"I'll be careful," I said. "Well chat through her keyhole."
"Yeah, well, don't get too close or she'll do you right through the keyhole." He started to change the record, then looked back at me. "No offense."
I said, "I'm reasonably secure."
"I'll bet you are."
Games. I liked them once in a while, though not so much just after lunch.
I left Jameson and went looking for Mike Truckman. I found him in his office going through invoices and looking as if the papers in front of him were atrocity reports from Amnesty International. Alongside the papers were a glass and bottle.
"Don, hey Don, nice to see you. How you making out with the Blount kid? Have a drink."
I slid up onto the Molson's crates. "I've got some ideas," I said. "Another week or so and I think I'll have him back here."
"Oh, yeah? Where's he at?"
"West of Utica."
"Syracuse?"
"Farther. Meanwhile I still don't think Blount did it. I'm working on who did. Any more ideas since I saw you last?"
He stuck his lips out and slowly shook his head. The puffed flesh around his eyes was the color of dirty snow, and his hair stuck out in yellow-white clumps. One hand lay on his telephone, as if he might need to grasp it for leverage or support. The telephone gave half a ring before the hand snatched it up.
"Trucky's-Well, hello, a friend of yours is here right this minute!" He looked at me and mouthed Timmy's name. "Sure thing, Tim, I'll tell him-mm-hmmm-mm-hmmm-Right- Oh, yes
— Swell-Oh sure, oh sure, as always-A hundred. No, two hundred. Who do I make it out to?
— Sure thing, Tim, I'll send the check along with Don here-Right-Okay, kid, see ya, then."
He hung up. "Your pal Timothy says to tell you he'll be at the alliance meeting tonight. They're setting up a legal-defense fund for the people arrested at the Rat's Nest. Nordstrum is handling his own suit, but the alliance is going to help the customers who were busted-for 'buggery' or whatever the fuck it was. Here-." He scrawled out a check. "Things are tight right now, but not so tight I can't help fight a fucking-over like this one. As always." He raised a glass and saluted.
I folded the check and put it in my wallet. "Did Timmy mention whether the other bar owners are helping out?"
"He didn't say. He probably called me first so he could let those other tight-asses know I gave.
For what that'll be worth.
You and I know, Don, don't we? They're only out for themselves. Even the gay bastards especially the gay owners. They're so goddamn chintzy they won't part with a nickel unless they can figure a way to get a dime back on it. I don't know whether they see the movement as competition or what. But they're killing themselves. It'll all come back on them."
"I doubt that," I said. "Eighty percent of the homosexuals in this country would patronize Anita Bryant's place if she had a hot dance floor and sold drinks two-for-one on Friday night. Ten years ago ninety percent would have, but there's still enough indifference around to feed any amount of greed. It's changing a little, but we're still a minority. Face it, Mike."
He nodded. "I have. I know. Do I know."
"You're a rare one, though, Mike, and there are people who appreciate it. You'd better know that, too. You're a-a credit to your sexual orientation."
He tried to laugh, but it wasn't in him. I felt for him and didn't want to bring up what I knew I had to. I said, "Mike- this is hard, but-I'm sort of going through a process of elimination. I'm hard-headed and thorough, you must have heard that, and I've got a thing about making lists and crossing things off. Or, to put it in the more positive light that's appropriate in your case, I'm trying to establish alibis for the night of the murder for all the people Steve Kleckner knew best.
I know you and Steve had an affair once and that you were-well, sort of jealous of Steve's other men." He froze. I said, "For the sake of my obsessive neatness, then, just tell me where you went that night after you left here at four."
He stared at me through his alcoholic haze, stricken, and for an instant I thought he was going to cry. My inclination was to keep rambling on in the same convoluted vein, but I knew it would only come out worse. Not that it mattered. His hurt altered into anger, and he said-croaked the words out, "I wouldn't have believed it! After everything I've done-"
That irritated me. "Mike," I said, "that's beside the point- in a thing like this. Just rattle it off and that'll be the end of it. Really-"
"Fuck you, Strachey!"
"Look, Mike, you know I'm discreet to the point of-"
"I said fuck you, Strachey!"
"Mike, if you were with someone underaged, or whatever the hell it might have been-"
He looked at me with ferocious scorn and-I was sure of it-with fear.
"Okay," I said. "It's okay, Mike. Look-we'll talk again. After you've given some thought to what I'm trying to do. One request, though. I want to talk to Harold the cleaning lady. Could you give me her address?"
He didn't move. "You've hurt me deeply, Don. Please leave." Tears ran down his cheeks.
"Yeah. Okay." I stood up. "One last thing, Mike. Do you know anyone who owns a late-model gold-colored Olds Toronado?"
I watched his expression, but it didn't change. He just sat there, the tears rolling down his face and dripping onto his invoices.
I asked him if he'd been with Frank Zimka that night. He flinched when I said the name, but still he didn't move.
I said, "Okay, friend," and left him.
I got Harold the cleaning lady's address from one of the bartenders and drove back down Western into town. I kept the radio off, and I wanted a cigarette.
13
I stopped for gas and reached Harold Snyder from a pay phone. I explained who I was and what I wanted, and he said, "Fuck off, dear," and hung up.
I drove over to his place on South Lake Avenue. I went in a side entrance of the old frame house and knocked on the second-floor door that had Snyder's name painted on it with what looked like shiny red nail polish.
The door opened and a movie star stood there in a filmy negligee and boxer shorts.
I said, "I'm Donald Strachey. I'm persistent."
"Did I tell you to fuck off, or did I tell you to fuck off? Hey?"
She stamped her foot and made an indignant flouncy movement with her shoulders and hips. I'd always found effeminate men unappealing, but once when I'd made a crack to Brigit about "that faggy guy over there," she'd replied, "Faggy is as faggy does." Which missed the point by a mile but still left an impression on me. I tried to become more tolerant.
"If you're interested in having Steve Kleckner's killer caught," I said, "you'll want to talk to me.
And what happened to Steve could happen to someone else if the killer isn't found. Another gorgeous man lowered forever into the cold, cold ground. Help me make that not happen."
She looked interestedly at my face for a moment, and then at my crotch, and then at my face again. "What are you, anyway, doll-face? You're mu-u-uch too cute to be an Albany cop, but you did say you were a detective. You said that on the phone. Explain yourself, luv."
"I'm a private detective." I showed her the card. I half-closed one eye like Bogey and said out of the side of my mouth, "I work alone, sweet-haht."
She gave me what I took to be a Lauren Bacall look. "Well, you do look a little like Robert Mitchum. You should have mentioned that when you called, hon, it might have made a difference. Even if you didn't, it might not be too late for us." She gave me a sultry look with no apparent humorous intent, though it still appeared to have been learned from Carol Burnett.
I said, "You got a cold beer? It's warming up again."
"H-well! I just don't know if I should have a man in my apartment who's drinking. Who knows what might happen?"