Tony starts to nod, musing to himself. He isn't smiling now, and all joviality is at an end. "How'd you figure this?"

How indeed? I brace myself, trying hard to think of something. "I uh . . . well . . . it's kind of a long story." Or it would be if only I could remember what I'd planned to say.

"I'm not going anywhere."

Come on, Dougie, think.

"It's like this, Tony. . . . Burt, uh . . . Burt tried to behead me."

Tony's eyes widen in surprise; he is momentarily taken aback by this. This wasn't quite how I'd rehea.r.s.ed it, but it'll have to do.

"What?!"

"He tried to cut off my head."

To my surprise, Tony laughs. "He did? f.u.c.k. This a personal thing?"

I frown. "I don't follow."

Tony is as blunt as ever. "It's just I know how irritatin' the members find you." Those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. He laughs quite blatantly. "I never knew one guy could fit so many different killers' victim categories."

I can feel a red mist descending slowly over me, and all I can think is, I'm going to kill those- "I don't think it was personal. He looked to be in a real bloodletting mood. I mean, for chrissakes, I woke up to find him kneeling on my chest with a big ax in his hand."

Tony studies me. He is curious, suspicious. But I think that if I can just remain calm and levelheaded, I can get through this.

Maybe.

"He was foaming at the mouth . . . saying things, really evil things. I'd never seen so much hatred. I kept asking him, 'Why? Why are you trying to behead me?'"

"And this is why you think Burt's a rat?"

"It is kind of a strong indication, isn't it?"

Tony gives a rippling shrug of his big, flabby shoulders. "How'd he even know where you lived?"

"He obviously followed me. Like he . . . like he followed the, uh . . . the others. . . ." I lick the sweat from my top lip. I lay the palms of my hands firmly on my thighs, pressing them in hard, to try to stop my legs from shaking.

"And what others are these?"

"The, uh . . . the others. You know. The dozen or so Club members that, uh . . . well, that don't attend anymore."

Tony studies me, purses his lips. I feel I have to continue, to get the point across.

"You know . . . that, uh . . . that Burt has . . . you know . . . has killed." I manage to stammer all of this out, but it's hard to talk when my tongue keeps darting out to lick my top lip.

Tony has a hugely imperious look on his face. "Lemme get this clear. You say Burt's been killing members of the Club? My Club?"

Tony's eyes bulge as his anger starts to boil. He lets this question hang in the air. And it hangs around long enough for me to realize that I couldn't plan a walk in the park.

"Why, June? Why d'ya think Burt's doing that?"

Did Tony just call me June? As in June for Junior?

"Huh, June?"

Oh Christ.

I really believed Tony'd buy the story straight off. I can't think. I can't breathe. I can't do anything but stare dumbly back at Tony.

Quarterback builder, quarterback builder . . .

"C'mon, June. You know something I don't?"

A tiny little voice somehow scratches its way from between my lips. "He told me . . . he said it outright. 'I killed the others, Dougie, me, little ole wiry-haired Burt, I did them all.' It was like a boast. You know how bigheaded Burt can be."

"He came straight out with it, just like that?"

"Yessir. That's what the rat said. . . ." I nod, possibly too hard and for too long, but Tony doesn't seem to notice this.

"So you're saying Burt Lancaster sat on your chest braggin' about murderin' everyone and then d.a.m.n near gave you a southern haircut?" I nod feverishly. "That doesn't really fit the killer's MO, does it?"

I immediately shake my head as hard and as fast as I was previously nodding it. If I'm not careful, my head will fall off.

Then I stop. "It doesn't?"

"You see, June, I've been doin' some investigatin' of my own, and it just don't tie in."

Where's Agent Wade when you need him? Why's he stretched out on my sofa when he could be here arresting Tony?

"Uh . . . tie in to what, exactly?"

Tony doesn't bother answering, preferring to reenact an interrogation scene instead. "How come he didn't manage to kill you?"

"I, uh, I fought him off."

"But he's here tonight? And so are you. And nothing's been said. Not even a murmur between you. Whyssat?" Tony is getting real aggressive, playing good cop/bad cop with me. Keeping me on my toes, not allowing for a single moment's relaxation.

I'm going to blow this, I know it. The quarterback's just been crushed to death, and the builder is hurtling toward the sidewalk.

"He threatened me. Threatened to cut out my heart if I told anyone," I say nervously.

Tony isn't buying this. He frowns at me. "So he's changed to hearts now?"

"Yeah . . . I guess he has."

Tony stares into me, straight into me, and I keep getting this stupid rhyme in my head, "Demon Dougie, eyes are buggy."

"At last . . . now we're getting somewhere."

The rhyme starts to fade.

"It's obvious. . . ."

It is?

"Burt's gettin' confused." Join the club, Burt. "Between his usual MO and his copycat MO. He's losing it big-time."

I sit there, dry mouthed, but with at least some color returning. I want to nod, but my neck aches like crazy now. "You know . . . I think you might have something there, Tony."

