A Perfect Life by Mike Stewart Page B

living room. “That's my partner. You pissed the boy off with that bat shit.” A series of thumps and bangs echoed through the door. “Up to you, but I'm saying better make that call. You don't got the cops coming, hell, I may not be able to keep my boy out of there.”
    Scott glanced at the phone on the bedside table. If he moved to pick it up, he would be out in the open, unable to get the first shot with his bat at anyone coming through the doorway. His eyes scanned the room. “Okay. Send him in.”
    “You think you gonna Sammy Sosa his ass again? Shit won't work twice. Told you once, Scotty. Telling you again. Better jump on 911 before my boy here jump on you.”
    Scott's heel bumped the Gateway CPU on the floor next to his desk. Turning, he eased backward. Keeping his eyes on the closed door, he grabbed the mouse on the desk and double-clicked the telephone icon on his computer desktop. A number pad popped up on screen. He punched 911 on the keyboard and hit ENTER .
    Two long rings buzzed through his computer speakers, and one of the intruders in the other room said, “'Bout time.”
    “Emergency services.” The voice sounded dangerously loud coming through his speakers.
    Scott turned to speak into the little microphone stuck to the base of his monitor. He gave his name, phone number, and address. “Someone's in my apartment. Two burglars, I think.”
    “We'll send someone around.” The operator paused. “Uh, sir, are you there, sir?”
    “They're here
now
.”
    “I understand, sir. I'm having trouble hearing you.”
    “I said, they're here now.”
    “Yes, sir. I understand. Get out of the apartment if you can. Find a place of safety if you can't. A patrol car is on the way.”
    Scott reached back to click on the DONE button. As he did, the same burglar said, “I guess you're all safe now.”
    Scott stepped quickly back to the side of his door and readied the bat. “Kiss my ass.”
    The two men in his tiny living room were speaking quietly to each other—their indistinct words nothing but a low, unsteady rumble. Scott leaned against the door to listen, but couldn't make out what they were saying. He glanced back again at the computer, tried to remember how to record through the microphone onto the hard disk, and cussed in the dark. The soft rumble of voices ceased and started up again.
    Scott reached back to feel for the microphone. It was shaped like a small disk and glued to the base of his monitor by one of those sticky foam-rubber things that came with the computer. He got his fingernails under it and ripped the plastic disk loose.
    Pulling slowly, testing the length of the wire running from microphone to computer, Scott stretched the tiny mike to the base of the door. He leaned down and silently pushed the plastic disk under the corner of the door separating him from the burglars.
    Scott glanced again at the keypad on the computer screen. He punched the first digit of his office phone number at the hospital, and the speaker let out a loud beep.
    From the other room, “You callin' yo mama now?”
    “Why don't you come in here and find out?”
    “You keep talkin' tough, we might have to do that.”
    As the burglar spoke, Scott repeatedly punched the leftmost button at the top of keyboard. The green volume indicators on his screen retreated to nothing, and the speakers were off.
    He punched in the remainder of his office number and waited. If the system was working right, if no one happened by his tiny cubicle and picked up the receiver, if the thing worked the way it usually did, the phone would ring four times, automated voice mail would answer, and the call would be recorded.
    A lot of ifs, he thought, to record a lot of mumbling.
    But then he heard the soft beep of numbers being dialed again, only this time the sounds emanated from the living room side of the door. When the beeping ended, Scott said, “
You
calling your mother now?”
    “No, bitch. I'm callin' yo momma.”
    Scott was quiet.