"Nobody ever got close enough to see anything like that. Although Lemuel and Royce tried their best to get a look. But they were never quick enough. The dude would drive in after Ronnie was already here and the room was paid for, and he'd slip inside the room with the curtains shut. They were always in unit fifteen, down at the end. Ronnie would reserve it and Lemuel or Royce would hold it even if we got busy, because Ronnie and his honey were always punctual."

"How did Rutka find out who Ronnie's boyfriend was if Lemuel and Royce didn't even know?"

"Through the license plate of the car he drove. We had that much. John and I both have DMV contacts and we found out who owned the car. It's some nobody in Pine Hills. I've got his name written down over in the office. I don't know how, but John figured out that Ronnie's mystery boyfriend was somebody who borrowed this other guy's car every Wednesday night, and it was somebody he wanted to drag out of the closet even more than Bruno and Ronnie. He got Bruno, and then he got Ronnie. But I don't think he ever outed the third one, the one he wanted the most. I'm not sure why, but I think John was scared of this one."

"What makes you think so?"

"From the way he talked. He always referred to this one as the All-American Mega-Hypocrite. He was some hot-shit something-or-other who was a deep closet case, and I got the impression he was one dangerous asshole."

"Did he threaten John?"

"No, I don't think he even knew John was onto him. John never said so, anyway. For a while John was always working on a way to get a picture of Ronnie and the Mega-Hypocrite in bed, or a tape or something. But I wouldn't go along with that. I didn't want anything traceable to me or my business. You don't stay in the motel business pulling shit like that."

Mr. Situational Ethics. I said, "When did Ronnie and the mystery man break up? Or did they? It's Ronnie's story that they broke up."

"All I know is," Gladu said, "they stopped coming here about two months ago, and it wasn't long after that that I heard Ronnie and Bruno, John's first- and second-favorite outees, were getting it on together at the Parmalee Plaza. Well, that's cozy, I remember thinking. I don't know what became of Mr. Mega-Hypocrite. Maybe he scared Ronnie off too. Though with Ronnie, it looks like the bigger and meaner they are, the siffer his dick."

"It looks that way."

"At the time, I thought maybe they didn't come back here because of what happened in unit fifteen later that night after they were here for the last time. But I don't see how they could have known about it. We kept it quiet. You didn't hear anything, did you? It's not in John's files, is it?" He looked apprehensive.

"I don't know if it's in the files, because I don't know what you're referring to, Jay. Clue me in."

A pause. Then: "The mirror fell off the ceiling in unit fifteen. I guess all those hours of fucking over the years loosened some screws and one whole six-by-four-foot section of mirror over the bed in that unit dropped off. If anybody had been in the bed at the time, they could have been killed."

We both looked up at the mirror above Gladu and winced. Long metal flanges held the mirror sections in place. It looked as if the flanges were screwed into the old ceiling beams. We saw ourselves up there looking back at ourselves with nauseated looks.

I said, "How does your insurance company feel about those mirrors?"

He looked queasy. "They don't know about them, actually."

"Ah."

"The mirrors have all been tightened up. Hey, if you ever bring a trick out here, you won't have to worry."

"I happen to be in a monogamous situation, but thanks for the reassurance."

"Maybe you and your boyfriend would like to come out for a weekend getaway sometime. We have special weekend rates."

"What are they, higher?"

"Naturally."

I said, "Who was working here the night the mirror fell?"

"Royce. Poor Royce was wrecked for a week."

"I'd like to speak to him. Is he here?"

"Over in the house."

"Is Royce his first name or his last?"

"It's Royce McClosky."

"Do you know who D.R. is?"

"D.R.?"

"The initials D.R."

He thought about this. "Donna Reed?"

"I don't think so. Who besides you was John Rutka paying to spy on people and feed dirt to him for his outing files?"

"That's confidential, but since you're blackmailing me, I'll tell you. Nathan Zenck at the Parmalee Plaza was paid, I know."

"Just Zenck?"

"He's the only one I know of. I know Nathan. He's a silly queen but an excellent businessman. We're different but we have a lot of respect for each other."

I told him I wanted to look at his license-plate records and we walked over to the office. I bent down briefly to check the mud flaps on Gladu's Mercedes. Both were intact. Inside the registration alcove, Gladu flipped up the hinged end of the counter and went behind it to rummage through some drawers. He produced a long box of index cards with dates, times, and license-plate numbers written on them.

"Some people we actually register. The state says we have to," Gladu said, and brought out a much smaller box of registration cards filled in with probably mostly phony names and addresses. "We like to respect people's privacy," he said, "so not everyone is required to register, and all transactions are in cash."

"What crap. You cheat the state and federal governments out of the taxes and you sell information on people's private lives for additional cash."

He suddenly glared at me and slammed his left fist on the counter. His other hand came up from behind the counter with a. 38 caliber revolver, which he aimed at me. "Now I am going to see that you die, you scumbag blackmailer, and I'm going to do it myself right now!"

"Gladu, just shut up and get me the files. And put that thing away before it goes off and the rest of your mirrors drop."

He chuckled and put the gun back under the counter.

"Where's Royce?" I said.

Gladu pressed the buzzer on the counter.

"She's out back!" came a voice from above.

"Royce is off-duty now. He's probably watching Geraldo with Lemuel and wishes not to be disturbed. But I guess you're going to insist on disturbing him."

"Yes, I am."

"Royce, get down here!" Gladu yelled. "A blackmailer wants to talk to you."

He placed the two file boxes on the counter along with a sheet of paper on which was written a license-plate number, a name, and an address.

"Who's this? The owner of the car Ronnie Linkletter's mystery man came in?"

"That's what John told me. But not the man himself, according to John."

The name on the paper was Art Murphy, and the address was 37 Flint Street, Albany, a short street I'd passed a thousand times that ran off Washington Avenue in the old Pine Hills section of the city. Art Murphy did not sound like an arch-hypocrite, but maybe Art regularly lent or rented his car to a man who was. I wondered if Art had ever been blackmailed and if he ever thought he would be.

"This man's name is Strachey," Gladu told Royce when he appeared. "He's a pond-scum degenerate blackmailer, and as your employer I am directing you to answer every question he asks you. Later I'm going to have him killed, but for now tell him whatever he wants to know." Gladu beamed.