Hook tried to pin him down on specifics. Had he ever heard anything about her and Mrs. Rubin, a possible lesbian relationship? No, nothing like that. Did he ever hear if it was her practice to pick up hitchhikers and take them home? Oh Christ no, he didn’t know any of these people that well, in that kind of detail. He just knew about them in general, their background and so forth, that was all. Ignoring the objection, Hook asked him if he had heard anything about Liz having any current lovers other than Douglas.

“No, I don’t know any of that,” Oliver repeated. “I can’t help you there. About all I know is what I’ve told you—she’s beautiful and damned, just like in Hollywood.” Now he smiled and shook his head reflectively. “Jesus, though, I remember about ten years ago. You know, every summer we have our big Fiesta celebration here, and the main part of it is the parade. The rich folks put on fancy costumes and ride their horses and carriages past the poor folks who cheer and throw flowers at them. At least that’s the way it’s been in the past, though I got a feeling the Brown Berets are going to start throwing grenades one of these years. Anyway, this one parade about ten years ago—I’m standing on the sidewalk in the shade, half-boozed of course, wanting to either throw up or laugh at all these jackass honky dentists and plumbers and bond vendors trying to make like Spanish grandees—you know, the sombreros down over their eyes and their asses spilling over the saddles. And then all of a sudden here comes Madera and his daughter on a pair of matched black Arabian stallions—and all Arabian horses got to be stallions, right?—it’s a law. Anyway, here they come, and I’m telling you they weren’t no Kiwanis clown and his Girl Scout daughter. The costumes belonged on these two, and the horses belonged under them. They were Spain in the eighteen-hundreds—the Duke de la Madera and his beautiful daughter Dona Elizabeth. She wasn’t Fiesta queen that day or ever—because of him, I guess. But by Jesus, I bet she left behind her five thousand men and boys incurably in love. I know I was. I didn’t speak to my wife for a month afterwards.”

Hook smiled at the story, enjoying its blend of the cynical and the romantic. He liked Oliver and worried that he might be overtaxing him. But they were not finished yet. There were still Douglas’s two “associates” to ask about. So instead of getting up to leave, Hook took out his pack of cigarettes.

“Mind if I smoke?” he asked.

“Hell, I haven’t quit myself.” The old reporter took his own pack off the table and lit up. “I don’t believe all that scare talk,” he scoffed. “What proof they got?”

Hook looked away from his doomed grin. “What about Richard Ferguson and this ‘Bo’ Parnelli?” he asked. “You know anything about them?”