2

“You are getting sicker, Livingston,” Ray said. “Quitting college to work in the emergency room of Cameron Hospital is one thing, but renting rooms in the houses of suicidal chicks is another, darker pocket. I worry about you, Livingston. I wish I had more friends, so I wouldn’t have to hang out with you. But I just don’t know that damned many people. It’s a shame.”

I went to the refrigerator and got us both another beer. “I haven’t actually rented the place yet,” I said. “But it’s great. The light is perfect.”

Ray scowled and gulped beer. Ray had a haggard, wild-assed cowboy look that he cultivated: big ragged mustache, snarled hair. He was a methodical painter of realistic egg temperas, one of the few students at Newburg College whose work I sincerely admired. He was living with a very sweet Oriental girl named Holly. Since I had left the school, Ray and Holly were about the only people I still saw.

“I figure I can move on Thursday,” I said. “Will you help?”

Ray looked disgusted. “Sure,” he said.

I talked to Robert Kalso later that day on the phone. “My name is David Livingston,” I said. “I was in your house today looking at the room for rent. I’m interested in renting it.”

“Great,” he said. He had a jovial salesman’s voice. “You got a job?”

I told him I did and prepared to elaborate, but he interrupted. “Then move on in,” he said. “We’ll be looking forward to seeing you.” He hung up.