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“He ain’t called in yet,” snapped Ma.
“Called in?” I glanced up.
“He calls on that phone across the street about this time, to see has so-and-so arrived, come out, stuff like that,” said Charlotte. “Saves time. He sleeps late, cause he’s usually out front restaurants midnights.”
“I know.” I finished the last signature, glowing with an inadmissible elation. I still could not look at my new admirers, who smiled at me as if I had just leaped Galilee in one stride.
Across the street the glass-booth phone rang.
“That’s Clarence now!” said Ma.
“Excuse me—” Charlotte started off.
“Please,” I touched her elbow. “It’s been years. Surprise?” I looked from Charlotte to her Ma and back. “Yes? ”
“Oh, all right,” grumped Ma.
“Go ahead,” said Charlotte.
The phone rang. I ran to lift the receiver.
“Clarence?” I said.
“Who’s this!? ” he cried, instantly suspicious.
I tried to explain in some detail, but wound up with the old metaphor, “the Crazy.”
That buttered no bread for Clarence. “Where’s Charlotte or Ma? I’m sick.”
Sick, I wondered, or, like Roy, suddenly afraid.
“Clarence,” I said, “where do you live?”
“Why?!”
“Give me your phone number, at least—”
“No one has that! My place would be robbed! My photos. My treasures!”
“Clarence,” I pleaded, “I was at the Brown Derby last night.” Silence.
“Clarence?” I called. “I need your help to identify someone.”
I swear I could hear his little rabbity heart race down line. I could hear his tiny albino eyes jerk in their sockets.
“Clarence,” I said, “please! Take my name and phone numbers.” I gave them. “Call or write the studio. I saw that man almost hit you last night. Why? Who … ?”
Click. Hum.
Clarence, wherever he was, was gone.
I moved across the street like a sleepwalker.
“Clarence won’t be here.”
“What d’ya mean?” accused Charlotte. “He’s always here!”
“What’d you say to him!?” Charlotte’s Ma showed me her left, her evil, eye.
