Rough Cut
“ELEVEN The call came-according to the digital clock next to my bed-at 2:28 a.m.
By the time I'd reached bed I'd been exhausted enough to sleep till noon.
Responding to the call was not easy. I had to swim upward through several miles of subconsciousness and then groggily figure out where the phone was and how to operate it.
He might have been selling insurance, the way he sounded so chipper and bright. A deal I couldn't refuse.
"Mr. Ketchum," he boomed.
"Huh, wha-" "Mr. Ketchum, I realize it's late-or early-depending on your point of view-but I have got to talk to you about something that both of us have a mutual interest in." And then I realized who I was talking to. The queer bird with the Coke-bottle glasses and the pale flesh and the sinister black clothing.
Stokes. The private detective I'd hired.
"I'd like to come over, Mr. Ketchum." "Now?" I said, startled.
"If you wouldn't mind.'' "God.
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