VIII.

Loomis sat at his desk the next morning, his mind pretty much a blank, waiting until it was time to go to his interview with Zelbo. He was not thinking about his conversation with Martha the night before, which was why his mind was a blank. After an hour or so of sullen politeness she had blown up in his face. At first he thought, this is great, we're having a fight. But it wasn't great, it was awful. The only good thing was that they both knew they both were unhappy, but it looked like neither of them had a clue about what to do about it.

Through the glass door he watched cars pull into the little mall, people get out of their cars, complete their business and pull out again, usually within ten minutes. There just wasn't that much one could accomplish here.

He tried to concentrate on the Fishbein case, but he couldn't. There were two or three smaller things he was supposed to be handling, but he couldn't even think for the moment what they were. Martha was precious to him and their life together was essential, but there were apparently mute objections which guided his actions but would not reveal themselves. That, or he was just afraid. He hoped the latter was the case, because he didn't feel he had the equipment to examine the former.

He figured he wasn't smart enough to risk introspection. Maybe this had something to do with taking up his profession. He was supposed to be a man of action, but without the responsibilities of the policeman or the hierarchy of the soldier. No standards of conduct other than very general ones imposed by the state and those he chose to accept. No one to suffer by his failure but himself and, of course, his clients and he was always willing to give the money back. He resisted any tendency to thoughtfulness with prejudice. He saw meaning in the acts of his life and was willing, for better or worse, to let them stand for what he was. He usually wished there were more good acts and fewer bad acts, often resolved himself to make an effort in that direction and occasionally made such an effort, but any accounting of what his acts represented he regarded with hostility. If the result was bad, he was sorry. If the result was good, he kept the money. He didn't like doing things the hard way. He just did.

It was almost 9:30. It was the first really cold morning and there was still a smudge of frost on the bottom of the door. He capped the dregs of his coffee and deposited the container in his trash. He put on his jacket, turned off the lights and locked up.

The commuter train runs north-south down the middle of Asbury Park separating the beach area from the rest of the town. Originally, when it was the Jersey Central Railroad, the tracks separated the honky-tonk of the boardwalk from the more genteel homes inland. Then, for many years, the tracks separated the development of the beachfront from the decay of the interior. Now, things are pretty grim on both sides of the track. Its not as bad as Atlantic City, but, like they say, its no day at the beach.

Zelbo's office was a small cement block cube on Blank street. It was covered with some sort of faux-stucco and a lot of work and a certain amount of expense had gone into making it look upscale. This effort was a failure, but there was a kind of charm inhabiting its pretensions. You felt like rooting for it. There was a great deal of senseless ornamental grill work around the tiny single window and the door and the curtains were unmistakably a souvenir of a Mexican holiday. Five cracked steps led up to a retaining wall which, for the moment, held back three and a half feet of perfect lawn. Loomis paused and stooped at the top of the steps. Years of investigative experience paid off. It was astroturf. Oddly enough, there was a hole cut in the rug just off the short walk where a perfectly real and probably expensive topiary tree was thriving. A little sign on the door said "Walk In" and had a happy looking little guy walking in a door, just in case. Loomis made like the guy.

"Yes," said the secretary with such naked hostility that Loomis was stunned for a moment. Surely she couldn't be angry at him; he hadn't done anything. Must be having a bad day. Yeah, that must be it. The situation just required a little of the old Loomis charm.

"Well, hello," he said and warmed up his smile to just this side of My-prayers-have-been-answered.

She stared at him and narrowed her eyes into My-worst-nightmare-is-coming-true. Loomis liked being on the good side of secretaries, desk clerks and receptionists and some other morning he might have continued the effort, but not today. He looked at her desk plate, which said Maria Migliorini, and sneered. He curled his lip around Go-back-under-your-rock, sat down and picked up a People Magazine.

"Loomis," he said, from behind an article about Cher's new boyfriend. What horrible face she was making he couldn't imagine, but she made no move to tell Zelbo he was there. He looked at his watch. It was 10:05. He was leaving at 10:15.

At 10:15 on the dot the inner door opened. For ten minutes the only sound in the room had been Maria Migliorini's gum popping every six seconds. Loomis was hoping Zelbo would give him an opportunity to vent his hostility because, if he didn't, he felt sure he would hit Maria on the way out.

