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He took a deep breath and let it blast.
“Now you get the hell outa here! You—”
“Wait.” I lit a final match and crouched, guarding the flame, close
down to a half-ton of wadded rewrites, old calling cards, torn envelopes.
I touched the flame here and there and the paper started burning.
“What in hell you want?”
“Just a phone number. That’s all. I still won’t have an address, so I can’t get at the guy, trace him. But I do, damn it to hell, want that phone, or the whole place burns.”
I realized my own voice had gone up about ten decibels, to maniac. Fannie was fighting in my blood. A lot of other dead people were screaming in my breath, wanting out.
“Give it here!” I shouted.
The flames were spreading.
“Shit, man, stomp out the fire, you’ll get the goddamn dumb number. Shit, hold on, jump!”
I jumped on the fire, dancing around. Smoke rose and the fire was out by the time Mr. Janus, the editor who faced two ways at once, found the number on his Rolodex.
“Here, goddamn it, here’s the crapping number. Vermont four-five-five-five. Got that? Four-five-five-five!”
I struck a final final match until he shoved the Rolodex card under my nose.
“Someone who loved you,” it read, and the telephone.
“Okay!” shrieked the editor.
I blew out the match. My shoulders sank with sudden relief.
Fannie, I thought, we’ll get him now.
I must have said it out loud, for the editor, his face purple, sprayed me with his saliva. “What you going to get?”
“Myself killed,” I said, going downstairs.
“I hope so!” I heard him yell.
I opened the door of the taxicab).
“Meter’s ticking like crazy,” said Henry, in the back seat. “Thank God I’m rich.”
“Be right with you.”
I beckoned the taxi driver to follow me out to a corner where there was an outdoor phone booth.
I hesitated for a long while, afraid to call the number, afraid someone might really answer.
What, I wondered, do you say to a murderer during suppertime?
I dialed the number.
Someone who loved you, long ago.
Who would answer a dumb ad like that?
