I opened the garage doors quietly. I opened the door to the cab, but I didn’t get in. I released the brakes and put the gears in neutral and pushed the car out of the garage and was a few yards down the street before I jumped in and started the motor. Fifteen minutes later I was on the New England Thruway, heading for Manhattan.
There was not much traffic, and the drive calmed me down. I was still angry, of course. I should never have let Storey get under my skin like that. I should never have wanted anything from her. All I wanted, really, was some information. I am thinking of getting into music myself, the production end of it. And old Doug. Doug had always been dispensable. Now another suburban type would move in and start yet another remodeling job on Doug’s new house.
A little past Stamford, I drew even with a Chevrolet in the lane on my right. There was enough illumination from the dashboard to see the occupant. It was a woman. Pretty, as far as I could see, and completely absorbed in the road ahead. She was driving with one hand. The other hand was out of sight, buried in the V of her shirt. I watched her for a while, turning my head from the highway to the other car, keeping a steady speed. I suddenly figured out what she was doing. Examining the right quadrant, the left quadrant, checking the crinkly flesh around the aureole. She was doing a routine breast check, just like she’d been taught or read in a manual or saw on TV. I laughed when I’d figured it out. I tried to catch her eye, to give her the old thumbs-up signal, encouraging, but traffic was picking up and I couldn’t stay even with her car. I’ve always liked women like her — softening up a little, allowing themselves a sag here and there, of the flesh, of the spirit. They’re more touching then. If I could have caught her eye, I bet I could have got her to pull over, after we got off the highway, and go with me for a drink. But it’s probably a good thing I didn’t make contact, because I had to get home and get my stuff cleared out.
As soon as I got to my apartment, I listened to my machine for messages. There was nothing important. If Sophie had called, she had not left a message. I retaped my recorded greeting.
“Hello. This is the telephone butler at 736-9780. Is this by any chance Peter’s mother? He has left a message for you. He may want to sleep at home tonight. Could you move those boxes out of his old room for him? Thank you.”
I rewound the tape. I’ll leave it set up while I pack, then I’ll take the machine with me. I paid good money for that.
I’m going to dump all the tapes into a plastic garbage bag. All these tapes have to go. I’ve got one tape of Storey; that’s going too. The tape that’s on now — well, I can do several things with it, can’t I? I can erase it — just run it through the machine with the Record button on. I can mail it to Storey, she could probably use it to clear her fair name. Or I can leave it here for the police to find, after she tells them where to look for me. It’s like a confession, after all, isn’t it? Although I don’t know whether it could be used in court. Wouldn’t it be like self-incrimination? A violation of my civil rights?
Or I can dump it in the trash tonight, along with everything else that has my real name on it, and everything connecting me with Nicholai. Son of Russian émigrés. Artist and lover.
Josh Pryor
Wrong Numbers
From Zoetrope
Dora sparks was alone in her office when her ten-thirty walked in looking every bit as unemployable as she’d expected. He was tall, bald by choice — she could see the razed roots of his hair lurking just beneath the shiny dome of his scalp — and had the sinewy tattooed arms of a carnival-ride operator. She made sure the electroplated gold letter opener Pac Bell had given her was in easy reach. IN RECOGNITION OF A JOB WELL DONE was engraved on the blade.
“So, Mr. Karloff,” said Dora. “What brings you to Pac Bell?”
“A man’s gotta eat,” said Karloff.
“Karloff... That’s an interesting name. Wasn’t he a vampire or something?”
“No relation.” Karloff smiled. His teeth were big and yellow.
Dora pretended to study his résumé. When she looked up he was holding the letter opener, familiarizing himself with its heft the way a surgeon might with a new scalpel. There were flies tattooed on his knuckles.
“This is nice,” he said. “What do I have to do to get one?”
Dora had been friends with Marcy since she’d been hired by Human Resources. Marcy was one of the last of the innocents. True, she was only half Dora’s age, but the distance separating them may as well have been light-years. Dora had taken it upon herself to make sure her friend didn’t go through life with blinders on. Today Marcy had wanted to know why she wasn’t going to hire Karloff.
“Just because he didn’t gouge my eyes out doesn’t mean I should give him a job.”
“But all his references checked out,” said Marcy. “His last boss said he was a super-nice guy and a real whiz with phones.”
“Are we talking about the same Karloff? Bald, scary looking, teeth like a horse...”
Marcy pinched the crust from her egg-salad sandwich and tossed it to the pigeons. “He looked a little rough.”
“The guy was a ghoul! He probably drinks blood with dinner.”
“I heard George Johanson’s going to hire him anyway,” said Marcy. “I guess he ran into him leaving your office this morning. Apparently they know each other from AA.”
“Good for George Johanson. Let him shoot himself in the foot. I’m not going to send that creep into a complete stranger’s house to install phone lines. Once he gets inside, who knows what he might do.”
That night when Dora got home her husband, Frank, had already set the table. There were three place settings instead of the usual two. She sure wasn’t in the mood for company. Marcy had been right. George Johanson had gone ahead and hired Karloff despite Dora’s recommendation. Couple of drunks, she thought. I hope you both fall off the wagon. “Sweetheart,” she called. “I’m home.”
Dora could hear Frank’s voice above the hiss of running water. “I’m in the kitchen.”
A thick layer of steam obscured the ceiling. She could hardly see the light fixtures. A pot of water boiled furiously on the stove. Dora blazed a trail through the steam and reduced the burner setting to simmer. Frank was hunched over the sink stripping the wilted leaves from a head of lettuce. The garbage disposal sputtered and growled.
“Oh, there you are.”
“I thought I’d give you a hand with dinner,” said Frank.
Dora flicked off the disposal and kissed him on the cheek. “We’d better open a window before the wallpaper starts to peel.”
Frank continued to pull apart the head of lettuce. He was drawing dangerously close to the pale yellow leaves at its core that almost no one likes to eat. “Eileen called me at work today. She wants to stay with us for a couple of weeks.”
“I thought she was serving a life sentence.”
“Six months.”
“Well, I don’t want her staying in my house.”
“Your house?” He began building a salad using the jaundiced leaves.
“She just got out of jail for crying out loud,” said Dora. “She’s an ex-con!”
“She’s my sister. You make her sound like such a shady character. She’s not a necrophiliac for Christ’s sake! She was in for mail fraud.”