Zelbo looked like he had recently lost weight. Or maybe he just liked his suits a size or two large. His fingers barely poked out of the end of the sleeves. He was tall and awkward and made a lot of darting motions with his head. He had tiny features and bad skin. The suit, though ill-fitting, was expensive. His wide, red suspenders were not a legal affectation, but a vital necessity. He threw a fist-full of papers down on Maria's desk, waved his hand over them as if giving instructions and then turned to Loomis.

"I don't have much time," he said.

Loomis got up and started walking towards the office and Zelbo darted ahead of him and blocked the doorway.

"We better get started then, hadn't we?" said Loomis.

Zelbo waited a second and then, with an air of having won the opening point, jerked his head toward the client chair and said "Won't you come in?"

He did, but Zelbo didn't. The door closed and Loomis was alone in the office. What the hell was this? Loomis couldn't decide if he was getting jerked around or if this man Zelbo was a fool. Or if he was getting jerked around by a fool. The office was all painted cinderblock with a suspended ceiling and florescent lights. The furniture, a desk, a table, three chairs and a wall of bookshelves, was too big for the room and the rug was too expensive. On one wall were Zelbo's diplomas (Rutgers, Trenton State) and certificates. Under those were several framed signs. Leonard Zelbo, Attorney at Law. Leonard Zelbo Real Estate, Inc. Leonard Zelbo Tax Preparation Systems. Zelbo Cosmetics.

The door opened and a different Leonard Zelbo entered. Calmer, wiser, nicer. He smiled at Loomis and took his place behind his desk.

"I'm so sorry to keep you waiting. Its a madhouse this morning."

The phone hadn't rung once since Loomis had arrived, but he didn't mention the fact. Zelbo tented his fingers and fixed Loomis with a steady, sincere gaze.

"I want to know what I can do to help you."

"Good. There's just a couple of things. I mentioned that I've been retained by Mrs. Fishbein to, among other things, investigate the circumstances surrounding her husband's death. I'm told that the Cap'n recently became your client."

Zelbo's expression seemed to indicate that he'd heard something like that as well.

"It would be helpful to me if you could tell me when the Cap'n first approached you."

"Approached me?" He seemed to find that a bizarre choice of words.

"About the divorce. To engage your services."

Zelbo still looked confused. Loomis wondered which was the hard part.

"You see, Mr. Zelbo, very little is known about how all this came about. From what I understand, a few weeks ago the Cap'n and Mrs. Fishbein were more or less happily married. Then, suddenly they were in the middle of an ugly divorce. I'm trying to get a handle on what decisions were made and when."

"And you think his murder is connected with this divorce?"

"The police are convinced that Elroy Keever is guilty."

"The boyfriend."

"That's right."

"If you don't mind my asking, in that case, what makes you necessary? Is there some reason why Mrs. Fishbein is dissatisfied with the police effort?"

"Not at all. On the other hand, its not at all uncommon for people with the means to do so to initiate parallel efforts." Even though it was probably obvious, Loomis was reluctant to say that his job was to eliminate the divorce and anything connected with it as a motive for murder. Zelbo began doodling on his legal pad.

"I'm afraid, for whatever motives, Mrs. Fishbein may have painted you a slightly idyllic picture of her marriage. If you're interested in how and why the marriage broke up, she would have much more information than I. She was not only the adulterous partner, she was the one who initiated the action."

"First of all, the Cap'n himself told me that he was just as guilty of fooling around as his wife. He also told me that they were still friends. He said it was to be an amicable divorce. Second of all, Mrs. Fishbein didn't initiate any action. She never consulted a lawyer. Or rather she never engaged one. He did. You."

"He consulted me after his wife announced her intentions. While he may have anticipated a friendly divorce, his attitude changed because of his wife's actions."

"Like what?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"What did she do that made him so mad?"

"Mr. Loomis, I can't divulge . . ."

"He's dead, Mr. Zelbo. He won't care."

In response he slapped his lips together and made a circular motion with his spread fingers that Loomis took as the Standard Lawyer's Hand Signal for client privilege. Which was bullshit, except for one thing.

"Mr. Zelbo, I understand you wrote a new will for the Cap'n."

Zelbo paused for a few moments and then smiled again and slipped into an even thicker robe of sincerity.

"All right, Mr. Loomis, I'll tell you what my difficulty is with this. I wrote a new will for Cap'n Fishbein. The purpose of the will, obviously, is to separate Mrs. Fishbein from the Cap'n's estate. You come to me as an agent of Mrs. Fishbein. It would be very surprising indeed if she did not challenge this new will. While the Cap'n may be dead, I, as the executor of the Cap'n's estate am charged with seeing that his wishes are fulfilled. The issues that were relevant to the divorce proceedings will undoubtedly become central to any challenge to the will. I don't wish to be uncooperative, but it should be obvious that there are areas where I cannot help you."

