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