Channel 4 thinks Iâm up to my neck in Donagherâs troubles.â
âChannel 4. Thatâs the new weekend boy, the one whoââ
âYes.â
âWhat you just heard over the phone was my mind clicking into gear. And it is past due, Michael. Past due. I told you Iâd never sleep from thinking about itââ
âWhat?â
âIt was something in the conjunction of the phone call and the news. But I couldnât come up with it.â
âMary, tell me the important part first and then fill in the blanks.â
âEdward Heineman was the man who telephoned and asked if you were âon the case.ââ
âAre you sure?â
âOf that voice? Of course.â
âThanks.â
That answered one question.
Spraggue ordered another glass of wine at the bar, mulled over the other questions as he drank. Like who tipped Heineman off? Was Heineman really working a story? If he was, why didnât he have a camera crew along?
And most important: Why did Heineman carry in his card case the dog-eared photo of a woman who was a dead ringer for the blonde whoâd left Donagherâs by the back door?
TEN
Sunday eveningâs As You Like It passed like a dream, all disconnected sequences, interminable waits, and sudden urgencies. Tired, Spraggue found himself settling into the predictable rhythm of a show performed too often; he had to struggle against frozen pat responses, find new actions, new activities.
Two curtain calls, each with a modest swell of applause when he bowed. Home. The silence pressed the walls of his apartment inward until he took refuge in the radio and half a bottle of Beaulieu Cabernet. It took time, hours sometimes, for his body to come down from the high of performance, descend to the calm of sleep.
The phone jangled. At first it was part of his dream, instantly, senselessly incorporated. But its shrill insistence stilled the dream and he sat up in bed.
He cursed the moment when heâd deliberately arranged the furniture so that heâd have to leave the comfort of the bed in order to answer the phone. This had occurred while he was still a private investigator and apt to get calls of some importance in the middle of the night. The furniture-rearrangement binge had postdated a 2 A.M. phone call, a conversation during which, according to the other party, heâd agreed to some extremely illegal activities. The next morning, with no memory of the call, heâd gone out and almost gotten himself killed.
He swung long legs out of their blanket cocoon. Tomorrow heâd move the end table and the telephone back. Get rid of the âscene of the crimeâ kit. Maybe then heâd be more convincing when he denied being a private eye. Maybe even Menlo would believe him. Even Aunt Mary.
The phone rang on. Spraggue made it over to the table in the dark, fumbled with the receiver, picked it up fully expecting a wrong number, possibly a frat house ordering pizza. Or Aunt Mary forgetting that lesser mortals slept.
âSpraggue?â The voice was sloppy drunk; if it hadnât called out his name, heâd have hung up after roasting some punkâs ears with choice curses.
âWho is this?â
âItâs me. Your old dumb buddy, Collatos. You expecting somebody else, pal?â
The voice was slurred, unsteady.
âWhat the hell do you want now? Itâs late.â
âHey, hey, thatâs no way to talk to a guy. Listen. I gotta tidbit for you. But you gotta give me your word not to repeat this.â
âWhat?â Spraggue closed his eyes, shook his head, and regretted responding to Collatosâ bait at the reservoir.
âItâs a little secret, jusâ a secret.â
âIf youâve got something to say, say it. This is no time for games, Collatos.â
âSorry, sorry,â Collatos sing-songed. âSorry I bothered you. Itâs just that I figured it out.