"Hi. I already have a set of encyclopedias, you'd have to talk to the owner about aluminum siding, and I already have Jesus in my heart. But thanks anyway."

I said, "How much are you paying for your long-distance calls?"

"I don't make any. Everybody I know lives in West Hollywood. "

"But perhaps one of them will move to Fresno and you'll want to stay in touch. Micky's Phone Company will enable you to do that for just pennies a day."

"Anybody who moved to Fresno voluntarily would not be a person who'd want to hear from me. I wish you all the luck in the world with your phone company, Micky, but right now I'm kind of busy."

He tried to shut the door, but I stuck my foot in it. "I'm Don Strachey, a private investigator from Albany, New York, and I'd like to talk with you about Al Piatek."

Slightly built and a little stoop-shouldered, he wore jeans and a lavender Tshirt with printing across the front that said BORN TO RAISE ORCHIDS. He had a sweetly comic oblong face and droll blue eyes that were just right for the sly chirpiness of his manner, but now his face fell. He blinked a couple of times and recited, "The sky was black with chickens coming home to roost."

"What's that from, Macbeth?"

"Camille, I think. I guess you'd better come in. I'm Kyle Toot."

I entered the miniature house, or houselet.

"Sit wherever you can find a place. No, let's go out to the kitchen."

"Is it nearby?"

We passed through the living roomette, where stacks of paper with printing on them were arranged on the floor, coffee table, couch seat and arms.

"Did Jack Lenihan send you out here, or is he in trouble himself?"

"Both."

"Could I get you anything?"

"Information."

"I'd better have a drink."

I wedged myself into a seat between the Formica table and the south and east walls. Toot: brought out a jug labeled "Grackle Valley Pure Spring Water-no additives, no fad-datives." He poured from the cAntainer into a glass, then replaced the jug in the refrigerator, which had a canister motor atop it, circa 1934. Los AfigeleS, land of antiquities.

"Do you keep gin in there?"

"No, I keep water in there. It's obvious you're from Albany" He squeezed into the seat across from me.

"Why do you say that?"

"It's a town where the consumption of gin from a jug in midafternoon is probably a commonplace."

"It's endemic but not epidemic. And now you're going to tell me that in Los Angeles the ingestion of mind-altering substances is practically unknown,"

"It's known, but not by me. People who want to work can't stay stoned all the time. Unless they're already under contract. I'm not."

"You're an actor?"

"Sometimes. I also cut and staple raffle tickets for a printer. That's the mess in the living room. I get a penny a book, and it's a rich and rewarding life."

"I've heard that acting is chancy."

"Last month it was Uncle Vaniaa at the Harriet and Raymond P. Rathgeber Pavilion, and this month it's raffle tickets, I auditioned for the fool to Charlton Heston's Lear, which is opening in May, but Chuck thought I was too tall. Fools in Elizabethan times were iiever more than four feet tall, he told me, and he wants to keep it authentic. I'm up for the part of Ticky, a new character they're introducing on Love Boat next season, but it'll all depend on how my eye-rolling test came out. You have to be able to roll your eyes up into your skull, down the inside of the back of your head, up your jawbone, and into the sockets again. That's how the writers wrote the character, and the producers have too much integrity to alter the conception. I had sinus problems the day I auditioned, so I don't know how well I did."

"Well, I'll watch for you in case you make it. It's my favorite show except for reruns of Love That Bob."

He laughed and said, "How's crazy Jack Lenihan doing? Has the law caught up with him yet? Now there's an actor."

"He's dead."

Toot went white. "No."

"Yeah."

"What happened to him? Jack was fine in October. He's dead?"

"Jack died on Tuesday. He was murdered." Toot had been nursing his glass of spring water, but now he set it down and stared at me. I said, "How did you know Jack? Are you from Albany?"

"No, I'm from Encino. Who killed him? Why?"

"Those are two things I'm trying to find out. So are the police. An Albany cop by the name of Bowman will probably come by here. It's known that Jack had a connection of some kind with Al Piatek. Everybody wants to know what it was. Did you live with Al here?"

"For a year and a half."

"Lovers?"

He shook his head and shuddered. "No. Thank God, no. We'd tricked once a long time ago, but that was years ago, when he first came out here from Albany. No, Al and I were not lovers. I want to make that clear. As it is, a lot of people won't get within ten feet of me. I seem to run into two types these days, guys who think nothing's changed, that we're still back in '77 and Donna Summer's in her heaven and all's right with the world, and guys who think the plague's waiting for them on the rim of every drinking glass. But you don't get AIDS from sharing the rent. There's just no known instance of it."

I said, "I didn't know."

"Know what?"

"How Al Piatek died."

"Oh well, it lasted eight months, and it was inhuman, grotesque."

"He was here with you?"

"Of course. This was his home."

"You two must have been close."

He shrugged. "No. To tell you the truth, I didn't even like Al very much. His interests were in rock music-he was a recording engineer at Zimmer Studios-and was into the musicians and their dope. I like baroque music and I'm indifferent to most pop stuff, except to dance to. In fact, Al wasn't even here very much until he got sick. Mostly, Al went his way and I went mine."

"But you took care of him through the illness?"

"About half the time he was in the hospital. When he was here, I did what I could. People from the AIDS support group came by, and I helped out. I was able to do it because-well, because I knew it wasn't going to last. That Al wasn't going to last. That's cynical, I know, but it was better I did that than cutting out, don't you think?" I nodded. "I did what I could. Al went back to the church toward the end. I took him to Mass the few times he could get out of bed and walk, and I know it helped. I even pretended to regain my own faith. He seemed to want me to. It was phony as all get-out, but I'm a good actor. I sometimes feel guilty about that-that I demeaned Al by pretending. But the alternatives seemed even worse. I think I did the right thing."

"It's complicated, but I think you did too."

"It's a horrible way to die. You're gay, right?"

"How did you know?"

"Oh, puh-leez, Mary!"

Twenty years earlier my indignation would have known no bounds, but I'd been carried gasping for air along with the times, so I smiled sweetly. I wasn't wearing an earring or hot hankie, however, so I wondered what the devil he meant. I supposed he had some uncanny sixth sense. Or maybe it was the fact that I hadn't flinched when, as he was speaking, he leaned across the table and placed his hand on mine.

I said, "Your palm is sweating."

He withdrew the hand. "I wanted to see if you were who you said you were."