as he thought.
Suppose he marched in through the back entrance and all the booths were occupied. That would be dandy, all right. Heâd stand around with his red sleeve, and as soon as somebody spotted the sleeve, good-by, Johnny Lane.
Well, that was a chance heâd have to take. He found a cigar store on the third corner he passed. There was an entrance on the avenue and another on the side street. He glanced at the circular blue and white Bell telephone plaque set in the base of the store. Well, there was a telephone inside, at any rate. He turned the corner and walked to the glass-paned doorway. He stopped outside the doorway, trying to see the phone booths. He could see the booths, but only their sides, and he couldnât tell if they were empty or not. The back of the store was empty, though, so heâd have to make his play now if he was going to make it at all. Quickly he opened the door.
A bell over the door sounded, and he cursed these goddamn distrustful shopkeepers who put bells over every damn door. He shut the door quickly behind him, feeling the warmth of the shop, almost sighing heavily when he felt the warmth. He walked quickly to the phone booths, praying they were empty.
A thin man who looked like a bookie was in the first booth. He did not look up as Johnny passed him. He kept his mouth closed to the mouthpiece, and he talked excitedly.
A woman was in the second booth. From the stupid grin on her face, she was talking to a man.
There was one more booth. He walked to it rapidly, the fingers on his left hand crossed.
The booth was empty. He stepped into it without looking behind him, closed the door, lifted the receiver from the hook, and deposited a dime quickly. He was not used to dialing Cindyâs number with his left hand. He kept the receiver in his lap while he dialed, and then he put it to his ear hastily as the phone on the other end began ringing.
Come on, Cindy, he thought. Come on, baby, pick it up.
He counted the rings. He wondered what she was doing. He could almost see her phone where it rested on the stand in her apartment. He could see it as clearly as if he were there. He could almost see the instrument vibrating as it rang. And where was Cindy? On the other side of the room, at the stove or the icebox? She was walking across the apartment now, passing the bed, closer to the night table, reaching for it now, now her voice would come on the line.
The phone kept ringing. He fidgeted nervously in the booth.
Come on, baby, come on, he pleaded. Pick the goddamn thing up.
Was she taking a bath or something? Was that why she hadnât answered yet? He kept counting the rings. He let the phone ring twenty-two times, and then he hung up. He was not so much annoyed as he was puzzled. Why the hell hadnât she â¦
Time.
Time was back with him again. What time was it? He opened the door of the booth and stuck his head out, looking toward the front of the shop. An electric clock hung over the doorway, and he watched the sweep hand, and then focused his eyes on the hour and minute hands.
Nine-thirty-seven.
Well, sure. Well, no wonder. She was at the club already. She was probably getting ready for the first show now. He thought of her doing her dance, and then he had to force the thought out of his mind. She was at the club. If youâre at the club, you canât answer the phone in your apartment.
Well, that let Cindy out. For the time being, anyway. But he still needed a coat, and he was hungry as hell. Just thinking of the coat made him feel cold again, and he wanted to stay in the warmth of the telephone booth forever. No, he couldnât do that. He had to get out of there soon, and that meant bucking the winds outside again. It wouldnât be so bad if he could put down a hot cup of java, but how could he walk into a restaurant with his arm looking the way it did?
He didnât want to chance going back to his own place. The cops would surely be watching
Suppose he marched in through the back entrance and all the booths were occupied. That would be dandy, all right. Heâd stand around with his red sleeve, and as soon as somebody spotted the sleeve, good-by, Johnny Lane.
Well, that was a chance heâd have to take. He found a cigar store on the third corner he passed. There was an entrance on the avenue and another on the side street. He glanced at the circular blue and white Bell telephone plaque set in the base of the store. Well, there was a telephone inside, at any rate. He turned the corner and walked to the glass-paned doorway. He stopped outside the doorway, trying to see the phone booths. He could see the booths, but only their sides, and he couldnât tell if they were empty or not. The back of the store was empty, though, so heâd have to make his play now if he was going to make it at all. Quickly he opened the door.
A bell over the door sounded, and he cursed these goddamn distrustful shopkeepers who put bells over every damn door. He shut the door quickly behind him, feeling the warmth of the shop, almost sighing heavily when he felt the warmth. He walked quickly to the phone booths, praying they were empty.
A thin man who looked like a bookie was in the first booth. He did not look up as Johnny passed him. He kept his mouth closed to the mouthpiece, and he talked excitedly.
A woman was in the second booth. From the stupid grin on her face, she was talking to a man.
There was one more booth. He walked to it rapidly, the fingers on his left hand crossed.
The booth was empty. He stepped into it without looking behind him, closed the door, lifted the receiver from the hook, and deposited a dime quickly. He was not used to dialing Cindyâs number with his left hand. He kept the receiver in his lap while he dialed, and then he put it to his ear hastily as the phone on the other end began ringing.
Come on, Cindy, he thought. Come on, baby, pick it up.
He counted the rings. He wondered what she was doing. He could almost see her phone where it rested on the stand in her apartment. He could see it as clearly as if he were there. He could almost see the instrument vibrating as it rang. And where was Cindy? On the other side of the room, at the stove or the icebox? She was walking across the apartment now, passing the bed, closer to the night table, reaching for it now, now her voice would come on the line.
The phone kept ringing. He fidgeted nervously in the booth.
Come on, baby, come on, he pleaded. Pick the goddamn thing up.
Was she taking a bath or something? Was that why she hadnât answered yet? He kept counting the rings. He let the phone ring twenty-two times, and then he hung up. He was not so much annoyed as he was puzzled. Why the hell hadnât she â¦
Time.
Time was back with him again. What time was it? He opened the door of the booth and stuck his head out, looking toward the front of the shop. An electric clock hung over the doorway, and he watched the sweep hand, and then focused his eyes on the hour and minute hands.
Nine-thirty-seven.
Well, sure. Well, no wonder. She was at the club already. She was probably getting ready for the first show now. He thought of her doing her dance, and then he had to force the thought out of his mind. She was at the club. If youâre at the club, you canât answer the phone in your apartment.
Well, that let Cindy out. For the time being, anyway. But he still needed a coat, and he was hungry as hell. Just thinking of the coat made him feel cold again, and he wanted to stay in the warmth of the telephone booth forever. No, he couldnât do that. He had to get out of there soon, and that meant bucking the winds outside again. It wouldnât be so bad if he could put down a hot cup of java, but how could he walk into a restaurant with his arm looking the way it did?
He didnât want to chance going back to his own place. The cops would surely be watching
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