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They sat.

He wondered what ‘not supposed to’  meant.

“What about over to Donna Hawthorne’s?” Hank said. “From all the information you’ve brought in and everyone else has, I know you’re close.”

“Yes.” He nodded. “We are.” And then he looked up and said, “How do you know that?”

Hank said, “By a process of elimination. I know who you ‘aren’t', and there aren’t an infinite number of suspects in this group–in fact, they’re a very small group. We thought they’d lead us up higher, and maybe Barris will. You and I have spent a lot of time rapping together. I pieced it together a long time ago. That you’re Arctor.”

“I’m who?” he said, staring at Hank the scramble suit facing him. “I’m Bob Arctor?” He could not believe it. It made no sense to him. It did not fit anything he had done on thought, it was grotesque.

“Never mind,” Hank said. “What’s Donna’s phone number?”

“She’s probably at work.” His voice tnembled.”The perfume stone. The number is–” He couldn’t keep his voice steady, and he couldn’t remember the number. The hell I am, he said to himself. I’m not Bob Arctor. But who am I? Maybe I’m–

“Get me Donna Hawthorne’s number at work,” Hank was saying rapidly into the phone. “Here,” he said, holding the phone toward Fred. “I’ll put you on the line. No, maybe I better not. I’ll tell her to pick you up–where? We’ll drive you there and drop you off; can’t meet her here. What’s a good place? Where do you usually meet her?”

“Take me to her place,” he said. “I know how to get in.”

“I’ll tell her you’re there and that you’re withdrawing. I’ll just say I know you and you asked me to call.”

“Far out,” Fred said, “I can dig it. Thanks, man.”

Hank nodded and began to redial, an outside number. It seemed to Fred that he dialed each digit more and more slowly and it went on forever, and he shut his eyes, breathing to himself and thinking, Wow. I’m really out of it.

You really are, he agreed. Spaced, wired, burned out and strung-out and fucked. Completely fucked. He felt like laughing.