"Like having your hair starched."
He mused for a moment. "I hadn't thought of that, actually. Might make sleeping difficult."
"Wyl," I said. "Toby Vane."
"Oooh," he said. "That terrible television show. Which I watch religiously every week, of course. What about him?"
"I want everything you've got."
Wyl narrowed his eyes in an attempt to look shrewd. "For reading or for buying?"
"For buying. And I'll make you a deal. After I've finished with it, I'll give it back to you and you can sell it all over again, assuming anyone is dumb enough to want it."
"Why would you do that?"
"Why not? I'm not out to create a permanent collection. You don't have to bind the stuff."
"I have some lovely vinyl."
"Bind it to death, then, if it'll make it easier for you to sell when I'm through with it."
"You must have some expense account. Do you know him?"
I thought about it. "In a manner of speaking."
"Is it true what they say about him?"
"That depends on what they say about him, doesn't it?"
"That he beats up a girl every morning just to work up an appetite for breakfast."
"Something like that."
"Honey," Wyl said, "the poor lad obviously hasn't admitted something to himself. Do you think it's ever occurred to him that he might prefer boys?"
"That's an interesting idea. But I'm sure it hasn't."
"Just as well," Wyl said thoughtfully. "He'd probably wind up punching them, too."
"Have you got much on him?"
"Scads, and all of it recent, naturally. Not difficult to find. Do you really want to give it back after you read it?"
"Sure, but there's a catch."
"Goes without saying. You're going to dog-ear it or something."
"No. Because you're going to do it for me. Every page that's got anything to do with Toby."
"Dog-earing is barbaric. Haven't you got any respect for the printed word?"
"But you'll do it."
"No, I won't. No dog-earing, no paper clips. Tell you what. I'll use those cute little yellow sticky things. You can just peel them off as you go."
"Buy some extras," I said, "and save the receipts."
"Honey, no need. My whole life is arranged around stick-its. One entire wall of my kitchen is literally papered with them. I use them for taxes, inventory, shopping lists, reminders, phone messages, calendars, everything. I even used one on a cut finger once. And, do you know, I'm so much a creature of habit that I wrote 'Cut' on it before I put it on my finger? That reminds me, did I ever tell you about the time I saw Lee J. Cobb?"
"Lee J. Cobb? No, I don't think you did."
Wyl took a long breath. "In the market, of all places, actually doing his shopping. Of course this was some time ago, almost before there was smog. He had such a mean mouth, you could tell he'd suffered. There I was in the checkout line, reading TV Guide, it was so little in those days and Lucy was always on the cover, and I looked up when someone bumped my derriere with a shopping cart, and ohmygod it was Lee J. Cobb. I had this whole cart just piled with stuff-Mother always saved coupons, and I did my shopping for weeks at a time, more stuff than they put with the pharaoh into the Great Pyramid-and he only had some celery and a chicken breast, poor man must have been trying to lose weight, and I know how that is, so naturally I let him go first. He grunted at me."
"Grunted?"
"I knew it meant thanks. Well, I went home in an absolute daze and put everything away, labeling it first like I always do, but this was before stick-its, so I just wrote on the paper with a crayon, humming to myself and thinking about Death of a Salesman and that adorable Kevin McCarthy. And you know, about a week later when I was having some friends over for dinner, I went to the freezer to find the leg of lamb I'd bought that day, and when I pulled it out it had a great big LEE J. COBB written on it. Is it any wonder I'm in this business?"
"Everything on Toby," I said. "Okay?"
"I thought we'd already settled that."
"The stick-its are fine."
"Don't you ever use them? They'd be perfect for you, you could take notes on them. Come to think of it, I've never seen you take any notes. Sometimes I don't actually believe you're a detective."
"Let me use your phone, then. You can listen in, and then you'll know."
"Of course. You know where it is by now. Just write down the numbers of any toll calls on the stick-its next to the phone and put them on the wall. Listen, I think Dracula over there needs some help. Do you mind?"
"Not at all. But I thought you wanted to prove to yourself that I'm a private investigator."
"Honey, Draculas never take very long."
The phone was an old black number with a dial. It weighed about fifteen pounds. My first call was to Bernie Siegel, a professional graduate student who had abandoned his will to the siren call of UCLA and was there, apparently, for life. Bernie had more degrees than I did. He was the aging top gun of research, always waiting for some punk kid with thicker glasses to come along and prove he was faster with an index card.
He answered on the first ring; he was probably curled up next to the phone reading Heidegger or Swedenborg for a nice, relaxing afternoon.
"Bernie," I said, "fifteen dollars an hour."
"There are people I won't hurt, Simeon," he said. "Give me a minute and I'll think of some."
I gave him a minute. Then I gave him another one.
"Okay," he said. "Who is it?"
"Everybody in South Dakota named Sprunk. Only, you don't have to beat them up. You just have to get me their addresses and telephone numbers."
"That sounds more than fairly boring."
"That's why it's fifteen dollars an hour."
"How about North Dakota? They're the same except for a couple of letters."
Toby always said South Dakota. Would he have lied? After a moment, I realized that Toby probably couldn't spell a name for the Information operator without changing a few letters for fun. "Sure. Also the other states that border it."
"Canada borders it, too, if I have my geography right. No, I don't. But at least it borders North Dakota. Honest to Christ, why don't they just make it one big state and forget it?"
"This guy's not Canadian," I said with more assurance than I felt. "Just stick to that area of the USA, okay?"
"Sprunk? S-p-r-u-n-k?"
"How else would you spell Sprunk, Bernie?"
"Maybe he's French. Maybe it's with a q-u-e instead."
"Sprunque? That's not possible."
"Or German. Sprunch, with a hard ch."
"Sprunk," I said, "the easy way. South Dakota and environs."
"Just making sure," he said. "How's Eleanor?"
"Why does everybody ask me how Eleanor is? Why don't you just ask Eleanor?"
"I don't have her phone number." Bernie had once been sweet on Eleanor in an appealingly sublimated way. He had taught her everything there was to know about the Chicago School of Architecture while working up the nerve to ask her out. By the time I met her she knew all about the infrastructure of skyscrapers, but she'd still never had a date with Bernie.
"And I'm not going to give it to you, either. Anyway, you've got all these Sprunks to keep you busy."
"When do you need it?"
"Tomorrow. I'll call you."
"I'll be waiting. Breathlessly," he added, "with my entire life held in precarious abeyance." He hung up.