Angrily he dialed the number the operator had given him for Jack Rawles. In the hallway outside, Carella could hear someone knocking on Hillary’s door. He was about to hang up when a woman answered the phone.
“Hello?” she said.
“Mr. Rawles, please,” Carella said.
“Sorry, he’s out just now.”
“Where is he, would you know?”
“Who’s this, please?”
“An old friend,” he said. “Steve Carella.”
“Sorry, Steve, he’s out of town,” the woman said.
“Who’s this?”
“Marcia.”
“Marcia, do you know when he’ll be back?”
“No, I just got back myself. I’m a flight attendant, I got stuck in London. There’s a note here for my boyfriend, says Jack had to go down to the city, won’t be back for a couple of days.”
“What city?” Carella said.
“The city, man,” Marcia said. “There’s only one city in the entire world, and it ain’t Boston, believe me.”
“By your boyfriend…who do you mean?”
“Jack’s roommate, Andy. They’ve been living together since the fire.”
“What fire was that?” Carella said.
“Jack’s place on Commonwealth. Lost everything he had in it.”
“What’s he doing these days?” Carella asked.
“When did you last see him?”
“We met here in Hampstead, three summers ago.”
“Oh. Then he’s doing the exact same thing. He must’ve been at the Hampstead Playhouse then, am I right?”
“Still acting?” Carella asked, taking a chance and hoping Jack Rawles hadn’t been a stage manager or an electrician or a set designer.
“Still acting,” Marcia said. “Or at least trying to act. In the summer it’s stock. In the winter it’s zilch. Jack’s always broke, always scrounging for a part someplace. The only time he ever had any money was just before that summer in Hampstead, and he blew it all to rent that house he was staying in. Two thousand bucks, I think it was, for a television commercial he did in the city. I keep telling him he should move down there. What’s there for an actor in Boston?”
“I don’t remember him mentioning a fire,” Carella said, circling back.
“Well, when did you say you’d met? Three summers ago? The fire wasn’t until…let me think.”
Carella waited.
“Two years ago, it must’ve been. Yeah, around this time, two years ago.”
“Uh-huh,” Carella said. “When did he leave Boston, would you know?”
“The note doesn’t say. It had to be sometime after the twentieth, though.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I left for London on the twentieth, and Andy left for California the same day, and Jack was still here. Elementary, my dear Watson.”
“Where’s Andy now?”
“Search me. I just got in a few minutes ago. You want a madhouse during the holidays? Try Heathrow.”
“You wouldn’t know whether Jack is still in the city, would you?”
“Well, if he was back here, I’d know it,” Marcia said. “He’s the slob of all time. Open the sugar bowl, you’re liable to find a pair of his dirty jockey shorts in it.”
Carella chuckled and then said, “Does he still have that distinctive speaking voice?”
“Old Bearclaw Rawles, do you mean?”
“Sort of rasping?”
“Like a file,” Marcia said.
“You wouldn’t know where he’s staying in the city, would you?”
“Big city, Steve,” she said. “He could be anywhere.”
“Yeah,” Carella said. “Well, look, tell him I called, okay? Nothing important, just wanted to wish him a Happy New Year.”
“Will do,” Marcia said, and hung up.
Carella put the receiver back on the cradle. He debated calling Hawes again to tell him he’d made contact and decided against it. If he knew Hawes, he’d be trying the Boston Police right this minute, even after he got a telephone number for Rawles. A cup of Irish coffee sounded very good just now. He crossed the room and knocked on the connecting door.
“Come in,” Hillary said.
She was sitting dejectedly in an easy chair, the two cups of Irish coffee on a low table before her. She was still wearing the raccoon coat, huddled inside it.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I guess.”
He took one of the cups from the table, sipped at it, and licked whipped cream from his lips. “Why don’t you drink it before it gets cold?” he said.
She lifted the other cup, but she did not drink from it.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“Drink your coffee.”
She sipped at it, her eyes lowered.
“Want to tell me?”
“No.”
“Okay,” he said.
“It’s just…I’m so damn ashamed of myself.”
“Why?”
“Fainting like that.”
“Well, it was pretty scary back there,” Carella said, and sat on the edge of the bed.
“I’m still scared,” Hillary said.
“So am I.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Believe it.”
“My first real manifestation,” she said, “and I…” She shook her head.
“The first time I faced a man with a gun, I went blind,” Carella said.
“Blind?”
“With fear. I saw the gun in his hand, and then I didn’t see anything else. Everything went white.”
“What happened?” Hillary asked.
“He shot me, and I died.”
She smiled and sipped at her coffee.
“What happened was I came to my senses about three seconds before it would have been too late.”
“Did you shoot him?”
“Yes.”
“Did you kill him?”
“No.”
“Have you ever killed anyone?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever been shot yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you keep doing it?”
“Doing what?”
“Police work.”
“I like it,” he said simply, and shrugged.
“I’ve been wondering how I can ever…” She shook her head again and put down the coffee cup.
“Ever what?”
“Go on doing what I’m doing. After tonight I wonder if I shouldn’t simply get a job as a ribbon clerk or something.”
“You wouldn’t be good at it.”
“I’m not so good at this either.”
“Come on, you’re very good,” he said.
“Sure. Fainting like a—”
“I almost didn’t come up those stairs after you,” Carella said.
“Sure.”
“It’s the truth. I almost ran out of that damn house.”
“Yet you’re willing to face men with guns in their hands.”
“A gun is a gun. A ghost…” He shrugged.
“I suppose I’m glad I saw them,” she said.
“So am I.”
“I wet my pants, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“I did.”
“I almost wet mine.”
“Fine pair,” she said, and smiled again.
The room went silent.
“Do I really look like your wife?” she asked.
“Yes. You know that.”
“I’m not sure of anything anymore.”
Again the room went silent.
“Well,” Carella said, and got to his feet.