D A Novel (George Right) - By George Right Page 0,29
why, but he heard something insinuatingly eerie, mystical, otherworldly in it. Certainly, being a sane person, he never had been actually afraid of ice cream trucks (though, even in his childhood he had not been a real fan of their goods, and almost never bought from them). He only thought sometimes, hearing this tune, that in a horror film it would come in handy. Clowns, also apparently intended only to amuse, for a long time held a firm place in such films. Why are ice cream men worse?
And it seemed now he would learn why.
Certainly, these trucks aren't out late at night, especially with the sound on. But this one was.
Judging by sound, it moved–slowly as they usually do in search of clients–on that street from which Tony had just escaped. Logan flattened himself against the glass of the ominous nail salon, hoping that the truck would pass by without turning into this street.
But it turned.
Tony saw it. To the sight, it was the usual angular white truck with a serving counter on the right side surrounded by posters with pictures of different kinds of ice cream. Even the headlights burned, as they should. And the sign on the roof said "ICE CREAM"–not "I SCREAM" or anything like that. But Logan still mentally begged it to go farther along the street without stopping.
The truck passed him by a couple of yards and stopped. The music played several more bars and ended. Only the taillights silently flickered.
"Well, and what to do now?" Tony thought. "To go back to that street with the hospitably opened door of Scar Service? To go forward in order for that truck to follow me again? But to be at a stop, apparently, is the silliest..."
"Mister," a quiet hoarse voice, almost a whisper, came from the truck, "you want ice cream."
It was a statement, not a question.
"No," Tony squeezed out. "Thanks, but I already feel cold."
"Cold," repeated the voice as a sad echo. "Always cold. Nobody wants ice cream. A bad business."
He became silent, and Logan wanted already to sympathize politely about his problems, but the ice cream man started talking again:
"Then a hot dog?"
"Hot dog?" Tony was surprised. Usually they are not sold from ice cream trucks, though, of course, there were trucks that sold all kinds of food... "Is it indeed hot?" Logan felt that now he wanted to eat something warm and with meat. Perhaps at least this would help him to get warmed up at last. Though one hot dog is probably not enough for this purpose...
"It's my hot dog," the driver answered in the same sad and low voice. "I took it for myself. But I can sell it to you. And I'll eat ice cream."
"Mmm..." Logan was not inspired by this suggestion, "I think, you'd better keep your meal for yourself."
"Don't worry, mister, I haven't touched it yet," simply answered the driver. "It's a good hot dog. Even still in a bag. Only one dollar."
"Perhaps, I'd better take it or he won't get off my back," Tony decided. "Eventually, I always can throw it away, and one dollar isn't a lot of money."
"All right, give it," he approached the window. There was not any light in the truck, but Tony could hear the driver move from the front of the truck to the serving window. Then he began to rummage in the depths of the truck body; Tony heard a muffled gnash, like a sound of a blunt knife on something firm. Though, probably, it was just a squeak of an opening box.
"Tell me please," Tony decided to use the situation, "What is this place? Looks like I've lost my way. Is it Manhattan?"
"It's Downtown," hoarsely reached from darkness. Logan had a quick thought that the ice cream man is, seemingly, chilled–possibly, from recently eating too much of his own goods.
"Downtown of Manhattan? " specified Logan. Brooklyn has its own downtown, which, however, is not a bit like what Tony has already seen this night...
"Downtown of New York," the ice cream man obstinately answered; a low buzz similar to the sound of a working microwave reached Logan's ears. Tony decided not to engage in geographical disputes and asked a more practical question.
"How I can get from here to Brooklyn?"
"You can't get anywhere from here except in the morning."
"And what time is it now?"
"Midnight."
Have they all agreed together on the time or what? Tony angrily thought, but aloud he only politely said: