D A Novel (George Right) - By George Right Page 0,28

not seen any traffic lights). Carefully, like a soldier in films about street combat, Tony looked around the corner–and saw on the right in the cross street the lit letters "CAR SERVICE."

Taxi! And the office was open at night–anyway, there was light behind the windows! Would he really leave this place at last?

Taught by bitter experience, Logan peered closely at the sign. No, "CAR SERVICE," and nothing else. He turned the corner, crossed the street and walked fast toward the taxi office. His intuition was telling him that at the last moment something would prevent him from leaving, but he drove away these panicky thoughts.

Nothing prevented him from reaching the desired location. Tony belatedly remembered how he would look to the dispatcher–in dirty and torn trousers and one shoe, with hands soiled by the devil knows what... However, don't night taxis exist to help people who have gotten into trouble? At worst it would be necessary to show in advance his solvency (Logan anxiously touched a trouser pocket: the wallet was in its place). He had already taken hold of the handle of a door with matte glass through which a dim light shone, had already even started to pull this door (it moved easily), but suddenly, obeying an abrupt impulse, once again looked at the sign.

And Tony understood that the office that he so aspired to get to was not CAR SERVICE at all. Over the door was written SCAR SERVICE, but the first letter was not lit.

Slowly and carefully he closed the door and hastened away almost on tiptoe, hoping very much that his attempt to enter had remained unnoticed.

"Though it could be, of course, just a tattoo and piercing parlor behind that door," Logan thought. "Aha, and all the other signs mean only that in this area business is done by excentric people with a perverted sense of humor. Do you really believe that?"

Something made him to look back. Perhaps, it was the mad hope that now his troubles would vanish, and he would see a normal street with normal signs... or, at least, something that would help him to explain what was going on...

Instead he saw the door into which he had almost entered was opening. It was opening as slowly and silently as he closed it. For some reason this frightened him even more than if it had sharply swung open and on a threshold a huge fat Asian with a curved knife in hand had appeared.

Tony rushed away without waiting until the door opened completely. Fortunately, a crossroads was nearby, not more than twenty yards. Logan dove around a corner to the right and immediately slowed to a furtive walk, sensitively listening to the night.

All was silent. It seemed he was not pursued... however, that door had opened silently and if he had not looked back... Though–was it certain that behind the door there was a real danger?

But Tony was no longer in the mood to argue abstractedly about the logical validity of his fears. He hastily looked around. Right opposite him there was a sign for the next business. "Nails." Manicure & pedicure salon. There was no light there. Of course–such salons are not open at night. But nevertheless Tony distinguished well enough the dark letters forming the word "Nails"–this time the word was perfectly right, without any surprises. He also saw the classic picture which was always present at the window of such shops–a woman in an armchair, with polished finger- and toenails.

Only the expression on the woman's face disturbed him.

Tony stepped nearer to the dark glass. Yes, no doubt–the drawn face was deformed by a grimace of an intolerable pain. And only then he moved his gaze again to her nails. Actually, there were no finger- and toenails–they had been pulled out and steel nails had been hammered into the blood-stained meat which he at first accepted as red varnish.

Everything had been drawn with great skill and attention to detail–much more carefully than an ordinary advertising picture. The artist, seemingly, enjoyed the process.

And, probably, drew from nature.

And, Tony heard sounds causing frost to settle again in his entrails.

Though, actually, in these sounds there was nothing awful. Nothing connected with pain, death or even mystery. These sounds are perfectly familiar to millions of Americans and, to tell the truth, pester many of them.

The simple melody played by ice cream trucks.

Surprisingly, devised to attract children and not at all to frighten them, this melody always seemed ominous to Tony. He did not know