Read Online Man On The Run by Charles Williams - Free Book Online
Authors: Charles Williams
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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 can 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
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 can 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
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