'I'll try.'
'Call me.'
'Will do. Hey, Don, how's it going for you back there? Are you ready to make the move yet? You know, we've got men out here, too.'
'Oh-I don't know, Harv. It's my masochistic streak.'
'You into that? Well, if that's your bag, Don, who am I? Anyway, we've got that, too.'
'No, I meant staying in Albany. No, that's wrong, too. I like it here. Albany's not exactly London or Vancouver, but I like my friends here. And a lover-I have a lover. I didn't tell you that?'
'The last time we talked you'd just gotten your divorce from Bambi.'
'Brigit.'
'Right. That was-?'
'Three years ago.'
'God, was it really? We grow old, we grow old, we shall wear our Levis rolled. I hit the big four-oh this year, Don. They're moving us right along, aren't they?'
'Yeah, me too, Harv. I'm forty now. Last night I found the first gray hair in my mustache.'
Pluck it out?'
'Nah, I would have felt ridiculous. Hey, listen, give me a call on Zinsser, will you? I've gotta get moving.'
'It was great talking to you, Don. Glad to hear about the man in your life. Peace to you both. I'll be in touch on Zinsser. Give me a day or so.'
'I'll appreciate it.'
'Glad to do it. See you, brother.'
'Right, Harv.'
I made another credit-card call, to New Baltimore, fifteen miles down the Hudson from Albany.
'Good morning, Sewickley Oaks.'
'The administrator's office, please.'
'One moment.'
Click-click.
'Dr. Thurston's office.'
'Yes, this is Attorney Tarbell, and I'm calling for Stuart Blount. Mr. Blount wishes to know whether Dr. Thurston is fully prepared for the admission of Mr. Blount's son, William particularly in regard to strengthened security. Mr. Blount is especially anxious that there be no unfortunate recurrence of the nineteen-seventy situation. And Judge Feeney, of course, shares that view.'
'Well, I-Dr. Thurston has stepped out, but as far as I know, he's done everything he and Mr.
Blount and the judge talked about last week. The judge was quite insistent regarding the maximum-security aspect, and Dr. Thurston, I know, has been making arrangements. Has young William been located?'
'Not just yet. But he will be soon, hopefully.'
'Should I have Dr. Thurston call you?'
'Thank you, no. Mr. Blount will be in touch. In a week or so, I should think.'
'All right, then. Thank you for calling, Mr. Tarbell.'
'Thank you for answering when I did. Have a nice day.'
'Thank you. Good-bye.'
'Bye now.'
I hung up and said it out loud: Asshole Blounts! Hardy Monkman had once lectured me against the pejorative use of the word 'asshole.' It was counterrevolutionary; it mimicked homophobes. But, as I'd tried to explain to Hardy, there were assholes and there were assholes.
The Blounts were assholes.
I phoned Stuart Blount's office and told his secretary I'd need another two thousand dollars within forty-eight hours. She put me on hold, then came back and said she would mail the check to my office that afternoon. I said, 'Have a nice day.'
I drove over to my apartment and retrieved the Blounts' letter to their son from the jacket of 'I'm Here Again.' I wanted to rip it open, but I didn't. I carefully steamed the flap loose, then unfolded the typed note. It said:
Dear Billy:
You must come and talk with your mother and me. We can help you, plus we have good news for you. We know where Eddie is, and perhaps we can arrange to put you two in touch.
Your father, (Signed) Stuart Blount
Eddie again. The guy whose lookalike had once gone into the Music Barn and sent Billy Blount into a tailspin. Who the hell was this Eddie?
12
I drove out Western. Dlsco 101 was playing the Village People's 'Sleazy.' I switched over to WGY and wound down with some Tommy Dorsey-way down, too far. Public radio had on a Villa-Lobos guitar piece, and I stayed with it on the drive out to Trucky's.
Truckman put out a light buffet every day from twelve to two-for $1.95 you could fill up on water-soaked starches and poisoned cold cuts. It was popular and drew a mainly straight crowd from SUNY and from the State Office Campus.
I ate macaroni salad and salami with yellow mustard on a day-old bun. I looked for Mike Truckman but didn't see him around. The dance floor was roped off and the juke box was playing something of the Bee Gees'. I went back to the disc jockey's booth and saw a DJ I'd met a few times at parties. He was inside, sorting through records and listening to something on his headset. I opened the door and went in.
Niles Jameson was a small, skinny black man with a full Afro and a big nimbus of black fuzz all around his placid, delicate face. He wore black pants and a black T-shirt and looked like a dark balloon on a dark string. He glanced my way as I came in and shoved the headset off one ear as he went on examining a stack of new records.
'Hi. I forget your name.' He had a big, resonant voice, like a radio DJ's.
'Don Strachey. We've met at Orrin Bell's. I was there the night the guy from Tulsa went through Orrin's waterbed with his spurs.'
He looked at me and smiled. 'Niagara Falls.'
'The people downstairs thought so.'
'Wet.'
He flipped a record off the turntable and, using the palms of his hands like fingers, popped it into its jacket. 'You're the detective, right? Superfly.'
'Something like that.' I looked at the records he was going through. 'What's new that's good?'
'The Pablo Cruise is nice. And an Isley Brothers that's gonna knock your socks off.' He put another record on and moved his body to the sound in his ear.
I always felt like Barbara Walters in these situations. I said, 'Is disco going to last?'
He said, 'Is dancing?' He was young. But I nodded knowingly.
I said, 'Have you taken Steve Kleckner's place?'
'Some nights,' he said. 'I free-lance.'
'Where abouts?'
'Parties, college dances, a straight club in Watervliet. Whoever'll hire me.'
'You knew Kleckner, didn't you?'
He changed records. 'Yeah. I knew Steve. He set me up with Truckman. The DJs all help each other out, mostly. There's a couple of turkeys, but not too many. Steve was a good man. I liked Steve.'
'I heard he was depressed about something the couple of weeks before he was killed. Do you have any idea
