"All right. I'll have a drink with you. But I'm not doing it for Frank Glendora or for United. I'm doing it for a dead friend." The way he talked, I had the feeling that most of his friends were dead. I arranged to meet him at the Belle Vista at eleven, then dressed and went down to the Marquis lobby. Outside it was a bright, cloudless, beautiful August Thursday, without any of the Cincinnati stickiness that turns a summer day into a rite of passage between air conditioners. I caught a cab to the Belle Vista and instead of going straight to the bar, I spent ten minutes walking up Green Canyon Road--the street I'd seen through the gate in the hotel wall. Unless Dover had spent all day Saturday fasting in his room, he must have come out sometime, just to get a bite to eat. I thought, perhaps, he might have slipped out through the gate. But there weren't any restaurants on Green Canyon. It was a residential street, full of tall oak trees and private drives, circling up into the green walls of the canyon.
