"You looked in Barnard's room. Does that mean it was supposed to be empty?"

"Supposed to be. He only paid for a short time- couple of hours, I think. He shoulda been out."

"You didn't check the room before?"

"Man," he said, "I didn't do more than I had to, it was a nasty place. Someone else didn't want to use the room, what did I care if some stupid idiot stayed twenty minutes longer? People that owned it didn't give a damn."

"A two-hour rental," I said. "So Barnard wasn't there to sleep."

He laughed. "Right. You must be a college boy."

"What'd you do when you found him?"

"Called the po-lice, what else? You think I'm stupid?"

"What about the manager? Mullins. Darnel Mullins."

He frowned. "Yeah, Darnel."

"You call him, too?"

"Nah, Darnel wasn't there. He was never around except to kick me out of the office."

"Why'd he do that??"

"Thought he was some kind of writer. Showed up every once in a while, looking down his nose at me and kicking me out so he could use the typewriter. Fine with me. I'd go get something to eat- no drinking, don't put in that I drank, 'cause I didn't. Only ale, once in a while. In the privacy of my own home, not on the job."

"Sure," I said. "So Darnel considered himself a writer?"

"Yeah, like you- only he was writing a book." He laughed at the absurdity of that. "Stupid."

"He wasn't a good writer?" I said.

"How would I know? He never showed me nothing."

"Did he ever get anything published?"

"Not that I heard, and he sure woulda told me; he liked to toot his own trombone."

"Well," I said. "I could ask him if I could find him. Been trying to reach him but haven't been able to. Any idea where he is?"

"Nope. And don't waste your time. Even if you find him, he won't help you."

"Why not?"

"He was an uptight dude."

"Uptight how?"

"Uptight and uppity. And mad. Always mad about something, like he was too good for everyone and everything. Looking down his nose. And telling stories. Like he'd went to college, too good for this damned job; he was gonna write his book and get the hell outa here."

He looked at me.

"Like he had somewhere to go and the rest of us didn't."

"Do you remember where he said he went to college?"

"Some place in New York. I never paid attention to any of his stupid stories, all the man did was bitch and brag. His daddy was a doctor; he worked for some movie hotshot, met all these movie stars at parties." He laughed. "Writing a book. Like I'm stupid. Why would a brother who could do all those things be working at a hole like the Adventure? Not that he admitted he was a brother."

"He didn't like being black?"

"He didn't admit it. Talking all white. And tell the truth, he was light as a white man." Laughing again, he pinched the skin of his forearm. "Too much pale in it. And his hair was yellow- nappy, but real yellow. Like he'd been dipped in eggs- Mr. French Toast."

"Did he have a mustache?"

"Don't remember, why?"

"Just trying to get a picture."

His eyes brightened. "You gonna put my picture in the paper?"

"Do you want me to?"

"Gonna pay me for it?"

"Can't do that."

"Then forget it- aw, okay, if you want- lot better than Darnel's picture. He was an ugly dude. Big and strong- said he played football in college, too. Wouldn't admit he was black, but his nose was flatter than Fatboy's back there. Yellow hair and these wishy blue eyes- like yours, but even wishier. Yeah, come to think of it, I think he had a mustache. Little one. Fuzz. Weak, yellow fuzz. Stupid."

38

I paid him the rest of the money, and he began walking away from me.

"One more thing," I said. "In the article, you said you didn't hear the shots 'cause of traffic. Was traffic that strong at 4 A.M.?"

He kept walking.

I caught up. "Mr. Sylvester?"

The same dry, angry look he'd shown his friend.

I repeated the question.

"I hear you, I'm not stupid."

"Is there a problem with answering it?" I said.

"No problem. I didn't hear any shots, okay?"

"Okay. Did Barnard check in alone?"

"If that's what it says in your paper."

"It doesn't say. Just that his name was the only one on the register. Was he with anyone?"

"How the hell would I know?" He stopped. "Our business is finished, man. You used up your money a long time ago."

"Were you really there, or was it one of the nights Darnel Mullins asked you to leave?"

He stepped back and touched a trousers pocket. Implying a weapon, but nothing sagged the pocket.

"You calling me a liar?"

"No, just trying to get details."

"You got 'em, now get." Flicking a hand. "And don't send no white boy around a camera to take my picture. White boys with cameras don't do well around here."

My stomach grumbled. I had lunch at a deli near Robertson. Rabbis, cops, and stockbrokers were eating pastrami and discussing their respective philosophies. I asked for matzo-ball soup, and while I waited I tried Milo's home, ready to leave another message. Rick answered with his on-call voice. "Dr. Silverman."

"Hi, it's Alex."

"Alex, how's the new house coming along?"

"Slowly."

"Big hassle, huh?"

"Better since Robin took over."

"Good for her. Looking for El Sleutho? He left early this morning, some kind of surveillance."

"Must be the Bogettes," I said.

"Who?"

"Those girls who worship Jobe Shwandt."

"Probably. He's not pleased having to deal with that again. Not that he's talked about it much. We have a new arrangement: I don't discuss the finer points of cutting and suturing, and he doesn't remind me how rotten the world is."

Back home, I tried Columbia University again. Darnel Mullins had, indeed, graduated from the university and done one year of graduate school before dropping out- shortly after reviewing Command: Shed the Light. The alumni office had a home address in Teaneck, New Jersey, and a phone number to go with it, but when I called I got a dress shop called Millie's Couture.

Remembering what Eddy Sylvester had said about Mullins claiming a doctor father, I called New Jersey information and asked for any Mullinses with M.D.'s in Teaneck.

"The only one I have," said the operator, "is a Dr. Winston Mullins, but that's in Englewood."

At that number, a man with an elderly, cultured voice said, "Hello?"

"Dr. Mullins?"

"Yes. Who's this?"

I gave him the biography story.

No reply.

"Dr. Mullins?"

"I'm afraid I can't help you. Darnel's been dead for a long time."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Yes," he said. "A little over twenty years. I guess I never called Columbia to notify them."

"Was he ill?"

"No, he was murdered."

"Oh, no!"

"Out where you are, matter of fact. He had an apartment in Hollywood. Surprised a burglar, and the burglar shot him. They never caught the man. I'm sure Darnel would have liked to talk to you. He always wanted to be a writer."

"Yes, I know, I've got one of his articles here with me."

"Really?"

"Something from the Manhattan Book Review. He used a pen name. Denton-"

"Mellors," he said. "After a character in a dirty book. He did that because I didn't approve of that paper- too left-wing. After that, he kept using it, maybe to prove something to me, though I don't know what."

He sounded very sad.

"It says here he was working on a novel," I said.

"The Bride. He never finished it, I've got the manuscript. I tried to read it. Not my type of thing but not bad at all. Maybe he could have gotten it published… sorry I couldn't help you."