was a girl’s voice this time.
“Red Lanigan,” I said, fighting the chattering of my teeth.
The girl went away. I waited, feeling almost drunk on the single shot of whisky. My head swam. Then somebody was picking up the receiver. “Lanigan speaking.”
“Listen, Red—”
He chuckled indulgently. “Look, you happy meat-head. If you have to get drunk, at least you could do it here.” I heard him kick the door shut. “Jesus, I’m glad you could get to a phone. Listen, she called—”
“What did she say?” I cut in.
“A-H.”
“What?”
“That’s all. She said to tell you, ‘A-H.’ A as in Able, H as in Happy. I hope to God you know what it means. I don’t.”
“Thanks,” I said. I hung up. Oh, you beautiful, blonde, brainy girl. I grabbed for the directory, and as I nipped it open I shot another glance at the bar. It was already too late. The Irish bartender was pretending to wash out some glasses in the sink with the near hand while he held the receiver of the bar phone with the other. He was nodding his head. I saw him turn a little and shoot a glance toward the booth.
I stepped out and started toward the door. The three customers returned to studying the strange drinks they’d never seen before. Silence fell. The bartender had stopped talking into the phone and was holding it as if he couldn’t make up his mind what he wanted to do with it. I wondered if he had already given them the address. An illogical rage seized me. I was tired of being the mechanical rabbit all the time. It wasn’t fair. I stopped, took the receiver out of his hand, picked up the base of the instrument, and yanked. The cord tore apart in the junction box under the bar.
“Are you Terry Mac?” I asked. My head felt as if it were going to float out the door without me.
He stared at me, white-faced, too startled to speak.
”Shove it, you shanty-Irish pig,” I said, and dropped the phone, receiver and all, into the sink. The broken end of the cord still dangled over the edge. It didn’t look neat at all so I coiled it very carefully, and shoved it down into the water along with the rest of the instrument. I turned and walked out without looking back.
Sleet pattered on my hat brim and tapped on my face. I broke into a run, and just before I turned the corner I looked over my shoulder. The bartender and one of the men were standing in the doorway to see which way I went. By the time I’d run another block I heard the sirens.
I went on, feeling my feet lift and swing and pound against the concrete until every breath was agony. I turned and turned again and lost all sense of direction. I saw headlights approaching down an intersecting street. The car started to turn toward me, and just before the headlights swept over me I dived sideways into an oleander hedge. I fell through it, and lay in a puddle of water with the sleet tapping restfully on my hat and the side of my face. My arm was against something metallic and uncomfortable. I reached over and felt it with my other hand. It was a lawn sprinkler. I thought drowsily it would be a shame if they turned it on.
More cars went up the street, swinging spotlights. I didn’t know how long I lay there. After awhile I got my breath back, and moved a little, fighting the drowsiness. I wanted to go to sleep, but something made me get up to my hands and knees. It was quiet now. No cars had gone by for a long time. I climbed through the hedge and started walking. After a few blocks my teeth started chattering again. I thought that was a good sign; I didn’t believe your teeth chattered when you were freezing. Twice more I had to duck into yards to avoid the lights of cars. I was doing everything mechanically now, and for long periods I would forget what I was looking for. Phone booth, I told myself. Remember that. Phone booth.
I was standing under a street light. I looked at my watch. It said ten minutes of five. I slapped myself on the face and looked again. It must be
“Red Lanigan,” I said, fighting the chattering of my teeth.
The girl went away. I waited, feeling almost drunk on the single shot of whisky. My head swam. Then somebody was picking up the receiver. “Lanigan speaking.”
“Listen, Red—”
He chuckled indulgently. “Look, you happy meat-head. If you have to get drunk, at least you could do it here.” I heard him kick the door shut. “Jesus, I’m glad you could get to a phone. Listen, she called—”
“What did she say?” I cut in.
“A-H.”
“What?”
“That’s all. She said to tell you, ‘A-H.’ A as in Able, H as in Happy. I hope to God you know what it means. I don’t.”
“Thanks,” I said. I hung up. Oh, you beautiful, blonde, brainy girl. I grabbed for the directory, and as I nipped it open I shot another glance at the bar. It was already too late. The Irish bartender was pretending to wash out some glasses in the sink with the near hand while he held the receiver of the bar phone with the other. He was nodding his head. I saw him turn a little and shoot a glance toward the booth.
I stepped out and started toward the door. The three customers returned to studying the strange drinks they’d never seen before. Silence fell. The bartender had stopped talking into the phone and was holding it as if he couldn’t make up his mind what he wanted to do with it. I wondered if he had already given them the address. An illogical rage seized me. I was tired of being the mechanical rabbit all the time. It wasn’t fair. I stopped, took the receiver out of his hand, picked up the base of the instrument, and yanked. The cord tore apart in the junction box under the bar.
“Are you Terry Mac?” I asked. My head felt as if it were going to float out the door without me.
He stared at me, white-faced, too startled to speak.
”Shove it, you shanty-Irish pig,” I said, and dropped the phone, receiver and all, into the sink. The broken end of the cord still dangled over the edge. It didn’t look neat at all so I coiled it very carefully, and shoved it down into the water along with the rest of the instrument. I turned and walked out without looking back.
Sleet pattered on my hat brim and tapped on my face. I broke into a run, and just before I turned the corner I looked over my shoulder. The bartender and one of the men were standing in the doorway to see which way I went. By the time I’d run another block I heard the sirens.
I went on, feeling my feet lift and swing and pound against the concrete until every breath was agony. I turned and turned again and lost all sense of direction. I saw headlights approaching down an intersecting street. The car started to turn toward me, and just before the headlights swept over me I dived sideways into an oleander hedge. I fell through it, and lay in a puddle of water with the sleet tapping restfully on my hat and the side of my face. My arm was against something metallic and uncomfortable. I reached over and felt it with my other hand. It was a lawn sprinkler. I thought drowsily it would be a shame if they turned it on.
More cars went up the street, swinging spotlights. I didn’t know how long I lay there. After awhile I got my breath back, and moved a little, fighting the drowsiness. I wanted to go to sleep, but something made me get up to my hands and knees. It was quiet now. No cars had gone by for a long time. I climbed through the hedge and started walking. After a few blocks my teeth started chattering again. I thought that was a good sign; I didn’t believe your teeth chattered when you were freezing. Twice more I had to duck into yards to avoid the lights of cars. I was doing everything mechanically now, and for long periods I would forget what I was looking for. Phone booth, I told myself. Remember that. Phone booth.
I was standing under a street light. I looked at my watch. It said ten minutes of five. I slapped myself on the face and looked again. It must be
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