13

 

 

        The snow had grown heavier and deeper since our climb up the hill so that I traveled in a veil so thick I could see no one and no one could see me.

        Yet the cold and west seeped through the thin jacket Hutchenson had lent me, and I expected to be as sick as Puck by the time I got back.

        Puck had given me a wad of bills, though I had to fish deep in the bottom of my pocket for a quarter to call Red Ball.

        A female voice answered after many rings.

        "Hello?" she said.

        "I want to talk to Red Ball."

        "One minute, I’ll get him" the woman said and put down the phone.

        Snow mixed with ice flicked at the glass of  the phone booth around me. Music sounded from the apartment on the far end of the phone as the woman called the black man.

        "Who is this?" Red Ball barked. "And how the hell did you get this number?"

        "It's Maxwell and Puck gave me the number. He wants to know if you found a place for him to go."

        “Fuck that asshole,” Red Ball said. “He’s so hot, nobody wants anything to do with him – except for the cops.

        "So what do we do?"

        "I'd say he should stay where he is. I’m not going to find him any better place"

        "But he's sick and we hardly have any heat."

        "That's not my problem, it's his, if he hadn't made so many enemies around town,  plenty of people would take care of him.  Most people don’t care if he gets busted or drops dead as long as he stays away from them.”

        "You expect me to tell Puck that?"

        "No," a kinder-voiced Red Ball said after a pause. "He’d kill you out of spite. You'd better tell him I'm still working on it. Just understand, I won't likely find anything, so you ought to help him make other arrangements on his own."

        "Thanks."

        "It's the best I can tell you."