Seven seconds later he was back in the kitchen, panting in the hot fumes of cinnamon and mint.
Kootie had connected the modified pencil sharpener, and the speaker was resonating with a flat sound like a sustained exhalation; the mint in the saucepan was steaming and sputtering.
Elizalde took the receiver off the hook, then picked up Houdini’s thumb and began dialing the telephone; somehow the speaker behind her made a fluttering sound in synchronization with the rattle of the dial. Belatedly Sullivan realized that privacy would not be possible here, and he took a hasty sip of the beer to cool his heated face.
Elizalde was still dialing numbers into the telephone, but already a whispering voice was rasping out of the speaker.
“Cosa mala nunca muere,” it said. “Me entiendes, Mendez?”
Sullivan felt moving air on his sweaty scalp at the back of his head, and he realized that his hair was actually standing on end.
“It’s the damned crowd effect,” said Kootie irritably, “that can’t be your man yet.” He frowned at Elizalde. “Do you recognize this voice?” Then Kootie’s eyes were wide, and he spoke with a scared boy’s intonation: “It’s that laughing bag!”
Elizalde’s hand sprang away from the dial, and Houdini’s thumb landed in the sink. “Jesus, he’s right,” she said. “The cloth bag in the truck bed!”
Sullivan didn’t know what they were talking about.
“What did it just say?”
“It said, a—a bad thing never dies,” said Elizalde rapidly, hugging herself, “and then it said, ‘You understand?’” She threw Sullivan a frightened look. “Can’t I quit this and just go away?”
He spread his hands. “Can’t I?” he asked, really hoping that she would find some way to say yes.
But she was rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands; and then she said, “Could you bring that thumb back here?”
As Sullivan stepped over to the sink, Bradshaw growled, “Is this somebody you two (gasp) tracked in on your shoes?” The mint leaves in the pot on the fire were smoking and popping now.
Kootie shrugged. “It’s…yes, something, somebody, that was paying attention to me this morning, and it would have seen Mrs. Elizalde.”
“Miss,” said Elizalde.
“Let a dead guy clear the line for you,” Shadroe said. He stumped into the kitchen—carelessly stepping all over the wires, his bare belly swinging ahead of him—and he took the receiver and blew sharply into the mouthpiece. “Hello?” he said. “Hello?” Then he dialed Operator, twice.
He set the receiver back down beside the telephone. “Try it now.”
Sullivan had fetched the thumb, and handed it to her, and she began shakily dialing again. It took nearly a full minute for her to dial all the numbers of her man’s birth date and full name, but Bradshaw's breath had apparently chased away any stray ghosts.
At last she was finished dialing, and she hesitantly picked up the receiver.
A musical buzz sounded from the speaker by the sink; it stopped, and then began again, stopped, and began again.
“My God,” said Sullivan softly. “It’s ringing!”
“Cultural conditioning,” muttered Kootie. “It’s what everybody expects, even the man she’s calling.”
“Who is that?” came a startled voice from the speaker, and Sullivan was peripherally impressed with the fidelity of Edison’s chalk speaker.
“Frank?” said Elizalde into the mouthpiece. “It’s me, it’s Angelica.”
“Angelica!” The initial surprise in the voice gave way to petulance: “Angelica, where are you? Who is this old man?”
Sullivan saw Elizalde glance bewilderedly from Bradshaw to Kootie. “Who do you mean, Frank?”
“He comes in your clinic every day! He does the séances all wrong, reading palms of people’s hands, and. …taking liberties with the pretty women!”
“Oh, that would be—that’s not my clinic anymore, Frank, I don’t—”
“I saw you today, from here, from the window. You fell on the curb when I saw you coming. I live here, and I waved, but you didn’t come in.”
“I’m sorry, Frank, I—”
“You didn’t come in—you don’t respect me anymore—you never did respect me! I didn’t speak to you in the sewer, and I shouldn’t speak to you now. You didn’t come visit me after I hurt myself in your clinic. You have other boyfriends now, in your fine house, and you’ve never once thought of me.”
Elizalde’s face was contorted, but her voice was strong. “Frank,” she said, “I failed you. I’m sorry. Do you remember why you came to my clinic, why you were sent there?”
“Uh…well, because I always had to keep checking over and over again if my shoes were tied and if I locked doors and turned off the headlights on my car, even in the daytime—and I went to bed and didn’t came out for a month—and I tried to kill myself. And then after I got out of the hospital they said I should be your outpatient.”
“I failed to help you, and I’m terribly sorry. I haven’t had any boyfriends. I’ve been hiding, running. And every day I’ve been thinking about what I did to you, how I let you down, and wishing I could go back and make it right.”
“You can make it right—right now! We can get married, like I said in my note—”
The mint had flared up in the pan. Sullivan took the pan off the fire and clanged the lid onto it for a moment to snuff the flames.
“No, Frank,” said Elizalde. “You’re dead now. I think you know that, don’t you? Things like marriage are behind you now. You didn’t hurt yourself in my clinic that night, you killed yourself. You remember when you went to bed and stayed there for a month—you weren’t supposed to relax yet, then, it wasn’t time for that yet. It’s time now. You’re dead. Go to sleep, and sleep so deeply that…there won’t be room or light for any dreams.”
For several long seconds the kitchen was silent except for the background hissing of the speaker, and Sullivan saw Kootie glance speculatively at the spinning chalk cylinder.
Then the voice came back. “I’ve thought I might be dead”, it said quietly. “Are you sure, Angelica?”
“I am sure. I’m sorry.”
“You’ve thought about me? Been sorry?”
“You’ve been behind all the thoughts I’ve had. I came back here to ask you to forgive me.”
“Ah.” Again there was silence for a few seconds. “Goodbye, Angelica. Vaya con Dios.”
“Do you forgive me?”
The hissing went on for a full minute before Bradshaw shifted his weight on his feet and cleared his throat; and finally the speaker began making a dull rattle, which ceased when Elizalde reached out and pressed the hang-up button on the telephone cradle.
Sullivan tipped up his can of beer to avoid having to meet anyone’s eye, and he could hear Bradshaw’s knees creak as he shifted his weight again. The mint smoke was billowing thickly under the low ceiling.