Somebody called my name twice. I turned around and shouted back.

“There’s a phone call for you, Sam,” the female voice said.

I yelled my thanks.

“A client,” Wendy said.

“Most likely.”

“Poor old Sam.”

“Poor old Wendy.”

“I don’t mind. Right now, relaxing at home sounds better than this anyway.”

A woman named Barbara Thomas was waiting for us on the porch. She was another one who’d skimped on costuming herself. A very flattering pair of black bell-bottoms and a white flowing blouse. She’d been in our high school class and had married a lawyer. She was one of those girls who’d ignited many a speculative sexual conversation among boys. She’d always seemed aware of just how stupid we all were.

“Hi, Wendy.”

“Hi, Barb. How’re your twins?”

“Exhausting but beautiful, thanks. There’s a phone in the den, Sam.”

They stayed on the porch while I worked my way through the costumed revelers. The den was as big as Wendy’s living room and outfitted with enough electronic gear to make me suspect that the owner of the house might be in touch with Mars. He was some kind of short-wave enthusiast. Four different kinds of radios and three different gray steel boxes that made tiny chirping sounds contrasted with the traditional leather furnishings.

I picked up the phone. “Sam McCain.”

“Sam. It’s Richard Donovan.”

“You really needed to call me here, Richard?”

“Look, we’ve got a real problem out here.”

Donovan was the leader of the commune. He brought rules and regs to the otherwise disorganized life out there. When one of his people got in trouble in town-usually being harassed for no reason by one of police chief Cliffie Sykes’s hotshots-Donovan was the one who called me.

“And it can’t wait until morning?”

“No.” Then: “Look, I’m not stoned or anything and I’m telling you, you need to get out here right away.”