"I see. What can you help me with?"

"Try me," he said, smiling.

"Okay. Did you advise the Cap'n to hire me?"

"Yes. In response to your clients actions."

"What actions?"

Circular hand motion.

"Okay. Who's the beneficiary of the new will?"

"A trust. For the benefit of indigent former party boat captains."

"Is that right?"

"It was my suggestion. He has no relatives and we needed to move quickly. He was wholeheartedly enthusiastic at the idea, however."

"How many of them can there be?"

"I have no idea. I expect I'll find out, however."

"All right. What about the boat? That was the main issue."

"What about it?"

"Well, I assume you handled the transfer over to Arlene Babayev."

Circular hand motion.

"Who was the Cap'n's lover."

Circular hand motion.

"And who claims the Cap'n was going to marry her."

CHM.

The door opened and a small, homely boy about ten years old poked his head in. He took one look and scrammed. Loomis looked back and Zelbo's face was twisted with rage. He stormed to the door and yanked it open just as the outside door slammed behind the kid. Zelbo started going up one side of Maria and down the other while she checked out her nails and shortened her gum snapping cycle to two seconds. Loomis couldn't hear what he was saying because he was close to completely out of the cake and his voice was a hoarse, strangulated whisper, but Maria was unimpressed. He made one or two final points, made a half-hearted attempt to reassemble himself and stepped back into his office.

"I apologize, Mr. Loomis. I . . . my . . . she . . ."

"Don't mention it, Mr. Zelbo. My secretary is a problem, too."

They shared a man of the world gesture which seemed to calm Zelbo considerable. He settled himself behind his desk once again and began shuffling papers in a plainly haphazard manner.

"I'm a little pressed for time, Mr. Loomis, unless there's something else . . ."

"No, not at the moment," said Loomis, moving toward the door. "But I'm sure I'll need more information when I have more information."

"I am at your service."

Loomis opened the door, but then stopped, turned and pointed to Zelbo's collection of business signs.

"I was just curious. What's the deal with Zelbo Cosmetics?"

"The deal?" He smiled shyly. I happen to own distributorships for several of the best known lines of cosmetics and toiletries available."

"You're an enterprising guy."

Before Loomis knew what was happening he was out the door with an armload of catalogs. He turned and Maria swivelled slowly until facing directly away from him. He walked around to the front of her desk and she kept swivelling him to her backside.

"Who was the kid, Maria?"

She sighed dramatically and said nothing. Loomis wondered if she really was having a bad day or if it was just him. If she treated everyone this way it was easy to see why the office was so quiet.

"Hey Maria, he made me a Mary Kay distributor. I bet you wish you'd been nicer to me now, huh?"

Finally, slowly, she swivelled back around and fixed him with a glare of astonishing malevolence.

"You, and he, can go fuck yourselves."

"I see. Well, I hope you can get your job back at the Grand Union. Meanwhile . . ." He took out a Loomis Investigations card and tucked it under the side flap of her desk blotter. "Call me."

She looked at the card as if it had fallen off the second half of a dog.

"Why should I?"

Loomis bent over her desk and lowered his voice.

"Mostly because there's money in it. That guy's nuts. And he's screwing my client."

She pulled the card out by the very tip of a corner and dropped it into her wastebasket. Oh, well. He shrugged and walked out.

He flooded the Chevy trying to start it. Usually, it only took five minutes before he could try again. He started to play a Bill Monroe tape and then he saw the homely little boy playing with a evil looking cat at the rear corner of Zelbo's building. At least, the little boy thought he was playing. The cat looked like he was measuring the boy for a slash. Loomis got out and walked along the sidewalk until he was nearly upon them.

"Hi, son. I don't think that cat wants to play."

The boy looked like he wanted to bolt but he didn't want to do what Loomis told him, either, so he watched Loomis out of the corner of his eye and kept playing tag with the now almost frenzied feline.

"Why not?"

"Well, when they spit like that it usually means they're upset."

Loomis flinched as the cat missed nailing the kid by a hair.

"If I had a cat he'd always want to play."

"Yeah. Heh, heh. Some cats are like that. I had a cat, once, played like a son of a gun."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Look, kid, how about this. How about we go talk to your mom? Maybe we could talk her into getting you a little kitty-cat."

