Man on the run

by Charles Williams

  I sat down at last with my back against the concrete of the seawall. Rain drummed on the brim of my hat. Now they knew I was back in Sanport. And I’d lost Suzy. I didn’t know her address or her phone number, and even if I could find another outside phone booth and look it up in the book, I couldn’t call her. I had a hundred and seventy dollars in my pocket, but I didn’t have a dime.

  Five

  My teeth began to chatter as water penetrated my clothes. I had to find some place to get out of the rain, and unless I discovered a hiding place before daybreak they’d have me. Every cop in town was alerted by now, and my description would be broadcast over the radio. With this black eye and the stubble of ginger-colored beard to give me away, I couldn’t move a foot without being recognized.

  How about a hotel, a skid-row flophouse? No. That would be suicidal. I still had a key to my own apartment in the Wakefield, but they’d have that covered front and rear. Maybe I could find my way to the railroad yards again and catch another freight. I fought down an impulse to cry out or laugh. I must be going crazy. That would put me right back where I’d started forty-eight hours ago. I was going around and around in an endless circle in a nightmare. I was a mechanical rabbit running forever in front of a pack of hounds along a dark racetrack in a rain that had been going on since the beginning of time. I thought of the bridge of the Dancy, and hot coffee, and my own room and the rows of books, and the poker games in the steam-heated messroom.

  I tore my mind away from the picture, and then I was thinking of Suzy’s apartment, and of warmth and safety, and of Suzy herself. I swore wearily. Jesus, I’d been so near. Then I sprang up. What the hell was the matter with me? I could still get there. All I had to do was find another telephone booth and look up her address. I didn’t have to call her. The whole night was ahead of me—it couldn’t be much after eight—and I could-make it on foot. I wouldn’t be able to ask directions, but I knew the city fairly well, and the chances were it would be on a street I’d recognize. And if it weren’t, maybe the directory would have a map in it. I’d forgotten, but some of them did.

  The first thing to do was get clear of this area—get miles away. They’d be searching it block by block. I walked westward along the beach. Now and then a car went past on the roadway to the right and above me. I stayed out of the range of their headlights. After a long time I crossed the road and struck inland. I found a shell-surfaced country road following a sluggish creek. Rain kept falling. The topcoat was soaked now and heavy. I was seized with uncontrollable fits of shaking that lasted for minutes at a time. Whenever I saw a car coming, I dived off the road and hid.

  Far off to the left I could see beacons flashing. That would be the International Airport. Then there were more lights up ahead. I was approaching the highway that came into Sanport from the west, from the direction of Carlisle. I began to pass more houses, and then I was in a suburban housing development. Few cars were moving, and there were no pedestrians. Some of the houses were dark. That seemed strange, until I had to pass another unavoidable street light and looked at my watch. It was eleven thirty-five. I’d been walking for at least three hours. In another seven, or a little more, it would be daybreak. I wondered if I could keep going that long, or if I could even get to her place in that length of time. It might be clear across town, ten or twelve miles from here. I saw a police car up ahead, and ducked down a shadowy side street. A dog barked at me. My teeth chattered again, and I clenched my jaws to stop them. I turned again, still going toward the highway. I had to find a telephone booth, and there wouldn’t be one in this area.

  Then I located one, in the edge of a suburban shopping center. A service station on the corner was closed, with only a single bulb burning in back of the glass front wall of the office, and around at the side of it was a booth standing invitingly open. The streets were deserted except for a few cars near the movie house still open down in the next block. I took another quick look around and crossed to the station driveway. When I stepped inside the booth and closed the door, its light came on. I felt as if I were standing naked on a large stage before an audience of thousands. I grabbed for the directory, dangling from its chain, and fumbled through it with hands that shook uncontrollably. Water ran off my hat onto the pages.

  Parker . . . Parkhurst . . . Patterson . . .

  Patton . . . Here we were.

  Patton, Robert . . . Patton, R.H . . . Patton, Stewart . . . Patton, Stephen R. . . . Patton, Victor E. . . . There was no Suzy Patton listed.

