"What time was this?"

"Just a little while ago. Maybe five, ten minutes."

"Do his calls come through the switchboard?"

"Isn't any switchboard. He's got a telephone in his room. That way his phone bill's his own business and I don't have to fool with it. I don't pretend I'm dealing with a classy type of tenant. Dirtbags, most of 'em, but it's nothing to me. Long as they pay the rent in advance as agreed."

"Is he pretty good about that?"

"He's better than most. You his parole officer?"

"Just a friend," I said. "If you see him, could you ask him to give me a call?" I took out another business card and circled my number.

I unlocked the car door, just about to let myself in, when my bad angel piped up, giving me a little nudge. Right there in front of me was Curtis McIntyre's door. The lock looked respectable, but the window right next to it was open. The gap was only three inches, but the wooden frame on the window screen was warped along the bottom and actually bulged out just about far enough for me to tuck my tiny fingers in. Pop the screen out and all I'd have to do is push the sash up, reach around on the inside, and turn the thumb-lock. There was no one in the parking lot and the noise from all the television sets would cover any sound. I'd been a model citizen all week and where had it gotten me? The case was never going to get as far as court anyway, so what difference would it make if I broke the law? Breaking and entering isn't that big a deal. I wasn't going to steal anything. I was just going to have a teeny, tiny, little peek. This is the kind of reasoning my bad angel gets into. Trashy thinking, but it's just so persuasive. I was ashamed of myself, but before I could even reconsider I was easing the screen out, slipping the naughty old digits through the opening. Next thing I knew I was in his room. I turned the light on. I just had to hope Curtis wouldn't walk in. I wasn't sure he'd care if I tossed his place. I was more worried that if he caught me there, he'd think I was hustling him.

His mother would have been embarrassed to see his personal habits. 'Pick up your clothes' was not in his vocabulary. The room wasn't very big to begin with, maybe twelve feet by twelve, with a galley-size kitchen-combination refrigerator, sink, and hot plate, all filthy. The bed was unmade, no big surprise there. A small black-and-white TV sat on one of the bed tables, pulled away from the wall for better viewing in bed. Cords trailed across the floor, fairly begging to be tripped over. The bathroom was small, draped with damp towels that smelled of mildew. He seemed to favor the kind of soap with pubic hairs embedded in it.

Actually, I didn't care how he kept his place. It was the rickety wooden desk that interested me. I began to search. Curtis didn't believe in banks. He kept his cash loose in the top drawer, quite a lot of it. He probably figured that roving bands of big-time thieves weren't going to target room 9 of the Thrifty. A few bills were tossed in helter-skelter with the cash: gas, telephone, Sears, where he'd charged some clothes. Under the windowed envelopes was a heavyweight self-sealing envelope meant for mailing checks. The address was handwritten, with no return address visible in the upper left-hand corner. I flipped it over. The personalized name and address of the sender had been printed on the back flap: Mr. and Mrs. Peter Weidmann. Well, that was interesting. I tilted the shade on the little table lamp, holding the envelope so close to the bulb I nearly scorched the paper. The envelope was lined with obnoxious stars, obscuring the field so I couldn't see the contents. Happily the heat from the bulb seemed to soften the gum seal, and by picking patiently at the flap I managed to peel it open.

Inside was a check for four hundred dollars, made out to Curtis and signed by Yolanda Weidmann. There was no explanation on the check in the space marked "Memo" and no personal note tucked into the envelope. How did she know Curtis and why was she paying him? How many more people was the guy collecting from? Between Kenneth and Yolanda, he was raking in five hundred dollars a month. Add a few more contributors and it was better than a paying job. I slid the check back and resealed the envelope. The rest of the desk drawers contained nothing of interest. I did another quick visual survey and then flipped the light out. I peered around the edge of the curtain. The parking lot was deserted. I turned the thumb-lock and eased out, pulling the door shut behind me.

I bypassed the freeway and took surface roads back into Horton Ravine. Lower Road was dark, the few streetlamps too widely spaced to offer adequate illumination. The lights that had been turned on at the Weidmanns' house were the sort you offer up to burglars in hopes they'll go elsewhere. The porch light was on and there was no car in the drive. I left my engine idling while I rang the bell. Once I was convinced there was no one home, I backed down the driveway and parked around the corner on Esmeralda. The Horton Ravine Patrol would swing by at intervals, but I thought I'd escape notice temporarily. I opened the glove compartment and took out the big flashlight. To the best of my recollection, the Weidmanns didn't have electronic fences or a big slobbering Doberman. I grabbed my jacket from a jumble in the backseat. I shrugged myself into it and zipped it up the front. Time to go walking in the woods on a little toadstool hunt.