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 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 stopped, or I was drunk. It couldn’t be that late. Lousy watch, always stopping. I looked across the street and realized I was staring at a big green clock in the window of a filling station, and that it said ten minutes of five. And in the shadows beside the station was a phone booth. I focused on it, hard, and managed to break into a run.