garage. The hoodlum's scheme was probably to knock Z out again, then drive Z somewhere quiet; after taking Z's car keys, drill him. Leave the body, run Z's car off somewhere, then call a cab to take the mobster home. When word of the hit was passed around, wait to see if Johnny D. crawled out of the woodwork.

It could easily have happened that way -- but didn't -- leaving Z alive for sweaty speculation about what might very well have been the end of him.

Still tired, still shaky, Z decided to stay away from the office; instead, to get some rest on the small sofa -- rest, he'd heard, nearly as good for you as sleep. (Z hoped so, because he was thinking seriously about giving up sleep permanently, as little sleep as he got between bad dreams.) But found he couldn't relax on the cramped divan. Nor could he get comfortable when he tried to go back to bed.

Two o'clock.

Deciding that any activity was better than sitting around mumbling to himself, Z drove the Cavalier to the IGA. Bought peanut butter, of course. And this time, a loaf of whole wheat bread. (As bad as he was feeling, Z thought it would be a good idea to eat healthy for a change.) Added Diet Coke, paper plates, and paper napkins.

Just the staples.

Was amazed to discover that being out in the heat had made him feel better. Worrying about grocery costs while putting away his purchases, Z thought, again, of Harry Grimes; leading Z to persuade himself he'd better check his answering machine, just in case Harry, hearing Z was trying to contact him, might have left a message.

All of the above accounting for why Z showed up at his office after all, arriving at four o'clock (about the time he generally left it.) Only to have his hunch about Harry calling, disproved.

Standing by his "secretary's" desk, tempted to swear, the knock on the door startled him. (After all, it could be the toasted hoodlum on the loose. Or even more deadly -- Millie the tax preparer.)

Creeping to the door, Z put his ear to the hollow panel. Listened ... for what? The thug lighting another cigarette? The click of a thumbed-back hammer? Reasoning that it was unlikely the racketeer would come into the building -- at the same time wanting to exercise caution -- Z slowly rotated the doorknob, easing the door open a crack to peek through the slit, seeing ... just enough to tell that the person out there was shorter that last night's punk.

Relieved, Z opened the door all the way, to find ... Johnny Dosso.

A shocker!

As much because Johnny D. had never been to Z's office as because John was supposed to be in hiding.

Moreover, not the Johnny who Z had dropped off at the Happy Hollow. Standing before him was the real John, dressed in sartorial splendor: white silk shirt cuffed with diamond links, monogrammed pocket with genuine pearl buttons, fawn-colored meringue wool slacks with a knife-edged crease, and mirrored finish dark bronze shoes.

"I see you're feelin' secure. You don't even have your blackjack out to bust in your friends' heads." John was in the best of spirits. "Well, you goin'a ask me in?"

"Sure."

Z stepped aside, John strutting in like the fat peacock he was.

"What a shitty hole-in-the-wall you got here," Johnny said, looking around with disdain. "Excuse me!" he corrected himself, bending forward to peer through the arch into Z's part of the office. "What a shitty two-hole-in-the-wall you got here."

The formalities over, Z led the way into the other "hole," waving John to the client chair, Z sitting behind the moldering desk. This was Z's office -- no matter how "shitty."

"So, why don't you come to work for me?" John asked, something he did periodically. "You get easy duty."

Herding hookers with my fists, Z reminded himself.

"Hell, we even got major medical."

Not much good, Z thought cynically, for healing bullets to the brain.

"Now I know what you're thinkin'. I sort of hinted that I'd retired. But what I meant was, I needed a little vacation, is all."

"Oh?" Not many people "vacationed" at the Happy Hollow.

"Sure. I'm too important to the organization to retire permanent." John tried to cross his legs; gave it up because he was too fat to be comfortable that way.

John had something to say; would get around to saying it sooner or later.

"Sure, there was that little dust-up I had. But that was nothing. Not that I don't appreciate what you did for me."

"That was nothing?"

"Well, a little more than nothing. But all's swell that ends swell, if you get my meaning." John had never been much of a scholar, Shakespearean or otherwise. "When I received the news from my contacts in the organization -- I got out of that flophouse, pronto. First, going back to my home for a decent change of clothes. Which reminds me, don't worry. I didn't torch your rags. I got 'em in my car. In the trunk where they don't smell up the leather interior. Didn't bring 'em in 'cause I wasn't sure you were here. I didn't call first, 'cause I wanted to come by in person to see how you were makin' out.

"Also to say a word of thanks -- though I was never in danger, no matter how you might have taken what I said about me being followed. But we been friends for a long time, you and me. And you did your best by me, such as it was. And Johnny Dosso don't forget his friends. Never!"

Clearly, it was hard for John to admit, even to himself, he'd needed Z's help. Which was OK with Z.

"Then, too, it occurred to me you might have had your hand in what happened that changed the ... situation." John drummed the fingers of both hands on the sides of his chair. Drew back his upper lip in another, canine-exposing, grin. "Me and you both know that you got a way of gettin' yourself in the middle of things. Like a special meddling talent. Like that. So I was wonderin' ....."

"What?"

"Wonderin' if you might have had something to do with a certain something I heard about a lowlife name of Marco Minghetti."

"No."

"Yeah?"

"No."

"I wasn't meanin' personally. I know that. But I was a long time in that sewer of a hotel -- and I wouldn't send one of my girls to a place like that, to say nothing of me going there in person. Like I was sayin', I had awhile to do some considering. And I got to thinking about how Minghetti's pistol Pete would go about bird-dogging me. Now, with me stashed away, and you bein' a friend of mine, I got to figure the asshole would come after you." John frowned.

"Much as I don't like him, Cristoforo's a smart boy."

"Cristoforo?"

"Yeah. What you call in English, Christopher. That's what he calls himself. Christopher Columbus -- like he owns this new world -- get it?"

"Yeah."

"He don't call himself Cristoforo Columbo. Just Cristoforo. Like he's so famous he's only got one name. Like you say Barbra, and you know right away it's Barbra Streisand." Unless you think Barbara Walters, Z countered to himself. "Or Cher or Madonna. Like that. Or Janis Joplin." Though John had wandered off the mental track, Z knew what he meant. Nodded.

"This Cristoforo's a little shit, but he's not stupid. So, I say to myself, what would a not-so-dumb kiss-ass like Cristoforo do, given the task Minghetti gave him?

"I got to figure he tries to tie you to me. And knowing how much you like your privacy, when I made a call this morning and heard what I heard, I got to figure that you maybe had a hand in turning Cristoforo around."

"Call?"

"Yeah. Like I keep saying, I got friends in the organization. Good friends." None John could count on when in big trouble, Z thought.

"I made this call and what do you know? I find that, overnight, things had changed in my favor. Now, I'm not so stupid in my old age that I believe everything I hear over the phone, particularly when somebody's lookin' for me. But then I make a couple more contacts and find it's true."

"What?"

"That Mr. Big Shot Marco Minghetti got himself offed last night. The way I hear it is he's got this estate south of Leawood, but on the Missouri side of State Line. Got all kind of protection. Guards on the complex. Got electric gates, fences protecting his grounds. All kind of security. But somebody gets Minghetti to open up. Had to have been somebody near and dear.

"Minghetti comes to the door all happy. And gets whacked. First, shot a bunch of places you don't even want to think about. Then gut-shot and left to die all over the front hall.

"I also hear that the cops don't got a clue who did it. But then, the cops don't never know shit." John shrugged in apology for having stated what was common knowledge.

"The inside guess is that some young punk who worked for Minghetti is the one who did it. Name being whispered around is this same Cristoforo. Had to be pretty mad to have hit Minghetti like that. 'Cause that's not the way it's done in the majors. Too public, for one thing. Got to be done through the proper channels, like in any other modern organization." John shrugged, not able to keep from grinning like a wolf.

"So, by this time, the punk had better be in the fuckin' Amazon, fuckin' some of them headhunter native girls, he havin' no place left to hide. You don't offend guys that high up and then stick your nose in no civilized places."

John lowered his voice. "It now comes out that this Minghetti -- so recently deceased the blood's not yet dry -- had failed to get proper authority to meddle with me. So, all the way around, everybody is pleased. The bad guys are dead or on the run. The cops are scratching their dicks in amazement, figurin' that some nigger come south to rob, instead, tragically murdering an upstanding member of the community like Mr. Marco Minghetti." John snorted merrily.

"Three days, I give the story, before somebody else's problems wipes the TV screen of this mysterious business." Again, the knowing grin.

"Meanwhile, higher-ups have asked me to resume my valuable contribution to the entertainment of the adult community, giving me the respect I should have got before. With words said about how you can't trust newcomers, but have got to stay with those who took you to the dance." John grinned again. "I been bad mouthin' my end of the take, but the fact is that I'm doin' pretty good. Seems like the drug part of the family business has about gone bust. As you might guess, because of foreigners: spics flooding the market.

"Which leads me back to askin', what was your part in that nigger coming south to total Minghetti?"

"No part."

"No? OK. That's the way you want to play it? OK by me. But all talk aside -- and not forgetting for a moment that when the Z-man gets involved, things got a way of being resolved on the side of the angels -- I come to say, I owe you. And one of the things that old-timers like me hold dear, is that a debt is always to be repaid. So I'd appreciate it if you were to think of some favor I could do to get you off the "owing side" of my ledger. Because we're friends, and shouldn't be dealing with each other in terms of debts, but like we always have, in terms of favors given without a favor expected in return. Like old friends from high school."

Z knew what Johnny meant, but didn't know what to say. He could repeat that he hadn't caused Minghetti's death. Which was true, as far as it went, but a little like maintaining that pushing the first domino in the row has nothing to do with the eventual fall of the last one. Or he could have said he'd done what he'd done for Susan more than for John -- so John didn't owe him -- neither of those things seeming quite right.

"Anyway, I'm flyin' high again. Not that I was havin' that much difficulty," John added, quickly. "And now I got to tell you the truth. I got to go because this ... place ... of yours is depressing the hell out of me. And I'd feel even worse for letting a friend dig himself into such a hole, except that it's not my fault. Every time I make an offer of work, you turn it down. Nothing rough, neither." John took a deep breath, holding his hand up to keep Z from interrupting.

"It's your Mama I blame. For feeding you all that crap about honesty being the American way." John shook his head, Z's ignorance saddening him. "The American way is making a buck any way you can, my friend, and that's the real truth. The only people talking honesty are politicians who are trying to back other people away from the valuables so the pols got elbow room to steal." John was working himself up, like he sometimes did. John could speak "good" English; but in a temper, reverted to "wise guy."

"And the religious is just as bad -- worse, cause a politician is expected to lie and steal in moderation. What your purer-than-piss preacher says is, drop your money in the pot and you'll get a slice of heavenly pie. But do they drop in any coin? Nosiree. They're grabbin' it out with both hands. I watch 'em on TV. And a richer bunch I never saw. Got suits better than me. Limos." John was getting louder and redder in the face. "Gettin' to travel all over the world off poor folks' savings. Don't pay no taxes, 'cause they're livin' off the fat of the religious hog. Breakfastin' with the president. And what do they do for all that money? Nothin', but tell the poor they better shell out their last dime or God'll punish 'em. Like some little old lady did in Bible times." An interesting slant on the parable of the widow's mite, Z thought.

"Me -- the kind of guy priests spit on -- I give value for the dollar. Want a little adult fun? My girls are ready to provide it for a fair price. I don't threaten hellfire to make people buy what I got for sale, like the preachers do. What I give is honest service for an honest price. Gambling? Sure. And I always win. But everybody knows the odds are set in favor of the house. Pays for the upkeep. Pays the dealers' salaries. I got overhead keepin' cops from bustin' in."

John was breathing hard now. Sweating heavily. Exhausted.

Another way John's job "paid off," Z could tell, was in poor health. Booze and broads and cards and being threatened by "higher-ups" were taking their toll.

To be fair about it, Z's job wasn't all that safe. And to be strictly honest, paid a lot less.

Maybe Z's Mom had sold Z a bill of goods on the American way. Then, again, maybe she was right.

"I'm goin'. I'm goin'," John said after he'd caught his breath, lurching up. "Just remember, Z, you got a favor comin'. Just don't be too long about collecting, hear?"

After seeing John out, Z thought that -- all things considered -- Johnny D's situation had resolved itself pretty well. John was safe, at least for the time being. Susan was safe. Z was safe. Safe all around.

As for Z's old clothes, still in the trunk of John's limo ... no problem.

Z looked at his asthmatic old wristwatch.

Plenty of time to dial the insurance company. Tell Susan he'd be by to take her home.

They'd have to get her bag at the other girl's house, so maybe the thing to do was have Susan tell her friend to expect them later, after Z took Susan to dinner. Though Z didn't know exactly how much money he had, he still had Harry's check in the bank. He could afford a pizza. Maybe even a ritzier meal at the Corner Cafe.

Taking five more minutes to go over the whole thing once more, the only residue Z could think of to this nasty -- turned dangerous -- business, was the favor John thought he owed to Z.

Which meant that Z had to think up a favor big enough so John would feel satisfied paying off. But small enough so Z, in turn, didn't feel a debt to John.

All told, Z's new fear was that picking the right favor might prove to be a bigger problem than the Cristoforo-Minghetti mess.

* * * * *

Chapter 18

Z drove around awhile, the therapeutic ride followed by a long, thoughtful supper. So that it was dark by the time he got home, an unpleasant time for him, the night forcing Z to face his dreams.

As Z came up the back walk, the blackness mercifully hiding the yard's trash, Z thought again of Johnny Dosso.

John ran hookers and high stakes games for the organization, apparently seeing nothing wrong with these illegal "activities."

Prostitution? Gambling? Compared to John's daily illegalities, Z was living the life of a saint. And yet, it was Z who was having terrifying dreams, nightmares so bad he couldn't remember when he'd had a good night's sleep.

Why was John so guilt-free, Z so guilt-ridden?

Picking his way up the broken concrete walk, it popped into Z's mind that John's religion might be what was giving John relief. In John's faith, they had what was called confession. As Z understood it, a man could confess his crimes to a priest, the priest honor-bound to keep those felonies a secret. You could tell the priest anything.

As a child, Z remembered "confessing" to his Mom about some kid's offense he'd "committed." And feeling better after he'd "fessed up," even though his Mom punished him for doing wrong.

Z had to wonder if John's being able to tell his priest all about his crimes was what made the difference, John able to live comfortably with himself after confession. In Z's case, unable to tell anybody about this Kunkle business could be bottling up enough guilt to produce the nightmares.

If there was any truth to this line of thought, Z had to ask himself if he could do something along the confession line to help himself? Not talk to a priest; you had to believe in religion for faith to work -- but maybe seeing Dr. Calder. For wasn't it the case that, what a priest was to "true believers," a psychologist was to regular people, psychologists pledged to keep your sins a secret?

At the very least, Z could ask Calder if Calder kept confidences; if a psychologist was like a priest for ordinary people.

Z liked the chubby prof from Bateman College, Calder hiring Z, first to see that a building contractor did the job Calder had paid for, then to investigate more "ghostly" matters. Calder had even been responsible for Z getting employment with Bateman College on another "Ghost light" case, Calder recommending Z, Z hired by a shady dean named Ashlock.

In the course of the contacts Z had with the psychologist, Z had found Dr. Calder to be bright, something to be expected of a college professor. But also ... nice. As a for instance, the man had showed concern for Z's problems with Susan; had gone out of his way to say he thought Z was intelligent and that Z should further his education. Should try college, if for no other reason than for Z to prove to himself he was college material. What Calder's suggestions indicated was that the prof was the sort of man who went out of his way to be concerned about others, even a rough and tumble guy like Z.

Reaching the side of Z's add-on apartment at the back, Z pulled out his keys, when he did so, getting the momentary chill he'd been having lately when entering his apartment at night. Caused, he was sure, by knowing that the crook had broken into Z's home.

Z had seen it on TV. That being burglarized made people feel unsafe in their own home, an emotion he was now feeling.

When Z had discovered the break-in, he'd felt .... violated. That was the word he'd heard on a couple of TV news programs. Violated.

Following the chill, Z experienced a wave of ... anger. Neither emotion making any sense now that the criminal was headed for the tall timber.

In control again, no longer needing to look for a hair in the doorframe, Z fumbled his key in the lock. Turned the bolt ....

To hear ... no click.

Learning the hard way that, when something seemed wrong it generally was, Z backed away from the door, at the same time, slipping to the side to put himself in the deeper shadow of the third floor gable.

No ... click. Meaning .....?

That the door was already unlocked.

A careful search of Z's memory told him he'd locked up when leaving for the office that afternoon. He locked the apartment every time he left. Night and day. Rain or shine. In sickness and in health. 'Til Death ....

The chill was back! With a vengeance! As improbable as it seemed, there was now every possibility the thug -- Cristoforo -- was not only still in the country, but also inside Z's place, waiting to pay Z back for the disastrous "game" Z had played with the crook's mind. Nor was there a doubt that Cristoforo played for keeps. What had Johnny D said? That the punk's boss, Minghetti, had been shot in places a man didn't want to hear about?

Sweating. Z was sweating again.

And getting angry, a flush creeping up his neck, into his cheeks!

How dare this punk break into Z's home! Not only once, but twice!

Anger banishing fear, Z crouched low; padded back to the door.

Still at a half-squat, Z rocked the door handle.

Eased in the door.

With a quick leap, was inside!

Still keeping low, slipping to one side, Z froze in the rectangular shadow pool beneath one of the silent air conditioners.

Dark.

Though darker inside than the star-gleamed backyard path, Z's eyes were already adjusting to the even greater blackness, Z beginning to see ... shapes, the dark/light coming through the open front door outlining lumps of furniture.

No artificial light inside. And there would have been, even if someone prowling around was using the pinpoint beam of a penlight.

Had Z come too late, the criminal here and gone?