"Nah. She wouldn't. He wouldn't let her." He gave a sullen little bob of the head toward the office. Loomis snapped his finger as if he had just remembered something nice.

"Wait a minute. What's your name, kid?"

"Ernie."

"That's right. Ernie Zelbo, right?"

"Yeah," said the kid, with a mixture of wonder and wariness.

"Let's go try. I bet I could talk her into it."

Ernie looked at the cat, who was drawing back for another try at him, and shrugged.

"Okay."

Loomis followed him around behind the building. There was a short porch tacked on to the back and some wash hung from a line stretched from the door to a pole stuck in the mud twenty feet away. A rutted driveway ended at the steps, but just beyond a brand-new Lexus was parked. Broken toys littered the area and some trash was set out in disintegrating paper sacks. If the front represented pretensions to middle-class, the back was half-way down Tobacco Road.

As if to confirm this, there was a screen door hanging slightly askew from the pealing doorjamb. It framed a half-tone figure that stepped back further into the dimness when Ernie and Loomis stepped onto the porch.

"Get in here, Ernie."

She stepped forward and kicked the door open. As it swung out Loomis got a brief glance at a small, pale woman in a cheap print dress. Sure enough, she had a small child on her hip. The door banged closed, but Ernie just looked up at Loomis. Time to make his pitch. Loomis smiled and nodded.

"Hello, Mrs. Zelbo. I had an appointment with your husband and I saw Ernie here playing with a nasty looking cat."

"I told you . . ." she hissed at Ernie, and she kicked the door again. Loomis started talking faster.

"Look, I don't want to get Ernie in trouble, Mrs. Zelbo, but I told him if he stopped I'd see if I could talk you into . . ."

"Ernie."

"Uh, into letting him . . ."

"One . . . two . . ."

"Have his own . . ."

"Three."

The door swung forward, Ernie disappeared like a genie, and the door banged shut again.

"You know, cat."

The inner door closed. Loomis stepped off the porch onto a small plastic turtle, crushing it. He was thinking of raising his rates. He was getting results all over the place.

The Chevy started up as if it had intended to all along. It was turning into a dull day, a cold iron sky over a pallid landscape. Loomis drove down 35, over the Manasquan bridge into Brick where it turns into Route 70. He cut across to 88 on Van Zile road and eased into the trailer park, watching for the State Police cruiser. It was parked two trailers down. The trooper was not making much of an effort to conceal himself, but on the other hand, once you saw him you had to drive by him or back up to get out of the park. Loomis drove past Keever's trailer and parked nose-in to the trooper, leaving plenty of room for him to pull out. As he walked in front of the cruiser the trooper rolled down his window.

"Francis," he said, and he nodded.

"Hello Trooper Schneider. How are you?"

"Oh, I'm fine. How's your mother?" He offered Loomis a pack of Newports.

"She's fine," he said, smiling. "No thanks."

"Good. You quit?"

"No. But I'm thinking about it. Say Carl."

"Hm?"

"How would you feel about my taking a look around that trailer?"

"What, that one? Why would you want to do that?"

"Heard about that guy Fishbein that got killed?"

"There's been some talk about it."

"Well, it happens his wife hired me to look into it."

Schneider smiled at him and nodded for a few moments and then shrugged.

"I don't really mind, Francis. You mind if I come along with you?"

"On the contrary, sir, I'd be honored."

Trooper Schneider stepped out of his cruiser, shook hands with Loomis and they began walking toward the trailer. Schneider was the closest thing Loomis had to a contact inside the State Police. He used to go to the same church as Loomis' mother and had impressed her because he had taken an instant and evident dislike to Loomis' father. Loomis was just in high school, but he remembered Schneider's face when his father was talking; it said 'bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.' Schneider made his father very nervous so Loomis liked him, too. When the old man took off a few years later Schneider and his wife were there for his mother and she always asked after 'that nice Officer Schneider.' Professionally, he had never been able to help Loomis all that much -- had never offered to placed the state's computer banks at Loomis' disposal -- but had several times been a great help just by giving Loomis room to work.

