I said, "I agree that Rutka did things to people that were all wrong and you were one of those people."
"Then why are you harassing me too?"
"So that I can find out who killed John Rutka and then get rid of the bloody files. Get it?"
"Oh, sure." He looked unimpressed.
"So. Where were you Wednesday night, Ronnie?"
"When Rutka was killed?"
"Yes. Between, say, seven and ten?"
"At a meeting. At the Parmalee Plaza Hotel."
"And Scooter Raymond watched, right?"
That got him with the pitchfork again and he jerked up and then he jerked down. Here I was, taking out my pent-up disgust with the monumental inanity of local television news on this unlucky twerp. I resolved to be more objective with Linkletter from that moment on.
"How do you know about that?" he moaned.
"That wasn't fair, I admit, but I'm trying to evaluate your trustworthiness."
"Maybe somebody should evaluate yours."
He had me there. I pulled off Central into the parking lot of Albany's premier Long Island-style, Athenian-glitz diner and parked at the deserted far end of the lot.
I said, "I talked to Bruno Slinger last night."
"Oh. I guess I'm his alibi and he's mine. And Scooter's too."
"Bruno thinks you're wonderful."
Now some of the tension went out of him and he let loose with a wan little grin. "I know. I think he's wonderful."
I said, "Even though a couple of prime suspects like you and Bruno corroborating each other's alibis wouldn't impress a jury, the fact that people at the hotel saw you coming and going-assuming they did-would probably be enough to establish your whereabouts somewhere other than at the scene of the abduction and murder. And, I guess, Scooter would testify as to your whereabouts."
He got trembly again. "Oh, Jesus, poor Scooter. I shouldn't have let him come. I never liked threesomes, but I knew Bruno wouldn't mind, so I let him talk me into it. If the station finds out about Scooter, they'll have him sweeping the newsroom floor for the rest of the term of his contract. But he wanted to come. He has this thing about watching weathermen being-you know.
Scooter's a little weird."
"Bruno mentioned that. What is it about Bruno you find so attractive, Ronnie?"
A puzzled look. "You don't think he's attractive?"
"That kind of thing is pretty subjective."
"Well, for me it's his charisma."
"That's not a word I'd have come up with for Bruno."
"You know," he said, gesturing vaguely, "his power and glamour. Somebody who's in his natural element when he's in the media eye. Bruno is brilliant and aggressive-and God is he butch. I get goosebumps just thinking about him."
"Have you ever been involved with that type of man before?"
His body tightened. "Sure. I've gotten lucky a couple of times."
I looked at him and said, "Who was the last powerful, butch man in your life?"
Sweat popped out on his forehead and he looked away. "I can't tell you that."
"You can't, or you won't?"
"I can't. And I won't, ever. That subject doesn't have anything to do with John Rutka, so drop it. What else do you want to know?"
"I'm getting the idea there was a connection between your last boyfriend and John Rutka. Maybe his name is in Rutka's file on you. I'll have to go back and check."
He shook his head. "No. He was too careful. There's no way John Rutka could have known about this man. It won't be in my file, I'm sure. You'd be wasting your time with this man. Take my word for it." Sweat was dribbling off his nose.
"In your file," I said, "there's a note that says you were at a certain motel with someone referred to as 'A' once a week for nearly a year up until mid-June. Was that your boyfriend?"
Tears slid down his face. "I can't take this."
"Was 'A' one of his initials?"
He shook his head and wept silently.
I said, "If John Rutka had known about this man and had been preparing to out him, what would the consequences have been?"
He pulled a perfect white handkerchief out of his back pocket and mopped the tears and sweat from his face.
"Awful," he said. "It would have been- Oh, God. Look, I can't talk about this anymore. I really can't."
"Just tell me this, Ronnie. What would this man's reaction have been if he had been outed?"
He sat there for a long moment shaking his head again, when suddenly he gave a furious shudder, yanked up the sleeve of his jacket, and thrust his left wrist in front of my face.
"Do you see that?" he rasped.
I stared at the scar.
"Ten years ago I had enough of a world full of people like you. If you keep pushing me, Strachey, I'll do it again. And I'll leave a note blaming you."
"No need for that," I said.
"I mean it!"
"I can see you do. I believe you."
"And this time nobody will find me."
"Hey, I'm cool."
"Are you going to stop leaning on me?"
"Yup."
"Is that a promise?"
"I promise."
"How can I believe you?" he said desperately, and flung himself back against his seat.
"I'll take you back to Channel Eight now, Ronnie, if that's where you want to go, and I won't bother you anymore. You'll see."
He sat there for another minute catching his breath, while I spoke to him reassuringly. Finally he interrupted me and said, "Oh, let's have some breakfast." And he got instantly out of the car.
Inside, Linkletter grinned as people throughout the crowded restaurant recognized him and said Hello, and Have a nice day, and I just washed my car so I guess it's gonna rain, huh? Ronnie thought that last one was a knee-slapper.
After breakfast, as I drove back to Channel Eight, we chatted about baseball and of course the weather. Linkletter said the next twenty-four hours would be nice, and I was about to say, "Hey, that's the way we like it," and then thought better of it and just said thanks.
So much for Ronnie Linkletter as a route to the Mega-Hypocrite. end user
20
The Fountain of Eden Motel on Route 5 was an old clapboard house with a neon sign on the roof and a long "L" of fifteen single-story shingled motel units appended to its backside. The office was in the back of the house, and you could pull around and ease up to it without being seen from the highway.
A wooden door with a patched screen led into a registration alcove. The tiny room, which stank of the nicotine stains that gummed the walls, contained a wooden counter, a condom machine, and no chairs. I pressed a button on the counter and could hear a buzzer sound in the inner reaches of the house.
"She's out back!" The male voice was muffled but the words decipherable.
"Whereabouts?" I yelled back.
"Doin' the laundry. Past number six."
I found an open door to a small room squeezed in between units six and seven. A squat, middle-aged woman in shorts and a T-shirt was stuffing sheets into a washing machine, a filtered cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. She was blond and sad-eyed and had a long-lost pretty face somewhere. The cigarette was lighted and her breathing sounded like somebody walking around in a swamp.
"You want a room?"
"How much until noon?"
"Eighteen."
I gave her a twenty and got back two that came from the shorts pocket. The twenty went in there with her wad. She took a key out of her other pocket and said, "I just made up eleven."