Reason told Z to hope that was true. On the other hand, rising anger made him wish Cristoforo was still lurking about.

Mentally, Z's mind lay in a twilight region of dead calm, a state he entered before completely losing his temper. A good feeling, really. The feeling of being ... God ... about to right eternal wrong with a fork of divine fire!

From his crouched position under the window, Z sniffed the air, detecting all the usual smells. Dry ashes from the fireplace. Bread crusts in the firebox, toasted but not entirely burned. Old furniture. Dust. ... And ... something more.

Hard to define.

Ever since Z had regained his sense of smell, he'd used it in his work, sometimes felt himself more bloodhound than man.

Scent, but no ... sound in the apartment, except the occasional creak of the old house in the nightfall breeze.

A minute.

Two minutes.

Waiting long enough to establish that nothing was likely to happen to him, Z began to inch forward, slowly, silently; knowing every floorboard; avoiding those that squeaked; creeping through the living room, a space too small for a man to hide.

Past the firebox, no one in the small kitchenette to the left.

Right, to enter the short hall.

If the intruder was still in the house, he had to be either in the small bedroom -- in the closet or under the bed -- or in the bath.

Hardly breathing, lowering himself to his hands and knees, low as a stalking leopard, Z stuck his head into the bedroom. Found the smell ... to be stronger.

Sweat.

Body odor.

Coming from ....

Raising his head, Z drew air into his nostrils, delicately. Turned his head from side to side.

The scent was coming from ...... Z's closet!

Creeping forward, edging past the side of the bed, Z could tell, even in the sable black of that inner room, that the closet door was open. Inside, hiding behind the clothes hanging from the rod ....

With a roar, Z was up and lunging through the clothes, colliding with a body standing back of them.

Enraged, losing control of mind and body, Z hit with the force of a maddened rhino; had the man by the throat; was pounding him senseless .....

* * * * *

Driving home in the Cavalier that night, all Z could recollect was a blur of images: dragging the unconscious man out of the closet; Z getting his case from its place of concealment under the firebox.

Z remembered pulling the dynamite fuse from the satchel, tying the man's arms with the fuse, gagging him.

Z had fleeting images of how the man had frightened Susan; could recall cold anger at that thought, anger and rock hard determination the man would never do that again!

With effort, Z recalled the drive to the Antioch Mall; how he'd parked away from the cars of late evening shoppers.

All this came back to Z as he was driving home.

Fragments of scenes flickering behind his eyes, he found himself thinking of ... fireworks ........

As a child, Z had blackouts when he'd gotten angry. On the rare occasion that his rage blazed up these days, still had trouble remembering what he'd done when he'd "lost it."

That's the way he'd gotten to know Susan. Angered that Susan's ex was trying to gun her down, Z had thrown himself at the little man, taking a bullet as a consequence. Later, in the hospital, Z could barely recall that foolish charge.

Rage like Z's could get you killed!

Continuing to pilot himself home through the street-lighted dark, forcing himself to take deep breaths as a way to cool off, Z was still far from clear about what he'd done.

Once, when Z's former wife had made him angry, he'd stripped her naked and used an indelible marking pen to write obscene suggestions on her body -- before throwing her out into the night.

He shouldn't have done that.

Nor have burned Paula's clothes and mailed the ashes to his ex-wife's mother.

Anger like that balanced a man on the knife edge of insanity.

Stopped at the light at 72nd, little traffic to distract him, Z recalled a plastic bag. A plastic bag of ... white powder.

Turning left on 72nd, not wanting to go home yet, headed for Oak, the word "drugs" came to mind, the greatest evil of modern society.

Z didn't smoke.

He rarely drank.

He never took drugs.

Coming back to Z in a flash was the knowledge that the man who'd broken in had done so to plant drugs in Z's apartment. Z was clear about that now; could see the transparent plastic bag of white powder on the floor of the closet where the man had been hiding.

The man was seeking revenge by planting "controlled substances" in Z's apartment.

That (in additional to fear that the criminal would menace Susan,) was what had caused Z's blackout.

In his mind's eye, Z could see his rage taking hold ....

Like with Paula, Z had stripped the man naked, going further to tie up the man's hands with dynamite fuse .......

Again, Z saw the sparkle of fireworks in his mind.

At the shopping center, pushing the man out of the car, Z had lighted the fuse and let the man go.

The man was running. Running away. Naked. The dynamite fuse sputtering fire in the dark.

Fireworks.

Z tried to concentrate.

Again, had a vision of the man running with lit dynamite fuse tied around the man's wrists, a trailing end of fuse stuck up the man's bare ass ...........

Stopped for the light at Oak, cross-traffic streaming by, Z was shaking. Knowing what he'd done.

All he could do now was hope that the fuse -- lit somewhere in the middle so that it sputtered two directions -- had burned through the knot tying the man's hands before flaming between the man's legs and up his ......

When the light turned green, Z pulled across the four lanes of Oak, the road narrowing to two lanes, headed as it was for the post office turn.

Striving for tranquility, Z tried to emphasize what was positive about the situation. First and foremost, that the man was unlikely to bother Susan again. Z might go a little crazy when he lost it; be unable to remember exactly what he'd done, but his actions -- even when unconscious -- got results.

One more thing popped up to puzzle him. Now that Z could remember ... more ... it seemed to him that the man he'd found in the closet was a small, thin man, certainly someone other than the gunman who'd picked Z's lock before. Certainly not the thug, Cristoforo.

What had happened, then? ... Who was the second man?

Z wished he knew.

More settled in his mind, hooking back, Z recrossed Oak at 72nd. Drove down 72nd, then turned right, then right again, finally to pull into his garage off the alley.

Safe. At last.

Up the back walk, Z entered his apartment to find what he thought he would -- the furniture "rearranged." Chairs knocked over.

Z could be violent when in a temper.

First straightening up the living room, Z went to the bedroom closet to pick up the small "sandwich bag" of white powder.

Cocaine.

Heroin.

Z had no idea what ... and no interest in finding out.

For now, the safe thing for Z to do was put both his case and the bag of powder in the hiding place under the firebox.

The satchel put away, the apartment tidied up, finding he was ... exhausted ... Z returned to the bedroom to flop on the bed for what he hoped would be a long, dreamless sleep ......

* * * * *

It was the phone ringing that awakened him. Struggling out of bed in the dark, limping into the living room, sagging down on the divan, Z picked up the receiver.

Said, "Z," in a hoarse whisper.

Z's voice was weak. Thin. ... Z felt ... sick. It was at times like these that Z wondered if his "temper" was grounded in a physical condition.

Like epilepsy.

Epileptics blacked out, too. Maybe, Z was ... sick.

"So, where ya been?"

Teddy Newbold.

Z found himself shaken to be talking to a cop, even a cop who was a friend. Z didn't need more trouble than he had.

"I say, where ya been? I been calling."

"Out."

"Out? Well, I almost give up calling entirely. And would have, if I hadn't been your friend from way back."

"Yeah."

"And don't think I don't know about what you did to the captain. Not your best idea, Z-boy. Blastin' the captain on the radio like you did. Although, just between you and me, that's what the bastard deserves."

Ted couldn't be calling from the station. He'd never risk saying anything bad about Scherer where someone might overhear him.

"You home?"

"Callin' from a pay phone. I'm on assignment. Just stopped for a minute on my way, to call. ... Again!"

"Yeah?" Z was listening for the first time. It must be something serious for Ted to be calling on his own nickel.

"So I rang you up in the dead of night to give you a piece of advice on the QT. Captain Scherer don't like you."

Nothing new about that. "Yeah."

Leaning over, Z snapped on the small table lamp beside the phone, straining to see his watch, found it was only 8:30.

"Remember the new detective, name of Tabor? Edwin Tabor?"

Most people named Edwin, were called Ed. Calling the new man "Edwin" was just another indication Ted didn't like him.

"Short. Fat as a lard bucket. Anyhow, Tabor was hired to work narcotics, which we don't have much of North-of-the-river. Like they got south in nigger town. In addition, this Edwin is a suck-up from way back, brown-nosing the captain like a bitch in heat. That means that if the captain don't like big Bob Zapolska, Tabor don't like big Bob in spades.

"On the other hand, while Bayliss doesn't exactly like you, he doesn't hate you, either; is at least neutral on the subject of Bob Zapolska.

"And, by the way, Bayliss don't like this Tabor any more than me. All of which is background for what I'm about to tell you on the hush-hush. Remember, you didn't get this from me."

"Right."

"Bayliss was by my office this morning. Kind of a strange thing, right there. And he happened to mention -- trusting to my powers of deduction as a detective -- that he saw Captain Scherer talking, quiet-like, to Tabor.

"Just catching a word here and there, they were talking about you, the captain saying how much of a shit you were, and Tabor, like the dick-licker he is, agreeing all the way. In spite of the fact that Tabor is new and don't know his ass from a hole in the wall."

Ted meant hole in the ground.

"Bayliss got the impression that something was up. That is, that the captain was putting Tabor up to making trouble for you.

"Not in so many words. The captain don't ever put his ass on the line by saying anything direct. But if you got a brown-noser like Tabor, who is itchin' to do the captain a favor any way he can, then a hint is all it takes to set loose the dogs.

"When Bayliss said that to me this morning, I didn't think nothing of it. But, like I said, my detective instincts coming to the fore, this evening it came to me that Bayliss, knowing me and you have been friends forever, was putting a bug in my ear. That's why I've been calling, trying to get you, you being out until now.

"The whole sum of the message is to watch your back, because something may be up."

"Thanks, Ted."

"That's one you owe me, buddy."

"Yeah."

"I got to go. I'm on assignment. Nothin' special, though." Ted was never sent out on anything special. "Would you believe, a streaker at the shopping center? About an hour ago -- someone just calling it in. A drunk college kid, if you ask me. Or some kind of fraternity prank -- what you call hazing, the captain said. Long gone by this time. But I got to show up. Ask questions like we was shocked and goin' to do something about it."

"Thanks again."

After hanging up, Z felt worse in one way ... better in another. Worse, because this was confirmation that Captain Scherer still had the red ass about Z's denouncement on the radio. Better, because it cleared up a mystery.

If Ted's "detective skills" had worked a little faster, his tip might even have done some good -- other than help to explain, after the fact, what was going on. Still, a mystery cleared up was one more puzzle Z didn't have to take the time to work over, like a cow chews its cud.

Figuring in Ted's warning, it had gone down like this. Captain Scherer, knowing full well that Tabor is busting his breeches to please, hints to Tabor that the captain doesn't like Bob Zapolska and wishes something bad to happen to this smart-mouthed private dick. A hint being all it takes with an ass-licker, Tabor, who's the department's drug specialist, puts the arm on a small-time pusher, the dealer supposed to plant drugs in Z's house, to be found later by the cops. Presto! Z is holding, and takes the rap, a plot that gets Z paid back for spilling the beans about Captain Scherer's character.

All of the aforementioned, equaling the little man breaking into Z's apartment this evening to plant drugs.

Did that mean Z's house would soon be subject to a police search? ... Not if Tabor was the careful type. Since Z had gotten wise to the scheme, Tabor would tell the captain exactly nothing about what Tabor had done. A situation, like what often happened in politics with the president of the United States. According to what Z had been able to figure out, a president would say he "wished" something illegal to be done. Then the president's men would go out and do it -- without telling the president what they were about. If the illegal action got results, the president "magically" gets what he wished for. Feeling good, he rewards the men who have had the "initiative" to "get things done." But if somebody gets caught with his hand in the cookie jar, then the man gets his hand chopped off and the president gets to say he doesn't know anything about any illegal actions that his men might have performed. Moreover, is shocked someone working for him would commit criminal acts like that.

That's the way the game was played up and down the line.

Getting back to Tabor. If all had gone well, after checking with his pusher to find out when and where the drugs had been planted, Tabor would have found some excuse to get a search warrant to toss Z's place.

Low and behold, being an excellent judge of where to look, Tabor would find the drugs, and Z's ass would be in a sling.

Except that this wouldn't happen because Tabor would check with his druggie and get a very different story, indeed, of what had gone down.

The whole thing botched, Tabor would shut up about the attempt to incriminate Z, and everything would go on as before. Until the captain and his lap dog could think up some other way to fix Z's wagon.

Having figured out the play, Z felt even worse about what he'd done to the little man who'd broken in.

The man was in a bind to do what he'd done. He didn't have anything against Z, personally. Was just another tool of "law enforcement."

All told, the things Z had to feel bad about were piling up around him, meaning that Z dreaded to go to sleep more than ever, wondering how this latest event would come back to haunt him!

Z's phone rang.

A busy night, Z confident that, this time, it was Susan on the line. Instantly reasoned (Z's "detective skills" as sharp as Ted's,) that because few people had Z's unlisted number: Susan, Ted, and Johnny Dosso. Ted had already called. Johnny -- his problem solved -- wasn't likely to. Leaving Susan.

Tired as he was, in as bad a mental shape as he was, Z was smiling as he reached over again to pick up the phone.

"Z."

"Harry Grimes."

How did Harry get Z's unlisted number ...!? A foolish question, Harry considerably more skilled in the detective business than Z would ever be.

"Everyone under the sun has been telling me you've been pestering them about my whereabouts." Said with a dry chuckle. Over the phone, you would never guess Harry was old enough to have "retired."

"Yeah."

"You received your five-hundred-dollar retainer?"

"Yeah."

"And might I guess that's why you wished to contact me?" Harry was a well-spoken man. A trait Z envied.

"Yeah."

"To inquire about what services you were to provide?"

"Yeah."

"None."

"What?"

"When first contacting you, I believe I informed you that I wished to gain information about a certain man, located in your bailiwick North of the river."

"Right."

"I no longer need to have that information. Or to be more precise, I've had occasion to gain what I sought, by other means."

Translation. Harry no longer needed Z's services.

"About the money ...," Z started. Harry wanting his retainer back put Z in a bind. "... it'll take a little time to return it." How long, Z didn't know. He'd have to do some figuring. Could be, he'd spent some of the five hundred and that it would take quite awhile to get it back to Harry.

"No need."

"What?"

"A retainer is just that. It retains. That is, the five hundred was what, in governmental circles, would be called a 'heads up.' What it bought was your reserving a body of time to work for me, should I have need of you. By reserving that time, you have earned the retainer."

"Even though I didn't do anything?"

"Exactly."

Harry had always been more than fair. There were a lot of things to be learned from a man like Harry Grimes.

"Now, to other business," Harry continued, the five hundred kissed off to Z's advantage. "As you know, I've retired." Harry chuckled to acknowledge what they both understood, that "retirement" had different meanings depending on how you used the word. "On the other hand, Deerstalker is growing. More crime. Overworked police force. Means more work for the private investigator."

Where Harry was going, Z had no idea.

"Also, there's about to be a shift in demographics in Kansas City. The city has grown mostly south, as you know. So far south, it's increasingly difficult for the southern suburban dweller to get to work downtown. No light rail transport, like you'd have in New York or in cities on the West Coast. What's projected is explosive grown North-of-the-River, the Northland, the most neglected part of Kansas City."

"Sure." Z thought he should say something from time to time. Just to let Harry know Z was listening.

"Now and again, I've hired you to do work for me. And I must say, you're a man who comes through. On the other hand, to be frank about it, there have been only certain jobs where I could use your talents.

"No criticism of your abilities," Harry added smoothly. "It is just that any individual has limitations.

"For instance, if a job calls for a certain mingling with intellectuals, attending formal parties to solicit information over cocktails, I would need someone who could speak on practically any subject that might come up. Cocktail talk. Shallow, perhaps, but broad. Requiring at least a surface knowledge of history, society, art, philosophy, and the like. For that kind of job, a liberal college education would be a prerequisite.

"For another sort of situation, a woman operative would be preferable. If for no other reason, than a woman has access to the ladies room -- where confidences are exchanged."

"Sure."

"To get down to it, if Deerstalker is to expand North-of-the-River, the team approach would be preferable."

There was good reason for the chill that now racked Z up. My God! If Harry put in a branch North-of-the-River, Z's business -- poor at present -- would dry up overnight!

"What I want you to think about, Mr. Zapolska, is providing the northern team."

"You ... what?"

"It wouldn't have to be called Deerstalker North. I have no ego invested in the name. As a matter of fact, since you're established, there is no reason you couldn't call your agency ... anything you like.

"What I need to know are two things. First, are you interested? Second, can you put together the necessary team?"

"I'm ... interested." Z had to say that, no matter what. Harry had used a bunch of fancy words, none of them disguising the fact that Z had just been made an offer he couldn't refuse. If Harry was coming north, Z either signed on or went out of business.

At the same time, Z didn't think Harry's intent was to run Z out of town. Didn't think Harry saw his expansion as a threat to Z's business.

Harry was quality. And being quality, would see his proposition as helping rather than hurting. See it as a good opportunity for Z.

"But I got to be frank with you, Harry. So far, I have barely enough business to keep one man alive. I don't know how ..."

"Of course," Harry interrupted to agree. "What I'm talking is the future. I'm talking long range. Five years. Ten years, even."

Z could breathe again. If Z's luck held, Z would be dead by then.

"If I were you, what I'd do, if you're interested, is look around and try to locate potential operatives. I understand that you have certain contacts already. On police forces here and there. And perhaps more ... unsavory ... but highly useful, intermediaries elsewhere. Something all to the good. I'm merely suggesting that you expand that kind of help."

"I ...."

"For instance, if I were to throw a job your way that took the talents of someone I mentioned earlier, could you find a qualified person to work the job? I provide the money. You provide the personnel who, with your help, could go forward. All that I'm asking, Mr. Zapolska, is that you do what I have done."

"What ...?"

"If I need work done North-of-the-River where I lack expertise, I hire a local -- named Bob Zapolska."

"I see that."

"Well. Think it over. No hurry. If you decide to go this direction, give me a call. You might also let me know who you've got, so I can throw a little business your way, making use of the talents of your part-time operatives. And then, we'll see."

