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who could have served as Sarah’s accomplice. At least, that was the
general theory was going on. And, after all, it was only a matter of
a couple of hours.
    About twelve, I got tired of insurance work and
general theories and decided to take a quick look inside the club.
The wind was howling down the street, making the telephone wires snap
like jump ropes on concrete and freezing me through my top coat as
soon as I got out of the car. I ran across Calhoun Street—well,
high-stepped through the mire—slid up to the club door and ducked
inside. At first glance, I thought the place looked vaguely like a
political headquarters, which was an interesting point if my seeming
suspect were indeed a spy. There were long folding tables scattered
about the iioor; papers, pamphlets and handouts stacked on the
tables; Sierra Club posters on the walls; and hints of marijuana
smoke drifting into the room from the rear office. All in all, it
could have been a chapter of the Young Republicans. A few of the
friends were warming their hands in front of an old Franklin stove by
the front door; most were busy stuffing envelopes. So busy that they
didn’t seem to notice me. Which was just fine. I wandered toward
the rear of the club, where a bulletin board was posted with the
day’s activities. For Tuesday the sixteenth it read: "Joint
Protest with Friends of the Arts to save the Fountain. 2:30 P.M. at
the Art Museum." The Fountain was Our Lady of the Waters on
Fountain Square—once the cynosure of downtown Cincinnati. But since
they’ve torn the Albee down and thrown up those huge steel towers
about the square, the statue doesn’t seem much more than another
misplaced piece of memorabilia—the sort of monument that town
councils love to bury away, because half of them aren’t sure that
anything more than a decade old isn’t slightly un-American. I liked
the fact that the Friends wanted to preserve the Lady from further
attacks and I was also mildly amused by their enemies list, which was
posted next to the bulletin board. Several ominous-looking,
hand-drawn posters, made up to look like the wanted sheets in post
offices, had been strung across the wall. The Mayor was number one,
followed by the chairmen of the boards of Cincinnati Bell, the Metro
bus system, C.G.&E., Proctor & Gamble. Most of the faces were
predictable. The one that wasn’t belonged to Daryl Lovingwell. Even
in the drawing he looked alarmed, as if he were shocked to find
himself in such company. The portrait was signed at the bottom—Sarah
L.
    I didn’t see the artist
around. But that was all right. I didn’t want to see her or her to
see me. I checked my watch, which was showing twelve-ten, and decided
that if I left the club immediately I could drop off the film in time
to get it back that evening, check in at my apartment, grab some
lunch, and still make it up to Mt. Adams in time for the rally. So I
picked up a few pamphlets from one of the folding tables, nodded to a
blonde girl stuffing envelopes, and walked out the door.
    ***
    I’d deposited the film at a Shutter Bug on Vine and
was heading up McMillan to my apartment when I realized that the car
behind me looked too familiar. It was a tan V.W., Sarah’s car. Only
Sarah wasn’t driving it. I took a good look in the mirror when I
got to the stop light at Highland. The man behind the wheel had a
checked tam pulled down over his forehead and a big, bushy black
beard. Sean O’Hara, I said to myself, Sarah’s boyfriend. I’d
never seen the guy sitting next to him before. He was high yellow,
about twenty-five, sparsely bearded, wearing a Big Apple cap, with a
face that was thin, acne-scarred and mean.
    I realized as I watched him watching me that I had
been taking the Lovingwell case much too casually, treating it
strictly as a piece of domestic theft, as "family troubles."
From the look on that black kid’s face, I decided damned quickly
that he and O’Hara were just trouble—plain and