“No,” Ingalls repeated. He made a grab for the pictures, not a serious attempt, just a pathetic stab. Schwinn held firm, and Ingalls stepped away from the horror, pressing his hands to the sides of his head. Stamping his foot hard enough to make the floor quake.

Suddenly, he grabbed his melon-belly, bent over as if seized by cramps. Stamped again, howled, “No!”

Kept howling.

Schwinn let him rant for a while, then eased him over to the clearing on the couch, and told Milo, “Get him some fortification.”

Milo found an unopened Bud, popped the top, held it to Ingalls’s lips, but Ingalls shook his head. “No, no, no. Get that the fuck away from me.”

The guy lives in a booze-haze but won’t medicate himself when he sinks to the bottom. Milo supposed that passed for dignity.

He and Schwinn stood there for what seemed to be an eternity. Schwinn serene—used to this. Enjoying it?

Finally, Ingalls looked up. “Where?” he said. “Who?”

Schwinn gave him the basic details, talking quietly. Ingalls moaned through the entire recitation.

“Janie, Janie—”

“What can you tell us that would help us?” said Schwinn.

“Nothing. What could I tell . . . ?” Ingalls shuddered. Shivered. Crossed skinny arms over his chest. “That—who would—oh, God . . . Janie . . .”

“Tell us something,” pressed Schwinn. “Anything. Help us.”

“What . . . I don’t know . . . She didn’t—since she was fourteen, she’s basically been gone, using this place as a crash pad but always gone, telling me to fuck off, mind my own business. Half the time, she ain’t here, see what I’m sayin’?”

“Sleeping at friends’ houses,” said Schwinn. “Melinda, other friends.”

“Whatever . . . oh God, I can’t believe this. . . .” Tears filled Ingalls’s eyes, and Schwinn was there with a snow-white hankie. PS monogram in gold thread on a corner. The guy talked despair and pessimism, but offered his own starched linen to a drunk, for the sake of the job.

“Help me,” he whispered to Ingalls. “For Janie.”

“I would . . . I don’t know—she . . . I . . . we didn’t talk. Not since . . . she used to be my kid, but then she didn’t want to be my kid, telling me to fuck off all the time. I’m not saying I was any big deal as a daddy, but still, without me, Janie would’ve . . . she turned thirteen and all of a sudden she didn’t appreciate anything. Started going out all hours, the school didn’t give a shit. Janie never went, no one from the school ever called me, not one time.”

“You call them?”

Ingalls shook his head. “What’s the point? Talking to people who don’t give a shit. I’da called, they’da probably sent cops over and busted me for something, child neglect, whatever. I was busy, man. Working—I used to work at Paramount Studios.”

“Oh, yeah?” said Schwinn.

“Yeah. Publicity department. Information transfer.”

“Janie interested in the movies?”