"Might take awhile."

"No problem. This is not something that's going to happen immediately, if it ever does. But over the next year or two, if you come up with someone who allows you to diversify, get in touch."

"Sure."

"That'll do it then. I hope to hear from you, Mr. Zapolska."

"Thanks." ..........................

Z had signed off saying "Thanks" to Harry. But was saying "Sweet Jesus!" to himself! About all any man could say when being forced to flip a coin with "opportunity" on one side, "ruination" on the other!

* * * * *

Chapter 19

It had been easier to reach Professor Calder than Z thought. Besides giving lectures, weren't important people like that always going to meetings? Having student conferences? Maybe it was just luck that -- after another terrible night -- he'd gotten through to the doctor right away. To Z's question about when he could see Calder, the professor -- friendly kind of guy that he was -- said how about noon? Though Doc Calder had then remembered he was supposed to be having lunch with a couple of colleagues, Calder said he'd have time to talk to Z afterward. The plan was for Z to meet the chubby prof at Liberty's Hardware Cafe at twelve-thirty, about the time the others would be leaving, Calder and Z having the chance to talk in private after that.

Though Z had to have passed the eatery many times, Z had never been to the Hardware Cafe, Calder saying it was located on the square in Liberty.

Giving himself way too much time but slowed by a traffic back-up caused by yet another new stoplight on the approach to Liberty, Z spotted the narrow "storefront" cafe just as Z's old watch was ticking its way toward 12:30.

Slowing to find a place to park on the busy street, the sultry combination of August heat and humidity made Z glad he'd worn his short-sleeved blue shirt. He'd also put on his best tie (the pink-and-white-spotted one,) Z dressing up for his meeting with Calder and possibly the psychologist's professor friends.

A lady backing out, Z was able to slant into a parking space less than a sweltering block away, Z walking back along the sloped cement sidewalk south of the Liberty courthouse, passing lightly dressed people who were shopping on their lunch hour.

Just beyond an assortment of stores, Z arrived at the Hardware Cafe to find it had actually been an ancient hardware store, now converted into a restaurant. Not much of a surprise there.

The gold leaf sign in the left window said: "Hardware Cafe and Gift Shop," the window display behind the scratched glass matching the cafe's turn of the century look by showing a high collar, button-hooked, yellowed, silk wedding dress on a headless mannequin.

Taped inside the right window was a folded out, plastic-coated menu; behind the glass, what looked like antique tractor parts.

Following three middle-aged suit-and-tie-men who had just jaywalked across the street from the courthouse, Z stepped up on the stoop, the four of them pushing their way through the door and into the people-packed eating establishment.

Inside, a glance showed that the place's decor featured items that recalled the building's past, one wall of the twenty-foot-tall anteroom still having its original ceiling-to-floor pull-out drawers, an item of hardware wired to the front of each ancient, wooden bin. Screws. Chisels. Ole-timey garden tools. Drill bits for brace and bit, red devil scraper, wood-handled screwdriver, rat tail file, eye hooks, hinges, hasps, key-and-combination-Yale locks, nuts, and bolts.

A dark wood ladder was still hooked to a metal track above, wheels fixed laterally to the ladder's bottom legs so the ladder could be rolled to any location on the wall, a "long ago" clerk climbing the rungs to extract the proper hardware item from its repository.

The restaurant's dining room was a long, narrow area featuring small, closely packed, walnut-stained tables down the center, these tables flanked by cramped, purple-carpeted aisles. To the outside, were deep, high-backed, black oak booths.

On the anteroom's right, stairs rose between polished brass banisters. Climbing to the gift shop above, was Z's guess.

The foyer was so jammed with people it was difficult to move, older folks sitting on straight chairs around the area's edges, stylish young men and women standing, conversing quietly while waiting their turn to be seated after earlier diners had vacated their tables.

Doing as Calder had instructed him, Z sidled past clumps of polite people -- a high percentage of men in ties, older ladies in frilled-up luncheon dresses -- arriving at the keypunch relic of a register, a pretty, dark-haired girl behind the counter taking names, jotting them on a waiting list.

"I'm Bob Zapolska," he said when the girl looked up to ask his name. "A Dr. Calder said to meet him here."

"Oh, yes," she said, brightening. "Dr. Calder said to look out for you."

It was clear that the young woman knew Calder; remarkable considering the restaurant's large clientele, Z thought. "I had his gen psych course last semester," the girl explained.

No one needing to be cashed out at the moment, the dressed-up young lady came around the "distressed glass" display counter to lead Z past the screen into the dining room.

Squeezing past waitresses in the narrow passageway, not finding Calder, the girl began peering into booths as she led Z toward the back.

A busy place, the Hardware Cafe, servers in identical green tops above long, faded denim dresses, one balancing a "temptation tray" of dessert delicacies.

Guiding Z down the left aisle, crossing carefully at the busily swinging doors that gave waitresses access to the kitchen, the young woman made a U-turn at the far end of the people-packed center tables, to go up the right aisle.

Halfway back through the generalized gloom of the restaurant's "atmosphere," Z thought he recognized Calder in a booth to the left, the doctor on the outside, someone beside him next to the wall, another man across the table.

Coming abreast of the booth, Z was able to identify the lone man seated on the near side of the table as Fritz Furlwangler. American history. Z had met the gangly instructor once before, Z and Professor Calder having a "business" lunch at the (now-defunct) Golden Corral on Oak, Dr. Furlwangler joining them on that occasion.

"Here he is, Dr. Calder," the round-faced check-out girl said.

"Thank you, Janet," the doctor said, recognizing the girl with one of his big grins, the young lady smiling adoringly before gliding off toward the front to attend to her receptionist's responsibilities.

"Mr. Zapolska," Calder said, now grinning up at Z, motioning Z to sit across the table, Z having to wait while Professor Furlwangler slid over.

With Z seated at last, Calder indicated the man to the professor's right. "This is Jeffrey Carloss, political science." Carloss was a mostly bald young man with quick eyes and a sharp nose. "And this is ..."

"Dr. Furlwangler," Z said, nodding first to the new man, then to the historian.

"What did I tell you, Fritz?" Calder said with a chuckle. "Mind like a steel trap. Only met you once and still remembers a handle like yours."

"A household name in Austria," Furlwangler growled, pretending to frown.

The men were ... joking ... always a surprise to Z to find professional men behaving like real people. No reason, he supposed, that intellectuals should be serious all the time. It was just that he expected people who knew weighty things, to be "weighed" down by them.

Like Z, the others were in their shirt sleeves, Dr. Calder wearing a white shirt with the cuffs rolled up, Professor Furlwangler, a brown shirt and green vest, the other man wearing what looked like a checkered golf shirt, red suspenders over the shoulders. Another thing Z noticed, was that Z was the only one wearing a tie.

The men were about finished with their dinner, the table comfortably littered with food-crusted dishes, plates and salad bowls, wadded-up, dark green cloth napkins, and dirty silverware.

"How about joining us for dessert?" Calder asked.

"No," Z said. Z wasn't hungry. Was never hungry in the company of his betters.

"Me, either," the historian rumbled, rolling his wrist to look at his watch, "though they make an apple cobbler to die for. I've got to be shoving off if I'm going to make my two o'clock meeting." Z had only seen Dr. Furlwangler once before. Remembered that the tall, deep-voiced prof was rushing off that time, too.

"Plenty of time," said the third man, the man introduced as Professor Carloss. "But I'm going to pass, too. Middle-age spread isn't the joke it used to be when I was young." A man in his late thirties, he wasn't that old, Z thought. For a college professor.

"I'm the nervous type," was Furlwangler's gravelly response. "I've always got to be ridiculously early to feel comfortable."

"Right," Calder agreed, using a pudgy hand to brush back the shock of limp blond hair wisping his forehead. When he nodded, light flashed from the flat, highly polished lenses of his over-sized horn rim glasses, the thick glass magnifying Calder's blue eyes.

The doctor wanting to leave, Z slipped out, standing awkwardly in the constricted passageway, Professor Furlwangler sliding out, unfolding his long legs to tower over Z.

Bending down, sorting through the checks on the end of the table, picking up his own, the gangly professor turned to Z. Blinking his large brown eyes, the doctor took Z's hand with a surprisingly strong grip, like the last time they'd shaken.

"Nice to see you," the prof said politely, releasing Z's hand after a quick pump.

Z nodded back.

A wave to them all, and the tall man was striding off down the aisle, headed for the check-out counter in front.

Z sat down again.

"You don't mind if we have a little shop talk, first?" Calder asked Z, indicating the remaining prof. "Before we have our talk?"

"No."

"It's just that I never get to see Jeff anymore, now that he's switched to an afternoon schedule."

With that, Z caught Dr. Carloss giving Calder a quick look that asked, do I talk in front of this stranger?

"In confidence, of course," Calder said, grinning over at Z.

"Sure," Z promised.

"Mr. Zapolska had been on campus a number of times. He was instrumental in solving the case where the janitor was murdered last year."

"Really?" The single word sounded like new respect from the political scientist -- whatever a political scientist was. Something to do with politics, Z guessed. "Zapolska? Interesting name. Sounds eastern European."

"Polish. Just call me Z."

Carloss nodded.

"Sometimes, I think I ought to get a real job, a man's job like Z, here," Calder said sadly, the plump professor picking up his spoon and stirring what was left of his tea, absentmindedly. "Not much adventure in lecturing on psychology." He turned to Professor Carloss. "I'd never broken into a building before I met Z."

"Broken into a ..!?"

"Not really," Calder said quickly. "Just entered Bateman Hall after-hours. In the dead of night, actually, when someone left the front door open. I was helping Z to investigate the 'ghost light.'"

"Ghost light ...?"

"I'll have to tell you about it sometime. For now, take my word for it that the life of a P.I. is considerably more adventurous than ours."

There was a moment of silence.

"On that other matter," Professor Carloss said, picking up the conversation where it had apparently broken off at Z's arrival, "What I've got is a rumor, and you know what rumor is worth."

"Right."

"I think it's common knowledge that something -- someone -- is blocking your promotion to full professor."

"So it seems," Calder said, sadly.

"What happens in the Council of Deans is secret, of course, meaning only that no one can guarantee the leaks are accurate." Calder nodded, busying himself by poking his tea spoon into the crushed ice that remained in his nearly empty glass, his eyes down as if afraid that looking at Carloss would stop his colleague from talking. "But the latest rumor, as I've said, is that, while you're well-respected, you've made an enemy who's stopping your promotion."

"Ashlock. I know, I've heard the same rumor."

"Then there's nothing new I can add." Professor Carloss took a deep, slow drink of coffee, tipping his head back to drain the cup.

"What puzzles me," the psychologist said with a shrug, "is trying to figure out what I've done to draw the dean's fire. I've never even been on a committee with him. Barely know the man." Suddenly, Calder looked up, directly across the table where Z was huddled down, Z trying not to listen by attempting to focus on a conversation from the table across the aisle. Lawyers, he thought. Discussing a case. "Sorry to be taking up your time with this, Z. Just a personal problem." Calder brightened. "On the other hand, your being a detective, this may be more in your line than mine. In fact, now that I think of it, you know the dean in question. Cecil Ashlock. Vice Chancellor of Incremental Augmentation Services."

Professor Carloss snorted. "Academia is fast catching up with the government in the obfuscation of the language. Administrative happiness is maximized when no one has the slightest idea of what anyone else is saying."

"Immersing yourself in governmental studies is making you cynical, Jeff," Calder said, smiling. "It's just that titles impress some people -- the flashier the better.

The conversation derailed, Calder put it back on track. "You've met the dean in question." He was addressing Z again. "Dean Ashlock. He's the one I sent you to. The one who hired you for that little matter earlier in the summer."

"Right," Z said. Z remembered Ashlock. Remembered that Ashlock was interested in hiring Z because Ashlock thought Z would perform an illegal act for the dean. Ashlock was a crook, and Z had treated him as such. Truth be told, Z had found a way to frustrate Ashlock's ambition as thoroughly as Z had stopped Scherer's political advance in the Betterton case.

"Dean Ashlock, if rumor is correct, is blocking my promotion. All by himself. At this college -- for reasons that go back to the dark ages when the school was founded by old Bateman -- all the deans must vote in favor of faculty promotion. Apparently, Ashlock is blackballing me. Why the man would hold a grudge against me, I can't figure. Any ideas?"

Of course Z had ideas. Ashlock was mad at Calder for recommending Z, Z having royally fouled Ashlock up.

"No," Z said.

Z could feel himself getting upset again. (Without proper sleep, everything seemed to irritate him.) Z liked Calder. Didn't want to see a fine man like that mistreated by a prick like Ashlock.

"Well, that's it for me," Professor Carloss said after a pause. "I know you two want to talk. And I've got some housecleaning to do for the new semester."

Carloss's exit line delivered, Calder slid out to give the political science professor access to the aisle.

Scooting down the seat, standing, Dr. Carloss picked up his check. As Calder sat down again, Carloss turned. "Nice to meet you ... Z." The expected cliche spoken, he looked thoughtful. "Now that I think about it, I'm sure I have heard of you before. Probably from that time you were on campus. Helping the police."

Z nodded.

With a half salute to Calder, pausing before edging past a waitress with water glasses on a tray, Carloss sauntered off toward the front screen.

Leaving Z and Calder alone.

As alone as you could be in a crowded restaurant. Probably, Z thought, more alone -- everyone else engaged in dinner conversation -- than he and Professor Calder would have been in the depths of a Siberian forest.

Unfortunately, now that Z had Calder to himself, Z didn't know how to start.

"I've missed talking to you," Calder said into the painful silence, brushing back his lank hair like he did periodically; a reflex that did no good, his fine hair immediately clouding his broad forehead.

"Oh?"

"And wondering if you'd thought some more about taking a college course."

"Some."

"You should. If only to prove to yourself you can."

"Maybe," Z said.

Rather than consider what Professor Calder was saying, Z was trying to think how to start.

"About why I wanted to talk to you ...."

"Go on."

"I wanted to ask .... In the first place, when I talk to you, is what I say held ... in secret?"

"Sure."

"Like a ... priest?"

"You mean, if you were to become my client, would I keep what you said confidential?"

"Yes."

"The answer is, I would. I'm not sure of the legal implications. I suspect that a psychologist, particularly in criminal matters, wouldn't have quite the same standing as a priest. But in my case, my clients can tell me anything without fear of my revealing it. I don't take notes, so there's nothing to indicate what I know and what I don't. If push came to shove, I would simply be unable to remember anything incriminating about a client's confidences."

Calder grinned. Wide enough for Z to believe him.

"To become a ... client ... I can pay ... something."

"Ridiculous," Calder scoffed. "After what you've done for me, and practically for nothing ...." Calder raised his hands, palm up.

"OK," Z said. "What I want to ask about is ... dreams."

"Dreams? What about them?"

"Been having nightmares."

"Perhaps a bit of beef?" Calder smiled.

"What?"

"You remember Dickens' Christmas Carol? Scrooge thought the ghost he was seeing might have been 'an undigested bit of beef.'"

"Oh."

"But, you're ... serious," Calder said, sobering. "You're having trouble sleeping. Because of dreams."

"Right."

"Most people don't remember their dreams. Or, on waking, quickly forget them."

"I wish ... I did. Forget them."

"Give me an example."

"Of ...?"

"A dream."

"Oh." Should Z tell the psychologist about last night's nightmare? ...... Might as well. It couldn't get any worst for the telling. "I was ... strapped down," he began slowly. "To a bed. Wide bands across my chest. My wrists at my sides. In iron clamps. No matter what I did, I couldn't move. I wanted to scream, but nothing would come out. There was a bright light in my eyes, so that I couldn't see past it. But there were others in the room. Doctors, I think. About to operate on me." Across the table, Calder nodded encouragement. "I was hot and growing hotter, until I thought I would melt. Then, the doctors were beside me. They were ...." It was too weird. No way he could tell Dr. Calder that.

"Go on," the psychologist said, when Z hesitated. "I've heard it all. Believe me. Nothing shocks a psychologist. I assure you, I've got a strong stomach."

Seeing the speed at which Dr. Calder ate, Z could believe it.

"They had ... worms ... and spiders." Z shuddered at the recollection. Was glad to be surrounded by real people, rather than dream people. "They pulled my mouth open. Clamped it so I couldn't close it. Coming closer, closer, they began to drop worms in my mouth. I could feel them squirm. In my mouth. Crawl down my throat. I was gagging, croaking. Then, they put spiders up my nose. Crawling spiders. Crawling up. I couldn't breathe ...." Again, Z shuddered.

"And ...?" Calder seemed calm enough. It hadn't been his dream, after all.

"And ... nothing. That's when I woke up."

Z was sweating. Exhausted from the telling. "What I want to ask is, what's causing dreams like these?" Z's life going to pot anyway, if Calder couldn't help him, Z took some comfort in knowing that, as a last resort, there was one way to keep from dreaming. Making Calder Z's next-to-the-last option.

"Freud would have said you were trying to work out a solution to hidden difficulties in your dreams." Calder was sitting back now. Relaxed. On familiar ground. "He's famous for saying that dreams are the 'royal road' to the unconscious mind." Calder grinned, then glanced at the high, dimly lighted, hunter green ceiling for inspiration. "Freud believed that dreams were coded messages of ourselves to ourselves. Specifically, Freud thought that the conflicts of childhood were of particular importance." Calder waved one hand, airily. "Few psychologists think that way anymore."

"How do you ... get rid of bad dreams?"

"That depends. Going back to Freud again, he believed that dreams were quite specific. That certain symbolism, for instance, always stood for the same thing. For instance, if you dreamed of snakes, you were thinking of sex. Specifically, of your penis. If you dreamed of entering a house -- any building -- the enclosure symbolizes the vagina. But then, again, Freud thought that much of what we think has a sexual basis." Calder shook his head, then shrugged. "You can imagine how that kind of talk went over at the turn of the century." He cleared his throat.

