overturned milk carton. Light flooded in through a skylight. On the wall was a huge black-and-white blowup of two naked men. I tried to remain calm about it.
In the middle of the clutter Race was surgically immaculate. His white flannel pants were sharply creased. His turquoise shirt was fitted. His black-and-white shoes were gleaming.
“Oh my God!” Race said. “Man of my dreams.”
“How unfortunate,” I said.
“Well, honey,” he said, “sooner or later they all come back.”
“I need homo info,” I said.
Race grinned and did a small shuffle ball change and spread his arms.
“You’ve come to the right place, Big Boy.”
“If you were an older man,” I said.
“Which I’m not,” Race said.
“Certainly not,” I said. “In all the years I’ve known you you haven’t aged any more than I have.”
“That’s unkind,” Race said. “But go ahead, if I were an older man…”
“Where would you be likely to go to meet young men?”
“How young.”
“Boys.”
“Nellie’s,” Race said. “Third floor. It’s chickenfucker central.”
“Joint in Bay Village?” I said.
“Nice turn of phrase, honey,” Race said.
“I try to be appropriate,” I said. “Bay Village?”
“Where else?”
“Ever go there?”
“Downstairs,” he said. “I don’t like children much.”
I took the picture of Nathan Smith out and held it up for him. “Ever see this guy?”
Race examined the picture. “Not my type,” he said.
“You know him?”
“No.”
“If I took this picture down to Nellie’s and showed it around, you think they’d tell me anything?”
“Nellie’s doesn’t stay in business by telling secrets,” Race said.
“How about I pretended I was in your program?” I said. I shot out my right hip and put my fist on it.
Race said, “They could tell.”
“How could they tell?”
“They could tell, honey.”
“I’m not even sure this guy was gay,” I said.
“And you’re trying to decide?”
“I’m not trying to out him. He’s been murdered.”
Race nodded. “I’ll tell you what, darlin‘. You give me the picture. I’ll find out for you.”
I gave him the picture.
“Isn’t there some saying about set a queer to catch a queer?” Race said.
“I think so,” I said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Frank Belson, with a fresh shave and his suit pressed, came into my office carrying two cups of coffee. He put one on my desk and sat down in a client chair and took a sip from the other one.
“Know a broad named Amy Peters?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Tell me about her.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m a cop and I’m asking you,” Belson said.
“Oh,” I said. “That’s why.”
Belson waited. I took the lid off the coffee and drank some. Belson was homicide and Amy Peters had been
