I sat at the kitchen table surrounded by my Fiesta Ware, wondering if there was any real reason to spit-shine my gun. Between swipes at the black barrel I smoked a joint and made little headway in understanding my hostility and sudden reluctance to spend time with Boots. Eventually, with everything but frustration exhausted, my mind skipped to The End.

I sketched Melanie’s face and form in my head, returning to her look of anguish during our talk of Peter. A nagging voice wondered if I matched that same look whenever Chana’s name came up: I hoped not. A mix of compassion and self-pity gripped me and I whacked at the second half of the equation. I already knew too much about feeling like a loser.

But I did want to know more about Melanie, to learn what had happened to her after I’d left The End. I had an urge to call Phil to see if he’d heard anything about Peter’s accident, but knew it pointless. He would need more time. My morbid curiosity would have to wait.

It wasn’t only curiosity that made me impatient. Boots’ telephone call had punched a hole through my couch daze and I wanted out of the house. My mind jumped to the director of Hope House, Jonathan, Melanie’s stepfather. Maybe I had a shot at a two-for-one: some background about her, and information about Emil and his role in The End’s drug network.

I was so pleased with my idea that I paid little attention to my misgivings. I could always quit; the only meter running was my own.

I stood, smudged the gleam on the gun with my fingers, and hung it in the holster on the back of the wooden kitchen chair. I often wondered what favor my grandfather had performed in return for chairs from Dutch Schultz’s bar. But I’d never really felt comfortable asking. Mostly I saw my grandfather sitting at a small table in the back of his tavern, playing pinochle. He never seemed to be in a talking mood when money or cards whipped around a table.

I scurried to gather my things. If I stayed inside much longer I’d turn maudlin. Despite a moment’s regret about leaving the cozy steam heat of my apartment, it was time to go.

I drove to The End, parked the car on a side street, and walked slowly to Hope House. The agency wasn’t where I remembered, but I found it a few blocks north. I stood facing a four-story dark red brick house, a once elegant mansion that now proclaimed “institution.” A small group of men in their late teens and early twenties were loitering on the steps, smoking. They did not look like institutional bureaucrats; they looked mean.

And meaner still when I crossed the street, angling toward the steps. I rammed my body against the stiff wind and tried to minimize eye contact. The guys on the stairs looked like they could get annoyed easy—real easy.

Eyeballed with sullen silence, I nodded and shuffled carefully around the two on the lower steps. I slowed, tense and watchful, as the top two reluctantly moved aside. I opened the large door and stepped away from the wordless confrontation into a large room alive with noise and activity.

The back half of the room was stacked with occupied metal bunk beds. About half a dozen people milled around a small Goodwill furnished living room area. I walked to a long telephone reception station where four people sat behind a waist-high plywood “wall” decorated with hand-drawn pictures depicting various forms of urban blight. Behind the plywood cheer, right where a big orange cartoon crane was shown snapping its jaws on a building bulging with people, two men were talking on telephones. The other man and woman huddled together in earnest conversation. All four seemed oblivious to my presence.

I coughed, and the guy who wasn’t on the phone looked up smiling. “Sorry about the rudeness, but I just got off a heavy call and needed to process.”

“Yeah, making appointments puts a real load on.” This kid looked less formidable than the tackheads on the steps.

“Making appointments?”

I grew momentarily confused. “Isn’t this Hope House?”

“Yes, but this side of the building is the Drop-in Center and Helpline. You’re looking for Administration, aren’t you?”

I nodded and followed his hand with my eyes. If I hadn’t been so uptight about the Welcome Committee outside I’d have seen the sign. I reminded myself I was here as a detective: rumor had it alert was part of the job.

I walked into a small room housing the real receptionist. There were bulges in the midsection of her black spandex jumpsuit and she had a beehive of tie-dyed hair. I liked the inter-decade look. Once she hung up the phone she even seemed interested. “Can I help you?”

Interest didn’t always mean originality. “I hope so. I’d like to see Jonathan.”

She pulled a large book from the side of her messy, oversized desk, and put on a pair of speckled cat’s-eye glasses. She looked in the book, then up over her glasses. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No, I don’t.”

The black spandex rippled as she sat up straighter. “Would you like to make one?” “Only if it’s for now.”

She pushed her glasses up to just below the multi-color line. “Are you for real? When you’re talking Jonathan Barrie, we’re talking serious busy.”

“I know what you mean. Good social workers are like rust; they never sleep.”

“You can’t just blow in here and expect to see Mr. Barrie,” she said, the friendliness disappearing. “Even the pols call first.”

For emphasis she popped two pieces of Dentyne into her mouth and chewed glumly in my direction. She looked tired, as if she’d already seen one too many crackpots.

For a moment I considered giving up, then had an idea. I glanced at the nameplate that perched precariously on the corner of her desk. “Well, Sally, I’m definitely not a politician.”

She almost smiled. “I can tell.”

I grinned. “Can we give it a try? Tell Mr. Barrie that Matthew Jacob would like to see him about Peter Knight.”

She pushed her glasses back down. “Aren’t you thinking of Melanie Knight?”

I shrugged off her doubt. “Please, just tell him Matthew Jacob is here about Peter Knight.” She shook her head, but picked up the telephone and punched a button. She cupped the mouthpiece with her hand and mumbled. After a moment she hung up and looked at me with surprised eyes. “Well Mr. Jacob, you might not be the Mayor, but you know something I don’t. Jonathan says he’ll be right down.”

I nodded and walked over to a magazine rack. But before I could thumb through S.I.’s swimsuit issue, I heard my name and turned around.