"I don't agree that sex plays such a big part in our unconscious life -- and neither does anyone else anymore. At the same time, I don't want to say that you can't learn something from your dreams. While dreams are illusory or hallucinatory experiences, they do seem to be the product of our concerns, wishes, interests, fears."

"How do you ... get rid of them?" Nothing Calder had said had helped, so far.

"Not an easy thing to do, though I've had some luck with clients who've had a similar problem by asking them to 'become' each character in their dream. Each element in the dream, as well. The way this works is, if they dream a dog is pursuing them down a street, I ask them to tell me how they felt about being the person who was being chased. What emotions they were feeling. Then, I ask them to imagine themselves to be the dog. What would they feel if they were the dog? I then ask them to tell me how they would feel as the street itself. How would it be to have dogs and humans run along your street?" Calder looked at Z. Saw something that made him grin again. "I know it sounds crazy, but I've had good results with this method."

Calder took a thoughtful sip of tea before putting down the glass. "Something's going on when you're having bad dreams. Imagining yourself to be each part of the dream can unlock what's causing the dream in the first place. Once you know what's bothering you -- it can be something of no real importance -- bad dreams seem to go away."

"Thank you," Z said. There was, after all, nothing else to say. Even though what Calder was recommending probably wouldn't work, he owed Calder for trying to help. "That it, then?"

"Not ... entirely."

Calder hunched forward some more, this time putting his forearms on the table. Behind the man's enlarged blue eyes, Z could almost "hear" the Doctor's fine mind whir.

The dinner noise in the rest of the cafe was lessening, diners finished, standing, drifting down the aisles to pay their checks, Z now afraid Dr. Calder would say something embarrassing in the increasing quiet.

The chubby professor, continued -- loudly. "If imagining yourself to be the various elements of your dreams doesn't give you relief," Dr. Calder enthused, so pleased to be able to offer yet another suggestion, "we can try hypnotism. I can induce you to dream and have you tell me about what you're dreaming as you're actually doing it. Sometimes, that can be helpful. You get more detail that way. After all, much of what we dream is lost upon awakening."

Z nodded, seeming to agree but wanting no part of hypnosis. Certainly didn't want to remember more of his dream's details.

"Another thing I tell clients," the irrepressible professor added, "is that everything gets better if they take charge of their lives. I tell them to act. Fear, is an incapacitating emotion. When we're afraid, we tend to pull within ourselves. In turn, doing nothing, we never face down our fears. What I would say is, do something. Take charge of your life. Don't just sit around feeling sorry for yourself. Make decisions. And follow them up. Tell yourself you will do something. Then do it. Taking action, even about small things, will eventually convince your subconscious mind that you're solving your problems. And the nightmares should diminish."

Z nodded.

Do something.

Z liked that better than the other hocus-pocus Calder had spouted.

Calder smiled again in his friendly way. "Now that the session is over, do I get to ask some questions?" His grin widened as Z nodded. "Like, are you solving any interesting cases at the moment?"

"Nothing, but ...

"But?"

Suddenly, Z knew Calder was right. Z had been drifting. Letting events rule him. Letting people get the better of him: Jewell, Jamie, Susan, Scherer, Harry Grimes. Z would take charge again. And there was no time like the present to begin!

"I've been offered an ... opportunity ... to work for an established detective firm. Be the north branch."

"And would you like that?"

"I'd have to hire people. Part-time. Broaden what I can offer." Calder just looked at him, the psychologist able to listen as well as to talk. Z liked that about him. "And I was wondering if ...?" Z paused. Stuck again.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean." Calder wrinkled his forehead. Brushed again at his unruly shock of straw-colored hair.

"You said, to Dr. Furlwangler, that you were interested in the detective business. That it was ... exciting."

"True enough."

"I was wondering if you would work for me. Part-time."

"Me! A detective?" Calder was shocked. "But what could I do?"

"Certain types of jobs. Talking to educated people. Going to upper-class parties. You could do those kind of things better than I could."

"I ... suppose," Calder said after a moment. "But ... don't you have to have some kind of muscle to be a detective? Be able to break into houses. That kind of thing?"

"You'd do nothing illegal." Z almost added that "stretching the law" was his job.

"I have to confess. I like the sound of it. If I could do the work, that is. Rather like Halloween. Sneaking around in the dark. Playing pranks on people." Calder laughed. "Of course, I've got a job at the college."

"Just an evening now and again. Like going to a party, maybe. Seeing who's there."

"I could do that. The one thing a college professor has is spare time. Not much money to do anything with it, though."

"As for money ..." Z began doubtfully.

"Not important. It's the fun of it that counts. The very idea that I could be a P.I. -- romantic."

And that was where they'd left it.

As for Z, he was determined to give Calder's suggestion a try. Z had been drifting. Thinking too much and acting too little. Whatever else, Z was going to get back in the game again. This time as a player instead of a punching bag!

* * * * *

Chapter 20

It had been a hard two days. Thinking was always hard; thinking about planning, even harder. (An early payoff was that Z's nightmares had let up a little. At least, those he remembered.) Now, with a warm, end-of-August rain pelting his grimy office window, Z was ready to kick some ass!

His early plans completed, feeling the small pleasure of sitting in his own dilapidated chair behind his own dilapidated desk, he reached for his own dilapidated phone.

Picking up the age-dulled black receiver, Z dialed the first of the series of numbers he'd need, numbers sticking in his mind like burrs to a cowboy's chaps. (He'd heard that expression in a B-western when he was a child.)

One ring. Two. Three.

Ten 'till nine was a good time to begin phoning, was Z's thought, particularly if he made his calls in the right sequence. Late enough for early risers to be up; too early for them to have left the house for the day's rat race. As for this call, while he might not get his man, Z would at least be able to start the process.

"Bateman College, how can I help you?"

"Social Science department."

"One moment, please."

Another ring. Then another ...

"Social Science department," said the steel-cold voice of the department's sergeant-of-a-secretary, her frosty tone declaring she'd refuse to buy any student's excuse for missing class that started with: "There's been a death in the family."

"Dr. Calder."

"Dr. Calder is in class. This is the beginning of the fall semester, you know."

"Could I leave a message?"

"You one of his students?"

"No."

"Oh." A softer "Oh" since Z might be someone of more stature than a lowly student. Like a book salesman. "If it's really important, I could type a message." Said with a put-upon sigh.

"Have Dr. Calder call Bob Zapolska. He has my number."

"I'll tell him."

"When?"

"When he comes back to the office after his class."

"And when will that be?"

"I don't have control of his movements you know. I can't make him show up when he's supposed to."

"Appreciate it," Z said, hanging up before the woman could say another irritating thing.

Z picked up the phone. Dialed Jamie's apartment from memory, her school not starting until after Labor Day.

Four rings. "What?"

"Jamie. Z."

"Shit!"

"I need you," he said, by way of clarification.

"Sure. That's what they all say. A man will screw you. Not call for weeks. Then breathe sweet-nothings into the phone. 'I need you, baby. I can't live without you.'"

"Shut up!"

"What!?"

"I said, shut up!"

Followed by a long pause. Jamie, trying to digest the unexpected insult.

"Listen, buster ...." But that was all she could choke out, Jamie so stunned she actually shut up.

Women were strange. If you treated them nicely, they ran all over you. If you treated them badly, they came back for more. Not always. But more often than not. "I'm offering to pay you," Z said, trying to make peace.

"What!? I've never been so insulted in my life! I'm not that kind of girl and I've never been that kind of girl."

Oh, oh. Quickly, Z rushed in to repair the damage. "I didn't mean that. I don't want to have sex with you."

"Are you trying to insult me!?"

"What I mean is, I need your skills. As a P.I., I need your special talents."

"Oh .... That."

"That."

Silence on the line. "What did you have in mind?"

"Got a case I'm working on. Can't do it by myself. You know ... things ... I don't."

"You'd have to be pretty dumb not to have noticed that," she said dryly, still not knowing what to make of the new Z.

"Yeah," Z admitted. "Not much money. Not to start."

"I work for you? As a P.I.?"

"Part-time. This and that. Assist me."

"Don't get your bowels in an uproar. I don't mean to take your title from you." She laughed. Was OK again. "For starters, how about paying me for all the help I've given you so far?"

"No dice."

"I figured that."

"It's yes, then?"

"Depends. Though working for a private dick does have appeal."

Z almost said shut up again. But thought better of it. "What I got in mind is a small job. To see if you like it."

"To see if I can cut it, don't you mean?" Jamie was a hard lady to get the better of. Z was counting on that.

"Got some other problems to work out first. You'll hear from me soon."

Z hung up. Took a quick look to see if the big hand on his "Mickey Mouse" watch was pointing up. Found that it was.

If Z remembered when classes changed at Bateman, Calder should be calling any time now, Z wanting to stay off the phone when the professor was trying to get through.

Folding his arms, resting them on the heavy oak desk, Z laid his head down. Though he'd been getting a little more sleep, chasing off nightmares was a formidable task.

The phone rang. As he knew it would.

He picked up it. "Z."

"Calder, here. What's up? Need me for a caper?"

Caper? Z winced -- remembered when he used to feel "caperish" about the job. At the beginning. Before he'd seen ... too much.

"Maybe," Z said.

"Maybe?" Calder sounded disappointed.

"You seemed ... uncertain."

"I was ... a little. I've never done anything like this before."

"Maybe practice is what you need."

"Practice?" Calder was puzzled.

"If you decide to help me, your part would be going places I can't. Finding out facts easy for you, difficult for me."

"Right. That's what I'd understood."

"I don't have need for you now. Maybe not for some time." Z paused to let the psychologist think about that. "The fact is, when I would need you, I'd have to be certain you both wanted to do the work and that you ...."

"Could do the work." Calder was quick on the uptake.

"Right. That's where I got my idea about practice. Like training in the military." Z wasn't doing much of job of explaining. With a mind like Calder's, though, Z didn't have to be letter-perfect. "I'd like to give you an ... assignment."

"The teacher gets to do homework," Calder said with a laugh.

Sharp. Very sharp. "Right. And here it is. Just for practice, I'd like you to find some information about someone."

"Who?"

"The type of person you have access to. For instance, a colleague."

"I'd hate to ... spy ... on a friend," Calder said hesitatingly.

"I see that." Z paused, as if to think this objection over. "How about someone you don't know? Better yet, how about an ... enemy?"

"Sounds right. But who?"

"Here's the drill. As practice, and to see if you like this sort of thing, find out about the dean."

"Dean?"

"The Vice Chancellor of Incremental Augmentation Services."

"Ashlock."

"Ashlock."

"Find out what about him?"

"Age, home phone number, address, marital status, birthday. Plus his daily routine. Follow him. See where he goes. And when."

"Shadow him." Calder had seen too many gangster movies, Z decided. "But ..." Calder, turning serious, "I can't follow him all the time. As I said, I've got classes to teach."

"No problem," Z said quickly. "There are other ways to discover where the dean is when you're tied up."

"I could ask someone if they'd seen Ashlock during the hours I'm teaching."

"You're going to be a natural," Z said, feeling Calder needed all the encouragement Z could provide.

"When do you want this info, tough guy?"

Calder had just morphed into Bogart. "A couple of days."

"Number one son on the job, Pop." A switch to Charlie Chan.

And that was that conversation.

Z looked at his watch. Time for an early lunch at the Pizza Hut. Satisfy the inner man with an individual double-pepperoni pizza and glass of Diet Coke. You just couldn't beat the grease in pizza as a cheap fill-up.

After lunch, Z went to QuikTrip at 72nd and Antioch to put gas in the Cavalier.

Inside, waiting in the short line to pay the clerk, coming out again into the midday heat, Z checked his watch. ... A little early for the next call, but what the hell. Z knew he wasn't going to complete it anyway.

Pulling away from the pumps, Z turned right to nose the Cavalier in beside the QuikTrip public phone at the end of the pump island. Getting a quarter from his pocket, Z reached out the driver side window to hook off the chrome-plated receiver and jingle the coin in the pay phone slot.

Getting a dial tone, he pushed the stainless steel number buttons.

Ring.

Picked up. Always on the first ring.

"International Imports." As Z had come to expect, the voice was "older woman" classy.

"I'd like to speak to John Dosso, please,"

"I'm sorry sir, but no one of that name works for International Imports."

"Tell him a high school friend called."

"I'm sorry sir, but no one of that ...."

Z hung up.

Always the same.

Time to go to the office.

Exiting QuikTrip's lot, he turned left on 72nd, then south on Antioch. Went East at the shopping center. Crossed Vivion. Then drifted down bucolic Chouteau to the shabby rehab where he parked, entered the building, and continued to limp down the left hall and into his office.

Sagged back in his "executive" chair again, patting his sweaty forehead and neck with an old handkerchief he'd scratched out of the sticking desk drawer, Z decided he couldn't make any more calls just yet. No way to do that until Calder provided additional information ....

The phone rang.

"Z."

"Call ...." Followed by the number where Z could reach John, Z off on another trip to a pay phone, the nearest one in the Antioch Shopping Center.

"Hi there, Z-man! And where might you be, this beautiful day?" The perfectly predictable question John always managed to work in.

"Pay phone. Antioch Center."

"Good. Shopping never hurt anybody. Until you buy something." John was in a good mood which should help matters along.

"Need a favor."

"So you're collecting already, are you?" Silence telling him he was right, John Dosso continued. "I have to tell you, that's not like you, Z. You never let me do anything for you. Oh, little things. A length of dynamite fuse here, a little black powder there, a few phony licenses ...."

"Glad you reminded me."

"Reminded you of what?" John was not used to be interrupted.

"I need a little more fuse."

"Wha'yu do with the last coil I got you? Blow up a bridge?"

"No."

"Somebody's house, then. Or a car? I saw on the TV that a pusher had his car blown up, along with whoever was driving. There weren't enough pieces left to tell who was who. Shocking waste of plastique, if you ask me. But if you did that hit, you got connections even I don't know about. If that's the case, you don't need to ask me for favors no more. If that hit's your work, I'll be asking you for favors." John laughed. "But I won't ask. I'm the soul of discretion. In my business, you got to be. Or you end up like those poor dumb fucks. Litterin' the countryside." He paused to catch a wheeze of breath. "I'll send you some in what they used to call a plain brown wrapper. Remember that? When your sex magazines came to you in a plain brown paper? So's the mailman don't blab it all over the neighborhood you were reading that kind'a filth? Except that it was a dead giveaway when mags came in plain brown wrappers?"

"Thanks."

"So, what else you got in mind?"

"A party."

"What kind of party? We got parties with girls in the cake. Also machine guns in the cake, depending on what kind of surprise you got planned. We got necktie parties. Where the prize is getting to wear a necktie attached to a tree. There's your crack parties. Hooker parties ...."

"That kind."

"What kind?" Z had long been under the impression John talked mostly for others. That he didn't listen to himself all that much.

"Hooker party."

John paused. Then giggled. "I'm shocked!" he continued, in mock surprise. "You, an upstanding member of the community? But maybe that's what's wrong. You got an upstanding member that's giving you trouble. What's the matter? Not knocking enough pieces of ass off that sexy girl of yours?"

"For a friend."

"Lemme get this straight. You're using your favor to stage a party for a friend?"

"Sure."

"A party where you need some 100% race horses."

"Don't have to be of that quality."

"Fifty-dollar whores do you?"

"Fine."

"How many?"

"How about five."

"How many to be served at your party?"

"Three."

"If you'll listen to somebody more experienced in the ways of the world, let me make a suggestion."

"Sure."

"I'd say six at a minimum. You got five to service three and somebody's got to make do with only one girl. Bound to foster resentment. Sure, they'll be trading off. But still, two on one is better. Even better with a spare pair to liven up the action."

"OK. If it's not too expensive."

"For you, after what you did for me, no problem. I'll be gettin' off cheap, to tell the truth."

"The kind of party I have in mind ...."

"Go on."

"... is what's called S and M."

"Ah .... Not to my taste -- though being tied up with the right girl can be downright interesting. But not for me. Being tied up makes me nervous. Maybe, because of the kind of business I'm in."

"Trouble is that the ... guys ... like to pretend they don't enjoy that kind of thing."

"Scream a lot, do they? Threaten to call the cops? Don't you pay that no never mind, Z. I got a quiff name of Francis Kim. Knows karate. All that kind of Jap shit. A man don't stand a chance against her. Twist a guy in knots and tie him up as pretty as you please. Anyway, that's what the girls have gags for. Cuff a man to the bed, pop in the gag, then work him over till he pops -- if you know what I mean."

"Don't know just when and where, yet. Sorry."

"No problem. I got spare girls I can use any time. That's my business, after all. Just give me half a day and I'll have them there in a party mood. Whips and chains, I throw in for free."

"Great."

"After this," John said, more seriously, "you and me are even-Steven once again. Like old friends oughtta be."

"Sure."

"That is good to hear. John Dosso does not like to be in anyone's debt. Anyone."

"Right."

"Call the same way."

"Right."

And that was that for the time being.

Also for the following day.

Two days passing, today's sun ironing yesterday's rain to steam, Z was at his desk again, reading a sci-fi novel while cursing the building's balky cooling system, his bad leg propped on his scarred desk.

A boring book; though any book helped to eat up time.

Just as a squad of Zebron Y-wing fighters were making a suicidal attack on planet Bema's interceptor satellites, the phone rang. Four o'clock, said Z's watch.

"Z."

"Detective Assistant Calder reporting." Plainly, the Bateman psychologist was enjoying himself. Which was OK, if he'd picked up the information Z wanted.

"What have you got?"

"What you asked for."

"Go on."

"The party in question," Calder said, trying for mystery, "lives at 1256 White in Liberty. Single-story house. No wife or children. Lives alone."

"Good, Z said," the number and street fixed in his mind. "The phone number?" Calder had that, too.

