When the waitress came over she ordered gin and tonic. "I'm rushing the season," she said. "It's really too cold out for summer drinks. But I'm such a warm person emotionally that I can carry it off, don't you think?"

"Whatever you say, Mrs. Ethridge."

"Why do you keep forgetting my first name? Blackmailers shouldn't be so formal with their victims. It's easy for me to call you Matt. Why can't you call me Beverly?"

I shrugged. I didn't really know the answer myself. It was hard to be sure what was my own reaction to her and what was a part of the role I was playing. I didn't call her Beverly largely because she wanted me to, but that was an answer that only led to another question.

Her drink came. She put out her cigarette, sipped her gin and tonic. She breathed deeply, and her breasts rose and fell within the pink sweater.

"Matt?"

"What?"

"I've been trying to figure out a way to raise the money."

"Good."

"It's going to take me some time."

I played them all the same way, and they all came back with the same response. Everybody was rich and nobody could get a few dollars together. Maybe the country was in trouble, maybe the economy was as bad as everybody said it was.

"Matt?"

"I need the money right away."

"You son of a bitch, don't you think I'd like to get this over with as soon as possible? The only way I could get the money is from Kermit, and I can't tell him what I need it for." She lowered her eyes. "Anyway, he hasn't got it."

"I thought he had more money than God."

She shook her head. "Not yet. He has an income, and it's substantial, but he doesn't come into the principal until he's thirty-five."

"When does that happen?"

"In October. That's his birthday. The Ethridge money is all tied up in a trust that terminates when the youngest child turns thirty-five."

"He's the youngest?"

"That's right. He'll come into the money in October. That's in six months. I've decided, I've even mentioned it to him, that I'd like to have some money of my own. So that I won't be dependent upon him to the extent that I am now. That's the kind of request he can understand, and he's more or less agreed to it. So in October he'll give me money. I don't know how much, but it will certainly be more than fifty thousand dollars, and then I'll be able to work things out with you."

"In October."

"Yes."

"You won't have money in your hands then, though. There'll be a lot of paperwork involved. October's six months from now, and it'll be another six months easy before you've got cash in hand."

"Will it really take that long?"

"Easily. So we're not talking about six months, we're talking about a year, and that's too long. Even six months is too long. Hell, one month is too long, Mrs. Ethridge. I want to get out of this town."

"Why?"

"I don't like the climate."

"But spring's here. These are New York 's best months, Matt."

"I still don't like it."

She closed her eyes, and I studied her face in repose. The lighting in the room was perfect for her, paired electric candles glowing against the red flecked wallpaper. At the bar, one of the men got to his feet, picked up some of the change in front of him, and headed for the door. On the way out he said something, and one of the women laughed loudly. Another man entered the bar. Somebody put money in the jukebox, and Lesley Gore said it was her party and she would cry if she wanted to.

"You've got to give me time," she said.

"I haven't got it to give."

"Why do you have to get out of New York? What are you afraid of, anyway?"

"The same thing the Spinner was afraid of."

She nodded thoughtfully. "He was very nervous toward the end," she said. "It made the bed part very interesting."

"It must have."

"I wasn't the only one on his string. He made that fairly obvious. Are you playing his whole string, Matt? Or just me?"

"It's a good question, Mrs. Ethridge."

"Yeah, I like it myself. Who killed him, Matt? One of his other customers?"

"You mean he's dead?"

"I read newspapers."

"Sure. Sometimes your picture's in them."

"Yeah, and wasn't that just my lucky day. Did you kill him, Matt?"

"Why would I do that?"

"So that you could take his nice little number away from him. I thought you shook him down. Then I read how they fished him out of the river. Did you kill him?"

"No. Did you?"

"Sure, with my little bow and arrow. Listen, wait a year for your money and I'll double it. A hundred thousand dollars. That's nice interest."

"I'd rather take the cash and invest it myself."

"I told you I can't get it."

"How about your family?"

"What about them? They don't have any money."

"I thought you had a rich daddy."

She winced, and covered it by lighting another cigarette. Both our drinks were empty. I motioned to the waitress, and she brought fresh ones. I asked if there was any coffee made. She said there wasn't but she'd make a pot if I wanted. She sounded as though she really hoped I wouldn't want her to. I told her not to bother.

Beverly Ethridge said, "I had a rich great-grandfather."

"Oh?"

"My own father followed in his father's footsteps. The gentle art of turning a million dollars into a shoestring. I grew up thinking the money would always be there. That's what made everything that happened in California so easy. I had a rich daddy and I never really had to worry about anything. He could always bail me out. Even the serious things weren't serious."

"Then what happened?"

