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of his kind, I’ve read Casanova’s memoirs, and books about Burr, Sickles, and Charles the Second. I don’t understand them at all, but this I’ve found out about them: They’re sick, or unbalanced, or something. Strange, offbeat things excite them, as Dale Morgan excited him—till she became a pest. She was a born spinster, pale, colorless, and prissy, but that’s what set him off.”
    “Where does the money come in?”
    “I’m coming to that. She was killed when her car hit a culvert wall—her mother was driving, and Burl was here in this room with me, watching a football game. The police didn’t even question him. The insurance adjuster did.”
    “Questioned Burl, you mean?”
    “Right here in this room. And at his request—Burl’s request—I sat in and answered some questions, too. And a strange thing came out: They’d taken out reciprocal policies, I think that’s what they’re called, reciprocal accident policies, his in her favor, hers in his—five thousand for loss of a limb, twenty-five thousand for loss of life, and double indemnity for death in a motor accident. Burl kept telling the adjuster: ‘It was all her idea—I thought it was screwy myself. But she was paying for it, and who was I to object?’ Gramie, that money had to be paid, the whole fifty thousand, and I’m all but certain it has been.”
    “Then Lang was right?”
    “He should know what Burl’s balance is.”
    “Then let Burl pay, why not?”
    She tightened, then went on: “One night, not long after that, a boy showed up here, whose name I don’t recall, but Burl called him Al. He’d been in the Army with Burl, in Japan, in the headquarters motor pool, keeping trucks, cars, and motorcycles in running order. And he got slopped on beer and talked—mainly about girls, in tea houses, shops, and bars, which I thought an odd subject in front of me, but I indulge all former soldiers. But then suddenly he remembered Bong, and I thought Burl was trying to shush him, by changing the subject, by being reminded of other things. But Al kept right on. I judge Bong’s name was Bin Ben Bon, but Al called him Bing Bang Bong, and reveled in his exploits. Bong was a South Vietnamese, who had done undercover work, and special sabotage in Hanoi. And he would boast of how he had killed Hanoi generals, four of them, he said, four ‘genetor,’ it seemed he called them, by loosening a certain screw, a set-screw in the steering assembly, of these North Vietnamese generals’ cars. ‘One slet-sclew,’ he boasted to Al and Burl. ‘Come here rook I show you, one ‘slet-screw’ in generor car, a generor clash, generor die in ditch.’ Al thought him killingly funny, but I didn’t. I had a horrible suspicion I’d heard the truth at last about poor little Dale Morgan’s death.”
    “...Be a pretty hard truth to prove.”
    “Gramie, does Lang have to prove it?”
    “Go on, say what you’re leading to.”
    “What I’m leading to is: I think Lang wants that money, a big hunk of what Burl was paid— if he was paid, as I imagine he was—but I don’t think that’s all he wants. I think he wants to ruin Burl, as a matter of sheer vindictiveness—break the thing wide open before consenting to be bought off—but not before reopening that other case. Because if the police find out that he was paid that money, they’ll have to reopen that case.”
    “But they must know it already.”
    “Right, and then this will force their hand.”
    Now, for the first time, I went into details, on the rape I mean, telling stuff I’d left out before, especially that other couple, but she wouldn’t let me finish. “Please! I can’t listen to it,” she said, “I can’t bear any more! Oh, what a filthy, rotten thing!”
    “Incidentally, why the sundown bit?”
    “...On that, I think I did right.”
    “Yeah, but what was the idea of it?”
    “To give Burl time to skip.”
    “Oh. Oh, I see. Well—did he?”
    “Not till I kicked in with money.