”Fellow from R.T.I. found him,” Duke informed me. Arms folded across his chest, Duke leaned comfortably against a wall of the hotel lobby.Infected by Duke’s placidity, I said, ”Oh, I was looking for the R.T.I. guy yesterday. I wanted to ask him about...” I stopped myself. If we’d been attending a service at an open grave, Duke wouldn’t have considered a discussion of Rowdy’s sperm in the least out of line. I cleared my throat. ”He was looking for him?””Who?””The guy from R.T.I. He was trying to find Mr. Hunnewell?”Duke shook his head. ”Just happened on him. Right out in back here, in back of the hotel. At the end of the parking lot, there’s a baseball field, recreation area, and there’s a little storage shed.””What on earth was James Hunnewell doing out there?”Duke shrugged. And when I asked what should have been my first question—what Hunnewell had died of—Duke said he didn’t know. He made the obvious guess. ”His lungs must’ve finally quit.