"He's gonna come back for you."

"I've been taking precautions . . . putting extra locks on the door and stuff. Hiding all my work tools."

"You should've told someone, June."

Does he have to keep calling me that?

"He frightened me, really put the Indian sign on me."

Tony guffaws, belches, farts, punches my bad arm with his big, bunched-up fist. Can't he see it's in a sling for a reason?

"You f.a.g. . . ." Tony seems to revel in my simpering weakness. His whole body wobbles as he gives me a pitying laugh. He punches my arm again, and I wish he'd stop. It hurts.

"Well, well . . . I knew it had to be someone at the Club."

"You did?"

"Didn't figure on it being Burt, but there you go, you can't be right the whole time."

"So, uh . . . what, uh . . . what do we do now?"

Tony weighs this up for a moment, but I get the impression he has already made up his mind. "I'm gonna lop off his head for you."

"That's, uh . . . that's very decent of you, Tony."

"I don't like people messin' around with the Club, June. One thing guaranteed to make me mad is people f.u.c.king my Club over. It took a h.e.l.l of a lot of hard labor to get the thing this good." He punches my arm again and laughs. "Jesus, you f.a.g. . . ." Tony then turns and unbolts the cubicle door. "This'll be our little secret."

I nod vigorously, despite the agony of it. Tony stops at the open door to the cubicle and turns back to me with what amounts to a philosophical look.

"I always knew this would happen. Put enough killers in the same room, and sooner or later someone's gonna get a crazy notion. Cops are the same."

Tony slopes out of the cubicle. I sit there for a long time, just gathering myself, taking deep breaths while convincing myself that I am one of the most consummate actors of my generation. I start to get this swell in my heart, and a wave of warm euphoria starts to wash over me until I stand up and realize that I have p.i.s.sed my pants.

It takes a full twenty minutes to dry my pants under the hot-air hand drier, and when I return to the meeting I discover that the Club is packing up. I see Burt chatting with Betty, making her laugh with a joke he's probably told a hundred times, and then I see Tony pulling on his oilskins, all the time his eyes staring relentlessly at Burt. Chuck Norris is signing seductively to the deaf waitress, and she blushes demurely. Cher squirts a scented spray into her open, cavernous mouth, and James Mason finishes the last of his strong coffee before mumbling something to his dead mother, hearing something in response, and then giggling crazily.

I go over to Tony, and he notices me out of the corner of his eye. He nods imperceptibly to me, attempts to be discreet. "If this turns out to be the real thing, I'll post Burt's head to you."

"Thank you, Tony. Thank you very much."

"I still think it could be a personal thing. You coulda misheard him while you were panicking your b.a.l.l.s off."

I need to cover myself fully here. "And, uh . . . what if it is?"

Tony looks at me, gives me a big punch on my now badly bruised and near lifeless arm. "I'll break in and kill you for him. The Club could do with a lift." He gives a big belching laugh and goes, pausing to give the manager and the headwaiter a real mean look and then barging a customer-"Move it, sheep dip"-out of the way as he opens the front door onto the wild and wet night.

Betty's laughter breaks my concentration, and I turn to see Burt bend to kiss the back of her hand and then twirl his wrist and hand like a member of British royalty, bidding her, "Fare thee well, my princess," and I feel so nauseated by the sheer cloying desperation of this that I know for certain the world will be a better place without him.

"Wrap up warm, Mr. Mason, it's a b.i.t.c.h of a night." Cher twists out her cigarette as she pa.s.ses James's coat to him and then collects her own.

He suddenly looks very lost, very vulnerable. "Is this the end, Cher?"

"Of the Club, you mean?"

"Yeah. I live for these nights. But now it's like some kind of mini Armageddon is taking place."

Cher gives James a hopeless look as she helps him into his anorak. "I know."

"I've got nowhere else to go, Cher."

"None of us has."

James leaves, shuffling off, head bowed. Cher goes to the bar to get some loose change for the cigarette machine, and I make my move on Burt. I give him a big grin and help him on with his coat, despite having only one active arm.

"That was a great story earlier, Burt. So funny. Had me in st.i.tches. Thought I was going to give birth, I was laughing so hard."

"Oh . . . uh, thanks. You liked it, then?"

"It killed me, really killed me." I give a totally superficial laugh to help things along.

Burt nods, pleased. "You know, I did think there was some good material in there."

Now that I've established this great buddy-buddy thing, I slip an arm around Burt's shoulders. I notice Burt glance at my hand as I squeeze his bicep, but I am determined to ride this out. "Listen, Burt, I was hoping we could talk sometime. . . ."

Burt looks at me, seems a little suspicious. "Yeah?"

I look around and then lower my voice. "It's about Tony."

"Tony Curtis?"

"There's something I think you should know. Only I can't tell you here."

"Why not?"

"I just can't. I don't, uh . . . I don't have the evidence right now."

"What evidence? What's this about?" Burt's nasally little voice is so close, it pings off my ear.

"Wait till I get proof. Are you in the phone book?"