“Matthew Jacobs?” “Jacob. Without an ‘s.’”

“Sorry. I’m Jonathan Barrie. I’m very pleased to meet you.” He was about five-foot-ten, with thick, black, curly hair generously flecked with gray. It went well with the heavy, black, unbuttoned cardigan he wore over a maroon turtleneck. Dark green wide wales completed the ensemble. Jonathan Barrie might not be “just any social worker” but he sure as hell dressed the part. He reminded me of Judd Hirsch in Ordinary People. I walked over and stuck out my hand. “It’s too early for you to be very pleased.”

Barrie grabbed my hand, shook it firmly, then let it go. “Oh, I don’t think so,” he said, sounding like he knew something I didn’t.

He turned toward Sally. “Can we use your office? I’d like to talk privately with Mr. Jacob.” He waited quietly while Sally left, then looked at me. “This is the only room in the building that has a door. I want our administrators to remember who they’re working for.” A small brisk smile covered his face. “I especially like to watch the looks on our funding sources when somebody from the crash area interrupts a meeting. It usually helps speed our discussions.”

I smiled as he waved me to the small couch. He sat the wrong way on a folding chair, crossing his arms along the top. A shadow crossed his face. “Sally said something about Peter Knight.”

“That’s right.” I suddenly realized I hadn’t planned anything beyond getting to him. He leaned forward, no trace of amusement left on his face. “Why?”

I started groping for a lie, when there was a sudden hard rap on the door. Before Jonathan had a chance to respond, one of the men from behind the plywood graffiti helpline had the door open and was talking. “Jonathan, I have to see you for a minute.”

Barrie stood and turned his wiry frame toward the boy. “Can it hold? I’ve got a visitor.”

The kid pushed long sandy hair off his forehead. “I don’t think so. We’ve been getting complaints all morning about Dennis and his friends hanging out on the steps.”

Jonathan glanced toward the front door. “And no one wants to tell them to move?” he said without intending any insult.

The boy nodded and lifted his shoulders. “No one from here is going to tell Dennis what to do. We’ve been talking about calling the police.”

Jonathan shook his head sharply. “No police without clearing it with me, remember? Let’s see if I can help.”

He moved calmly through the front door and I followed him out. One of the motorcycle jackets looked up and leered. “Leaving so soon, Jon-a-than? Too much do-goodin’?”

Barrie flashed a friendly grin in the jacket’s direction, but spoke to the tall tough with a dirty-blond whiffle. “What am I supposed to do with you, Dennis? You know you can’t hang out on the steps.”

Dennis blinked, and drawled, “Don’t do nothing, my man. Bad enough you threw our asses out in the cold.”

Jonathan nodded his head. “You didn’t give me much choice. The counselor said she didn’t have an aspirin and you threatened to club her with your dick.”

The guys on the steps had trouble keeping the grins off their faces. Dennis’ lips curled downward in what passed for a smile. “She was afraid she’d faint if she saw my iron.”

Everyone laughed and the tension eased except for the black guy at the bottom of the stairs, who muttered something indistinguishable. Jonathan tensed, looked at him intently. “What did you say Shakespeare?”

Shakespeare turned away, and gazed at the street. “Nuthin’. I didn’t say nuthin’, Jon-a-than,” he mumbled with a lisp.

“Good, Speare. I’m glad you said nothing.”

One of the other guys piped up. “Who’s your bodyguard, Jon-a-than?”

Jonathan turned and pointed at me with his thumb. “A friend of mine, Matthew Jacob. He’s a private detective.”

Dennis looked like he had noticed me for the first time. “He hire you to shoot us if we don’t move?” he asked.

At least I knew where I’d start my conversation with Barrie. I grinned at the Whiffle. “Only if he asks.”

The situation threw me back to countless face-to-faces I’d had at the storefront years before. Conversations more pleasant to remember than they’d been to have; especially since many of them were with Blackhead. Who knew, maybe twenty years from now I’d get a case from Dennis?

“Look, Den”—Barrie’s voice was serious—”I had to give you the boot and, if you insist on staying here, I’m going to raise the stakes. Here’s a better idea: go somewhere else for the week. Everyone will have time to forget about it.”

“Jesus, Jon-a-than, I wasn’t gonna do nothing to the broad.”

Barrie cocked his eyes. “I know that and you know that. Unfortunately, the volunteers didn’t. Let’s face it, I can run this place without you, but not without them.”

Dennis grumbled, but elbowed himself away from the railing. “Shit man, I thought you’d let us back in.”

“I can’t Dennis. Now, what will it be?”

“Keep it in your pants, dude. You got any smokes?”

Jonathan reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of Kools. Suddenly there were hands everywhere. Jonathan glanced at the pack, then handed it to Dennis. “Enjoy. But I want that week.”

Grabbing at the cigarettes, the group sauntered down the steps. Jonathan and I stood watching as they pushed and shoved their way down the block. Shakespeare was looking back over his shoulder, and yelled, “Fucking fag!”

Barrie smiled and showed me his palms. “The kid has trouble with his sexuality.”

And I had trouble with Jonathan knowing my occupation. But before I could question him he looked at his Timex. “There went our time. I’d really like to talk with you but I have a meeting I can’t miss. If you come back in a couple of hours we can talk.”

He stared hard at my face. “Please try. I definitely would like to chat.”

I started to protest but Jonathan was already inside the door. My two-for-one had become oh-for-two. I stood cold and suddenly lonely on the vacated steps. I cursed myself for having worn my denim jacket and wondered what to do. I considered calling on Boots, but walked down the steps and headed toward the storefront instead. No law said I had to go oh-for-three.