I poured myself more coffee and lit a cigarette. Everyone watched their own goddamn ass. Alex was a father who seemed more concerned about his successor than his daughter’s mental health. I wondered whether mortality made that inevitable and, in a perverse way, was almost glad my own daughter hadn’t lived long enough for me to find out.

But Alex didn’t deal in reality, he dealt in deals. Somehow, he and I had just cut another one. The unspoken sense of commitment that lingered after a conversation with him must work pretty well with honorable men; me, I was impatient for Boots’ call so I could track the damn kid down.

I shook myself out of the kitchen and upstairs to Mrs. S. Cold coffee wasn’t making it; maybe tea would help my hangover and impatience.

It did, at least for a while. Charles joined us, catching me up on news of the house. Although they questioned me thoroughly, little remained of my prior hero status. I got the distinct impression they thought there were no real cases. If I hadn’t a few leftover aches and pains I might have thought the same. As it was, by the time I wrote some checks, the cotton returned, only this time with a thrasher; I needed more grass.

I stayed clear of the couch and settled into the easy chair. That lasted long enough to roll a joint. I smoked and prowled around the apartment. Meeting with Charles and Mrs. Sullivan had been unsettling. Not them, actually; more my disinterest with the building and its goings-on. A couple of weeks ago it had been my entire life.

The dope changed the rhythm of my pacing, but was no help settling me down. It had been a long time since I’d waited for a call.

Somewhere between the walking and the ring of the telephone I had fallen asleep. I jolted awake, fought off a chocolate lust, and lunged for the phone. Praise the lord for machine memory.

“I’m here. Don’t hang up, please.” Where were my fucking cigarettes?

“Who is this?” A hoarse, scratchy man’s voice parted my hair.

“Matt Jacob. Who is this?”

“The wrong goddamn number.”

I couldn’t put the phone down. I pulled the dead receiver into the kitchen where I retrieved my cigarettes, and looked through the drawer until I found Boots’ card.

“Elizabeth Stuart. Who’s calling?”

“How is it that a VIP answers her own phone? I forgot to ask you yesterday.”

She chuckled. “Something everybody asks and always remembers. Did you call to learn about my meteoric rise to the top or is there some ulterior motive behind your newfound initiative?”

“Funny lady. Is this Ma Bell’s new advertising campaign? A happy worker is a productive worker? Or does your office use nitrous oxide,” I glanced at the clock and read 2 P.M., “for a mid-afternoon break?”

“Actually, I’m happy you called. Are you home?”

“Yes.”

“Well sit tight and I’ll call you back in a couple of minutes.”

What choice? “Okay.” I must have sounded disappointed.

“I’ll explain when I call.”

By the time she called she didn’t need to explain. “Are you in a pay phone?”

“Yes.”

“So it’s a little like, ‘Who’s making love to your old lady while you’re out making love?’ ”

“I suppose, though the analogy makes me think you have more than one ulterior motive. You do want the name and the address?”

“Right. And you wanted to be out of the building when you told me.

“Right, we work well together, don’t we?”

“You just stepped on my line.”

“Fuck you,” she said with a slight giggle. “Here it is.” Name and address. “Actually not much information. Must be a newcomer to our wonderful state. I could play computer games and trace interstate, but since the breakup there is much less professional courtesy. It would probably take a couple of days and I thought you wanted this sooner.”

“Boots, this is mindblowing. Are you sure it’s the right car?”

“Only Lincoln in town with the number and letter you gave me.”

“Christ, you’re not even Government.”

“It would have taken the government six weeks to get this,” she said sarcastically. “Do you want me to work on their schedule?”

“Of course not. I don’t know if I’ll need more, can I let you know?”

“Of course.”

I wrote the name and address she gave me on the back of an envelope. “You don’t mind doing this?”

“I’m not the one fretting about Big Brother, am I?”

“Thanks, Boots. When do you want to go out?”

“I don’t know my time yet. Call me in a couple of days.”

I resisted an urge to ask who made her schedule. It would be mean and she’d just finished doing me a favor. Also, I didn’t want to confirm what I suspected.

I put the phone down and looked at the envelope. Joe Starring, 27 Gardner, 555-3449. I pulled a map out of my junk drawer and looked up Gardner. It was in Brighton, right behind Brighton Avenue. I wouldn’t have any difficulty finding it.

If I wanted to. Faced with actually finding this kid, the uselessness of my interest struck me. There was no reason to track him down. I stuffed the envelope in my pocket and trudged around the house gathering my stuff. I felt especially foolish when I strapped on the gun and slipped into a loose-fitting sports jacket. If it hadn’t been for the image of his car driving in the same direction as Fran’s, I probably would have dropped the whole thing there and then. But he did and I couldn’t, so I stopped thinking and called the number on the envelope. No answer. I had stepped out the door into the alley when I remembered the lock pick. When I went back inside I put my dope away. If I ended up busted, I might as well make it as easy for Simon as I could.