Third man out

Royce, a ski

"Anything. Everything. I told you-he'll never live to use any of it against any of us."

"Let's go outside," I told Royce.

Royce didn't like the sound of that. He looked as if he had last been exposed to sunlight in the year of the Watergate break-in, but Gladu beamed contentedly and motioned for Royce to move out.

I carried the Fountain of Eden registration and license — plate files with me, and we sat in my car with both doors open.

"Where you going with those?" Royce asked.

"I'll bring them back eventually," I said, "so not to worry. The only thing you need to concern yourself with, Royce, is doing what Jay said and telling me the absolute truth on all the topics I bring up. Okay?"

"Sure."

"Who got hit with the mirror?"

He'd been looking bewildered up to now, and only vaguely apprehensive, but now his eyes narrowed and he looked at me with suspicion tinged with dread.

"Who are you?" he said. "Are you a cop?"

"No, I'm just a blackmailer. I have tons and tons of incriminating crap on Jay, so you better answer my questions or he'll be ruined and you will too. This is all off the books, and I know you're used to that, Royce, so let's get on with it and everything will be cool. Once again, who got hit with the mirror?"

"How did you know about that? If you were one of the people who came out that night, you'd know who it was. If you're not one of them, how did you know it happened? Jay doesn't know, or even Sandy. Lemmie didn't tell you, did he?"

I said, "Nobody had to tell me. Linkletter and his boyfriend were here every Wednesday night for almost a year, and then the mirror fell and they stopped coming. Jay swallowed your story that the mirror fell after Ro

"Two hundred dollars," he said, brushing away a sweat bead from the end of his nose with a trembling hand.

"Who was hit? The boyfriend?"

He gulped and nodded.

"Who was he?"

He shook his head. "I never saw him-that night or ever. I don't know who the heck he was."

"Did he die? Was he killed by the falling mirror?"

"I don't know. Ro

They gave Ro

"Ro

"Just shook up. He had some scratches but he was- well, he was underneath at the time the mirror fell. The other guy was the one who really got clobbered."

"The mystery man was fucking Ro

"That's what Ro

"How long did it take after Ro

"Ten, fifteen minutes maybe."

"Were there other customers here at the time? Were there other witnesses to what happened next?"

"There were people here but I don't think anybody even took notice. People don't come here to mind other people's business.

They come here to take care of their own business and they're usually busy with whatever that business is-very personal."

"Who arrived? How many? In what vehicle or vehicles?"

"I watched out the window from the office," Royce said, glancing around to see if anyone was looking our way. "Ro

"What did you see next?"

"Well, they sent Ro

"I don't see why. You've been honest with me, so I guess I can do you a favor and be dishonest with Jay."

"Thanks. He's a real schmuck. Are you really blackmailing him?"

"Yup."

"Well, good luck. He deserves it."

"I'm doing my best."

"Swell."

I said, "Did you get the license-plate number of the Chrysler? Everybody out here seems to be pretty thorough about that."

"Nope. I didn't. I tried."

"Why couldn't you?"

"Because the plates were taped over, front and back. Whoever these people were, they sure went to a lot of trouble to make sure they weren't identified. Do you have any idea who they were?"

I said no, and for once that day I was telling somebody the truth. I didn't know who the men in the nice dress coats had been, but I thought Art Murphy probably would. end user

21

Flint Street ran for two blocks off Washington and dead-ended at a medical-records warehouse. The street was shady and quiet, and the frame houses were set close together in a way that probably felt neighborly to some of the people who lived there and claustrophobic to some of the others.

Number 37, like all the houses on the block, was a two-story job with a deep, boxy front porch and a small patch of sparse lawn that didn't get much sunlight or rain. No car was parked in the narrow driveway and none of those on the street fit the description

— a shiny blue Olds-or bore the license-plate number of the car the Mega-Hypocrite had driven out to the Fountain of Eden every Wednesday night until the mirror fell on him.

The main front door was open at number 37, with only a screen door to keep out the insects and the blackmailers. I got the feeling Art Murphy wasn't home, and this was confirmed when I drove over to a convenience store with a pay phone, on Washington. Murphy was listed in the Albany directory, and I dialed the number on Flint Street.

A female voice, not young, a tad nasal. "Hello?"

"Art Murphy, please?"

"Oh, Arthur isn't at home at this hour. He'd be at work."

"This is Jim Smith and I'm in town and Art asked me to get in touch. May I have his work number, please?"

"Yes, that would be Byrne Olds-Cadillac," she said, and recited the number.