“Is he in?” Guerriero said.
The girl nodded. “He’s always in. Who’s he?” she said, looking at me.
“A customer,” Guerriero said.
The girl looked at me some more and then stepped back, opening the door. Guerriero and I went into a room that held a couch, a couple of chairs, a round table with a Formica top, and a big old Philco radio, the floor console kind whose dial was tipped back at an angle. I remembered vaguely that when they were advertising those tipped-back dials in the forties the selling pitch had been, “No Stoop, No Squat, No Squint.” The radio was on and playing some kind of background music that was as memorable as wallpaper.
The girl went to a door and opened it. “It’s Guerriero,” she called.
A young man came through the doorway, lightly brushing its sides with his fingertips. He wasn’t quite as young as the girl, perhaps a year or two older, and his skin was white and pasty as though he never got out into the sun. He turned his head in our direction, but he didn’t really look at us. He couldn’t. He was blind.
“How are you?” he said.
“Not bad,” Guerriero said. “What about you?”
The blind man shrugged. “What do you need?”
“An address to fit a number,” Guerriero said.
The man nodded. “What’s the number?”
Guerriero read it off from the envelope that I’d written it on. The blind man nodded again. “Twenty bucks,” he said.
I took out my wallet and removed a twenty-dollar bill. It didn’t make much noise, hardly any, in fact, but the blind man heard it. “Give it to her,” he said.
I handed the bill to the girl and the blind man must have heard that, too, because he said, “Sorry, but I don’t give receipts.”
“That’s all right,” I said. It was the first time that I had said anything.
The blind man cocked his head to one side. “About thirty-five,” he said. “Maybe forty. Maybe six feet tall, but maybe a little less. You lived back east, but originally you came from the Midwest, Cleveland?”
“That’s close,” I said. “Columbus.”
He nodded and smiled a little, but not very much. “The ‘a’ in your ‘all’ was pure Ohio, but you sort of spit your ‘t’s’ the way they do back in New York and Jersey.”
“I’ll have to watch it,” I said.
He shrugged. “It’s just a hobby. I’ll be back in a minute.” He turned and went through the open door, closing it behind him.
The redheaded girl made a vague gesture. “Sit down someplace, if you want to. He won’t be long. All he has to do is call the phone company.”
“I didn’t know they were so cooperative,” I said.
She looked at me. “Are you kidding?”
Guerriero sat down at the Formica table. “He’s a master phone freak,” he said. “He’s been doing it since he was six. He knows all the phone company jargon so when he calls in on a special number he’s got they think it’s just some other employee asking for legitimate information. Most of the time he just sells unlisted phone numbers. Movie stars. You want to talk to your favorite movie star?”
“Not especially,” I said.
“He’ll sell you the number for ten bucks.”
“We got a new thing going,” the girl said.
“What?” Guerriero said.
“He’s figured out a way to tap into any phone number. You know when you call in and ask the operator to verify if a number’s really busy or just off the hook?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, when she checks it he’s figured out a way to stay plugged into it. Then he hooks up a tape recorder and when anybody talks on the number the tape recorder goes to work. He can do that on any number so if you wanta hear what kinda phone calls your favorite movie star makes in a twenty-four hour period, we’ll sell it to you for a hundred bucks.”
Guerriero shook his head. “That’s going to get you in trouble. That really will.”
The girl moved her shoulders in an elaborate shrug. “We need the bread.”
The blind kid opened the door and came back into the room a few moments later. He turned his head to one side and then to the other as if trying to sense whether any of us had moved. He turned so that he was facing Guerriero, or almost. He was just a shade off.
“It’s a bar over on Pico,” he said. “The Happy Pelican. I wrote the address down on this.” He took two steps and held out a slip of paper to Guerriero and the movement wasn’t more than an inch or two off from the way that a person with sight would have done it.
Guerriero took the paper and put it in his pocket. “She told us about your new deal,” he said. “The taped phone calls.”
The blind young man smiled, but again it was a very small smile. “It’s not as bad as it sounds,” he said. “If there’s anything on them would embarrass anybody, I wipe it. Most of the time it’s just dumb talk between them and their agents.”
“It’s going to get you in trouble,” Guerriero said. “Somebody’s going to talk and they’ll fuck you over good.”
“I could always weave baskets, couldn’t I?” the blind kid said.
“Well, it’s your ass,” Guerriero said as he rose from the table and turned toward the door.
The blind kid turned with him. “See you around,” he said.
The Happy Pelican looked like a bar that sold a lot of draft beer and not too much Scotch. It was housed in a narrow building that had a bricked-up front and a heavy slab wooden door. For decoration somebody had come up with a large cartoon figure of a pelican fashioned out of blue neon. The pelican’s smile winked on and off. For some reason they had also stuck a monocle in his left eye. I didn’t think the pelican looked very happy. In fact, I thought he looked a little morose and embarrassed about the whole idea.
Guerriero parked the van around the corner on a side street.
“You want a beer?” I said.
“Do you really want to buy me a beer or do you just want company in there in case the guy you’re looking for doesn’t want to be found and things get maybe a bit impolite?”
“He’s only five feet tall,” I said. “He couldn’t hurt a sick fly.”
“Maybe he’s got friends.”
“Maybe,” I said.
“Well, what the hell,” Guerriero said. “I was thirsty anyhow.”
It was already twilight in the Happy Pelican. They probably liked it that way even in the morning when the early drinkers arrived. Guerriero and I slid onto a couple of stools at the end of the bar and looked around.
Opposite the bar was a row of booths that ran back to a couple of doors labeled His and Hers. Centered between the doors was a jukebox that was mercifully silent. Along the bar were scattered six or seven serious drinkers, most of whom seemed to be reading the labels on the bottles. Those who weren’t reading the labels were gazing out into space with that look that people get when they’re recalling past disasters. One of them was moving his lips. Only two of them looked up at us when we came in. The rest didn’t bother.
The bartender was at the far end of the bar using a small Tensor lamp to read something in a folded newspaper. It looked like a box score. When he was through reading it he put the newspaper down and moved toward us. He was about forty or forty-five and he wasn’t very tall, but he was awfully wide, with heavy arms and shoulders and wrists that were as thick as beer bottles. When he reached us he rested for a while, leaning against the bar on his folded arms and looking us over with his ice-colored eyes. After he was through doing that he said, “What’ll it be, gents?”