The Fool's Run

looked me over with a careful eye.
    “You must be one of the people in two-A,” she said, with a touch of a French accent.
    “Yes. And you’re . . .”
    “Two-D,” she said. “Are you . . . a business?”
    “Consultants,” I said.
    “Ah, consultants,” she said brightly, as though it explained everything. In Washington, of course, it probably did. “To tell you the truth, I was happy to see Louis and his little friends move out.”
    “Louis?”
    “The landlord.”
    “Oh, sure. I’ve never met him. One of my associates actually rented the place.”
    “Ah.” The elevator came and she got in and pushed the button for the second floor.
    “What, uh . . .” I gave her my best, most open smile. “I can’t resist gossip, I’m afraid. That’s why I’m a consultant. What about Louis’s friends?”
    She shrugged, and her eyes evaded mine. “If one is heterosexual . . .” She shrugged.
    “There’s an uneasy feeling. I know what you mean.”
    “You are heterosexual?”
    “Yes.”
    “I saw the woman, your associate. She is very attractive.”
    “Yes. She looks not unlike you. Very attractive.”
    She dimpled and was about to say something when the elevator arrived at the second floor. “I do not mind homosexuals,” she said, pronouncing the word with care. “But there were . . . so many of them. Five or six living there at once. In the evenings, sometimes, it sounded like they were all in one pile. . . . And then one hears about AIDS.”
    “Now you’ve got me worried. Were they living there for long?”
    “Two years?” she said.
    “God, I’ll have to spray the place.”
    “Oh, that’s not . . . you are joking me.”
    “I’d never joke you,” I said. We were at my door; she continued down the short hallway and turned when she got to her door.
    “Could I buy you a drink sometime?” I asked.
    She considered for a moment, then shook her head in what looked like genuine regret. “I have a friend,” she said. “If I did not, I would like it.” She pushed her door open, gave me a final smile, and was gone.
     
    LUELLEN WAS STANDING just inside the door when I opened it, with Dace a few steps behind her. A half-finished microwave pizza sat on the kitchen table.
    “We heard you talking,” she said, a question in her voice.
    “Another tenant. She told me something . . . odd.”
    “What?”
    “She said the landlord’s gay and that he used to keep a bunch of male friends in here. Several of them. For maybe two years.”
    “Aw, shit,” said LuEllen, nibbling her lip.
    Dace looked puzzled. “What difference does it make?”
    LuEllen turned to him and asked the question that was bothering both of us. “If there were a bunch of gays living here, how come Ratface was bugging the place to catch a general and his mistress?”
    “Jeez . . .”
    “Somebody’s lying to us,” LuEllen said.
    We hashed it over without reaching any conclusion.
    “I’ll sweep the place again and make sure Bobby is sterilizing the phone lines,” I said. “And I’ll see if Bobby can get a line on Ratface—Morelli—whatever his name is. Maybe Bobby can do something with his phones.”
    “Should we be talking about this?” Dace asked, looking at the walls.
    I went over the apartment inch by inch and again found nothing. Bobby said our lines were clean. Guaranteed.
    “Maybe we’re worrying about bullshit,” I said. “There’s no way anybody could know about us, not unless Anshiser has sprung a major leak. And if anybody did know—the law—they would have moved.”
    Dace shook his head. “Paranoia,” he said. “Shadows.”
    LuEllen was looking doubtful. “I don’t know,” she said. She took a couple of slow turns around the front room, then plopped on the couch. “I can’t figure it.”
    “Let it go for now,” said Dace.
    “Maybe Bobby will come up with something,” I said.
    “It’s worth a try,” LuEllen agreed. “Okay. We let it go. For now.”
    “Good.” Dace turned to me. “Wanna look at the loot?”
    We dumped LuEllen’s tennis bag on the front-room floor. There were a half-dozen pistols, two hundred dollars in cash, three credit cards, and several good pieces of gold jewelry, including a gold and diamond stickpin. Total value, she said, would be about two thousand on the street.
    “It’d be a good haul for a junkie,” she said. “They usually get a transistor radio and a bottle of picante sauce.”
    Late that night, she and Dace dropped everything but the cash and