  Of course there was. There had to be! I ran a trembling finger down the column again. I shook my head. Then, for some insane reason I couldn’t fathom, I was counting them. There were thirty-seven Pattons, but there was no Suzy Patton, and there wasn’t even an S. Patton or an S. Anything Patton. I dropped the phone book and rubbed a hand harshly across my face.

  Suzy Patton was a pen name, or she had an unlisted number. In a city of six hundred thousand— I started to laugh. My head felt queer. I chopped off the laugh and pushed out of the booth, and when the rain hit me in the face my mind cleared a little and I was only freezing cold and chattering. I went on walking. There was nothing else to do. If I stopped, I’d probably freeze. Well, at daybreak they’d pick me up and I’d be in a nice warm interrogation room with a white light in my face and then just before I cracked and went insane I could sign a statement and go to sleep.

  I stopped suddenly. Maybe there was still a chance, if f could only call Red. I looked around, trying to orient myself and snap my mind out of its numbness. I was in a quiet residential district under dark and weeping trees. I leaned against the trunk of one and forced myself to try to think. What would she have done? Gone home, obviously, knowing there was no chance she could ever find me again. And she’d realize I couldn’t find her, since she wasn’t in the book. Red was the only person we both knew, the only common contact. Maybe she had called him.

  No, of course she wouldn’t. After that narrow escape back there at the Playland she’d probably had enough, and didn’t care if she never saw me again. She was just lucky she’d got away herself. Did I think she’d be crazy enough to give Red an address, when she didn’t know him and had no guarantee at all she could trust him? How would she know he wouldn’t give it to the police? The whole idea was absurd. But it persisted. It was the only thing I had left, and I couldn’t force myself to let it go.

  But how was I going to call him? I didn’t have a dime. The idea of having one hundred and seventy dollars but not having a dime again struck me as one of the great jokes of the year, and I laughed. It occurred to me I was becoming light-headed. I pushed myself off the tree and went on. It was five or six blocks further on that I saw the small neighborhood bar. It was across the street, with a neon cocktail glass above the bar and a sign that said, TERRY MAC’S. There were three cars parked in front of it, and on either side were stores that were closed. I stepped back into a doorway and looked at it hungrily. The slip of paper she’d given me was still in the pocket of the topcoat. I took it out and studied it in the dim light, memorizing the number. Then I looked back at the bar.

  No, it would be insane. Then I noticed an odd thing. The rain had started to bounce. It 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 block I heard the sirens.

  I went on, feeling my feet lift and swing and pound against the concrete until every breath was agony. I turned and turned again and lost all sense of direction. I saw headlights approaching down an intersecting street. The car started to turn toward me, and just before the headlights swept over me I dived sideways into an oleander hedge. I fell through it, and lay in a puddle of water with the sleet tapping restfully on my hat and the side of my face. My arm was against something metallic and uncomfortable. I reached over and felt it with my other hand. It was a lawn sprinkler. I thought drowsily it would be a shame if they turned it on.

  More cars went up the street, swinging spotlights. I didn’t know how long I lay there. After awhile I got my breath back, and moved a little, fighting the drowsiness. I wanted to go to sleep, but something made me get up to my hands and knees. It was quiet now. No cars had gone by for a long time. I climbed through the hedge and started walking. After a few blocks my teeth started chattering again. I thought that was a good sign; I didn’t believe your teeth chattered when you were freezing. Twice more I had to duck into yards to avoid the lights of cars. I was doing everything mechanically now, and for long periods I would forget what I was looking for. Phone booth, I told myself. Remember that. Phone booth.

  I was standing under a street light. I looked at my watch. It said ten minutes of five. I slapped myself on the face and looked again. It must be stopped, or I was drunk. It couldn’t be that late. Lousy watch, always stopping. I looked across the street and realized I was staring at a big green clock in the window of a filling station, and that it said ten minutes of five. And in the shadows beside the station was a phone booth. I focused on it, hard, and managed to break into a run.

  A for Able, H for Happy. I got the directory open somehow and fumbled through it with nerveless fingers. Patton . . .

  Patton, Alvis W. . . .

  Patton, A. H. . . . I repeated the number, prodded the dime into the slot, and dialed.

