I went over to St. Paul’s. The speaker told a horrible story in a chatty matter-of-fact fashion. Both his parents had died of alcoholism, his father of acute pancreatitis, his mother of suicide committed while drunk. Two brothers and a sister had died of the disease. A third brother was in a state hospital with a wet brain.

“After I was sober a few months,” he said, “I started hearing how alcohol kills brain cells, and I got worried about how much brain damage I might have. So I went to my sponsor and told him what was on my mind. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘maybe you’ve had some brain damage. It’s possible. But let me ask you this. Are you able to remember where the meetings are from one day to the next? Can you find your way to them without any trouble?’ ‘Yeah,’ I told him, ‘I can manage that all right.’ ‘Well then,’ he said, ‘you got all the brain cells you need for the time being.’ “

I left on the break.

There was another message from Durkin at the hotel desk. I called right back and he was out again. I left my name and number and went upstairs. I was having another look at Donna’s poem when the phone rang.

It was Durkin. He said, “Hey, Matt. I just wanted to say I hope I didn’t give you the wrong impression last night.”

“About what?”

“Oh, things in general,” he said. “Once in a while the whole business gets to me, you know what I mean? I have the need to break out, drink too much, run off at the mouth. I don’t make a habit of it but once in awhile I have to do it.”

“Sure.”

“Most of the time I love the job, but there’s things that get to you, things you try not to look at, and every now and then I have to get all that shit out of my system. I hope I didn’t get out of line there toward the end.”

I assured him that he’d done nothing wrong. I wondered how clearly he recalled the previous evening. He’d been drunk enough to be in a blackout, but not everybody has blackouts. Maybe he was just a little vague, and uncertain how I’d taken his outbursts.

I thought of what Billie’s landlady had told him. “Forget it,” I said. “It could happen to a bishop.”

“Hey, I got to remember that one. It could happen to a bishop. And probably does.”

“Probably.”

“You getting anywhere with your investigation? Coming up with anything?”

“It’s hard to tell.”

“I know what you mean. If there’s anything I can do for you—”

“Matter of fact, there is.”

“Oh?”

“I went over to the Galaxy Downtowner,” I said. “Talked to an assistant manager. He showed me the registration card Mr. Jones signed.”

“The famous Mr. Jones.”