Keever's trailer was at the end of a loop in the drive. It was effectively hidden from all but one other trailer. The entire inside area of the trailer covered about seven feet by fifteen feet, but it gave the illusion of having more space than Arlene's apartment. It was more than just neat, it was organized with the precision of a space capsule. Keever had little wire baskets hung from the walls and ceiling that held his clothes and rows of little boxes along the counter that were labeled as various dry goods. Neatly labeled bins were stowed under the counter. There was a tiny couch that folded out and a desk that folded down. Loomis unhooked the desk and as he pulled it down a single leg swung out. You set the leg in a notch in the floor and the desk's surface sat steady. Along the top were plastic pockets that held stamps, envelopes, paper and pens. Stapler and tape hung on the wall. He looked at Schneider, who was leaning against the open door.

"Not a bad little joint he's got here. How come it doesn't look searched?"

"What, you think we're pigs? Place this organized, you tend to be a little more methodical. Anyway, we didn't really have to search for what we were looking for." He went to the narrow chest of drawers and pulled open the shallow top left drawer.

"Gun was in here." He pulled open the top right drawer. "Stuff was in here."

"Stuff? What I hear it was about an ounce of grass."

"Try about two ounces of coke."

"That's quite a difference."

"No one's supposed to know that, by the way."

Loomis nodded.

"You know, Carl, its hard to imagine this looking any more like a plant. I mean, you really think he was that stupid? Shoot a guy, take the gun home, put it in your hankie drawer next to your stash and then go on the lam?"

Schneider shrugged.

"It's not how I'd do it. But if I was going to plant the stuff on him its not how I'd do it either. She want you to prove he didn't do it?"

"She wants me to find him before you do. She says he's innocent."

"Hm. Know what I think? He's either guilty or dead."

"Uh-huh. And if he's dead?"

"I don't know. It's her gun."

True. All she needed was to find out about Keever and Arlene and she had a gorilla motive. All Loomis had to do was prove that relationship to her and he might find out.

"You find anything else interesting?"

"That's all we took out of here. As for interesting, you'll have to decide for yourself," said Schneider, with a gesture inviting Loomis to look.

He found a number of interesting things such as Keever's collection of practical joke paraphranalia -- hand buzzers, squirting flowers and rings, aerosol dog shit -- and his collection of plans. Plans for gliders, patios, log cabins, roll top desks, gazebos, self-dealing card tables. There was also a folder full of first response material from a number of fishy-sounding sales organizations. All this stuff made Loomis radically revise his notion of Keever. He pictured him sitting in his little mobile hut, tucking in all the corners so that he would be ready when his big chance came. He was going to make a killing on one of these deals he wrote away for. He might make up to $5,000 a week on his own time on the phone. He might become independent by selling shoes to his friends. He might find riches representing an internationally known jewelry firm. But whichever one of these shoddy companies wound up ripping him off would just be finishing the job that he began. The victimization of Elroy Keever.

He also found two things of narrower interest. While rooting in the trash under the desk he found an envelope from the same pharmacy that provided Arlene with her pictures. He noted that the date was the same and the handwriting was at least similar, but there was no time-stamp. Since Carl Schneider was watching, he left it in the trash but rooted around until he found a handwritten grocery list. If it was written by Keever then the handwriting on the photo envelope was not his. It occurred to him that if he could prove Arlene picked up both sets of photos and confronted her he might find out why it was so important to her to keep the relationship a secret. It would be interesting to see how Mrs. Fishbein reacted to the news as well. After he was finished with the trash he washed his hands and in the narrow window sill over the sink was a juice glass. In the juice glass was a tiny pink paper umbrella of the sort usually associated with tropical drinks. It was open and around the edge was written 'Buddy's - Seaside Heights'. He poked around for another half-hour, but there was nothing else to see.

Schneider walked him back to his car.

"Look, Francis, I want you to be careful. Its hard to think of this guy as dangerous after seeing this place, but you never know. As far as I'm concerned, your client may be right. But somebody killed the old guy and whoever did it left the gun here. You understand me?"

"Sure. Listen, there's one other thing you might be able to do for me."

"If I can."

"Tell me. The name Ciscone ring a bell?"

"John? You mean John Ciscone?"

"John and Douglas."

"Why?"

"Carl, you tell me why you know the name and I'll tell you why I know the name."

Schneider reached into his cruiser for his thermos and filled up the lid with black coffee. He leaned up against his cruiser and gave it some thought.

"All right. I know more about Doug than John, actually. There was a point a couple years ago it seemed he was getting run in about once a week. Mostly rough stuff. Cops go into a bar or behind a bar to break up a fight. Nobody files charges. He's had a few peace violations. One or two assaults that didn't stick. He's as dumb as dirt, what I hear. And mean. He and John both had quite a juvenile record."

"We're not talking about the mob, are we?"

