"I don't think so."

I sat in my chair again and Gladu flopped onto the water bed and arranged the pillows behind his back.

"John Rutka paid you more than six thousand dollars last year," I said. "What for?"

"No, he didn't."

"It's in his financial records-the amounts of the disbursements and the dates."

"That might be in John Rutka's financial records, but it's not in mine. There are no canceled checks. You won't find my signature anywhere in John Rutka's records. Or in anyone else's. Except New York Telephone's, of course. I'm a phone-company subscriber and proud of it. The power company too."

"I see your point. On the other hand," I said, "there's an exceptionally large number of references to the Fountain of Eden in the files Rutka kept on gay Albanians he was planning to out. In all of the files, the Fountain of Eden comes up eighty or ninety times. Apparently someone here was feeding Rutka information on the assorted couplings and quadruplings that the participants, your paying customers, assumed to be private. If the police or the tax authorities had possession of those files-which they do not, yet-they might imagine a connection existed between the cash disbursements and the carefully indexed sexual reports.

They'd think poorly of you, as would your customers once word got around. Your business inevitably would suffer."

He shrugged and peered at me brightly. "This place is not my only source of income. I've got an art gallery in Woodstock and a pet shop in the Millpond Mall. But don't get me wrong. I get your point. What is it you'd like to know?"

"I'd like to know who came to the Fountain of Eden with Ronnie Linkletter every Wednesday night for a year. I'd like you to instruct whoever it is on your staff here who keeps track of these things to talk to me and to answer truthfully every question I ask. And I want to leave here with copies of your license-plate records for the past year. Arrange those few things and we'll call it even."

"What do you mean, 'even? What's in it for me?"

"After whoever killed John Rutka is caught, Rutka's records will be destroyed. I'll do it myself. All those embarrassing connections to you and your business will be gone."

A dry laugh. "Do I look embarrassed?"

"Not yet."

"Well, maybe instead of doing all those things you're demanding I do, I should do what I first thought when Sandy gave me your threatening note. I should just arrange to have you killed." He grinned.

"Is that something you do to people routinely, or would I be receiving exceptional treatment?"

"I can't answer that. It would be giving something away."

Hoping I was guessing right about Gladu, I said, "I'm not impressed with your chemically induced bravado, Jay, and I'm getting bored with your line of utter bullshit. I want answers and I want them now. Who do I talk to around here to get them?"

He blinked twice, tapped his fingers on the bed frame, and said, "You can talk to me. I have the answers to your questions, and I'll give you the answers in return for one thousand dollars."

I sighed. "Jay, how would you like Cityscape to do a story on the Fountain of Eden as the Albany area's most popular quickie heaven, where the elite meet to fornicate, except the management spies on the customers and sells the information to political dementos like John Rutka and also tries to sell it to private investigators working on murder cases? The story would be a natural for Cityscape, and I'd be happy to supply the paper with the evidence that would pretty much put you out of business."

"I'd hate that," he said with a little slit of a smile and the same bright eyes. "If that happened, somebody might arrange to kill me."

"Could be."

"I have to admit, Strachey, that you've got me backed into a corner. So I've decided that I will answer your questions." His eyes got even brighter. "And then later I'll arrange to have you killed. Months from now, or even years, when you're least suspecting it.

You'll be walking down Lark Street. Or you'll be home doing some blow, or you'll have your tongue wrapped around your boyfriend's willy, or you'll be lying in bed looking through Mirabella. And all of a sudden- ka-powie! — you're a piece of Center Square roadkill!"

I said, "You're full of shit, Gladu."

"You think I am, don't you?"

"Yes."

"You're right." He guffawed.

"I know."

"What were the questions you wanted answered? I forgot."

"First, tell me how it worked-your data-gathering methods. Who were the actual spies?"

"Sandy in the daytime picks up quite a bit. She's got the tube on all the time and remembers faces, so when some local mega-celeb shows up she'll spot him right away and make a note of it. She gets five bucks a pop for a regular spotting, ten for media heavies like Ronnie Linkletter. I've got two queens who alternate nights- Royce and Lemuel, who live over in the house-and they know everybody and don't miss a trick. They're devastated that Rutka is dead, because now there's nobody to sell their dirt to."

"They knew the dirt was going to Rutka?" "Sure, I told them. Not that they cared. A dollar is a dollar. Being a bitch is being a bitch whether it's politically correct or not. For them, it's just a hoot."

I said, "I've been through Rutka's files, Jay. And I have a pretty good fix on who was spotted here, and when, and who they were with, and what kind of lubricants were left behind, and used condoms in the linen and on the floor, and roaches in the ashtrays, and all the rest of the detritus of hundreds of happy romps at the Fountain of Eden. What I'd like is any additional information you can give me on one man in particular: Ronnie Linkletter." Gladu sniffed a couple of times to clear his nostrils and his mind.

"I knew you were going to ask about Ronnie." "Why?"

"Because I thought maybe he had something to do with Rutka getting offed." "You thought Ronnie did it?" "No-not that he was actually the one." "Then what? What made you think of Ronnie at all?" Gladu sat forward now and struggled to stay in focus.

"Well, for one thing, Ronnie was one of the people John was really after-somebody he just had to uncloset. There were these three people John used to talk about as the dudes he wanted to get the most. One was Bruno Slinger, on account of how he helped kill the queer-bashing law or whatever that was. When John finally got Slinger he was high for a month. Of the three big assholes on his list, Bruno was the first one outed. Then Ronnie was the one he wanted, partly because he was so popular in Albany, and famous, but there was another reason, too."

"What was that?"

"It had something to do with Ronnie's boyfriend, somebody he met here every Wednesday night from seven till ten, when he had to get back to Channel Eight and get the weather report ready for the eleven o'clock news. When John found out who the boyfriend was, then he really wanted to get Ronnie."

"Who was the boyfriend?"

"I don't know. I thought I knew, but I guess I don't actually know."

"Explain that, please."

He was sitting cross-legged in the center of the bed now, rocking gently, and measuring his words. "Well," he said, "the boyfriend always arrived after dark in a raincoat with the collar turned up and wearing a baseball cap with the brim pulled down."

"What team?"