From Chapter Four of Federal Fag

By Fred Hunter

"What in hell are you doing here?" I demanded incredulously.

She came in and looked into the bathroom. "He is dead, isn't he? Oh my goodness!"

"And why are you done up like Mrs. Madrigal?"

"Explanations will have to wait until later. We've got to get our of here."

With this she took hold of my arm and started to steer me out of the apartment, but I shook myself free.

"Are you out of your mind? That's all we need, to be seen fleeing from the scene of a murder!"

Mother clucked her tongue, folded her arms and rested her hand on her chin. She certainly looked as if her mind was racing. "Oh, Lor', I suppose that's true."

As entirely befuddled as I was by Mother suddenly turning up in this almost supernatural fashion, I have to admit I was so relieved I almost wet myself. There is something remarkably comforting about having your mother on hand when you discover a dead porno star.

"I suppose we have to call the police," she said resignedly, "but you know this isn't going to be easy."

"I wish you had a boyfriend on the force here," I said with a sardonic laugh. Mother had at one time dated Frank O'Neil, commander of our local area police headquarters in Chicago. They had remained friends, and that kind of relationship comes in handy when you find a corpse.

"I can't have one in every port, dear. Now, you wait here and I'll go call them."

"There's a phone right here."

"I know, but we probably shouldn't touch anything. I'll only be a minute."

She started out but paused in the doorway and turned back to me, "By the by, my name is Jean Robbins and you don't know me."

During our first foray into the spy business, we had not only come across assumed names, but people for whom we had no names at all. I suppose, considering what our lives had become since then, that I shouldn't have been so surprised to find my mother traveling under an alias about two thousand miles from where she was supposed to be. After a brief pause, during which I'm sure I looked as dumbfounded as I felt, I replied, "I assume you'll explain that later, too."

"Of course, dear," she said casually as she left.

While Mother went off to phone, I scanned the room. It struck me as odd that the place hadn't been tossed. Granted, there wasn't a lot here to through around, but what little there was seemed to be in perfect order. Perhaps from having seen too many B movies, I expected this kind of murder to be accompanied by a frantic search.

The fact that the dead man was a former friend suddenly hit me, and I slumped onto the arm of the couch. "Well, Patrick," I said quietly, "now you'll never know what I wanted to say to you." Then again, I suppose he did know. But that didn't help. I had probably needed to tell him how I felt more than he'd needed to hear it, and now that would never happen.

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