Schneider smiled, which irked Loomis considerably. Everybody knew that since the casinos started up in Atlantic City, Ocean County had become a second home base for the North Jersey mob. There was the famous case of a local businessman being beaten to death with golf clubs in his driveway a few years back. Just last summer arrests were made in that case which made clear how deeply the Mafia had bought into local businesses. It wasn't a stupid or naive question but Schneider was obliged to respond to any civilian mention of the mob with a patronizing smile.

"I'll tell you what its like. Here's a guy with a kind of romantic Sicilian notion of the way things work. He's not connected in any meaningful way, but its something to shoot for. Like growing up to be president. He'd love to be known as a wise-guy. I don't know but that the guys that count might use him from time to time, but my guess is that would pretty much steer clear of him. He's not the kind of guy that likes to work his way up, you know what I mean? From what I hear he's got more talent for business than crime. For a young guy he's been into a number of businesses around the shore and he's made them all work. Pizzeria, arcade. I think he had a pet shop a couple years ago. Then he gets some crooked scheme going and he winds up broke."

"Drugs?"

"Probably. I haven't heard him mentioned in a big way, but then I haven't heard him mentioned at all in a while. Maybe he went straight, maybe he's got his criminal priorities straightened out, I don't know. Why?"

"You think he might be dangerous?"

"What is this? Dangerous? Yeah, he probably is. He's not really a gangster, but he thinks he is, you see? He wants to be. He feels a certain obligation to be hard. Its a question of style. Far as I know neither of them ever killed anyone but I don't think they're proud of that, you know?"

"They might be pussies."

"Nah. I don't think so. Not Doug, anyway. If he had a trade, you know, something to fall back on, but the way he sees it he has to make it as a felon or go to work for his uncle."

"Doing what?"

"Cleaning septic tanks."

"That pays good."

"More than you make."

"Okay."

"John's just as bad. I think he likes having a psycho to boss around. They'll wind up in jail sooner or later, at least the two older ones."

"There's more?"

"There's Joey, the young one, but I wouldn't worry about him. He's a schnook. Just as dishonest, but no guts. You gonna tell me why this is an issue?"

"I'd rather not, but I guess I better."

"Yes, that's correct."

"They introduced themselves to me last night."

"They get rough?"

"Well, they leaned on me pretty good, then Doug got physical. More or less to make a point."

"What did they want?"

"Same thing I want."

"Is that right? They're looking for Keever?"

"You don't know what that's about?"

"Not the slightest. It's interesting, though."

"C'mon, Carl, is it really a complete surprise?"

"I ain't saying I'm surprised. You notice I did not drop my coffee. I'm just saying its news. As far as I'm concerned the Ciscones are young criminals in the formative stage. Keever is a drifter slash loser. I know of no connection."

"Well, I expect you'll look for one now. If you find out Keever worked at their pet shop or something like that would you let me know?"

"That's kind of ticklish. I promise I will if its at all possible."

"Good enough," said Loomis, offering his hand. "You get anything from the neighbor?"

Schneider shook his hand and laughed.

"If you get anything from Mr. Burns I'll show you the police secret handshake."

"That's a deal. Its just a matter of charm."

Schneider laughed again and climbed back in his cruiser. Loomis waggled his eyebrows at him, strode off to the neighboring trailer and knocked. Immediately the door snapped open until it banged against the peep chain. The door was slammed shut and the chain unhooked, but the door didn't open. Instead, a dead bolt slid into place and the handle started to rattle. Loomis could hear mumbled curses from the other side of the door. Whoever it was started yanking the door, pushing at the bolt and even tried reattaching the chain to get the door open, but it was beyond him. Finally he just started pounding on the door as if pleading with Loomis to let him out. Finally, during a lull, Loomis got him to detach the chain again, slide the bolt back and step from the door. Loomis turned the handle and gently pushed the door in and immediately he had a small, smelly old man pushing him out of the doorway and down off the step.

"Jist what the hell do you think yer playin' at, Mister?" He had spotty grey skin and stained white hair. Both eyes seemed to wall in the same direction, but then he switched them and Loomis realized that at some point in his unpleasant life he had stopped looking directly at people. His way of not looking at you was very aggressive, however, and the tighter he bunched his lips in anger the faster tobacco juice ran down his chin. Perhaps the Loomis charm would be wasted. He pulled out a ten dollar bill and held it up.

"I'll give you this if you talk to me for ten minutes."

