His body tightened. "Sure. I've gotten lucky a couple of times."

I looked at him and said, "Who was the last powerful, butch man in your life?"

Sweat popped out on his forehead and he looked away. "I can't tell you that."

"You can't, or you won't?"

"I can't. And I won't, ever. That subject doesn't have anything to do with John Rutka, so drop it. What else do you want to know?"

"I'm getting the idea there was a connection between your last boyfriend and John Rutka. Maybe his name is in Rutka's file on you. I'll have to go back and check."

He shook his head. "No. He was too careful. There's no way John Rutka could have known about this man. It won't be in my file, I'm sure. You'd be wasting your time with this man. Take my word for it." Sweat was dribbling off his nose.

"In your file," I said, "there's a note that says you were at a certain motel with someone referred to as 'A' once a week for nearly a year up until mid-June. Was that your boyfriend?"

Tears slid down his face. "I can't take this."

"Was 'A' one of his initials?"

He shook his head and wept silently.

I said, "If John Rutka had known about this man and had been preparing to out him, what would the consequences have been?"

He pulled a perfect white handkerchief out of his back pocket and mopped the tears and sweat from his face.

"Awful," he said. "It would have been- Oh, God. Look, I can't talk about this anymore. I really can't."

"Just tell me this, Ronnie. What would this man's reaction have been if he had been outed?"

He sat there for a long moment shaking his head again, when suddenly he gave a furious shudder, yanked up the sleeve of his jacket, and thrust his left wrist in front of my face.

"Do you see that?" he rasped.

I stared at the scar.

"Ten years ago I had enough of a world full of people like you. If you keep pushing me, Strachey, I'll do it again. And I'll leave a note blaming you."

"No need for that," I said.

"I mean it!"

"I can see you do. I believe you."

"And this time nobody will find me."

"Hey, I'm cool."

"Are you going to stop leaning on me?"

"Yup."

"Is that a promise?"

"I promise."

"How can I believe you?" he said desperately, and flung himself back against his seat.

"I'll take you back to Channel Eight now, Ronnie, if that's where you want to go, and I won't bother you anymore. You'll see."

He sat there for another minute catching his breath, while I spoke to him reassuringly. Finally he interrupted me and said, "Oh, let's have some breakfast." And he got instantly out of the car.

Inside, Linkletter grinned as people throughout the crowded restaurant recognized him and said Hello, and Have a nice day, and I just washed my car so I guess it's gonna rain, huh? Ronnie thought that last one was a knee-slapper.

After breakfast, as I drove back to Channel Eight, we chatted about baseball and of course the weather. Linkletter said the next twenty-four hours would be nice, and I was about to say, "Hey, that's the way we like it," and then thought better of it and just said thanks.

So much for Ronnie Linkletter as a route to the Mega-Hypocrite. end user

The Fountain of Eden Motel on Route 5 was an old clapboard house with a neon sign on the roof and a long "L" of fifteen single-story shingled motel units appended to its backside. The office was in the back of the house, and you could pull around and ease up to it without being seen from the highway.

A wooden door with a patched screen led into a registration alcove. The tiny room, which stank of the nicotine stains that gummed the walls, contained a wooden counter, a condom machine, and no chairs. I pressed a button on the counter and could hear a buzzer sound in the inner reaches of the house.

"She's out back!" The male voice was muffled but the words decipherable.

"Whereabouts?" I yelled back.

"Doin' the laundry. Past number six."

I found an open door to a small room squeezed in between units six and seven. A squat, middle-aged woman in shorts and a T-shirt was stuffing sheets into a washing machine, a filtered cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. She was blond and sad-eyed and had a long-lost pretty face somewhere. The cigarette was lighted and her breathing sounded like somebody walking around in a swamp.

"You want a room?"

"How much until noon?"

"Eighteen."

I gave her a twenty and got back two that came from the shorts pocket. The twenty went in there with her wad. She took a key out of her other pocket and said, "I just made up eleven."

"Should I register?"

"No need to."

"What if I stole something-walked off with your television? The rooms have TV, don't they?"

"Sure. VCRs too. But if anybody steals anything, we can get it back. Are you planning on stealing something? You better not."

"How come?"

"I know your license number." She recited it. "I looked at it while you were inside the office and I'll write it down when I get back to the desk. If we need to get ahold of you for anything, we can find you through the DMV. People who stay here usually'd rather not leave their names, but we can track you down if we want you. Jay handles it."

"I don't plan on stealing anything," I said, "but I'd like to speak with Jay when he comes in. Would you give him this?"

"Sure."

I handed her the sealed envelope containing the note I wrote to Gladu after I drove Ronnie Linkletter back to Channel Eight. I went out and pulled the car over to number 11. Only two other cars were in the lot, a new Acura and an old Ford Galaxie in front of units 3 and 4. I checked the mud flaps on both; all four were intact.

Room 11 was small and dim with thick curtains drawn shut. A water bed in a lacquered pine frame that matched the paneling on one wall took up much of the room. The print on the filthy bedspread showed pastoral vistas and Georgian mansions. The TV set on the dresser was hooked up to the discount store-brand VCR beside it. Two walls of the room were covered with mirrors, as was the ceiling above the bed. The towels beside the small sink outside the bathroom were worn but clean. Above the sink an ancient contraption of an air conditioner was jammed into what had been a window. When I switched it to "on," nothing happened.

I'd brought the Times along and sat by a low-watt lamp in the airless room plugging away at the crossword puzzle-one of those with puns so dumb you wanted to call up Sulzberger and ask for your fifty cents back- until just after ten, when a knock came at the door.

I opened it and a thirtyish groover in baggy black shirt and pants and jackboots grinned at me a little too brilliantly out of a pale smooth face. "Are you the blackmailer?"

"Yup."

"How much do you want? If it's too much, I may have to have you killed."

He was still grinning, contented with his existence and mine, and apparently not prepared to take me as much of a threat. He seemed to be a man who had found inner peace, though whether its provenance was spiritual or chemical I didn't know.

"I don't want your money," I said. "I just want to find out who killed John Rutka, and I thought you might be able to help me out, Jay."