11.2 George R. R. Martin ed Down These Strange Streets (contains Death by Dahlia) by George R. R. Martin & Gardner Dozois

Author:George R. R. Martin & Gardner Dozois
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2012-09-18T12:04:17+00:00

HE NEEDED A PHONE. NEEDED TO CALL CONOSCENZA. THIS COULDN’T WAIT for Cross to return to New York. Once his boss heard his report, Conoscenza would head for Chicago. Which meant that Cross had to go there too. Which was the last thing he wanted to do. The power in that ring had him spooked.

It was nearly eight at night. The post office had closed hours before. So he needed a house with a kind homeowner and the wherewithal to own a telephone. He moved off the main street and into a residential area, scanning the fences and gates for the bird symbol that indicated free phone. It took a while, but he found one. The name on the mailbox was Dr. Adam Grossman. It made sense a doctor would have a telephone.

There was a Ford Model A parked out front, and it had been carefully washed and waxed. Cross paused behind it and took money from his belt. He then pushed open the gate and walked up to the front door. His knock was answered by a sharp-featured young man with slicked-back black hair. The distinctive scent of Murray’s Superior Pomade floated to Cross’s nostrils. He wore the smart new style of cuffed trousers and plucked at the pants crease with nicotine-stained fingers, while with the other hand he pushed his wire-rim glasses higher onto the bridge of his nose. Cross’s image of the white-haired, heavyset country doctor went up in a pop.

“Dr. Grossman?”

“Yes? Is somebody sick?”

“No. I need to use your telephone,” Cross said, and he offered a folded double sawbuck, which he had pinched between his fingers.

The doctor’s eyes widened at the sight of twenty dollars. “I generally let people use the phone for free.”

“I know.”

Grossman frowned. “How?”

“There’s a sign on your gate.” The doctor peered out the door toward the white picket fence and gate. Cross laughed. “Hobo symbol.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Grossman opened the door wide. “Come on in. That explains a lot.”

Cross stepped across the threshold into a ruthlessly neat front room. Books were squared up on a small table next to an armchair. Throw pillows on the sofa were lined up like portly soldiers. There was no hint of a softening female presence. The room cried out ex-military, and a package of Army Club The Front-Line Cigarette cemented the impression into certainty. Returning doughboys had smoked the English cigarette during the Great War. Memory flickered and touched the senses. For an instant, Cross smelled rank water, unwashed bodies, and cordite, remembered the slip of mud beneath his boot soles.

“The phone’s in the hall,” Grossman said, breaking the hold of the past. Cross held out the bill. Grossman held up a negating hand. “Keep your money.”

“I don’t need it, really. Take it. Use it to buy medicine or pay yourself for treating someone for free,” Cross said. Grossman hesitated, then shrugged and took the bill.

The telephone was nestled in a niche in the wall, and a wooden chair was placed in front. Cross lifted the receiver.

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