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concentration for long hours.”
    “You also sleep at home. Sometimes with great concentration for long hours. But enough of this idle chitchat. You know a guy named Peter Gottschalk?”
    I hesitated for a beat, then: “Yes, I know Peter. Distantly. He’s a member of the Pelican Club.”
    “That figures. Is he off-the-wall?”
    “I really couldn’t say. From what I’ve heard, he’s been known to act occasionally in an outré fashion.”
    “Outré,” Rogoff repeated. “Love the way you talk.”
    “Why are you asking about Peter Gottschalk?”
    “Because early this morning, about two or three, he outréd his father’s car into an abutment on an overpass out west.”
    “Holy moly. Anyone hurt?”
    “Nah. He didn’t hit anyone. Just plowed into the concrete doing about fifty. All he got were a few bruises and scratches. God protects fools and drunks—which makes you doubly blessed.”
    “What about the car?”
    “Totaled. A new Cadillac Eldorado. His blood test showed alcohol a little above the legal limit. Nothing definite on drugs. Maybe he just fell asleep.”
    “Maybe,” I said, not believing it for a minute.
    “Uh-huh. Archy, the guy doesn’t have any suicidal tendencies, does he?”
    I swallowed. Sgt. Rogoff is no dummy. Trust him to come up with an explanation for Peter’s accident that matched my own.
    “Not to my knowledge, Al,” I said faintly.
    “Well, his license has been pulled but he didn’t hurt anyone and his father isn’t preferring charges, so we’re squashing the whole thing. But I think the kid needs help.”
    “Could be,” I said cautiously, and that was the end of our conversation.
    I sat there a moment, shuddering to think of what might have happened but didn’t. I wondered just how long Peter Gottschalk could go his mindless way depending on God’s mercy. Not too long, I reckoned. Ask any gambler and he’ll tell you there’s one sure thing about luck: it always changes.
    Since I’m firmly convinced life is half tragedy and half farce, I decided I needed a bit of the farcical and so I answered the second message. It was from Binky Watrous, my very own harlequin.
    “Why aren’t you at work?” I demanded.
    “Because I clean cages only four days a week,” he explained. “Hey, Archy, I like that job.”
    “And the fringe benefits, no doubt. Super party last night, wasn’t it?”
    “I guess. Bridget enjoyed it.”
    “Oh-oh,” I said. “Do I detect a slight note of discord?”
    “Well, that’s why I called. Bridget wants to get married.”
    “To whom?”
    “To me,” Binky said gloomily.
    “Congratulations.”
    “Archy, I don’t know what to do and I need your advice. I am smitten but do you think a man can be satisfied with one woman?”
    “At a time?” I said. “Surely.”
    “No, no. I mean one woman, the same woman, forever and ever.”
    “Ah, now you’re entering the realm of philosophy—if not cosmology.”
    “I suppose,” he said. “I was never much good at that sort of thing.”
    “Think about it, Binky,” I advised, “before you come to any decision.” I knew full well that urging this dweeb to think was similar to cheering on a three-toed sloth in a decathlon. “First of all you must consider if you are financially able to provide for a wife and perhaps eventually a family on the income from tidying up parrot cages.”
    “Yes,” he said, “that is a problem, isn’t it? I don’t know how the Duchess would react to my getting hitched. She might even turn off the cash faucet. That would hurt. I’ve got to rack the old brain about this, Archy.”
    “Do that,” I said. “But don’t forget the only reason you’re working at Parrots Unlimited is to assist me in a discreet inquiry.”
    “What?” he said. “Oh. Sure. I remember.”
    “For the nonce, I’d like you to concentrate your snooping on Ricardo Chrisling. That handsome lad interests me. See if you can find out where he lives and with whom, if anyone. Does he have a