The next instant the ten-spot was gone and the horrible old man was folding something into the watch pocket of his jeans. Loomis pulled out his picture of Keever and held it up.

"Mr. Burns, do you know who this is?"

Loomis thought the guy quacked at him in response until he realized the noise came from inside the trailer. He guessed it was a duck.

"Nope. Niver seen'm," said Mr. Burns.

"Its your neighbor, Elroy Keever."

"Z'at right?" he said and he shrugged.

"You never met Keever? Is that what you're saying, Mr. Burns?"

Burns shrugged again and Loomis thought 'this bastard knows something.' He saw the duck walk up behind Burns and try to shoulder his way through Burns' legs. Burns shot Loomis a hostile, wary glance, picked up the bird and, murmuring sweet nothings, deposited it a small closet just off the door. It was a funny looking black duck with orange waddles all over its head like an exploded party favor.

"Mr. Burns, do you remember two nights ago . . ."

"No," said Mr. Burns and he cackled. He was starting to enjoy beating Loomis out of ten bucks. Loomis felt his face get hot and his fingers long for Mr. Burns' scrawny neck. He pulled out his picture of Arlene.

"Have you ever . . ."

"Nope. Niver seen'r," he said, slapping his side. Loomis turned away as Burns started a little dance and walked back to the Chevy. He accepted a salute from Schneider and drove off.

There is no quality that is so fixed and rooted in man as stupidity. Morons have a halflife far longer than the term of reason. That simple fact should ensure that they will win in the end. And yet, Loomis was fundamentally an optimist. He didn't believe people necessarily got what was coming to them in this life and he only rarely and under great stress believed in another life. Somehow, he just didn't take it personally.

Loomis had painted a yellow block in the space in front of his office and, due to the low traffic in the mall, it usually served to hold the space open. As he was unlocking his office he heard a pother developing to his left. He saw Gallagher trying to close his door in the faces of an angry young couple.

"Read your contract, read your contract," he was saying. He looked over at Loomis, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. The couple looked angrily at Loomis.

"Fuck the contract," said the woman. "You have to retake the pictures. You have to, or . . ."

"Or what?" asked Gallagher mildly. He looked at the husband and smiled. "Or what?"

The three of them stood silently for a moment, the husband twitching slightly. The couple then looked at each other and silently walked to their car. Gallagher watched them and then stretched, slapping his belly as if pushing away from a wonderful meal. He looked back at Loomis and frowned.

"You owe me a C-note, Loomis."

"Read your contract," said Loomis and he went into his office.

The first thing he wanted to do was call Mrs. Fishbein. The longer he put off telling her about Arlene and the boat the bigger chance he was taking.

"Mrs. Fishbein. Hello, its Loomis."

"You find him?"

"Uh, no, not yet. Have you talked to Mozarsky?"

"Mozarsky? What for? I ain't been charged with nothing."

"I think you better call him, Mrs. Fishbein, as soon as we hang up. I went by the Carousel last night."

"Yes?" She was expecting bad news.

"Well, its like this, Mrs. Fishbein, your husband apparently signed the boat over to Arlene within the past week. She's living on it now."

Mrs. Fishbein was suddenly panting, as if pausing at the landing.

"He . . . she can't . . . she can't . . ."

"I really don't think she can. But the thing is to get Mozarsky to let her know she can't as soon as possible. He'll take care of it, believe me. I don't think you really have anything to worry about. Mrs. Fishbein? Are you all right?"

"That scumbag."

"Yes, well . . ."

"I . . . I just have to pull myself together, Mr. Loomis. I've been in a fog. A positive fog for the last few days. I have to pull myself together and take care of things."

"My feeling exactly, Mrs. Fishbein. And I'm glad to hear you say it. You'll call Mozarsky, then?"

"You're damned straight I'll call him. Then I'm going straight out to the boat and slam that bitch around a little."

"Uh, bad idea, Mrs. Fishbein. She's got a gun."

"Lord. A gun."

"It was the Cap'n's. It was broken yesterday when I saw her, but she said she was getting it fixed. I wouldn't take a chance, if I were you, she seemed pretty stressed out."

"Lord."

"Just call Mozarsky and let the rest go. All right? Mrs. Fishbein? All right?"

"All right. Anything else?"

"Remember that list you were going to make for me?"

"List? What list?"

"The Cap'n's friends, business associates. Places he frequented."

"I don't know, Mr. Loomis, I'll try, but I got things I got to take care of."