"He's a worker. I'll give him that. Stays late every night. Works on Labor Day, even. But packs it in at seven P.M. sharp. Goes out for a couple of drinks and something to eat. Then heads right home. Arrives at eight-forty-five and stays put for the night."

"How do you know this?"

"I've been following him."

"He see you doing it?"

"No." Said with some doubt. "Well ... maybe," Calder admitted, the professor sounding like a naughty child caught in a little kid's lie. "Not when I've been shadowing him from my car. But he looked at me funny when I asked him about his birthday."

"You asked him about his ...?"

"There was no other way. I can't go to records and demand to see a dean's résumé, after all. Anyway, I thought I was being subtle about it. I ran into him in the hall of the Administration building. I was there, of course, to try to get some information about him. Normally, I stay away from that place as much as possible. Anyway, I ran into him. Sort of struck up a conversation. The weather, the progress of the school. You know. What people talk about when they have nothing to say to each other. Then, I said my birthday was coming up. And that I enjoyed reading the strip in the FYI section of the Star, giving famous people's birthdays on that day's date. I said I'd heard a rumor that someone was planning a birthday party for one of the deans. Asked Ashlock when his birthday was, making it seem like I thought the party could be for him." Calder caught a breath. "I've got to report that he didn't tell me. Instead, gave me that 'It's none of your business' look. Ashlock probably thinks I'm trying to suck up to him to get him to vote for my professorship." Z could imaging the psychologist shaking his head in disgust. "But I haven't given up. There's got to be another way. For instance, if I could get a peek at his driver's license, it's on there."

"You did well," Z said, meaning it.

"Really? I ... pass? That's what my students are always asking me. If they passed."

"You pass. Got an A."

"Great! Because this is really fun. As a psychologist, I know that most people -- and I'm no exception -- enjoy snooping on their neighbors -- but feel too guilty to do as much of it as they'd like. It's a joy when you've got a reason to spy."

"Good."

"If that's all you want from me at the moment ...?" Z not answering, the chubby prof continued, "then I'll let you go."

"Goodbye."

Calder had done well. Going further, that bungled business about a birthday party was inspired, the mention of a possible party tying Calder to the plan! If Z could fit the last few pieces of the puzzle together, Z might actually pull off this stunt -- a "caper" that Calder-the-Romantic would probably call body-snatching!

No time to waste, Z dialed again.

"American Insurance. Serving you, our only thought." Just the latest -- most insincere -- slogan of Susan's disreputable insurance company. Nauseating!

"Susan Halliwell."

"One moment."

Elevator music. Just once, Z would like to slip into the American building and substitute the funeral march for the canned music they always played. Or maybe put on a Halloween record. The kind featuring groans and screams -- echoing the sounds made by American's customers when discovering that American had no intention of paying on their claims.

"Susan Halliwell, speaking." The rich, sexy voice of the longest-legged erotic dream he had ever .... but Z had to get down to business.

"Z."

"Hi, Z." Normally, Susan didn't like to have her phone tied up with private conversations. This afternoon, though, she didn't seemed to be stressed out by Z's call.

"Your boss gone for the day?"

"How did you ....?" Susan's hesitation was her attempt to figure out how Z could possibly know about her boss's itinerary.

"Yeah. Listen, Susan, you said you liked D.J. Jewell. The talk show guy?"

"I don't listen to that garbage very often," Susan said: the ritual protest of someone found out to have a taste for trash, "but the girl close to me does. Yeah. I guess he's OK."

"Remember the interview he did with me?"

"Of course!" Susan had thought Z had done right when he dumped on Captain Scherer in that disastrous interview. Susan, like most people, became crazed from time to time. "I have a chance to pay him back." Z was counting on Susan's misunderstanding what he meant by pay Jewell back.

"As a thank-you for having you on his show?"

"Ah ...."

"How?"

"A tip."

"Oh."

"But there's a hang-up. I don't want to do it personally. Don't feel right about it."

"You're too modest. He should know it's you doing him a favor."

"All the same, I thought you might help me."

"Me help?"

"Sure. I give the tip to you. You phone it in to Jewell."

"I couldn't do that."

"You wouldn't have to give your name. Anyway, you're always complaining I shut you out. Here's your chance to be included."

"Well ...."

"You tip Jewell about a drug party. Say he can be there to witness the bust and break the story."

"I ... guess. What would I have to do?"

"Phone the station. Say anything, but make them bring Jewell to the phone. Personally. Then tell him what I'm going to tell you. It'll have more impact if you suggest you're a policewoman. Say that a policeman has supplied the drugs. That if Jewell checks this out, you'll have other info for him."

"Too modest," Susan said with a sigh. "OK. I'll do it. When is this to happen?"

After Z had given Susan a time and address, Z had to hope the rest of the plan would fall in place. That was the worst thing about the scheme. It was complicated. Z much preferred problems that could be solved simply: with the tap of a blackjack. Not that he wouldn't get a chance to ....

As it was, the sooner he made a few more calls, the more likely he'd be able to tie up the loose ends.

Putting up his leg again, rubbing his knee with one hand, he reached for the phone.

"Bud's."

Z had thought he'd get Bud's counterman, but was pleased to be talking directly to Bud. The fewer people Z contacted, the better.

"Bud. Z."

"Hi, there." Somehow, Bud's cheerfulness sounded forced.

"Something wrong?"

"Wrong!?" Bud was alarmed, his voice squeaking even higher.

"You don't sound ... right."

"Oh ... that. The truth is I'm a little pissed. My barman -- you remember him, Olin ...?"

"Brainbridge," Z finished.

"Right. You do remember him. Anyway, he quit."

"Why?"

"Said he found a better job. I believe him 'cause this is a crappy place, when you come to think about it."

What did Z say to that?

"Sorry if I caught you at a bad time."

"That's all right. Anything for you, Z. You know that."

"I thought you might do me a favor."

"Favor?" Though Bud had been eager to promise Z anything, Bud wasn't too happy to deliver. Just the way people were.

"Nothing much. I need you to tip off the police."

"What!?" Bud didn't much like cops, either. Not that anyone did.

"I'd like you to call the Gladstone fuzz. Ask to talk to the captain. Name of Scherer. Direct. You won't spill to anyone else."

"So?"

"You'll get him eventually, no matter what they say to you. Tell them anything. Matter of life and death. When you get him, whisper you got a hot tip for him, you being a public-spirited barkeep. Something you overheard about a drug delivery in Liberty -- out of Scherer's jurisdiction, but he won't care."

"I don't like to get connected to drugs."

"Say it's something someone said at the bar. Two men who were never in your place before. Tell Scherer a time and a place the drugs are to be delivered."

"What time and place?"

"Will you do this for me?"

"I got to give my name?"

"No. On second thought, you don't have to say you own the place. Don't have to say what bar, even. Though Scherer is going to want you to identify yourself."

"But I don't have to." Bud had never been that bright.

"Right. Just hang up after the message is delivered."

"OK."

"I'm going to give you a time and location now. Give Scherer the tip tomorrow afternoon."

"Sure."

"I appreciate it."

"Anything for you after what you did for me," Bud said, sounding more sincere than he had at any time in the conversation.

The information told to Bud, it was -- "Goodbye." "Goodbye."

Leaving two more details to wrap up before the day was done.

First, a drive into that late steam bath of an afternoon to buy a camera at the photography store on the square in Liberty. Poor excuse for a camera. Used. Flash, of course.

Z would have Jamie Stewart pick the camera up tomorrow. Tell her what he wanted her to do with it.

The other thing Z had to do was get home so he could wrap a package. Take it to the post office before closing time.

At the post office, finally at the counter, Z's single question was: "When will this be delivered?" The clerk weighed the small, brown paper wrapped package, the electronic scales flashing the weight and postage.

"Tomorrow."

"You sure?"

"Since it's local, 99%."

"Any way to make it 100?"

"I guess you could pay the price for an overnight mailer. But I wouldn't. That's more for out-of-town mail."

"I'll do that."

"What?"

"Buy the mailer."

"You sure?" the man asked, wrinkling his forehead.

"Some things are worth the price," Z said.

And the trap was set!

* * * * *

Chapter 21

Twelve fifty-six White Street, Liberty.

After another hot day, it was a cloudy night. Coffin dark. Just the hint of early September cool about the air.

Again, Z parked his car a block over, at the shadowy back of the 7-Eleven lot. Using his penlight, he selected the tools he thought he'd need from his detective satchel: picks, sap, his own surveillance camera.

Getting out of the Cavalier so quietly even the door catch failed to click, he reached in the backseat to lift out the two bulging grocery sacks he'd packed that afternoon at Safeway, using his knee to ease shut the door.

Carrying a sack in each arm, camera strap around his neck, he made his way over the back curb of the brightly lighted convenience store, across the velvety, tree-planted privacy strip, to enter the dark throat of the narrow, loose-gravel alley that led to Ashlock's home one street over. Just enough moonlight to see by.

The air smelled of bug chewed leaves, limestone dust, and little else.

Earlier that morning, Z had made the fifteen-minute trip to Ashlock's part of Liberty, Z first dressing in a white shirt and black string tie, Z going to Liberty as Pastor Goodfellow, complete with plastic-laminated identity card to "prove" he was the genuine religious article. (Johnny Dosso's I.D.s were first-class fakes.)

Posing as the obnoxious Goodfellow, exaggerating his natural limp to shame people into talking to him, Z had gone up one side of Ashlock's street and down the next, pounding on every door in order to outrage everyone who answered by noisily claiming they were bound for hell unless they attended his fictional Church of the Living Word.

No takers, of course.

Which wasn't the point, Z's only purpose to make his presence known in the neighborhood. All to be able to stand outside an absent Dean Ashlock's door for however long it took to examine the lock -- without the neighbors getting curious.

Cheap lock, as it turned out, one the "truth in packaging" people should insist be labeled, "Standard-pickable."

Besides "casing" the lock, Z had learned that the dean's L-shaped ranch was a recent, and jarring addition to an aged, tree-lined street of nineteenth century, two-and-three-story "fixer-uppers." The Ashlock house a rambling dogleg of a structure, painted white with dark green shutters, perfectly clipped Virginia bluegrass surrounding it -- a lawn-look achieved by professionals hired to administer lethal injections to native grasses.

A cement driveway came in from White Street, ending in a two-car garage; the house also accessed from the alley; a massive oak tree sheltering the front of the house on the near side.

His morning trip to Liberty a success, Jamie Stewart had come over in the afternoon (her body, sausage-stuffed into a too small red shirt and painted on jeans,) Z showing Jamie how to focus and click the shutter of the camera he'd bought for her, the flash the automatic kind that went off in low light. Telling her she didn't have to buy film, that the camera was ready to go (just point and shoot,) Z bum-rushed the girl and camera out of the house before she could even think of getting "frolicsome." (A by-product of this Ashlock business was Z's plan to put a choke-chain around the neck of bitchy Jamie Stewart -- bitchy, but cute, in a perpetually-in-heat way.)

Nighttime vanquishing another day, Z now approached the Ashlock house from the back, leaving the alley to weave past a strategically planted shadow fall of weeping willows, then around trimmed shrubbery, and wood-slatted benches. With the night as treacherously black as any coal shaft, Z's charmed passage was the result of his morning's look at the Ashlock "estate."

Slipping to the front, putting the sacks down on the stoop, adjusting the camera slung over his shoulder, Z was relieved to find the package he'd sent right where it should be, in the metal mailbox. Thinking about it, he decided to leave the parcel where it was. In a business where details counted, it wouldn't hurt to let Ashlock add his fingerprints to the package while taking it inside.

Lock picks at the ready, storm door open, Z turned his attention to the main door; had the house unlocked as quickly as if he'd had a key. Picking up the grocery sacks, he stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.

Calder assuring Z that workaholic Ashlock wouldn't return to his home until later that night, Z had time to give the blacked out house the once-over, Z shifting one of the bags to the crook of his arm to reach into his pocket for his penlight, flicking on the tiny beam to use for slicing his way from room to room.

Large living room, the room's furniture transformed to squatty shadows by the little light. Tables, sofas, overstuffed chairs, hassock, coffee table, drop-leaf table by one wall, bookshelves, floor and table lamps. Impressive, in an expensive, highly polished, barely lived-in way.

Skipping the den, he went down the hall leading to the bedrooms: four of them, one unfurnished, sleeping rooms featuring overlarge windows, each frosted with what Z's Mom would have called "glass" curtains, behind the gauzy draperies, yellow blinds, pulled down.

Backtracking to leave the sacks in the hall -- both bags stuffed with party goodies: chips, dip, liquor -- getting out his pocket knife, unfolding the blade, Z returned to each bedroom to make an unobtrusive stab-twist in each of the room's window shades, doing anything while strapped to a camera, more difficult.

Rescuing the bags, Z found the kitchen, putting the sacks on the kitchen counter.

What Ashlock would make of the mysterious materialization of groceries (should he go into the shiny kitchen,) Z didn't know. And didn't care. If the timing was right, it shouldn't matter.

All Z had to do now was get out of the house. (He'd already decided to hide behind the big tree; close to the front door but hidden from the street.) After that, would come the hard part. Waiting for the "party" to arrive.

Out the front door, clicking the lock shut behind him, Z stepped behind the oak's thick trunk to become as much a part of its rough bark as an ancient wen.

A quick review of the situation told him that the vehicles he'd be looking for would park on the street; conveyances driven by Dan -- the D.J. -- Jewell and Philip -- the Asshole -- Scherer.

Z knew Scherer and, while Z had only met Jewell once -- to Z's sorrow -- Z had also learned a thing or two about that slippery bastard. What Z was betting his reputation on was that both men would show. And show up early.

Z's calculations proving to be accurate, the headlights of the first "interesting" car soon flashed into view, its engine winding down, the car parking five houses away, headlights switched off, no sound of a door opening to let its driver out.

Scherer?

Risking a glance from behind his tree trunk, Z could tell the vehicle was the sort of "unmarked" car Scherer would be driving: a low-rent, fleet-purchased junker any criminal would immediately type as cop bait.

Nor was Scherer -- eager as he was to add to his fabricated reputation as Clay County drug-buster -- content to stay in the comparative safety of his heap. Not Scherer. He hadn't been on the scene five minutes when he got out to move closer to the "drug" house.

With Scherer approaching, Z backed away from the tree, turning to retreat in the opposite direction, down the completely dark side yard.

At the back, Z pivoted to trot across other yards; Z's plan, to circle the police captain.

Returning to the front sidewalk several houses down, Z saw he was now behind Scherer.

With the advantage of surprise, Z tiptoed after the captain, using the soft grass bordering the sidewalk to absorb his footsteps, until he was within striking range of the cautiously advancing cop, Z tapping Scherer asleep with Z's blackjack. (To Z's discredit -- the Zapolska Code not allowing Z to take pleasure in violence -- Z got a little thrill out of slugging Scherer. Z could only hope that, in his enthusiasm, he hadn't zapped the rat-faced cop too hard.)

As an afterthought, Z looked around to see if anyone along the dark street had "caught" this action; was relieved to find no one looking, everyone in the neighborhood inside their houses, stuck to their TV screens like ancient insects trapped in amber.

Scherer slumped to the ole-timey, cracked-brick sidewalk, it was now only a matter of toting Scherer's limp body to the Ashlock house; a feat, using a "dead man" carry, Z accomplished with acceptable strain, getting the captain through the front door, down the hall and into one of the back bedrooms.

Dumping the still inert cop on the bedspread, Z first unbuttoned the captain's neatly pressed, snow white shirt -- before going to the kitchen to get a bottle of booze and one of Ashlock's shot glasses, returning to the bedroom to pour a drink, then to splash some hooch over Scherer's chest. After which, Scherer certainly smelled like a party.

Pressing the Dean's fingerprints around the glass and bottle, Z poured some whiskey into the glass, then put both bottle and glass on a convenient night stand.

Z quickly out of the house; he was, once again (as lumber men always intimated about environmentalists,) eager to hug his tree. There, to wait for the next sucker to arrive, D.J. Jewell not taking long, an antenna-festooned panel van passing the house, squeaking to a stop up the street.

Z flashed his penlight at his wristwatch. Eight-thirty.

Unless Z missed his guess by what his father would have called a "country mile," Jewell would, even now, be observing the "drug" house in his rear view mirror, waiting for signs of a "party" before sneaking up to try to capture the promised "police disgrace" on videotape. Also picking up some "illegal" substances for evidence.

Time getting short, Z backed away from the tree, careful to keep the tree trunk between him and the van in question.

Clear of the tree, hustling down the side of the house, turning at the back, Z broke into a knee-straining trot across the Ashlock yard and through other, moonlit backyards until he was certain he'd outdistanced the parked van.

Slowing, coming back through a distant neighbor's side yard, approaching White Street again, Z saw he was now two houses in front of the panel truck. A safe enough distance for him to cross the street before slithering back to squat down directly across the street from the van, in the vehicle's blind spot, Z hoped!

The question of the moment was, would Jewell have a camera-man with him? ... Unlikely. A hot dog like Jewell would do the job himself. Credit-hounds worked alone.

Nor was Z disappointed, the ethereal halo of a distant streetlight showing the shadow of but one head in the van.

Bending low, Z crept across the dark street until he'd reached the van's side, squatting down there below the high, driver's window of what was more truck than minivan.

Now what? Jewell, lone wolf of the airwaves, wasn't stupid. He'd have locked the doors ....

No problem.

Bending lower still, Z patted the surface of the street until he found what all streets had to offer. A pebble.

Duck-walking to put himself closer to the driver's door, blackjack out and in his right hand, Z lobbed the small rock with his left, a clumsy toss but one sure to have the pebble hit the hood of the truck.

Click!

Not disappointing Z, Jewell followed the course of action any man would have: opened the door to find out what made that peculiar "engine" noise, receiving his complimentary tap by way of explanation.

