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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. A few seconds later, the operator came on the line. He gave her the telephone exchange for Conoscenza’s penthouse. It took a while for the call to route through, but eventually it started ringing and his boss’s familiar basso rumble filled his ear.
“Conoscenza.”
“Hey, it’s me. I found it. It originated in Oklahoma. And you were right, it was an incursion, an Old One came through.”
“Can you deal with it?”
“Nope, because it blew out of town, heading for Chicago and riding on a bush-league Bible thumper who happens to be an alternate delegate to the convention.”
“What’s his name?” Conoscenza asked.
“Hanlin.”
There was silence for a few minutes and Cross heard the soft shush of turning pages. “He’s not getting any national ink. What do you know about him? Is he a rabble-rouser stoking populist anger?”
“Couldn’t say.” Cross paused, then asked, “Do you think this is aimed at you? A way to block your plans for FDR?”
“Perhaps, but whether it is or not we can’t take the risk. I’d best head to Chicago.”
“Not that you’re going to get on the floor,” Cross said sourly.
“There are a few Negro alternates,” Conoscenza said. The great raftershaking laugh filled Cross’s ear and seemed to echo in the hall. “And as far as the Democrat party bosses are concerned, my skin is green. I’ll get into the smoke-filled rooms, at least. You’re going to have to be my eyes on the floor.”
Cold coiled down Cross’s back. Then the other one will see me, and I have no strength to withstand an attack. It was absurd, but he found himself remembering the advertising for Army Club. This is the cigarette for the fellow with a full-sized man’s job to do. When you’re feeling all “hit up,” it steadies the nerves. Cross wondered if he could hit up the doctor for a few.
“Cross? Are you still there?”
He shook off the exhaustion. “Yeah, I’m here. The Old One and the preacher laid some kind of powerful whammy on a ring and left it on his wife’s finger. I need to get it off before I blow town. I’ll see you in Chicago.”
Cross hung up the phone and found the doctor standing quietly in the hall. “What the hell was that about? Are you an anarchist?”
“No, quite the opposite,” Cross said.
