'Uh-Donald Strachey. Chris may not recognize the name, but if you'll just tell him that I-'
The receiver was slammed down.
'What did I say?'
Timmy set a mug of coffee beside me. 'What happened?'
'A woman-she hung up. It was something I said.'
'It was something you are. Somebody's wife hung up on me once, too.'
I decided to do what I'd planned on doing on Monday and should have done the day before. I said, 'I'll be back in twenty minutes. I'm going over to the office. How about putting this brownish wet stuff you gave me back in the pot?'
'Will you want food?'
'Nothing much. Eggs or whatever.'
'We had eggs for lunch.'
'Then whatever.'
I drove over to Central through a slicing cold wind under low, black, flying clouds. In the office I got out my directory of Albany phone numbers listed numerically. There it was. The Chris number was listed beside the name of Christine Porterfield. Of course.
I copied down the address on Lancaster Street and called Timmy.
'Chris is a woman. The woman I spoke with got pissed off when I referred to Chris as 'he.'
They're lesbians. It was as if a strange woman called you up and said, 'Is Don there, when will she be in?' I want to go over there now and apologize-and probably learn something about Billy Blount. How about you going along? It should help if she knows I'm gay.'
'Should I suck your cock while we're there?'
'A knowing glance or two should do it. I'll pick you up.'
'I've got two frozen meat pies in the oven.' 'Take them out and set them under a warm radiator.
You'll hardly notice the difference it makes.'
We pulled in behind a dark green VW Beetle in front of Chris Porterfield's Lancaster Street address. I wrote down the bug's license number.
The old Greek Renaissance town house looked warm and serene with its crusty yellow brick and brown shutters. The young maples growing from neat squares of earth at the edge of the sidewalk still held most of their dead leaves, some of which exploded into the gusts of wind as we walked up the steps. The brass lamps on either side of the front door had flickering flame-shaped light bulbs. Early American Niagara Mohawk Electric.
I pressed the button and could hear the bing-bong inside.
'Maybe the woman you spoke to was Christine's mother,' Timmy said. 'Or her grandmother.'
'Too young.'
'Or her daughter.'
'No. It all fits. Chris is the woman-friend Huey Brownlee saw Billy Blount with, and the woman of delicate sensibilities who answered the phone is Chris's lover. You'll see.'
'You once told me that it's only in novels that things all fit. Real life tends toward implausibility.'
'Not always. Which is exactly my point.'
'That's quite a logical progression. You should run for the State Assembly.'
Two brown eyes appeared in the little window in the door. The door opened the three inches its lock chain would allow.
The middle third of a face said, 'Yes?'
'I'm Donald Strachey, I'm a private detective, and I want to apologize for my call a while ago. I only had Chris's first name, and since I knew only that someone named Chris was a friend of Billy Blount's, I assumed it was a man. That was unintelligent and presumptuous of me. Are you a friend of Chris's?'
She stared out at me as if I were selling aluminum siding. She said, 'I don't know what you're talking about. Did you say you're a detective?' Her voice was flutey and pretty and apprehensive, and her face was dark and smooth, with maybe some Mayan in it.
I'm private.' I hiked out my card and held it up to the crack. 'This is my associate, Timothy Callahan.' Timmy edged into range and showed his Irish teeth. 'I've been hired by someone to help Billy Blount. But I've got to find him first. Could we talk?'
She hesitated. We didn't look the way detectives were supposed to look. I had on jeans, a flannel shirt, and a down vest. Timmy, who wore a Brooks Brothers suit to his job at the State Senate Minority Leader's office during the week, looked as if he'd just stepped off a B-29 after a run to Bremerhaven.
'I-well, I don't know. Chris isn't here. She's out.'
'You look familiar,' I said. 'Have I seen you in Myrna's? I drop in there sometimes with friends from the alliance.'
I could sense Timmy looking at me and raising his eyebrows questioningly, as if to say, 'Now?'
The woman smiled tentatively. 'Yes, I've been to Myrna's. But-you don't look much like a detective.'
'My Robert Hall suit's at the cleaners. And I've never been big on the Raymond Chandler sort of private-eye high drag.'
She thought about this. She looked as if she were trying to remember if her instructions covered this unusual set of circumstances. I guessed they hadn't and we'd thrown her off balance.
Finally she said, 'All right. I can talk to you, but just for a minute. That's all. Chris isn't here.'
She fiddled with the chain, and the door opened.
We sat in a cheerful room lined with white wooden shelves holding clumps of old, handsomely bound books alternating with bright, graceful figurines and pottery from Central America. The wine-colored velvet chairs were deep and soft, and the stereo receiver was tuned to public radio, which had on Purcell's 'Dido.' The woman, thirtyish, and definitely from south of the border, wore olive slacks and a cowl-collared orange turtleneck with a red stone hanging from a silver chain. Her expression was one of vulnerable distraction-the look of a woman who had recently received a crank phone call and now the crank had arrived at her door. She told us her name was Margarita Mayes and that she was Chris Porterfield's 'roommate.'
'Do you know Billy, too?' I asked.
'I've met him,' she said, then quickly added, 'but I haven't seen him recently. Not since-oh, August, I think. I have no idea where you could find him.'
I looked for evidence of a male presence in the house but saw none. Frank Zimka had told me Billy Blount had flown to another city, but I now knew Zimka had been less than forthcoming about one matter and could as easily have been untruthful about others.
I said, 'Are Chris and Billy good friends? I've gotten the impression they're close.'
She looked at me quizzically. 'They're very close, yes. But how did you know about Chris? Their relationship is-special. They've never mixed with each other's friends, and they've sort of saved each other up as a kind of, oh- refuge.' She tensed, regretting she'd used the word.
'A friend of Billy's saw them together once in Chris's VW,' I said, 'though the friend didn't know at the time it was Chris, And Chris's first name and number were written on Billy's phone book. That's what led me here.'
'I know,' she said, looking worried. 'That's where the police got it.'
'They've been here?'
'Last week. Chris wasn't here. I said she was on a business trip. We own Here 'n' There 'n'
Everywhere Travel. I told them she was in Mexico setting up Christmas tours.'
'They could check on that with Mexican immigration.' She winced. 'I'll try to find out if they have. Chris is with Billy, isn't she?'
She said nothing.
I said, 'Are they in Albany?'
She sat motionless, barely breathing. The apprehension in her dark eyes made Timmy uncomfortable. He picked up a copy of Travel and Leisure from an end table, peered at the cover, then set it down again. Finally she said, 'I think you'd better speak with Chris.'
'I'd like to.'
'But what's your interest in this? Your connection. You said you wanted to help Billy. Why?
Chris will want to know.'