  She answered almost immediately. “Yes?” she said eagerly.

  “I’m—” I said. “I’m—uh—”

  She sighed. “God, I’ve been waiting all night. He said he gave you the message hours ago. Where are you?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Wait.” I dropped the receiver and stepped out of the booth to look up at the sign on the edge of the cantilever roof above the driveway BARRETT’S SHELL SERVICE, it said.

  I repeated it.

  “All right,” she said quickly. “I’ll have to look it up, so I don’t know how far away it is. It may take five minutes or thirty. Stay right there, or as near as you can and still be out of sight. I’ll come by on that side of the street with my right-hand turn signal blinking. If everything is clear, come out and get in. If not, I’ll go around six or eight blocks and try again. All right?”

  “Y-yes,” I said. I hung up. I went around behind the station in the deep shadows and leaned against the wall. My skin hurt all over the way I imagined it did in spots when you had gout. I couldn’t really be freezing, I thought; you never hurt then. Time went by. I began to dream I was on the bridge of the Dancy off Hatteras in a snowstorm. No, that couldn’t be right. I was never wet on the bridge. We had oilskins. I heard a car coming. I went to the corner and peered up the street. The car’s turn signal was blinking. I ran out. She stopped abruptly, and I got in. I doubled over, holding my arms, shaking violently and trying to keep from touching the wet clothes anywhere with my skin.

  She drove fast. “Only a few minutes, Irish,” she said. I thought numbly she must have got that from Red. He always called me Irish.

  I didn’t know how much later it was we were going down a ramp into a garage. It was shadowy, like a big cavern. Then she was helping me out. I went up the ramp after her, trying to walk without touching my clothes. We went past some grass where the sleet was bouncing, and then she was fitting a key into a large glass door. There was a small foyer inside with a potted palm and two elevators. It was very quiet. One of the elevators was standing open. We got in and she pressed a button. When we got out, she took off the dark coat she was wearing, and mopped the water off the bare floor of the car. It didn’t show very much on the carpet in the corridors. We met no one. Then she was unlocking another door.

  I had a confused impression of a large room with thousands of books and a gray rug and colored draperies, and then she was leading me into another room. There were more curtains, and a double bed, a king-sized double bed, and beyond it was the door to the bathroom. Even the bathroom was large. She led me into it. There was a glass-doored stall shower. She reached in and turned on the taps. I went on shaking. I tried to say something. She shook her head at me and pushed me into the shower. “Sit down,” she said.

  I sat down with the hot water pouring over my head and shoulders. She took off my shoes. “Now c
an you stand?” she asked. I got to my feet. The water felt as if it were boiling, but I went right on shaking. She pealed off the topcoat and dropped it to the floor. Then the coat. I tried to unbutton the shirt, but she caught both sides of it and tore at it, spraying the buttons off. In a moment I was naked, standing on the wet clothes while steamy water sluiced down over me. “I’ll be back,” she said, and closed the sliding door.

  My skin was dead white and drawn up in a thousand whorls and wrinkles like the pictures of fingerprints, and my teeth went right on chattering. The door slid back and she was holding a glass half full of whisky. I drank it.

  “All right,” she said. “Out you come. If you collapse before you get in bed I’ll never be able to lift you.”

  She handed me a towel and took one herself. It felt as if we were tearing my skin off. She led me into the bedroom. The bed was turned down. She pushed me into it and covered me. She went out and came back almost immediately with another drink. She held it to my lips. My teeth beat like castanets against the glass, but I managed to swallow the whisky.

  “Poor Irish,” she said. She clicked off the light, leaving only the faint illumination from the doorway to the living room. Then I saw she was undressing. She tossed the sweater, skirt, and slip across a chair, and sat down to remove her stockings. The room began to swim in big circles. She tossed the last garment onto the chair and slid in beside me.

  “This may help,” she said. She gathered my head against her breasts, and a long smooth thigh slid up and over my leg and entwined with it as she held me pressed to her in every place we could touch. “It’s just a chill. It’ll go away.”

  I struggled against the blackness that was trying to engulf me.

  “Easy, Irish,” she said soothingly. “Just go to sleep.”