have to offer. A lot of faggots are like that, I've noticed. Oh, well. What can you do? I suppose it's just my fate in life to be.. unlucky in love.'
The water upstairs was shut off with a clank. My mind attempted to construct a coherent thought, but again it failed. I said, 'Sorry to hear about your run of bad luck, Tad. Good luck in the future.
So. Tell me this. When did you last see Peter?'
'When? Last night. What do you mean?'
'I mean, what time? Did you speak with him again after your conversation at the bar, when I was with him? That was around eleven-forty.'
He laughed dryly and tapped another nonexistent ash into a blue ceramic ashtray the size of a hubcap. 'Well, I wasn't really keeping track of the time last night. Anyway, not until desperation hour rolled around. But, no. I didn't see Peter again after our… initial discussion.'
Footsteps sounded above us.
Purcell said, 'Would you excuse me for one minute. Back in a sec.'
He bounded up the stairway behind the couch. There were muffled voices. I flipped through a copy of Food Product Management. I learned about the development of a square tomato to cut down on storage and shipping costs. Purcell bounded back, all pink again, like a winter tomato.
What was making him blush?
I said, 'Tell me this then, Tad. What time did you leave the Green Room last night?'
He lit another Kool. 'Why do you ask that?'
'I thought you might have run into Peter later.'
'Hah. If only. But no such luck. For what it would've been worth, of course. No, I hung around the Green Room till three-thirty, thinking Peter might come back and try to make me feel better.
He always hated ending things on an unpleasant note. God, he was such a sweet person. But I guess he's changed. Gotten old and cynical like the rest of us, ha-ha. Anyway, about three-thirty I gave up on Peter and drove down to the Watering Hole. Last-chance gulch, right? Thought I might get lucky and fall in love again. It's been known to happen.'
'I've heard. Peter said you told him you haven't been making out well lately. Had a bad year financially. I'm sorry to hear that.'
He blinked, made a face, dragged on his Kool. 'I lost my food supply business last year. Reaganomics did me in. And I voted for that phony. But what I've got now isn't bad,' he said with a tentative shrug. 'I'm in food services at Albany Med. The money there's not too bad. Maybe I'll be out of debt by the time I'm eighty.' He smiled sourly.
More footsteps above us. 'It sounds as if you did get lucky last night,' I said, glancing up. 'Or do you not live alone?'
He shifted and looked embarrassed, with a touch of irritation. 'Oh, you noticed. He heard your voice and he's waiting for you to leave. He says he doesn't want to be seen. He's cheating on his 39 lover and doesn't want word to get back. I can't stand people who do that. I say either you're committed to another human being or you're not. There's no in between. Even though he says it's the first time he's done it in six months, I still hate it. The guy's really the dregs anyway. God, I must have been really plowed last night. My standards are not exactly what they used to be. Five till four at the Watering Hole. God. And I have this awful feeling the guy even has herpes.'
I checked my watch. Eleven-fifteen. 'Well, I hope your luck isn't quite that bad, Tad. You mentioned earlier that you weren't surprised to hear that Peter might be in some kind of trouble.
Why?'
'Because,' Purcell snapped, his face suddenly tightening, 'Peter uses people. Sooner or later, treating people that way is going to get you into trouble. Your chickens come home to roost. You just don't get away with it forever. Squeezing what you can out of somebody and then dropping that person as if they have leprosy. Some people get mad. Very mad. Of course,' he added with a tremulous sigh, 'I got over that a long time ago.'
I thought about telling him that Greco had been with Fenton McWhirter in an apparently mutually satisfying and entirely healthy relationship for nine years. But Purcell must have known that already and chosen not to accept what it signified. He was going to believe what he wanted to believe.
'Just do me a favor and call me if Peter shows up here or contacts you.' I gave him my card and headed for the door. 'Hope you don't come down with herpes, Tad. I hear it's murder.'
He glanced up the stairwell and winced. 'The pits,' he said. 'The absolute pits. Miss Sleaze of Eight-two. Ecchh.'
I closed the door with the brass knocker behind me, thinking, Prepare. Prepare.
I walked up Irving to where my car was parked in front of a house with petunia-filled window boxes under every sill. From a little two-by-five patch of marigold-bordered lawn, a wrought-iron post rose up to hold a bird- house, under whose single round opening was attached a miniature window box containing two tiny Johnny-jump- ups.
I unlocked my car and climbed in. The thing was ovenlike, hot enough to bake a quiche in. I rolled down the windows and sat there watching Purcell's house twenty yards down the street.
The windshield was clouded from my breath and I turned on the defogger. Although Purcell's bitter stew of a biography had been just confused, self-deceptive, and sad enough to sound drearily plausible, I still wanted to witness who his overnight guest had been, or hadn't been.
Within two minutes Purcell's front door opened and Peter Greco emerged. I did not fully believe what I was seeing. The slight dark figure moved quickly down the wooden front steps tapping the wrought-iron curlicued hand rail as he went, and turned east toward Swan.
I was out and running.
'Peter! Peter!'
I caught up with him. He turned. He said, 'Hey- Ron, was it? How's it shakin', good buddy?'
'Hi. Hi, there. Hi, Gordon.'
It was the Greco lookalike I'd picked up in the Green Room and spent twenty-six minutes with the night before. For sure.
He said, 'Let's you and me get together again sometime, whaddaya say, Ron? But I can't right now. Sorry. Gotta visit my grandmother in the hospital.'
'Oh. Too bad. What's she in for, herpes?'
He glared, then began to look a little worried, as if I might be someone not to be trusted, the Irving Street Toucher or something. He turned and walked quickly away, glancing back once to see if I was coming after him.
I wasn't. end user
8
The ransom note was discovered just after eleven.
Timmy had arranged for a tow truck to haul McWhirter's Fiat out to Dot's place until a locksmith could open it and the Fiat dealer could produce a new set of keys. The note, inside a plain white envelope, had been stuck under the Fiat's windshield wiper. The tow truck operator hadn't noticed it, but Timmy, always on the lookout for out-of- place objects, spotted it as the tow truck pulled in at Dot's. The envelope, which had not been on the Fiat at five in the morning when Timmy and I first discovered the empty and abandoned car, was addressed to Dorothy Fisher.
I heard about it from Timmy when I checked in at Dot's from the Price Chopper pay phone two blocks from
Tad Purcell's house. I bought a bag of ice and sucked on a cube while I drove straight out to Moon Road. The sun was brutal in a blinding white sky, and a puddle formed on the car floor where the ice bag leaked.
At Dot's I read and reread the note, which was handwritten in an inelegant, almost childish script that none of us had seen before. It definitely was not the same handwriting as in Friday's threatening letter to Dot.
The note said, 'Pay one hundred thousand dollars if you want Pete to live, we will contact you Mrs.
