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buddies and what he thought about Hitler, safely distracting him away
from questioning me. I'm a lousy liar at the best of times and my
parents were always able to tell when I was trying to give them the
business. The best thing was to keep my distance until I could figure
out what was safe for me to tell them about my condition, or if I could
tell them anything at all.
"What happened to all that reporting?" he demanded.
"What's all this about an ad agency? I thought all those places were in
New York."
"They have a few out here, and they pay good money to bright boys like
me."
'' Like--what--oh, your mom asks when you coming back for a visit?"
"When I get a vacation."
"When's that?"
"I don't know, I just started. Give me some time to get settled into
things."
"You know you got work here if you need it."
"I know, and thanks."
"Well, this is costing you a fortune. Write next time."
"I will, don't worry."
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He gave the phone over to Mom, who said pretty much the same stuff, then
repeated it all over again to make sure I understood.
"And remember what I said about saving some for yourself."
"Yes, Mom."
"And be careful about what you eat. No drugstore hot dogs."
"No, Mom, I promise."
She said good-bye, gave the phone over to Dad again, and he told me to
stay out of trouble, and we said good-bye.
I stayed in the booth for a while, my head down and a cold hard ache
inside. I hadn't been really homesick since I first left for the Army as
a kid. At least back then I knew I could return again, that home and
things would be the same as ever, but that was a kid's thinking. Their
lives had changed and I had changed and grown up. I didn't necessarily
like the situation, but there wasn't a whole hell of a lot anybody could
do about it.
I backed quickly out of the confining space of the booth and went
outside, trying to put distance between myself and the loneliness. The
depression followed, but its hold lessened with the distractions the
long streets offered. Thirty minutes of roundabout walking put me in
front of a men's shop that had been advertised in the papers.
It was closed and no one would be in the back working late, which was
exactly why I picked the place. I didn't need any hovering clerks asking
awkward questions about my aversion to mirrors.
I slipped inside and got oriented. The front window shades had been
pulled, but the low level of illumination was more than adequate.
"Riming the lights on would have just annoyed a passing cop. After
poking around, I located a pencil, receipt book, and a pair of gloves,
not necessarily in that order, and proceeded to wait on myself.
Careful to print, I recorded the purchase of several shirts, ties, a
couple of suits, some other odds and ends, and the real corker: a
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tuxedo, complete right down to the white fringed scarf to drape around
my neck. I figured the scarf would make me look more like Fred Asia ire
than Bela Lugosi.
The clothes were high quality and with a price to match, but aside from
rent and a few tips, I wasn't spending my money on very much else. I
overpaid the purchases by three bucks since I was out of small bills,
but thought it would be sufficient compensation to the shop owner for my
inconvenient nocturnal intrusion. I could have just walked out with the
stuff, but I'm basically an honest guy. Besides, if the incident were
reported to the cops, they would probably do nothing. The stuff was paid
for and then some. They'd have bigger fish to catch than some customer
who took self-service very seriously.
After packaging everything up into a stack of long, flat boxes, I tried
leaving by the back door in order to avoid witnesses to my impromptu
Houdini act. There were alarms on all the doors, set to go off if they
were opened, so I was forced to dematerialize to get out. Not all the
boxes went through, the ones that didn't tumbled to the shop floor. I
made several trips in and out after that, holding the larger ones close.
Since I had to enter the back door of my hotel by the same method, I got
a lot of practice in that night. The boxes all bore the name of the
store I'd "burgled" and I didn't want to be seen entering the lobby at a
late hour with an armful of incriminating evidence. Should the story of
the honest thief make the morning papers, the last thing I needed was to
have some night clerk putting things together. Maybe I was being overly
cautious, but sometimes paranoia pays off.
Before midnight had rolled around, my new duds were hung up, their
labels removed and flushed. Taking another short walk out the back way,
I disposed of the boxes and wrappings in some isolated trash can.
Escott was sitting in my armchair smoking his pipe when I returned.
"You certainly waste no time." He nodded at my open closet and its new
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contents, and his eyes went to the top hat on the bureau. "Planning an
evening out?"
"Maybe. From what I hear about the Nightcrawler Club, I figure a plain
old suit and tie wouldn't get me past the hat check girls."
He murmured agreement. If he had questions about how and where I came by
the stuff, he kept them to himself.
"Is this a social visit?"
"More or less. I was wondering if you had seen the papers."
I knew what he was talking about. "Yeah, but you know how these things
can get distorted. Editors like to punch things up; it sells papers."
"True, but even taking that into consideration, there was quite a lot of
copy devoted to Frank Paco's mental condition."
"He must have been running close to the edge. The fire may have pushed
him right over--either that or he's faking to keep Morelli from
collecting."
"Has your memory come back on anything since last night?"
"Haven't thought about it," I lied. "I've been busy."
"And I as well." He pulled five thousand dollars from his inside pocket
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