"Mrs. Fishbein. This is one of the things you got to take care of. If you want to get your money's worth out of me you've got to do this. I've got to have more places to start. You understand."

"I understand I'm paying you to find Elroy, Mr. Loomis. We know where the Cap'n is."

"While you're at it see if you can help me more with Elroy, too. Sit down and think of anyplace, any person at all that you can remember him mentioning. Please trust me, Mrs. Fishbein. If Elroy didn't kill the Cap'n then the best way I'm going to find him is tracking the Cap'n's killer. Its also the only thing I can do that doesn't duplicate what the police are doing with more resources. I promise my first priority is finding Elroy. Make that list. Do it, would you?"

"I'll try."

"Good. Now call Mozarsky. I'll talk to you tomorrow morning."

He hung up wishing he were really as confident as he hoped he had sounded. He also wished he knew why Mrs. Fishbein was stalling. The question was: was she dragging her feet because she believed him or because she didn't? Or because she was in a 'fog'?

He sat staring into space for several minutes and then lifted the phone and dialed the Pine Tree Inn. Goz thanked him for prompt payment which was his way of saying 'where the hell's my money?' and said he was free after work. He asked, somewhat daintily, if there was to be any more of 'that picture taking business'.

"No, Herbert. What's going to happen is that we're going to drive down to a bar in Seaside and I'm going to buy you a couple drinks."

"What do you need me for, then?"

Loomis knew better than to suggest that he wanted Goz for his bulk. Goz thought of himself as a free-lance consultant and Loomis always made sure to listen very carefully when Goz made suggestions and just as carefully ignore them.

"I'll tell you, Goz, I'm kind of stuck on this one. I thought I might bounce a couple of ideas off you."

"Well, I'm flattered, Francis, but you know I wouldn't charge you for that."

"Yeah, well, I don't know what I'm looking for in Seaside so I figured an extra couple of eyeballs wouldn't hurt. Say fifteen an hour?"

"Fine," said Goz, quickly dismissing the question of money. "My car?"

"Mine. No quick get-aways today. Pick you up at 4:30."

Loomis hung up. The truth was he had no idea why he wanted Goz along. He simply felt that the less hard information one had, the more one should trust ones instincts and act upon them. He didn't decide to call Goz. Decisions would be based on information which, as yet, he did not possess. He called Goz to make himself comfortable.

He dug out the photo envelope he swiped from Arlene. There was no question that the handwriting was the same as on the one he saw at Keever's, but in order to find out what it meant he would have to go down to the pharmacy. It wasn't something he had to know right that second, however, so he put a little time in on finding the missing nephew.

Mr. Desipio had flown in from Seattle and spent most of a week looking before contracting Loomis. He was an overbearing, unpleasant man and it was easy to see why he wasn't having much luck. By the end of a twenty minute interview he seemed angry with Loomis for not having found the kid yet. His sister was sick, his asshole nephew had disappeared and he seemed determined to get his $600-worth before he even left the office. Loomis knew that if he were the nephew he'd hide and if he knew where the nephew was he certainly wouldn't tell this jerk, unless he were getting paid to tell him. As it turned out, it took just under two hours to find the kid. He was working in a cabinet shop in Howell Township and he turned out to be one of the first people Loomis had phoned, but he wouldn't admit it the first three times. The kid hadn't really been hiding, he had just taken off and had been laying low only because Uncle Sydney was in the area. He agreed to call his mother. Very easy work and since Uncle Sydney was footing the bill Loomis inevitably tried to talk himself into padding it by a factor of, say, three. It was an idle dream, however. He typed a short report for Uncle Sydney and closed the case.

Creede's Pharmacy in Point Pleasant had been on the corner of Arnold and Blank forever, but Loomis hadn't been inside for twenty years. Back then their policy regarding fifteen year olds examining certain magazines for typographical errors before deciding not to buy was more liberal than most. He spent a lot of that summer leaving thumbprints all over Creede's merchandise. The woman at the cash register apparently represented a change in policy. She was in her early thirties with lovely brown hair and dark, deep eyes. She would have been a stunner except for the resentful hunch in her shoulders and the sour, had-it-up-to-here expression on her face. She fixed Loomis with a suspicious eye the moment he entered. He adopted his most brisk manner and led with his license.

"Hello," he said in low, carefully modulated voice, "my name is Loomis. I'm a licensed private investigator working with the Asbury Park Police Department and the New Jersey State Police."

"What?" she said. From her expression, Loomis had spent thirty seconds going 'Warga, warga, warga, warga.&quo