Another "body" delivered to Jewell's house.

Put in yet another bedroom.

Anointed with still another drizzle of alcohol, plus shot glass, and booze bottle.

Z's part in the evening's festivities over for the moment, he left the house again to hide behind the tree, Z hoping the rest of the plan went as smoothly as the evening had gone so far. (Proud to be Immune from superstitions, he couldn't help but feel he was overdo for some good luck.)

At least five, hour long minutes passed before Z heard the sound he was hoping for, a car slowing as it approached.

Z risked a flash of light at his watch.

Eight forty-five.

Like the automaton his was, Dean Ashlock was coming home.

Car lights raked the front lawn as the dean swung from the street into the small driveway on the other side of the house.

Followed by the metallic slam of the car door.

Steps.

A squeak .... A sound Z hoped he'd hear: the lid of the mailbox being lifted.

After that, came the scrape of the dean's key slotting into the lock, followed by the opening and closing of the door.

As the swallows returned to Capistrano, as spawning salmon swam up stream, Z's pigeon had come home to roost!

Z saw a rectangle of light appear on the lawn; the living room light switched on, shining through the front window.

No sign, as yet, that the dean knew anything was wrong inside.

After all, it was unlikely that Ashlock would go into the bedrooms when first coming home.

What Z was counting on was that, before doing anything else, Ashlock would spend some time in the bathroom. Who, upon arriving at home after eating and drinking, didn't?

A car drove by.

Another car.

Another car coming: this time featuring the sound of Jamie's mini-truck.

Z huddled behind the tree again, his black outfit a perfect blend with the oak's night-black trunk.

Yes.

Headlights. Jamie, slowing to park at the curb across the street.

As he'd explained to her, to pass herself off as a Johnny D. hooker she must both look and act the part, a task for which -- privately -- Z thought she was perfectly suited. He'd also cautioned her to wait for Johnny's girls to arrive -- should be any moment -- John's "ponies" the last piece of the puzzle to be snapped in place.

The night had become cooler; the breeze freshening. The air smelled ... damp. Though the "dead" of winter was still months away, its skeletal footsteps were already stalking all things green.

No ... girls.

Z was worried. He certainly didn't want Jamie going up to the house alone; had strictly forbidden her to do that. Still, as bold as Jamie was ....

Ah! Another car coming. If only ....

Yes. It, too, was slowing to a crunch of gravel along the curb. The car parking out front.

In quick succession, four doors opened ... then slammed like the ragged volley of a drunken firing squad, the high chatter of women's voices drifting with the wind. Also the smell of hot perfume.

Cautiously peeking out, Z saw Jamie's car door crack open; glimpsed the dome light flash on, then off as she swung the door shut.

Next, came a momentary confrontation between Jamie and the other women as they met on the sidewalk in front of the house.

Some girl talk. A little laughter. The flash of a cigarette lighter. A flounce of red and black.

Apparently satisfied with Jamie's explanation of her presence -- that she was new to the life -- the women, impossible to count in the dark, wiggled up the walk to Ashlock's front door.

One of the women rang the bell.

A pause.

Followed by the opening of the door, the women noisily pushing their way inside.

And the trap was sprung!

The rest was easy. All Z had to do was circle the house, pausing to take "candid" shots of the inside action through the slashes he'd made in the bedroom blinds, a task he set about after an "indecent" interval, Z beginning his photographic foray by peeking through the first slit he came to, seeing into the bedroom where he'd stashed Scherer. To find that the captain, now buck naked and awake, had been securely tied to the bedposts, a colorful silk scarf gagging his mouth. And ... something Z hadn't planned!

What Z had failed to consider was that the hookers would find the package of drugs Z had mailed to Ashlock's home, the package Ashlock had found in his mailbox and taken inside the house. Z's plan was to have the dope there to be "discovered" by a later police search, Z taking a childish delight in boomeranging the coke to Scherer, Scherer's "boy" trying to stick Z with the snow. Special delivery. Return to sender.

But the B-girls had found the flake. Already using it liberally themselves, they were "sharing" by dusting Scherer's nose, Scherer plainly beginning to get a rise out of the drug. (Also a "rise" out of the girls' more professional ministrations.)

A couple of fast-film snapshots -- Scherer prominently featured -- and Z was around the house to another bedroom to take photos of similar scenes of Ashlock.

Ditto, for D.J. Jewell.

When it came right down to it, few things were as enjoyable -- either to participate in or to watch -- as men and women sporting in the altogether, though few wished to share the photos that were taken of themselves in these zestful moments.

As for Jamie, she was going from room to room, enthusiastically clicking the flash camera, Jamie seeming to be enjoying her first brush with detective work. (To be truthful, she was now "getting into the spirit" of things even more than the job required.) For his part, Z was careful to take a few snaps of Jamie -- in positions a psychologist like Calder might describe as "parallel play."

Finished photographing at last, Z crossed the backyard to limp back down the alley to 7-Eleven where he cranked up the Cavalier and drove back to Gladstone.

Nearing home, he stopped at the busy, 72nd street QuikTrip's pay phone to rattle in his first quarter.

"Gladstone Public Safety," whined the girl "manning" the phone, Gladstone Public Safety the local euphemism for the cops.

"Detective Tabor."

"Who should I say is calling?"

"Me."

"Me ... who?"

"Got a tip."

"One moment."

A moment.

"Detective Tabor, here."

"Your boss is in trouble."

"Who's speaking?"

"Your boss is in trouble."

"I don't know what you mean."

"He's at 1256 White in Liberty. Girls. Dope."

"But ...."

Z hung up. If he knew Tabor, the rotund little toady would hop out of the police station, eager to do Scherer a favor by rescuing his captain from these alleged vices. Which was OK with Z, Z having had something of a change of plans since the party had gotten underway. Z's afterthought was that he wanted Scherer slowed down, not ruined. The captain could be dealt with, after all. His replacement, on the other hand ....

Another call.

"Who's this, honey?" asked a boozy voice.

"Cops coming."

"What you mean?"

"Dosso said, get out."

"Oh ... OK."

Z owed John too much to get John's girls in trouble.

The sequence of events as Z saw it was that John's joy girls -- plus Jamie -- would now make tracks. A quarter of an hour later, Tabor would arrive and free the three men; at about the same time, Jamie, coming the opposite direction, would reach Z's house to deposit her camera as he'd instructed her to do. Maybe.

Except ... that, even after an hour, Jamie hadn't stopped by the apartment with the film -- not altogether a surprise.

What "playful" purposes Jamie thought she might have for the dirty pictures she'd taken, Z couldn't imagine -- the best of reasons he'd "forgotten" to put film in Jamie's camera.

On the other hand, in addition to sending the naughty pictures Z had taken to the men who'd starred in them, he'd be sure that Jamie got some of the "arty" photos he'd shot of her. It had been Z's experience that women (even more than men) disliked the idea of having revealing pictures of themselves ... out there ... somewhere, to say nothing of Jamie needing to at least appear circumspect since she made her living by teaching at a Catholic girls school. Jamie would give him trouble, would she? Not with that kind of can tied to her tail!

Finished "settled everybody's hash" (as his sainted Mother used to say,) Z could now go to bed in the hope, at long last, of enjoying the "sleep of the righteous" -- another saying of good old Mom. When it came right down to it, there was nothing more satisfying than to be in a position to help good triumph over evil!

* * * * *

Chapter 22

It was on the following Tuesday that Z got a skip-trace job from "Freedom Now," a Kansas City, Missouri bonding agency, the man on the run rumored to be hiding out with an uncle North-of-the-River. An unsuccessful enterprise, as it turned out, the relative long since moved away, Z having nowhere else to look.

Failing to produce the felon, Z mailed back half the small advance, keeping the rest -- a fair deal, considering he'd spent the whole day looking for the runaway.

A day later, Z had just entered his office at 9:00, when he got an angry call from Jamie Stewart.

"What are you up to, you son-of-a-bitch!?" Not the kind of question anyone wants to hear after picking up his "secretary's" phone.

"What?"

"You know what I mean. There wasn't any film in the camera!"

"That right?" Z settled himself on the front desk.

"You know damn well that's right!"

"Is that why you didn't bring the camera by after the job like you were supposed to?"

A pause for thought. "I decided to get the film developed first."

For all her experience as a liar, Jamie couldn't make that fib ring true.

"Yeah."

"If there was no film in the camera, what was I doing there? Just to give the impression that pictures were being taken?"

"Yeah."

"But why not actually take pictures?"

"Wouldn't be nice."

"I always thought you were a wimp," Jamie grumped.

"Yeah."

"But you can't shuck me. You took out the film because you didn't trust me!"

"Since you failed to bring me the film like you promised ...."

"Think you're pretty smart, don't you?" Jamie cut in, her voice thick with threat. "OK. You win this time. But I wouldn't count on winning round two!" Slam!

Though Jamie didn't know it, Z planned on picking up the prints of the shots he'd taken this very afternoon, in time to mail them to their respective subjects by Five o'clock. Round two would begin when Jamie received the pictures Z had snapped of her sexual activities at the party, making Z the winner of that one, too.

A prediction that came true, days passing after Z sent his pictures to their respective "stars" with no response from Jamie, the girl realizing her best strategy was not to make him angry. What she could not know -- nor could the others who received equally intriguing photos of themselves in action -- was that they were in possession of the only prints made; Z had just the one copy made before burning the negatives. While the Zapolksa code was flexible enough to allow the hint of blackmail, it positively forbade the use of blackmail.

Visiting the other side of the "love front," Z's relationship with Susan was the best it had been in quite awhile, Susan's sunny mood providing that happy circumstance, her pleasant disposition a reflection of the smug self-satisfaction of her bosses at the insurance company. The tricky bastards beating back the government's attempt to reduce the cost of health insurance, the company's higher-ups now anticipated even greater ripoffs of the American public -- in Z's case, proving the truth of the old saying, "It's an ill wind that bloweth no man good." While America's people might be the losers for the collapse of government health care, Z's personal life was benefited, Susan better in bed than she'd been for some time.

On the fifteenth of September, after a delightfully sweaty night of lovemaking at Susan's apartment, Z got a second indication that the Ashlock-Jewell-Scherer "party" was bearing fruit.

Both Z and Susan still in the state of nature, covers thrown back, Z was about to drift off, this, in spite of the nausea Z always felt after having made love on Susan's waterbed. Susan, on the other hand, energized by sex (instead of falling sensibly asleep like God intended,) was rattling on about her week; had already "shared" the "hot" news that her immediate superior had gotten a fat bonus with which he planned to expand his already Olympic-sized swimming pool. Susan was now bringing Z up-to-date on the file clerk who'd quit and the "inexperienced child" who'd been hired to replace her. As one of the firm's "old girls," Susan took delight in bitching about the impossibility of hiring competent help. The obvious solution, of course, was for the insurance company to pay higher than starvation wages to attract quality employees, an option with little appeal to the firm's bosses, particularly when they had swimming pools that "needed" to be enlarged.

Almost asleep, curled comfortably around Susan's fetal flanks, Z heard, "... and I don't ... what to do ... Margaret."

"Hmmmm," Z said, flecks of dream-stuff drifting behind his sleep-stitched lids.

"All she wants ... is ... talk to me. And I've got work to do."

"Hmm." A hmm Z hoped sounded like agreement.

"She used to listen to the radio. And while that was also distracting, at least the radio didn't expect me to answer back."

With his last waking breath, Z managed another "Hmm."

"Z? Are you asleep?" Asked in a tone that implied he'd better not be.

"Ummm."

"Good. Now where was I? ... Oh, yes. And it's all the fault of the radio station."

"Station." If barely connected to his brain, at least Z's lips were working.

"Right. If they'd been nicer to Mr. Jewell, he wouldn't have left." No response. "You know, the talk show host who interviewed you."

"What?" Z's eyes opened of their own accord. Saw ... darkness.

"You remember. The radio personality."

"D.J. Jewell."

"Right."

"What about him?"

"He's gone."

"Gone?"

"To another city."

"When?"

"A week ago. He was all the time saying what a hit he was in Kansas City, how his ratings were going up and up, asking his listeners to write-in and to call the station. Then he came on and said he couldn't get his contract renewed for what he was worth, so he was leaving Kansas City. And he was off the air. Just like that."

"He say where he was going?" Finally, a topic of interest, Z fully awake at last.

"Des Moines."

"Des Moines? Des Moines, Iowa?"

"Right."

"And they're paying him more than the K.C. station?"

"That's what he said."

Maybe yes, maybe no. Like most people willing to swear on the Bible, talk show "personalities" only told the truth occasionally, and then, by accident. The chance that a radio station in a small city like Des Moines would pay more money than one in Kansas City -- and Z was under the impression that Jewell was popular -- was remote. Non-existent, was more like it. Successful radio "personalities" moved from medium-sized towns to larger ones. For three big reasons. Money, money, money.

So, Dan, 'the D.J.' Jewell, was Kansas City history.

As Susan changed topics, Z was smiling to himself in the dark, Z hoping he'd been the one who'd run off that little shit. Z would never know for certain, but ....

* * * * *

It was on the twentieth of September that Z got a third indication that his sex/drug party had been a success, Z putting down his paperback to pick up his desk phone.

"Detective Ted Newbold, speaking." Ted so loved his title; used it like the club a Neanderthal would swing to brain a bear.

No need to answer, Ted knowing Z had a one-man office.

"So, Z-man, what's been happening lately?" Insincerity, insincerely asked. Ted called for one reason and one reason only, to talk about himself. ...

Too harsh a criticism.

There was another reason Ted called -- when Teddy needed Z's help.

This time, though, the cocksure confidence in Teddy's voice meant something good had happened on Ted's end of the phone.

"Get a raise?"

A shock of silence on the line. Then, "How the hell did you find out about that? I just got the news a minute ago, myself."

"A lucky guess."

"Yeah ...." Ted said, hesitating to consider the possibility that Z's "guess" could have been anything but luck. Unable to figure out how Z could have known about the salary increase, Ted brightened. "Lucky. That's right. I've always said you're one of the luckiest fucks who ever lived. I don't know how you can be so lucky and still be so poor."

"Yeah."

"What I'm callin' to say is that I'm movin' up, boy. Which is nothing more than I deserve. In fact, I don't know what's taken the captain so long to see my true worth to the department. I refer," Teddy continued testily, "to the captain bringin' in that asshole Tabor like he done. Putting him over me like that."

"Tabor get fired?"

Again, the pause. This time, a long one.

"If that don't beat all. How you know that?"

While Tabor might have thought he was endearing himself to Scherer by getting his captain out of that little drug-girl fix, Z knew better. A savvy politician like Scherer wouldn't want Tabor around after Tabor's "rescue." In the cops, like in the robbers, you see too much and it's bye-bye baby.

Meanwhile, Teddy was elaborating. "... so Tabor got a ... he says it's a lateral transfer." Ted giggled. "Same money, but he's up in North Dakota. Personally, you'd have to pour gasoline on me and light me afire to make me go there. 'Course," he continued, this time with a wicked cackle at his own joke, "being lit afire might be the only way a man could warm up his balls in deep freeze country."

Though more of Teddy's boasting followed, Z had stopped listening. What Z was considering was, not Tabor's inevitable exit from the local scene, but that Captain Scherer had left Z alone since the "party." Unlike Jamie Stewart who knew Z was responsible for the setup, there was no way Scherer could have discovered Z's involvement. For all Scherer knew -- Scherer not the most lovable cop in town -- someone in his own department might have sandbagged him. Maybe Tabor himself. Or even Teddy -- though Scherer would have a hard time believing that Ted Newbold could cobble together a trap that tight. Still, not knowing his tormentor, it made sense for Scherer to be nice to everyone for awhile. Producing, coming full circle, the most probable reason for Ted's raise.

From Z's perspective, what mattered was that Scherer was now too busy worrying about his own ass to concern himself about kicking Z's.

So much for the "party" and its beneficial effects.

On the bad dream front, Z's taking action like Dr. Calder had suggested had failed, unfortunately, to produce the desired effect. Though the nightmares were, maybe, a little better, they still raged, Z continuing to lose the kind of sleep that drove him, once again, to look for relief.

* * * * *

One day later, more because he had nowhere else to turn than believing it would help, Z put in another call to Dr. Calder; made a second lunch date to talk to the chubby psychologist.

Though running on the fumes of last night's hour and a half of sleep, Z had remembered to put on his good blue shirt and yellow tie (dining with a college professor a dress-up occasion), Z meeting Dr. Calder at the Golden Corral in Liberty, the "Corral," like its name implied, a steak and fries kind of place.

At the "Corral," you started in a "cafeteria" line where you picked up an orange plastic tray, stamped-out flatware, paper napkins, and a drink. Moving slowly in the noontime line, diners had time to study the black-on-white bill of fare posted on the wall behind the counter, the menu listing: steak, shrimp, fish, hamburger, broiled chicken breasts, and buffet.

Arriving at the front of the line, you placed your order.

Their order put in, threading through the crowded dining room, dodging kids and oldsters, they arrived at an out-of-the-way table in an alcove, unloading the glasses and utensils from their trays, stacking their trays on a second, yet-to-be-cleaned table.

After sitting, the professor performed the "tea ceremony" Z had seen before, Calder squeezing his lemon slice just so, tearing off a thin strip from two pink sweetener packets, sprinkling the white saccharin in the exact center of the mound of crushed ice floating in his red plastic glass, picking up his tea spoon, stirring slowly as if counting strokes.

For Z's part, he was proud of not wanting to burn the empty paper packets in the table's black ashtray. (Though Z used to have a "thing" about fire, he'd largely conquered his need to burn used paper products. Of course, he still cleaned up his apartment by dumping table scraps in his firebox.)

The food arriving, they ate.

Then got down to business.

Their conversation kept private by the buzz of table talk around them, the clatter of utensils, and the constant noise of traffic to and from the buffet, Z started by reminding the professor of Z's trouble with bad dreams.

