"I don't know what's right and wrong anymore."

"I thought cops always know."

"They're supposed to. And that might have been one of the reasons I stopped being a cop."

"I certainly hope this doesn't mean I'm going to have to stop being a faggot," he said. "It's all I know." He picked up one of the sketches and tugged his lower lip as he looked at it. "The boys who hustle older men are mostly on the street these days, from what I hear. Lexington Avenue in the low Fifties. Times Square, of course. And the Hudson piers from Morton Street on up. The kids hang out on the river side of West Street and the johns drive up in their cars."

"I was in a few of the West Street bars before I came here."

He shook his head. "They don't let the young stuff in those places. And the hawks don't gather there, either. They're mostly bridge and tunnel types, cruising in their cars, then going home to their wives and kiddies." He put a fresh squirt of seltzer in my glass. "There is one bar you should try, but not until later on in the day. Not before nine-thirty or ten, I wouldn't think. You won't find boys there, but you might run into some dirty old men with an interest in them. That's at the Eighth Square. On Tenth Street just off Greenwich Avenue."

"I know it," I said. "I've passed it, but I never knew it was gay."

"You wouldn't necessarily know from the outside. But it's where all the most dedicated chickenhawks do their drinking. The name says it all, doesn't it?" I must have looked puzzled. "Chess," he explained. "The Eighth Square. That's where a pawn becomes a queen."

I had called Elaine earlier and she'd begged out of our dinner date. She had either flu or the worst cold ever and it had knocked out her energy, her appetite, and her ability to make sense out of what she was reading. All she could manage was naps in front of the TV. I stayed downtown and had spinach pie and a baked potato at a Sheridan Square coffee shop and went to a meeting at a storefront clubhouse on Perry Street. I ran into a woman I'd known at St. Paul 's. She'd sobered up there, then moved in with her boyfriend on Bleecker Street. She was married now, and visibly pregnant.

After the meeting I walked over to the Eighth Square. The bartender wore a tanktop with a German eagle on it and looked as though he spent a lot of time at the gym. I told him Gordie at Calamity Jack's had suggested I ask him for help, and I showed him the sketches of the boys.

"Look around," he said. "See anyone like that here? You won't, either. Didn't you see the sign? 'Be twenty-one or be gone.' It's not purely decorative. It means what it says."

"Julius's used to have a sign," I said. " 'If you're gay please stay away.' "

"I remember!" he said, brightening. "As if anyone who wasn't a little light on his feet would ever darken their door. But what would you expect from those Ivy League queens?" He leaned on an elbow. "But you're going way back. Before Gay Pride, before Stonewall."

"True."

"Let me have another look. Are they brothers? No, they don't really look alike, it's more attitude, isn't it? You look at them and you think of wholesome things, Scout hikes and skinny-dipping. A paper route. Playing catch on the back lawn with Dad. Listen to me, will you, I sound like The Donna Reed Show."

He didn't recognize the boys, and neither did the few customers he showed the sketches to. "We really don't allow the sandbox set in here," he said. "We come here to complain about how cruel they are, or how much it costs to keep them happy. Wait a minute, now. Who's this?" He was studying the third sketch, the one of Rubber Man. "I think I've seen him," he said. "I can't swear to it, but I think I've seen him."

A couple of other men came over and leaned over me to examine the sketch. "Of course you've seen him," one said. "You've seen him in the movies. It's Gene Hackman."

"It does look like him," another said.

"On the worst day of his life," the bartender said. "I see what you mean, but it's not him, is it?" I said it wasn't. "Why use drawings, though? Isn't it easier to identify someone with a photograph?"

"Photographs are so common," one of the others said. "I'm all for drawings, I think they're a very fresh idea."

"We're not thinking of redecorating, Jon. This is about identification, not redoing the breakfast nook."

Another man, his face wasted with AIDS, said, "I've seen this man. I've seen him in here and I've seen him on West Street. Maybe half a dozen times over the past two years. On a couple of occasions he was with a woman."

"What did she look like?"

"Like a Doberman pinscher. Black leather from the toes up, high-heeled boots, and I think she was wearing spiked cuffs on her wrists."

"Probably his mother," someone said.

"They were definitely hunting," the man with AIDS said. "They were on the prowl for a playmate. Did he kill those boys? Is that why you're looking for him?"

The question startled me into an unguarded response. "One of them," I said. "How did you know?"

"They looked like killers," he said simply. "I had that thought the first time I saw them together. She was Diana, goddess of the hunt. I don't know who he was."

"Cronus," I suggested.

"Cronus? Well, that would fit, wouldn't it, but it's not the thought I had. I remember he was wearing a floor-length leather coat and he looked like a Gestapo agent, somebody who'd come knocking on your door at three in the morning. You know what I mean, you've seen those movies."

"Yes."

"I thought, these two are killers, they're looking for someone to take home and kill. You're being silly, I told myself, but I was right, wasn't I?"

"Yes," I said. "You were right."

I took the subway to Columbus Circle and picked up the early edition of the Times on my way home. There were no messages at the desk and nothing interesting in the mail. I turned the TV on and watched the news on CNN and read the paper during the commercials. Somewhere along the way I got interested in a long article on drug gangs in Los Angeles and reached to switch off the television set.

It was past midnight when the phone rang. A soft voice said, "Matt, it's Gary at Paris Green. I don't know if you care, but the fellow you asked about the other night just walked in and took a seat at the bar. He might drink up and walk out the minute I hang up, but if I were guessing I'd say he'll stay put for a while."

I'd taken my shoes off, but other than that I was ready to roll. I was tired, I'd had a late night last night, but to hell with that.

I said I'd be right over.

THE cab ride couldn't have taken more than five minutes, but before it was half over I was wondering what the hell I was doing. What was I going to do, watch the man drink and figure out if he was a killer?

The absurdity of the whole thing became still more evident when I opened the door and went in. There were just two people in the whole place, Gary behind the bar and Richard Thurman in front of it. The kitchen was closed, and before they'd left the waiters had put the chairs on top of the tables. Paris Green wasn't a late joint, and Gary usually closed down the bar around the time the waiters finished and went home. I had the feeling he was staying open tonight on my account, and I only wished there was more sense in it.

Thurman turned at my approach. Some people barely show their drink. Mick Ballou is like that. He can take on a heavy load and the only outward sign of it is a slight hardening in the gaze of his green eyes. Richard Thurman was just the opposite. One look at him and I knew he'd been making a night of it. It showed in the glassiness of the hard blue eyes, the suggestion of bloat in the lower part of the face, the softening around the pouty mouth.