"Joe Stud," I said.

She put her hand on my knee. "I feel secure with you, too."

"Yeah," I said, "but he takes up less room and he doesn't get emergency calls."

The night sky turned violet. I'd driven north and, just like last week, ended up near Ventura. This time it was more than chance. Best's call had gotten me thinking about Doris Reingold and the Sheas. The discrepancy in their lifestyles. I turned off the highway and entered the city limits. Robin looked at me but didn't say anything.

We cruised the empty, quiet streets. The first thing open was a gas station. The Seville had a quarter tank left. I pulled in, filled up, washed the windows, then told Robin, "One sec," and went to the pay phone. The directory was on its chain, but half the pages were gone. The R's remained, though, and Reingold, D., was listed on Palomar Avenue.

The cashier told me that was ten blocks up.

When I got in the car, Robin said, "Home?"

"Please indulge me for a second. There's something I want to check out."

"Is it related to a patient?"

"Indirectly."

"You're going to drop in on someone?"

"No. I just want to see how someone lives. It won't take long."

"Okay," she said, stretching.

"Yeah, I know I'm a real fun date."

"It's all right," she said. "If you don't behave yourself, he can drive me home."

The address was a one-story bungalow court on a treeless street, three units on each side of a U. Security floodlights washed the stubble lawn. Some of the streetlights were out.

Six or seven college-age boys sat on the grass in folding chairs, drinking beer. Bags of potato chips and Fritos lay at their feet. They had long hair and, though the night was cool, all were shirtless. When I got closer, a couple of them mumbled, "Evening," and one of them gave me the thumbs-up sign. The rest didn't move at all.

I walked up to the thumber. His hair was dark and down to his nipples. His cheeks were hollow above curly chin whiskers.

"Hey, man," he said, in a slurred voice. "Police?"

I shook my head.

" 'Cause we been quiet after that time, man." He flicked hair out of his face and stared at me. "You with the management?"

"No," I said. "Just someone looking for-"

"We paid the rent, man. Cash to Mrs. Patrillo. If she din't give it to you, tha's not our fault."

"Doris Reingold," I said. "Do you know which unit is hers?"

He digested that. "Five. But she ain't here."

"Do you know where she is?"

He scratched his head. "She packed up some stuff and split."

"When was this?"

Frown. Another head scratch. "Yesterday- yesterday night."

"What time?"

"Um… I was just comin' home and she was leavin'. It was at night. I said, You wan' me to carry that stuff for you? but she i'nored me." He belched and I could smell the hops. Taking a swig, he said, "Why you looking for her, man?"

"I'm a friend."

He smiled. "Well, she's okay… ackshally she's a old bitch." Laughter from some of the others.

A crew-cut kid said, "You're just pissed 'cause she cleaned you out, Kyle."

Thumber moved his head fast and stared at him. The other boy said, "Face it, Kyle."

"Fuck you." Kyle looked back at me. "She cheats, the old bitch."

"At what?" I said.

"Everything. Poker, craps, dice. What'd you play with her?"

"Chess."

"Yeah? Well, hate to tell you, but maybe she got herself a new boyfriend."

"Really?"

"Yeah. She split with a dude."

Another of the boys said, "Pass the rinds."

Kyle bent and fumbled on the grass for a long time, to a chorus of derision, before finally picking up a bag of pork rinds. Rolling it up, he tossed it behind his head. Someone caught it. Someone else said, "Shit! Watch it, asshole!"

I said, "Do you remember what this guy looked like?"

"Nope, but he had a fine Beemerdubyou." To his friends: "Remember that Beemerdubyou? With the bitchin' spoiler on its ass?"

A round-faced boy with very long, wavy blond hair said, "Din't it have a bra?"

"Yeah," said someone. "For its tits."

Laugh track.

I looked back at the curb. The Seville was five cars down the block, under a working streetlight. The driver's window was open, and I was pretty sure I saw Spike's blocky head leaning out.

"A dark gray BMW?" I said. "Chrome wheels?"

"Yeah," said Kyle. He shifted imaginary gears. "Gonna get me one of them."

"Bullshit," said another boy. "First you got to get your license back. Then you gotta learn how to play cards not like some asshole."

"I'll get it back, fuck you," said Kyle. Suddenly, his shoulders were hunched and he was drawing his hand back, as if ready for a touchdown throw. He snapped his wrist and tossed his beer can. It flew by me and landed in the street, clattering and rolling, narrowly missing a parked car.

"Hey, man," said someone. "Chill."

"Fuck you!" Kyle was up on his feet. Both his hands were tight and he was bouncing on bare feet. He had nothing on but baggies. Tangles of tattoos on both arms.

He said, "Fuck you," again.

No one answered. The snoring boy was awake.

Kyle wheeled and looked at me.

"What do you want?" he said in a new voice.

I gave him the thumbs-up sign and left.

As I got back in the car, Robin said, "Was everything okay back there?"

"Fine," I said. "Oh, glorious youth."

31

I drove back to Malibu thinking of something Doris had told me.

"I like Nevada."

A serious gambler? Was that where the payoff money had gone? If there'd ever been any.

Her leaving town under Tom Shea's escort right after I talked to her made me sure I was on to something.

Giving Lucy's dream new credence, I thought about the three men. Lowell and two others, one of them almost certainly Trafficant. Probably the one with his back turned.

So who was Hairy Lip?

Maybe just another guest, but more likely someone who knew Lowell and Trafficant well enough to be invited to the private party.

Member of the club.

Another Sanctum Fellow?

When we got home, I reread the newspaper coverage of the Sanctum opening while Robin brushed her hair and got into her nightgown.

Three names, no pictures:

Christopher Graydon-Jones, the English sculptor.

Joachim Sprentzel, the German composer.

And Denton Mellors, the aspiring American novelist. The sole reviewer to praise Command: Shed the Light. He'd also lauded Trafficant's book. His fellowship payback, just as Trafficant's had been?

The more I thought about it, the more it made sense.

Lowell and his two star pupils.

Maybe he'd coached them in something other than writing. But where to go with it?

Robin was in bed, curled on her side.

I slipped out of my clothes and got in next to her, wrapping my arms around her.

She mumbled.

I held her and felt her drift off to sleep.

I woke up before sunrise, thinking about Lucy's dream. She and Ken were spending some time together today, and her next session would be tomorrow.

I made breakfast for Robin and myself and brought it to bed. While she showered, I called New York and made another attempt to locate Trafficant through his publisher. All I learned was that out-of-print authors don't garner much respect.

Robin was ready to leave for the jobsite at 8:30. As her truck pulled away, Spike's flat face pressed up against the passenger window. I was right behind in the Seville.

At Bel Air, she continued east and I turned off at the university. I walked into the research library at 9:25. A few early birds were studying, but plenty of computer terminals were available. I accessed the periodicals index and typed in names, starting with my most likely candidate, Denton Mellors.