Also in review, Calder responded with his dream theories, adding a summary of what he'd said Z could do to stop the nightmares.

"Another thing you can try," Calder said, after again recommending hypnosis to an obviously reluctant Z, "is to attempt to pinpoint when the nightmares started."

"I know when."

"Anything important happen at that time?"

"No," Z lied.

"Something must have started them," Calder mused. "No reason you should remember what, however. Dreams don't have to be the result of an earthshaking event. The sleeping brain is irrational, you see. To trigger a terrifying response, all it has to do is interpret some relatively minor occurrence as threatening.

"What I can recommend in addition to what we've talked about so far, is to sit down with yourself and try to remember, event by event, what happened just before the nightmares started. To help you do that, you might keep notes on a piece of paper, jotting down in considerable detail what you were doing at that time. If you went to the movies, for instance, you would list that -- plus the name of the picture and your reaction to it, if any." Calder grinned in his good-natured, open-faced way, nodding to himself, the mirror-flat surfaces of his glasses flashing. "I've known this to work. Sometimes, just remembering long-forgotten events will help your mental machinery get everything straight. Convince your inner self that nothing that bad happened in your life. After which, your nightmares should subside."

Z wasn't sure that would do it, particularly since something bad had happened. But was willing to give it a try. An old saying of Z's mom, "Desperate people do desperate things," was beginning to apply to this nightmare business. For Z was getting desperate. He had to find a way to tone down the dreams enough to get some sleep.

"OK," Z said, the prescriptive part of their conversation quickly concluded.

After that, the waitress bringing them complimentary cups of coffee -- Calder taking three creams and four packets of sugar, Z pushing his away like any diet coke drinker would -- they'd talked about the detective business, Calder still enthusiastic about his being a part of it.

"I know I haven't done anything yet, except to 'shadow' Dean Ashlock," Calder said, lens-magnified blue eyes shining. "All the same, I've taken considerable pleasure from thinking about being a detective." Again, the boyish grin. Again, the swipe of stubby fingers to brush his fine, dark blond hair from his forehead.

Z looking blank, Calder continued. "It's like this. When I was younger, I bought a motorcycle. A financial stretch for me, considering what I was making at the time. It was when I was in graduate school. Working on my Ph.D. I had no business buying that. And to top it off, I never had time to ride it anywhere.

"What I found, though, was that the bike did me a lot of good. For every time I thought about my motorcycle, about flying across the country, free as a bird, I took a mini-vacation." Calder looked at Z. Decided he'd better explain further. "You need a break when you're in grad school. Need to get away from the scholarly grind of it. Five minutes here. Five minutes there." Calder grinned. "That's the way it is when I get to thinking about working for you in the detective game. I know I haven't done anything yet. Anything that's real. It's that even the thought of being of use on a case gives me pleasure. If you never get around to using me, just thinking about being an amateur detective has done me a world of good." Calder shook his head, his limp hair sifting back over his broad forehead. "Oh, I like teaching. Love teaching, actually. But it's much the same from day to day. Thinking about playing P.I. is just the mini-break I need to spice up my life."

"Yeah," Z said.

"Not that things are not going well with teaching. In fact, my career seems to be in high gear."

"Oh?"

"Remember at the end of the summer? The last time we met? At the Hardware Cafe?"

"Sure."

"Funny, how you'll get the wrong impression of events. I remember thinking -- and I believe I said so at the time -- that the man who was keeping me from moving up, was Dean Ashlock. I thought he didn't like me for some reason, that he was standing in my way." Calder laughed. "I'm a psych instructor. If any discipline can do it, psychology should help people understand other people. Their motives. How people think. But I admit to being totally wrong about Dean Ashlock. I still don't understand him, mind you, or even like him very much, but I was totally wrong about his being my enemy."

"How so?"

"About not understanding him?"

"Right." That wasn't exactly what Z had meant, but it would do.

"Not too long after I'd been trailing him to prove to you I could do P.I. work, I ran into him in the Social Science building. Now, seeing Ashlock there -- where the teaching process of the college takes place -- was a rarity in itself. Deans don't have much to do with teaching. They stay in the Administration building for the most part. Associate with their own kind. But here he was in Social Science. Outside of my office, even. Almost as if he was lurking there, waiting for me to come out of my lair." Calder shook his head. Still amazed. "And he said the strangest thing to me. He said something about his birthday party. Or, maybe, about me planning his birthday party." Calder shook his head again. "I knew the reference. It had to be to the question I'd asked him, some days before, about a birthday party that was being planned for some administrator. I'd made that up, of course. Faking up something about a party was just my way of trying to learn the dean's birthday. But why Dean Ashlock would bring up that part of our former conversation is beyond me. It happened so fast, and I was so shocked to see the dean outside my office, that I can't recall just what he did say. But it was definitely something about the party I'd thrown for him.

"I don't know what I said in reply. Probably nothing.

"Anyway, he walked with me, all the way to my classroom, saying how pleased he was with my performance as a teacher, how I deserved a promotion, and how he, personally, was going to see that I got it. The whole thing was so bizarre I almost think I dreamed it." Calder looked over at Z -- Calder's eyes the clear blue of gas-fed flames. "Except that this turned out to be the way things went. Just like that, I got the promotion. Moved up in academic rank. Got a raise."

"Great."

"It's like what religious people say to explain events that don't make sense. 'The Lord moves in mysterious ways, His wonders to perform.'"

Quite right, Z thought, the same saying one of his Mom's favorites, as well. "The Lord moves in mysterious ways His wonders to perform." Sometimes, with a little help from His friends.

So much for Z's meeting with Calder.

Leaving only Z's nightmares as unfinished business.

Exiting the "Corral," waving to Calder who got into a new, black Honda Civic, the sporty-looking car emphasizing the change in financial status that Dean -- "the party animal" -- Ashlock had provided the likable professor, Z walked to his aging Cavalier.

Opening the tinny door, squeezing into the driver's seat, Z felt the need to roll up the windows for the first time since late last spring. Since he and the prof had been inside, the wind had come up, blowing from the north. The air smelled of dust and oil (oil, from the newly applied, black tar surface of the Golden Corral lot.) Of dust and oil ... and winter clouds.

Leaving the lot, angling through the store-cluttered, suburban side of Western Liberty, making the left sweep that put him on the highway, Z though over Calder's advice. Although uncertain how it would help to make a detailed list of Z's activities around the time the dark dreams pounced on him, he decided he had nothing to lose by doing what Dr. Calder had recommended. If he could stay awake long enough to get home in one piece.

Now past the edge-of-town traffic lights, able to get up to speed on the new, string-straight Liberty-Gladstone four-lane, Z began to rethink -- for the umpteenth time -- the unfortunate death of Howard Kunkle, Z finding, to his surprise, that he was no longer all that clear that the little man's passing was the cause of Z's nightmares. Certainly, Kunkle's death had something to do with Z's dreams. On the other hand, since Z had not meant to kill Kunkle, only to threaten him, what was there to get all torn up about?

As for Z's method of persuasion -- dripping wax on Kunkle's head -- Z had often used fire to intimidate the bad guys.

It could even be said that Z had been responsible, in an indirect way, for the demise of several baddies. There was that recent incident, for instance, of Z convincing the thug, Cristoforo, that Cristoforo was on Minghetti's hit list, the punk then killing Minghetti. Viewed one way, Z was the cause of the mob boss's death, a happenstance that hadn't disturbed Z's sleep at all.

All of which had Z doubting that the death of a bottom-of-the-barrel punk like Kunkle was what was producing those ghastly dreams.

Could it even be that it wasn't the fact of Kunkle's departure from this veil of tears, but the mystery surrounding the death that was causing the nightmares? A mystery, because Z had never believed dripping candle wax had caused Kunkle's demise.

The more Z thought about it, the more he believed it likely that his nightmares sprang as much from Z's uneasiness about how Kunkle died, as that he died, unresolved problems keeping Z awake in the past. Perhaps, once again, it was the lingering puzzle of Kunkle's passing that was causing Z to dream.

Off 152 to curve past the rustic Maple Woods "forest," more awake than he thought he would be, Z took his rat run through Gladstone, going directly to his office. Where he put in a restless afternoon, pretending to read.

No calls.

No business, new or otherwise.

Z hadn't heard from Harry Grimes for some time. But didn't feel like putting in a call to Harry before Z had his own life in order. Better to tie up loose ends, his Mom used to say, before breaking out new yarn.

It wasn't until later that night at home, Z's nerves now so taut he was beyond sleep, that he had the opportunity to put Calder's suggestion about list-making into practice.

After splashing kerosene in the fireplace to help ignite a couple of unusually green logs, Z got a piece of notebook paper out of the kitchen drawer where he kept the writing supplies. Also fingered out an advertising-quality ball-point pen.

Sitting down at the old kitchen-dining room table, inhaling the perfume of smoking wood and listening to the pop and spit of damp oak to settle himself, Z clicked down the point of his pen to write the single word "Picnic" at the top center of the page; remembering that this was to be a list, wrote the number 1 to the left of the word.

It was at the reunion picnic that Bud Izard had asked for Z's help. Kunkle was threatening Bud, Bud said, because Kunkle thought Bud had stolen Kunkle's girl -- a high-priced hooker.

1. Picnic

2. Bud asks for help

3. Kunkle thinks Bud stole Kunkle's girl.

4. The girl was a racehorse

Reduced to black and white, even the early events of this "caper" made no sense. Everything had seemed OK with Bud's account of the problem -- until Z had gotten a look at Kunkle's disaster of a house, the shabby home banishing even the idea that Kunkle could afford a high-dollar call girl. To say nothing of Kunkle thinking he had dibs on such a woman, enough of a claim to warn Bud Izard away from her.

There was just no way that story would hold up.

But ... what sort of lie was it? A lie Kunkle told to Bud? Or one Bud told to Z?

For the moment in the dark about how this early falsehood about Kunkle and the girl had changed the situation, Z jotted down "phony story" after the third entry.

Back to the list.

Z had gone to Kunkle's crappy place the next night, zapped Kunkle, tied him up, and searched the house. Had found the secret drawer in the old desk. Cards. A notebook.

Closing his eyes, Z tried to remember what was in the notebook.

Names.

Phone numbers.

Most of the listings and numbers were of stores. Pizza places.

Though there were two private names in the book, the only entry Z could recall was Bud Izard. And Bud's phone number.

Z added number 5 to the list, writing: sapped Kunkle. Wrote 6: Searched drawer. After number 7, he put: Found cards and notebook. No. 8: Bud's name and number in the book.

These new tabulations made some kind of sense -- and yet, they didn't.

Kunkle was harassing Bud. But was that a good reason for Bud's name to be in Kunkle's book? Bud's name, plus Bud's phone number. Reflecting, Z remembered that Bud said Kunkle had come to the tavern to give Bud the black queen of spades -- the "death" card. The "non-barking dog" in this situation was that Bud had not said a word about Kunkle making threatening phone calls.

So ... what was Bud's name and number doing in Kunkle's little black book?

To be thought about later.

Nine: Queen of spades missing from an old card deck in the drawer.

The missing queen tied Kunkle to Bud's story about Kunkle threatening Bud. The "death" queen came from Kunkle's card pack, the rest of the pack in Kunkle's secret drawer.

So far, the list read:

1. Picnic.

2. Bud asks for help.

3. Kunkle thinks Bud stole Kunkle's girl. Phony story.

4. The girl was a racehorse.

5. Zap Kunkle.

6. Searched drawer.

7. Found cards and notebook.

8. Bud's name and number in the book.

9. Queen of spades missing from an old card deck in the drawer.

Z had another thought. Bud said Kunkle had taken a shot at Bud. But Z had found no gun in Kunkle's home. Or in Kunkle's car. A surprise. Making number 10: No gun.

Next, came the candle-above-his-head routine for Kunkle. Only five candles. No. 11: Five candles.

Number 12 was: Telling Bud he was safe. That Kunkle wouldn't bother Bud anymore. Number 13 was: Z learning that the candle wax had suffocated Kunkle. After which, the nightmares began.

Z had a thought that stumped him. Should he add to the list events that happened at the same time, even though unrelated to the Kunkle affair? With dreams, anything was possible, he supposed. Anyway, 13 was an unlucky number ......

So for good measure, Z listed under 14: The murder of his high school classmate. What was his name? Z tried to think. Attempted to recall the name by picturing the man, getting only a fuzzy picture of a boy in high school. Lee ... something or other. ... Lee ... Dotson. It was the death of Dotson that had given Scherer the opportunity to hassle Z, Scherer pretending there was a connection between Z and the death of Z's old schoolmate. Ridiculous, of course. Just Scherer being a bully. Paying Z back for Z dumping on Scherer in the radio interview. Still, being pulled in by Scherer may have had something to do with the dreams continuing.

Lee Dotson.

Though Z didn't know why, the name meant something; not as a school chum; but in some other context. Was it that Z had seen the Dotson name in print? ... In the newspaper?

Z didn't think so. Anyway, now that he was turning Dotson's name over in his mind, Z didn't think he had seen the name in print so much as in ... writing. Cursive writing. But ... where?

Z had a head for numbers. He never had to hear a phone number twice to remember it forever. If there was some reason he wanted to recall it, that is. He was good with faces, too. Not as good as with numbers, but good enough. As for names ....

Like lightning rips the darkest night, Z knew! He certainly had seen Lee Dotson's name. Seen it recently. And in cursive. Lee Dotson was one of the entries in Howard Kunkle's little book! Along with the names of stores. Take-out food restaurants. Besides business names and numbers, there were two other entries: Bud Izard and Lee Dotson.

What this meant, if anything, was that the first order of business was to correct the list, Z writing, "Also Lee Dotson" after "Bud's name and number in the book." Behind number 8.

Though Z took some time to ponder this new remembrance, he couldn't come up with anything, except the coincidence of the murdered man making Kunkle's list.

List of ... what? Numbers the little man called frequently? That was the usual reason for jotting down a list of names and phone numbers. And, yet, Bud Izard had made no mention of Kunkle calling him to complain about Bud's alleged connection with Kunkle's call girl.

Using the list as a guide, Z started over on a fresh piece of paper.

1. Picnic.

2. Bud asks for help.

3. Kunkle thinks Bud stole Kunkle's girl. Phony story.

4. The girl was a racehorse.

5. Zap Kunkle.

6. Search secret drawer in desk.

7. Found cards, notebook.

8. Bud's name and number in notebook. Also Lee Dotson.

9. Queen of spades missing from old card pack.

10. No gun.

11. Five candles.

12. Telling Bud he's safe.

13. Learning the wax had killed Kunkle.

14. Dotson Murdered.

Reviewing the inventory, there was a lot wrong with it. Bud's story about Kunkle, for one thing. The fact that Lee Dotson's name was in Kunkle's book, for another. (Z was suspicious of coincidences. Everyone in his profession was.) Also the fact that Kunkle had no gun. And last, but certainly not least, that the wax from five candles had suffocated Kunkle.

Five candles.

Too little wax.

Anyway, the openings in Kunkle's nose (everyone's nose) faced down. No way for the wax to get up into the nose to close off the little man's breathing. Particularly since Kunkle was breathing in and out. Breathing out would blow away the liquid wax before it could congeal. And yet, Z believed the police report that Kunkle had been suffocated. Though Z didn't like cops -- no one did -- they'd be on the money about Kunkle's death. Nor would they make an error about his nose being stopped up with wax.

And yet it made no sense. None of it! ..............

Z was tired. ... Exhausted.

Pushing away the list, putting down the pen, he rubbed his sand-filled eyes.

Enough.

Too much for the shape he was in. ..................

Tomorrow, he'd take it up again.

Tomorrow.

If only he could get a sound night's sleep!

* * * * *

Chapter 23

Next morning, Z started again on yet another piece of paper.

1. Picnic.

2. Bud asks for help -- no money to pay.

3. Kunkle thinks Bud stole Kunkle's girl.

4. The girl was a racehorse. No way she was Kunkle's girl.

5. Zap Kunkle.

6. Stack of money Z left in secret desk drawer. Later missing -- cops?

7. Notebook -- later missing -- Cops?

8. Bud's name and number.

9. Lee Dotson's name and number.

10. Carrara Marble not in book.

11. Cards.

12. Queen of spades missing from pack.

13. Sunglasses, glue, glim, alcohol = card cheat.

14. Muscle mags, rubber + no gym equipment, Kunkle a weak guy = homo.

15. No drugs.

16. No gun.

17. No medicine in house, except aspirin.

18. Five candles.

19. Leaves house unlocked.

20. Tips cops so they will come and free Kunkle.

21. To Bud's tavern. Tells Bud that Kunkle is no problem. Bud nervous, sweaty. Later Z thinks, because Bud had already heard about Kunkle's death.

22. Bud offers money. Eager to get rid of Z.

24. Z says, no fee.

25. Bud says thanks. Tavern his whole life.

26. Both to say nothing about affair.

27. Newspaper says Kunkle dead. Wax.

28. Z thinks, no way.

29. Nightmares start.

30. Dotson killed.

And that was what had to be the final list.

Proving that all Z had needed was a good night's sleep for his mind to function once more.

A good night's sleep, itself, something of a puzzle. Z still didn't know the ins and outs of Kunkle's untimely death, and yet, got so much good sleep he hadn't awakened until noon.

Could it be that sleep without nightmares meant he was just about to find the answers, that Z's hidden mind had already discovered the truth?

Tired as he'd been, last night's work had pointed out the impossibility that Kunkle could have had an interest in Carrara Marble, the woman a several hundred dollar hooker. Also, that there was no reason Bud's phone number should have been in Kunkle's little black book. Surely, Bud would have mentioned it if, in addition to giving Bud a bad time in person, Kunkle has been harassing Bud with threatening phone calls. Not to mention Bud's claim that Kunkle had taken a shot at Bud -- with Z finding no gun in Kunkle's digs.

