Death Trick - Stevenson Richard. Страница 11

I said, "I've got to find him and talk to him. He hasn't been in touch with you?"

"No, I wish he would. I'd like to help him."

"Who are his other friends? Somebody might know something. Has he ever mentioned out-of-town friends?"

"Here in Albany there's a guy named Frank Zimka who Billy sees once in a while. We've all gone out together a few times. He lives off Central—Robin or Lexington, I think. Sort of a weird guy, actually; he deals dope, and I get the idea he hustles. I could never figure out what Billy saw in him, and when I tried to find out, Billy didn't want to go into it. He just said something like, 'Oh, Frank can be fun sometimes.' Except if Frank was ever a barrel of laughs or whatever it is he has to offer, it definitely was not in my presence.

"Then there's a black guy over in Arbor Hill Billy sleeps with once in a while. I met him a couple of times, too, and they seemed to have a nice simpatico relationship. Nothing very intense, but nice. His name is Huey something-or-other. He's a construction worker or something and he's into martial arts. I think it's Orange Street he lives on.

"Out of town, I don't know. Billy had some radical gay friends once who live on the West Coast now, I think, and he might be in touch with them. When he quit the movement in Albany—the guys here are too wishy-washy for Billy the revolutionary—he talked about moving out to California, but by then his friends' organization, whatever it was, had fallen apart, so he didn't go. I don't know what their names are out there."

Frank and Huey were two of the first names written on the back cover of Billy Blount's phone book. Along with Deslonde's and one other.

"Did he ever mention somebody by the name of Chris?"

"No," Deslonde said, trying to remember. "I don't think so. Who's he?"

"I don't know. A name Billy wrote on his phone book. And a number."

"Call him up. He might be helpful. Or cute. And discreet." He chuckled.

"I will," I said, shifting again. "What about an Eddie? This would be someone out of Billy's past he'd be excited about running into again."

Deslonde shrugged and shook his head. "Unh-unh. Never heard of him. No Eddie."

"You mentioned your old roommate. Dennis, was it?"

"Dennis Kerskie."

"How long ago did he leave Albany?"

"More than two years ago—almost three. Dennis went off to the forest in Maine to live off berries and write his memoirs."

"Was he an older man?"

"Twenty-two, I think. He and Billy were a hot item for about two months until one day Dennis suddenly decided to purify his body and give up french fries, Albany tap water, and sex. He'd read a leaflet somebody handed him in the Price Chopper parking lot, and his and Billy's relationship deteriorated very rapidly. Dennis left town about two weeks later, and I don't think Billy ever heard from him again. I know I didn't."

It was ten to four and people were starting to drift out of Trucky's and head for their cars.

"Just a couple of other things. Were you with Billy the night he met Steve Kleckner?"

"For a while, I was. I gave him a lift out here, but then he got this heavy thing going with the Kleckner guy, and when I was ready to leave around one, Billy said to go ahead, he had a ride. I told all this to the police. Should I have?"

"It happened. I'm sure they got the same story from other people, so don't sweat it. How was Billy acting that night? Unusual in any way?"

"No, I wouldn't say so. He looked like he was having a good time. Actually, so was I. I'd met this tall number named Phil and went home with him. Real nice. Somebody I wouldn't mind running into again."

"Blond, with a squint?"

"That's Phil. Do you know him?"

"He's at the Bung Cellar tonight. He'll probably end up in the park. Another fresh-air freak."

Deslonde looked at his watch, then did his head-smile thing. "Maybe this night won't be a total wipeout after all."

I gave him a quick, tight smile. "Right. It's early." I hiked out my wallet again and gave him my card. "Do Billy a favor and call me if you hear anything, okay?"

"Business cards. That's a new twist." He did it again.

"I do this for a living."

"I’ll bet you do."

He got out of the car, then leaned back in through the open door. He smiled and said, "See you around, Don. Meantime, don't do anything discreet."

I'll check it out with you before I do," I said. "You're the expert."

He laughed. We shook hands, and he shut the car door. He walked toward the other side of the parking lot. He looked back once and grinned. I watched him go and sat for a minute concentrating my mind on a bowl of Cream of Wheat. Then I went inside.

Timmy was just coming off the dance floor. "Where did you go to talk? The Ramada Inn? Mark has a way about him, doesn't he?"

I said, "He was helpful. How did you find him?"

"He found me. I was asking around about who might know Billy Blount when Mark walked up to me and said, I don't know where you came from, but I love you.'"

"He didn't."

"You're right, it was different. I was standing by the DJ's booth, and he very shyly edged up and asked if I'd like to dance. I acquiesced."

"You raise acquiescence to a high art"

"I do?"

"One of us does. Whichever."

The music stopped. The thirty or forty people left in the place began drifting toward the front door. Fluorescent lights came on, turning all our faces a hideous gray. People walked faster. Mike Truckman moved unsteadily toward the cash

I talked with the bartenders while they gathered up glasses and ashtrays and empty bottles. They added little to what I knew. On the night before Steve Kleckner was found dead, Blount and Kleckner had danced and drunk together, seemed to everyone to have hit it off famously, then left Trucky's around three. The bartenders noticed all of this because Steve Kleckner had been depressed and preoccupied the previous two weeks—Kleckner had refused to tell anyone why—and with Billy Blount, he had snapped out of that. No one had seen them together before.

None of the bartenders knew Blount except by face and first name, but they all knew Kleckner. None could think of anyone who particularly disliked Steve Kleckner, who invariably was described as happy-go-lucky and a real nice guy. Not helpful. I did learn, however, that the person who knew Kleckner best was an ex-roommate named Stanley Loggins, who lived with his lover on Ontario Street—and that Steve Kleckner had once had an affair with Mike Truckman.

I WAS UP BY TEN. TIMMY SNORED LIKE A MASTODON WHILE I RAN

four eggs and a pint of orange juice through the blender. I showered, found some of my clothes among Timmy's clean laundry, left a note, and drove over to Ontario Street. My job was to find Billy Blount, but it wasn't going to hurt if I learned more about the sort of man he'd been attracted to. In fact, I guessed there were even better reasons for looking into Steve Kleckner's life, but I didn't know yet what they were.

Stanley Loggins, in green chinos and a lavender T-shirt, was pixielike, with bright pink eyes and buck teeth. His lover, Angelo, was big and beer-bellied and had hands like hair-

covered coal shovels. They sat side by side on an old brown sofa with antimacassars marching up and down its back and arms, a Woolworth's Mary-with-a-bleeding-heart hung on the wall above. Angelo eyed me suspiciously and swigged from a quart bottle of Price Chopper creme soda while Stanley told me about Steve Kleckner.