"He killed himself."

"How?"

"Sat in the car in a closed garage with the motor running. What's the difference?"

"None, I guess. I always wonder how people do it, that's all. Doctors usually use guns, did you know that? They have access to the simplest, cleanest ways in the world, an O.D. of morphine, anything like that, and instead they generally blow their brains out and make a hell of a mess. Why did he kill himself?"

"Because the money was gone." She picked up her glass, but paused with it halfway to her mouth. "That was why I came back east. All of a sudden he was dead, and instead of money there were debts. There was enough insurance so that my mother can live decently. She sold the house, moved to an apartment. With that and Social Security, she gets along." She took a long drink now. "I don't want to talk about it."

"All right."

"If you took those pictures to Kermit, you wouldn't get anything. You'd just queer your own pitch. He wouldn't buy them, because he wouldn't care about my good name. He'd just care about his own, which would mean getting rid of me and finding a wife as bloodless as he is."

"Maybe."

"He's playing golf this week. A pro-am tournament, they have them the day before the regular tournaments. He gets a professional golfer for a partner, and if they finish in the money the pro gets a few dollars out of it. Ketmit gets the glory. It's his chief passion, golf."

"I thought you were."

"I'm nicely ornamental. And I can act like a lady. When I have to."

"When you have to."

"That's right. He's out of town now, getting ready for this tournament. So I can stay out as late as I want. I can do as I please."

"Handy for you."

She sighed. "I guess I can't use sex this time, can I?"

"I'm afraid not."

"It's a shame. I'm used to using it, I'm damned good at it. Hell. A hundred thousand dollars a year from now is a lot of money."

"It's also a bird in the bush."

"I wish to hell I had something to use on you. Sex doesn't work, and I don't have money. I have a couple of dollars in a savings account, my own money."

"How much?"

"About eight thousand. I haven't had the interest entered in a long time. You're supposed to take the book in once a year. Somehow I never got around to it. I could give you what I've got, a down payment."

"All right."

"A week from today?"

"What's wrong with tomorrow?"

"Uh-uh." She shook her head emphatically. "No. All I can buy for my eight thousand is time, right? So I'm going to buy a week with it right off. A week from today you'll have the money."

"I don't even know you've got it."

"No, you don't."

I thought it over. "All right," I said finally. "Eight thousand dollars a week from today. But I'm not going to wait a year for the rest of it."

"Maybe I could turn some tricks," she said. "Like four hundred and twenty of 'em at a hundred dollars a throw."

"Or forty-two hundred at ten."

"You fucker," she said.

"Eight thousand. A week from today."

"You'll get it."

I offered to put her in a cab. She said she'd get her own and that I could pay for the drinks this time. I stayed at the table for a few minutes after she left, then paid the check and went out. I crossed the street and asked Benny if there were any messages. There weren't, but a man had called and not left his name. I wondered if it was the man who had threatened to put me in the river.

I went over to Armstrong's and took my usual table. The place was crowded for a Monday. Most of the faces were familiar. I had bourbon and coffee, and the third time around I caught a glimpse of a face that looked familiar in an unfamiliar way. On her next circuit of the tables, I crooked a finger at Trina. She came over to me with her eyebrows up, and the expression accented the feline cast to her features.

"Don't turn around," I said. "At the bar in front, right between Gordie and the guy in the denim jacket."

"What about him?"

"Probably nothing. Not right away, but in a couple of minutes, why don't you walk past him and get a look at him?"

"And then what, Cap'n?"

"Then report back to Mission Control."

"Aye-aye, sir."

I kept my eyes facing toward the door but concentrated on what I could see of him at the periphery of my vision, and it wasn't my imagination. He did keep glancing my way. It was hard to gauge his height, because he was sitting down, but he looked almost tall enough to play basketball. He had an outdoor face and modishly long sand-colored hair. I couldn't make out his features very well-he was the length of the room away from me-but I got an impression of cool, competent toughness.

Trina drifted back with a drink I hadn't gotten around to ordering. "Camouflage," she said, setting it before me. "I have given him the old once-over. What did he do?"

"Nothing that I know of. Have you seen him before?"

"I don't think so. In fact, I'm sure I haven't, because I would remember him."

"Why?"

"He tends to stand out in a crowd. You know who he looks like? The Marlboro man."

"From the commercials? Didn't they use more than one guy?"

"Sure. He looks like all of them. You know, high rawhide boots and a wide-brimmed hat and smelling of horseshit, and the tattoo on his hand. He's not wearing boots or a hat, and he doesn't have the tattoo, but it's the same image. Don't ask me if he smells of horseshit. I didn't get close enough to tell."