Now that Z had added to the tally, were other revelations hidden in the checklist?

Z scanned the outline again.

Calder had said to include details -- and that's what, with a lot of hard work, Z had done.

There were other particulars, of course. Z could have listed each item of trash he'd found in Kunkle's junker of a car, for instance. ....

And maybe he should.

Not wanting to start over -- Z had already done that several times as it was, each time slipping the pages he'd had to revise in the fireplace to be burned -- Z began by adding data, first to No. 14, after "homo," putting: rusty carjack, screwdriver, old milk cartons, empty food bags, wadded-up newspaper.

What else?

After No. 13, he made a carrot mark and penned in "super" above glue.

After "alcohol," Z squeezed in cellophane wrappers.

Z looked at the list again. Added, "Bud invites Z to play cards." Also, "Bud in bad shape: can't read." Also, "Doesn't watch TV." Also, "Olin Brainbridge works for Bud. Olin has cold. Olin has quit."

Staring at the revised list, Z began to feel a familiar sensation at the back of his neck, a prickling he sometimes had when about to discover a truth. ......

And there it was!

Why Z hadn't seen it before, he didn't know, knowing only that Calder was a genius for having suggested an itemization! If Z hadn't seen it in black and white, he might never have wised up.

Furthermore, the answer encompassed the two most important guidelines old cops preached to rookies.

Motive.

And opportunity.

Speaking of motive, detective novels generally said there were the only three motives for murder.

Love.

Money.

And hate-revenge. (Not to exclude an occasional killing done by the world's increasing number of fanatics, political and religious crazies included.)

Z looked at his watch. Blinked. Held his wrist as far away from his eyes as his arm would stretch. Squinted to see the watch's spidery hands, hands that were becoming more slender by the year.

Midnight.

Midnight? Could it be midnight?

Z put the watch to his ear. Heard its unsteady tick.

Z stretched, a stretch that made his muscles creak -- Z's back certainly tired enough for it to be midnight.

He'd started working on the revised list, when? Sometime that afternoon, after he'd gone out for what ritzy people called brunch. (Since he'd slept till noon, more like "lupper" by the time he'd shaved and showered.) Meaning, it could have been four o'clock before he'd sat down to write.

So, it might be midnight. ......

No problem.

He needed to get out of the house for awhile anyway, a short, clarifying car ride certain to do him good.

Pulling on a light jacket from the living room's half-closet, Z stepped outside the apartment door to find the night both dark and middle-of-September cool, Z almost going back inside for a heavier coat. An idea he rejected since it was only a short walk down the back path to the dilapidated garage. After that, he'd be in the car, the Cavalier's heater still working.

Dark.

So dark, Z tripped on one of the uneven concrete slabs of the walk, catching himself, but twisting his knee. (Though he'd had trouble with that knee since football, it had been better of late. Z could only hope that the sharp stab of every other step didn't mean another long stretch of painful recovery.)

Inside the car, out of the garage, down the street, he turned left on 72nd, Z continuing to be chilly enough to think of little else but when the whiny little engine would heat up, the car actually doing that by the time he'd hit the red light at Oak, Z beginning to feel warm enough to relax the cold-tight muscles of his back.

With the green, he turned left on Oak, Z drifting through the sparse, late night traffic of that north-south arterial, finally leaving the lights of North Kansas City behind him, the four-lane increasingly deserted as he neared the ASB bridge. The only cars -- trucks, mostly -- this far south were those headed over the replacement "Heart of America" bridge into Kansas City proper.

Except for a few saloons, KCMO was shut down for the night.

Just to this side of the approach to the ASB, Z eased his car off the right lane, coasting down to park at that location's industrial-strength curb.

Getting out, Z was careful to lock the car in this rust belt neighborhood, caught between industrial North Kansas City at its back and the muddy Missouri at its feet.

Thick clouds masking moon and stars, the night was as black as an insurance salesman's conscience; cold as the blood in an actuary's heart.

No other cars were parked along the street.

If Bud had any trade this evening, it had to be the stagger-in kind.

Limping over the high curb, crossing the uneven walk, Z opened the familiar green door.

Ducking inside the saloon's wet warmth, the door creaked shut behind him.

Z's eyes already accustomed to the outside gloom, he glanced around. In the gaudy glare of the silent jukebox, in the electric hum of neon beer signs, seeing ... no one.

Correction. Seeing a dimly lighted Bud, hunched behind the bar, his elbows propping up his fat body.

Black string tie. White, western shirt.

"Slow night," Z said when he was in muttering distance, Bud straining in the joint's half-light to see who'd come in.

"Z! What you doin' here this time of night?" All of his chins now smiling, Bud straightened up. Reached across the bar to shake Z's hand.

Z "stooled" himself. Looked into Bud's pig-stupid eyes. Said, "I know."

"Know what?" Bud still had that sickly grin on his puffy white face.

"You killed Howard Kunkle."

"Wait a minute," Bud said, his child's voice now a squeak, Bud putting his arms out in front of him, palms up, as if to ward off evil. "Who told you that? That ain't true, and ...."

"First," Z cut in, in too good a mood for late night bullshit, "because I couldn't have done it."

"You're not makin' any sense, boy. What you talkin' about?"

"Not with five candles. I knew that all along. Just couldn't get myself to believe it. And that leaves ... you. Besides me, you're the only one who knew I was going to see Kunkle. Knew the time. Knew the place. Thinking my talk with Kunkle wouldn't work, you followed me. Discovering the door was open, went in after I left. Finding Kunkle tied and his mouth taped, you killed him."

Bud said nothing, his multiple grin fading to slit-thin lips.

"How?" Z continued, not letting Bud wiggle off the hook. "By pinching his nose shut until he died. After that, stuffing hot wax up his nostrils to make it look like he suffocated from the wax."

Though a guess, Z's speculation drew blood, Bud's face as pale as a new-made snowman, sweat slicking out of every pore. A snowman, melting.

"When I came to tell you I'd run Kunkle off," Z continued, "you already knew. 'Cause you'd been there. 'Cause you'd killed him." No sense reminding Bud of his illiteracy. Or that he hadn't heard about the killing on TV either, because he didn't watch TV. (The odds he'd learned about Kunkle's death from Brainbridge or from one of Bud's brain-dead barflies was so remote it wasn't worth considering.) "It was never about the hooker. You owed Kunkle a gambling debt and he wanted his money. He knew somebody who owed him a favor, someone who he was going to sic on you."

"How you know that?" the fat man asked quietly, unable to meet Z's eyes, Bud staring down at invisible beer rings on the bar.

Resisting the urge to say "Elementary, my dear Watson," Z said, "No gun."

"No ... gun?"

"Without a gun, Kunkle had to have somebody do the threatening. Kunkle wasn't big enough."

"A giant. I seen him in here with Howie, once. One of them chains-and-leather types. A mean, black son-of-a-bitch."

Z nodded. When Bud Izard thought a tough was big, he must have been -- "chains and leather" making clear another thing.

"The spade queen Kunkle gave you was to remind you of Mr. Chains and Leather -- Kunkle's queen."

Bud got it. Nodded soberly.

"Kunkle was a card cheat."

"Yeah?" Bud looked up, surprised enough not to have known.

"Brought this trouble on himself. Also, I figure the money you stole from his desk drawer was yours to steal."

The look of amazement on Bud's face said it all.

"You didn't have money one day," Z explained, "you had several hundred the next. Looking at the business in here, I had to figure a week's take to be less than that."

Bud shook his head to say he'd been playing out of his league. "What ... you going to do?" His voice almost rusted shut, Bud sagged down on the counter again, this time on one elbow, the other hand slipped behind the bar.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"I'm only happy I didn't kill the little bastard. He was guilty. He sicked his thug on you." Self-defense was part of the Zaposka Code.

"Listen, Z," Bud said, his alto bright once more, a smile hinting at the corners of his mouth. "I never had no margin. Over the years, I lost what I had to Howie. This time, I was desperate. I couldn't pay Howie off and still make the rent. I was going to lose this place. And you're right. He tried to kill me."

"Yeah." Z's exit line.

Z saying what he'd come to say; hearing what he'd come to hear, Z turned to leave.

And yet .....

Z's memory scratching like a chuckle-headed chicken, his brain had clawed up a fragment of something Bud said the last time Z was here. A scrap of conversation about a gambling game, Bud inviting Z to sit in. What had Bud said? That Z would make a third? Bud had then corrected himself, saying that, without Kunkle in the game, there'd be just the two of them.

This was in reference to the three player gambling game in which Howard Kunkle cheated Bud -- regularly.

Normally, a three-man game.

Subtract one man -- Kunkle -- and that left a two-man game. A three-man game again, if Z joined. Except ... that Bud had corrected himself, by saying, with Z joining, it would be a two man game.

Leaving ... a mystery man. Another regular player, the usual game featuring Bud Izard, Howard Kunkle, and ....

Lee Dotson.

The obvious meaning of Lee Dotson's name and number appearing in Howard Kunkle's book was that Dotson was the third man of Bud's regular gambling game. Poker, probably, given the decks of marked cards in Kunkle's secret drawer.

Dotson. A man who, like Howard Kunkle, had been murdered.

Z turned. Looked across the bar at the thick witted fat man. "Sorry," Z said softly.

"Sorry for what, Z-man?" Bud was all smiles again. "Don't be sorry. I love you like a brother. Always remember that. You was my hero in high school. And you're more of my hero now. A man couldn't have a better friend in all the world."

Z didn't know what to say.

"Who else would have done for me what you done. And then clam up when I ... made a mistake."

"Some men need killing."

"Right."

"Some men ... but not others."

Caught in mid-smile, all Bud could croak was, "What?"

"But not Lee Dotson."

Again, the hangdog look. "Well," Bud started slowly, "I got to thinkin'. With Howie being dead and all, and Lee in the game, and knowin' I owed Howie and that he was puttin' pressure on me, I had to be rid of Lee, too. There was no other way I could be safe. There was no other way I could protect my property, here."

"I see that. But it isn't ... right."

"Right? What you mean, right? Is it right that I got to make my living in a hell hole like this?" Bud was waving his ham-handed arms, his voice climbing toward falsetto. Again, was gushing sweat. "Is it right I had that disease and couldn't learn to read?"

"No. But that doesn't change things."

"You're goin' to tell after all, ain't you?!"

"Yes."

"Not if I got anything to say about it!"

Suddenly, from under the bar, a large automatic appeared in Bud's fat hand.

"I gone too far to stop now, Z." In addition to sweating, Bud was trembling. A rare sight in a man that large. "I got to save my property."

So, it had come down to this. All Z's adult life he'd known how it would end. Face down in an alley. And there'd been times -- more of them recently -- when Z had looked forward to his struggles ending.

Funny, when it came right down to it, how much he wanted to live!

Z was shaking. His legs -- numb.

Staring into the black barrel, it was all Z could do to keep his teeth from rattling out of his mouth.

Still, an important difference between a man and a woman was that a man could not show fear.

Z swallowed hard so he could speak.

"Right here? In your own place?" Z's rasp was stronger than he thought it would be.

"I'll say you come in to rob me. I had to protect my property." Bud's eyes had gone wide. And dead.

"Got a spare gun?"

"What you talking about?"

"A spare, no one can trace. Like some cops carry. A gun to plant on the poor dumb fuck they just shot dead. So they can claim they shot in self defense."

"What ...?"

"'Cause I don't have a gun on me."

Bud just stared, his eyes seeing emptiness. Sweat dripping off his jowls.

"You going to say I pointed my finger at you, so you blew me away in self defense?"

"I ... love you, Z. Like a brother. Please, don't ..."

"I can't get you out of this one, Bud. Nobody can. You got to get out of this fix by yourself."

With an effort that took what was left of Z's fast-draining reserves, he turned again.

Took a shaky step toward the door.

Took another, all the while waiting for the report of the big gun and the slug to tear into his back.

Grasping at any hope, Z called to mind the first time he'd been shot; how it hadn't been that bad ... honesty making him admit he'd been brave because he hadn't seen the bullet coming. All he could recall of being shot was waking in the hospital, and the long recovery he'd had.

This time, it would be different.

First, he'd hear the blast of the gun and feel the shock.

Then the searing pain.

Then ... nothing. Forever.

Meanwhile, he still shuffled toward the door. His legs rubbery.

A roar! -- the ear-shattering explosion rocketing in the hard-walled tavern, a paralyzing sound that jerked every muscle in Z's body, the shot fired by the large bore automatic followed by the tinkling sound of smashing glass and a secondary thud that shook the room.

All while Z was falling. Falling. Falling.

To hit the hardwood floor like the scattered limbs of a stringless puppet!

The breath knocked out of him, it was an agonizing minute before Z could breathe. An eternity of wondering if he could breathe.

Followed by a hiss of sucked-in air; after, sickening pain ....

But only in his knee. ..........

Had Bud shot him in his bum ...? No. The dagger-pain in his left knee was familiar.

Testing arms, legs, body, Z found he wasn't hit.

What had happened? ......

Slowly, as the bright agony in his left knee dulled, Z was able to scramble his good leg under him. Enough to crawl on hands and knee to a table.

Reaching up, he pried himself to a standing position -- immediately leaning heavily on the solid table.

Turning, Z glanced behind him, certain he would see Bud behind the bar, the fat man taking greater care to aim ....

Instead, saw ....

Nothing.

But chaos.

Two rows of shelving back of the bar had been knocked down, their polished glassware shattered to the floor. The mirror behind the bar was also broken.

But ... that was all.

Turning again to limp forward, handing himself from table to table, an eon took him to the tavern door.

Gathering himself, Z opened the door to flounder through to the outside, the Cavalier, like the loyal mongrel that it was, wagging its tail beyond the sloping walk.

Needing another moment before putting his full weight on his bad leg, Z leaned against the abused brick wall, sagging back to look up at the wonders of the night! So black. So cold. Z seeing nothing but the misty lights of Kansas City beyond the cloud-wrapped river, fog clawing up the river bank, its white tendrils groping for the street.

A marvelous night to be alive!

Like Scrooge in the old Christmas story, Big Bob Zapolska felt himself ... reborn.

The first thing tomorrow, he'd call Susan. For reasons he no longer had the faintest idea about, he'd been short-changing Susan, lately, bad-mouthing her to himself. But that was over. Once more, he'd come to see how lucky he was to have classy Susan for his girl, a rough cob like Z possessing a beautiful, much-too-good-for-him lady like that. He'd stopped a bullet for her once. He'd do it again -- any day. Every day.

After calling Susan, he'd phone Jamie Stewart. He'd been too hard on her, as well. He'd tell her the truth about the pictures; that she had the only copies; that he wasn't holding them over her.

He also have to thank John Dosso.

And a call to Harry Grimes would now be proper.

Pulled together at last, less shaky, Z crippled across the sidewalk; clumsily stepped off the curbing into the street.

Hobbling around the back of the Cavalier, Z opened the stamped steel door to wedge himself into the thinly padded driver's seat, using both hands to drag in his bad leg.

Fishing out the key, he cranked up the still-warm engine.

Easing the transmission off park, he drifted off, making an immediate U-turn for home.

As for what had just happened, Z was no longer interested. Let one of Bud's late-night drunks stagger in, totter to the counter, after getting no service, lean across to find Bud bleeding out behind the bar.

But not a suicide, to be found and reported by Bob Zapolska. Z's horror dreams made out of phantoms ... the last thing he wanted, was to see the real thing.

###

Author's Note

While Murder by Candlelight is set in Kansas City, Missouri (largely in Kansas City North), the book is a work of fiction -- all the way. Fiction in this book also means that, in addition to the characters being fictitious, so are many aspects of the city. While major roads, shopping centers, theaters, restaurants, etc., appear in the books, the reader will find that little is "as it should be." The roads don't go where they should; buildings that don't exist have been "created"; actual buildings sometimes changed and/or relocated. (One of the joys of fiction-writing is that you're not bound by the truth.) Besides "manufacturing" locales where I needed them, I also "rearranged" the city to keep readers with nothing better to do from trying to find the detective's home or his office, or the homes and businesses of friends. (People are still writing to Sherlock Holmes at Number 221 B Baker Street -- because it is an actual address!) What this means is that no one will be annoying you by showing up at your house or place of business to ask stupid questions about your connection to Big Bob Zapolska.

* * * * *

About the Author

John G. Stockmyer is an individual whose irrepressible creativity has manifested itself in many ways: as a poet, teacher, produced playwright, author, co-owner of an educational materials business, creator of a time-machine simulator, and, more recently, as a podcaster and producer of eBooks. During his career he has received awards for scholarship, numerous teaching awards and, as a writer, was a Thorpe Menn finalist.

He is the co-author of three non-fiction books: Unleashing the Right Side of the Brain - The Stephen Greene Press, Life Trek: The Odyssey of Adult Development - Humanics, and Right Brain Romance - Ginn Press. He is also the author of over 20 works of fiction, including the Crime/Hard-Boiled "Z-Detective" Series, and the Science-Fiction/Fantasy "Under The Stairs" Series. He has also written a quirky vampire novel titled, The Gentleman Vampire.

John G. Stockmyer is now semi-retired from a 40+ year career as an Ancient/European History Professor at Maple Woods Community College, but still teaches and writes part-time. He currently lives in Kansas City, Missouri with his wife Connie.

For more information about the author, and to download or purchase Print Books, eBooks and Audio-Books from the "collection," please visit the John G. Stockmyer "Books" Web site at: www.johnstockmyer.com/books

If you enjoyed Murder by Candlelight, you'll probably also like Book #4 in the Z Series: Where Angels Fear to Tread. Book #4 (ebook version) is currently $5.00, at the author's web site.

To send questions or comments to the author, send an e-mail to: mail@johnstockmyer.com (all e-mails are screened/forwarded by the author's son: John L. Stockmyer)

Table of Contents

Murder by Candlelight