mind cleared a little and I was only freezing cold and chattering. I went on walking. There was nothing else to do. If I stopped, I’d probably freeze. Well, at daybreak they’d pick me up and I’d be in a nice warm interrogation room with a white light in my face and then just before I cracked and went insane I could sign a statement and go to sleep.
I stopped suddenly. Maybe there was still a chance, if f could only call Red. I looked around, trying to orient myself and snap my mind out of its numbness. I was in a quiet residential district under dark and weeping trees. I leaned against the trunk of one and forced myself to try to think. What would she have done? Gone home, obviously, knowing there was no chance she could ever find me again. And she’d realize I couldn’t find her, since she wasn’t in the book. Red was the only person we both knew, the only common contact. Maybe she had called him.
No, of course she wouldn’t. After that narrow escape back there at the Playland she’d probably had enough, and didn’t care if she never saw me again. She was just lucky she’d got away herself. Did I think she’d be crazy enough to give Red an address, when she didn’t know him and had no guarantee at all she could trust him? How would she know he wouldn’t give it to the police? The whole idea was absurd. But it persisted. It was the only thing I had left, and I couldn’t force myself to let it go.
But how was I going to call him? I didn’t have a dime. The idea of having one hundred and seventy dollars but not having a dime again struck me as one of the great jokes of the year, and I laughed. It occurred to me I was becoming light-headed. I pushed myself off the tree and went on. It was five or six blocks further on that I saw the small neighborhood bar. It was across the street, with a neon cocktail glass above the bar and a sign that said, TERRY MAC’S. There were three cars parked in front of it, and on either side were stores that were closed. I stepped back into a doorway and looked at it hungrily. The slip of paper she’d given me was still in the pocket of the topcoat. I took it out and studied it in the dim light, memorizing the number. Then I looked back at the bar.
No, it would be insane. Then I noticed an odd thing. The rain had started to bounce. It fell on the shiny black pavement and leaped into the air like pellets of tiny white shot. It had turned to sleet. That settled it. I was soaked all the way to the skin and I’d freeze to death before morning if I didn’t get inside somewhere. A long-shot chance was better than none at all. I pulled the coat collar tighter about my face, yanked down the brim of the hat, and crossed the street.
It was dim and smoky inside. A man and a girl were sitting on stools about halfway down the bar, and beyond them was a man alone. The bartender was an Irish-looking kid in his early twenties with blue-black hair and unbelievably white teeth. They all looked up as I came in, stared briefly, and stopped talking. At the rear was a jukebox, and beside it a phone booth.
“Shot of bourbon, straight,” I said. “And give me the change in dimes.” I put a dollar on the bar. The three customers glanced at each other and then became elaborately absorbed in their drinks as if they’d never seen drinks before. “Yes, sir,” the bartender said heartily, avoiding my eyes. He put the drink and the change on the bar. I grabbed up the dimes, threw the whisky into the back of my mouth with one sweep of my hand, and was already moving toward the phone booth by the time it could burn its way down my frozen throat and explode.
I slammed the door, fumbled a dime into the slot and dialed with a finger like a dead piece of wood. The shakes seized me again, and I could hear water running out of my clothes onto the floor. Christ, wouldn’t they ever answer? I shifted a little and shot a glance toward the front of the bar. So far, nobody had moved.
“Sidelines Bar.” It
I stopped suddenly. Maybe there was still a chance, if f could only call Red. I looked around, trying to orient myself and snap my mind out of its numbness. I was in a quiet residential district under dark and weeping trees. I leaned against the trunk of one and forced myself to try to think. What would she have done? Gone home, obviously, knowing there was no chance she could ever find me again. And she’d realize I couldn’t find her, since she wasn’t in the book. Red was the only person we both knew, the only common contact. Maybe she had called him.
No, of course she wouldn’t. After that narrow escape back there at the Playland she’d probably had enough, and didn’t care if she never saw me again. She was just lucky she’d got away herself. Did I think she’d be crazy enough to give Red an address, when she didn’t know him and had no guarantee at all she could trust him? How would she know he wouldn’t give it to the police? The whole idea was absurd. But it persisted. It was the only thing I had left, and I couldn’t force myself to let it go.
But how was I going to call him? I didn’t have a dime. The idea of having one hundred and seventy dollars but not having a dime again struck me as one of the great jokes of the year, and I laughed. It occurred to me I was becoming light-headed. I pushed myself off the tree and went on. It was five or six blocks further on that I saw the small neighborhood bar. It was across the street, with a neon cocktail glass above the bar and a sign that said, TERRY MAC’S. There were three cars parked in front of it, and on either side were stores that were closed. I stepped back into a doorway and looked at it hungrily. The slip of paper she’d given me was still in the pocket of the topcoat. I took it out and studied it in the dim light, memorizing the number. Then I looked back at the bar.
No, it would be insane. Then I noticed an odd thing. The rain had started to bounce. It fell on the shiny black pavement and leaped into the air like pellets of tiny white shot. It had turned to sleet. That settled it. I was soaked all the way to the skin and I’d freeze to death before morning if I didn’t get inside somewhere. A long-shot chance was better than none at all. I pulled the coat collar tighter about my face, yanked down the brim of the hat, and crossed the street.
It was dim and smoky inside. A man and a girl were sitting on stools about halfway down the bar, and beyond them was a man alone. The bartender was an Irish-looking kid in his early twenties with blue-black hair and unbelievably white teeth. They all looked up as I came in, stared briefly, and stopped talking. At the rear was a jukebox, and beside it a phone booth.
“Shot of bourbon, straight,” I said. “And give me the change in dimes.” I put a dollar on the bar. The three customers glanced at each other and then became elaborately absorbed in their drinks as if they’d never seen drinks before. “Yes, sir,” the bartender said heartily, avoiding my eyes. He put the drink and the change on the bar. I grabbed up the dimes, threw the whisky into the back of my mouth with one sweep of my hand, and was already moving toward the phone booth by the time it could burn its way down my frozen throat and explode.
I slammed the door, fumbled a dime into the slot and dialed with a finger like a dead piece of wood. The shakes seized me again, and I could hear water running out of my clothes onto the floor. Christ, wouldn’t they ever answer? I shifted a little and shot a glance toward the front of the bar. So far, nobody had moved.
“Sidelines Bar.” It
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