Hotline to Murder

that could use a coat of paint. The door the Chameleon had gone through. There was a window beside the door, but the blinds were closed. However, a light was on inside.
    Tony suddenly remembered that he didn’t have a gun with him. And he was certainly in no position to make a fast retreat down the stairs. In his favor was the fact that there was no evidence that the murderer had used a gun. But there was also no evidence that he hadn’t. Would the Chameleon recognize him? He had looked at him for about a tenth of a second in the dark several weeks ago. Surely, a memory couldn’t have been imprinted on his brain.
    Tony didn’t see a doorbell. He knocked on the door. He listened but couldn’t hear any movement inside. He called out, “Pizza man.”
    In a few seconds footsteps sounded on the other side of the door. A bolt slid open. Then the door opened.
    “I didn’t order any…” The man stopped talking when he saw that Tony wasn’t holding a pizza.
    “Sorry,” Tony said. “That was the only way I could think of to get your attention. I saw your light. I-I’m looking for a friend, but I must have his address wrong.”
    “What’s his name?”
    “Uh…Sam. Sam Jones.”
    “I don’t know any Sam Jones.”
    He started to close the door. Tony saw a large picture on the wall beside the doorway.
    “Is that Britney? Britney Spears? I love Britney.”
    The door stopped closing.
    “Yeah, that’s her. She’s great, isn’t she?
    “For sure. You don’t by any chance have a phone book do you?”
    “Come on in.”
    Tony carefully walked through the doorway, trying not to spook this man who looked as if the slightest sound or movement would make him jump. An unpleasant stench hit him in the nostrils. It smelled like rotting garbage. The Chameleon was thin and short and his head was narrow, with a pointed nose that reminded Tony of a ferret. He was bald in front, and what hair he had in other places was overgrown, like a bush that needed trimming. He wore jeans and a stained T-shirt.
    “I’m T…I’m Ted,” Tony said. He couldn’t give his real name or the Chameleon might recognize him from the Hotline. He was sure that some of his hang ups had been from the Chameleon. He tentatively offered his hand.
    “Fred.” Fred gave him a quick, clammy shake and then withdrew. “I’ve got a phone book here someplace.”
    A look around convinced Tony that it might be hard to find. The apartment was a filthy mess. The sparsely furnished room was piled high with magazines and notebooks. Newspapers littered the floor, along with uneaten food, some on plates, some just lying on the worn carpet. This was the source of the stench.
    A wave of sadness went through Tony. My God, what kind of a life is he living, was the first thought that occurred to him. And then fear. This could have been me. A couple of wrong turns, and this could have been me. He had a sense of how thin the barrier was that separated the two of them. And he desperately wanted to get out of here. But he couldn’t—just yet.
    Fred was methodically going through the piles of written material, hunting for a phone book. Tony lifted his gaze. Hundreds of pictures were taped to the walls. Pictures of girls. Almost every square inch of the walls was covered. Most had evidently been cut out of magazines. A few, like the one of Britney, were posters. Tony recognized some of the pictures of models, actresses, and singers. Others were unknown to him. All were young and beautiful. Tony didn’t see any nudes among the pictures. No Playboy centerfolds, such as had graced the walls of his fraternity in college. All the girls were at least wearing swimsuits.
    “Great pictures,” Tony said, for lack of something better to say.
    “Yeah,” was all Fred said, but he did smile for the first time.
    “You must know every pretty girl in the world.”
    “Not quite.”
    There was only one other window in the room, in addition to the one beside the front door. An inside door led to another room, probably a bathroom. But that couldn’t have a window because its outside wall abutted the wall of the next apartment. The windows didn’t have a good view of another building. So Fred wasn’t looking at any tattoos out his windows. Shahla was right; that was a fantasy.
    “Where do you sleep?” Tony asked.
    Fred nodded toward the side wall opposite the internal doorway. “Hide-a-bed.”
    The bed folded into the wall. Tony could make out its outline. It was covered with