sleeping.
He might be one floor up, in the kitchen. But Miss Magnolia might be there too, in the anteroom, and there was no way of reaching the kitchen without passing through it. Job went up the stairs step by nervous step. He peeked through the open door.
Miss Magnolia was not there. Nor was the professor. But Tracy was sitting on the plush couch of crimson velvet. She was dressed in high style, red hair up, dress low-cut, pumps so high-heeled that real walking would be impossible.
She seemed to be waiting for somebody, and she saw Job the moment that his head poked through the door.
"Job!" she gasped, and glanced all around. "You look awful. What are you doing here?"
"I came back."
"You're mad. You shouldn't be anywhere near us. Weren't you caught and jaded? That's what Miss Magnolia said."
"Yes, I was. But I escaped—"
"If Miss Magnolia sees you or finds out you were here, she'll go crazy."
"I had nowhere else to go. I wanted to see Professor Buckler."
"Oh, God." Tracy glanced over her shoulder. "Job, you can't stay, you can't. Don't you know what happens to people who harbor J-D's? You could get everyone here in trouble."
Job said nothing. He stood and stared at Tracy, eyes despairing. Another night of cold would be the finish.
"Oh, hell." She would not look at him and she was biting her lipstick, ruining its even line. "Oh, Job. Job, d'you remember Sammy?"
Job nodded. He had been to the house with the red door many times.
"Go there. Tell Sammy I sent you, for food and a place to sleep. When I get the chance I'll tell the professor, ask him to come see you, not tell Miss Magnolia. Understand?"
"Yes."
"Then for God's sake get out of here. Hurry."
Job nodded, seemed ready to speak. Tracy shook her head. "Right now. Git ."
Job went downstairs on sore and blistered feet, out into the icy night of the city. He would try to do what Tracy ordered, but not for anything could he hurry. His lungs were beyond pain, shriveling and withering in his narrow chest. Compared to that, blisters and hunger were nothing.
* * *
Job had been to the house with the red door and black shuttered windows at least a dozen times. But the shutters were always closed, and he had never been invited inside.
After his first visit, each pickup had had the same format. He knocked on the red door. Within a few seconds it opened, and the face of the androgynous Sammy glowered out through a three-inch opening. Job gave his coded message, different for each visit. The face vanished without a word. A few minutes later a small package was thrust out for Job's acceptance. The door closed.
Now it was different. When Job knocked on the door of the four-story row house and repeated Tracy's words, Sammy for a change did not retreat. Instead there was a slow, thoughtful nodding of the head, and the door opened wide.
"Come in," said the musical tenor. "Walk careful."
The warning was unnecessary. There was enough space to walk through the long hall and up the steep stairs, but only just. On either side, built into tottering piles, were wooden and cardboard boxes. Job smelled mildew, plus a strange odor that caught at his sore throat and irritated his anguished lungs. He was so weak that he had to pull himself up the stairs using the handrail.
Sammy led the way into what had once been an elegant kitchen. The electric light was a hanging bare bulb, and the gas oven and range were not working. A portable gas stove in the middle of the room provided both cooking and heat—unnecessary, the second, because the whole house was already stifling hot.
"Food over there," said Sammy. "What time professor coming?"
"Don't know." Job's voice would produce nothing above a hoarse whisper.
"Hmph. And Trace don't want me to call, she say? OK, hombre-delgado. We wait. Bed for you in basement, whenever you ready."
Job was ready now. He was lightheaded and dizzy. But he could smell food, and see a pot on the stove. It might not be there later. As Sammy left he
He might be one floor up, in the kitchen. But Miss Magnolia might be there too, in the anteroom, and there was no way of reaching the kitchen without passing through it. Job went up the stairs step by nervous step. He peeked through the open door.
Miss Magnolia was not there. Nor was the professor. But Tracy was sitting on the plush couch of crimson velvet. She was dressed in high style, red hair up, dress low-cut, pumps so high-heeled that real walking would be impossible.
She seemed to be waiting for somebody, and she saw Job the moment that his head poked through the door.
"Job!" she gasped, and glanced all around. "You look awful. What are you doing here?"
"I came back."
"You're mad. You shouldn't be anywhere near us. Weren't you caught and jaded? That's what Miss Magnolia said."
"Yes, I was. But I escaped—"
"If Miss Magnolia sees you or finds out you were here, she'll go crazy."
"I had nowhere else to go. I wanted to see Professor Buckler."
"Oh, God." Tracy glanced over her shoulder. "Job, you can't stay, you can't. Don't you know what happens to people who harbor J-D's? You could get everyone here in trouble."
Job said nothing. He stood and stared at Tracy, eyes despairing. Another night of cold would be the finish.
"Oh, hell." She would not look at him and she was biting her lipstick, ruining its even line. "Oh, Job. Job, d'you remember Sammy?"
Job nodded. He had been to the house with the red door many times.
"Go there. Tell Sammy I sent you, for food and a place to sleep. When I get the chance I'll tell the professor, ask him to come see you, not tell Miss Magnolia. Understand?"
"Yes."
"Then for God's sake get out of here. Hurry."
Job nodded, seemed ready to speak. Tracy shook her head. "Right now. Git ."
Job went downstairs on sore and blistered feet, out into the icy night of the city. He would try to do what Tracy ordered, but not for anything could he hurry. His lungs were beyond pain, shriveling and withering in his narrow chest. Compared to that, blisters and hunger were nothing.
* * *
Job had been to the house with the red door and black shuttered windows at least a dozen times. But the shutters were always closed, and he had never been invited inside.
After his first visit, each pickup had had the same format. He knocked on the red door. Within a few seconds it opened, and the face of the androgynous Sammy glowered out through a three-inch opening. Job gave his coded message, different for each visit. The face vanished without a word. A few minutes later a small package was thrust out for Job's acceptance. The door closed.
Now it was different. When Job knocked on the door of the four-story row house and repeated Tracy's words, Sammy for a change did not retreat. Instead there was a slow, thoughtful nodding of the head, and the door opened wide.
"Come in," said the musical tenor. "Walk careful."
The warning was unnecessary. There was enough space to walk through the long hall and up the steep stairs, but only just. On either side, built into tottering piles, were wooden and cardboard boxes. Job smelled mildew, plus a strange odor that caught at his sore throat and irritated his anguished lungs. He was so weak that he had to pull himself up the stairs using the handrail.
Sammy led the way into what had once been an elegant kitchen. The electric light was a hanging bare bulb, and the gas oven and range were not working. A portable gas stove in the middle of the room provided both cooking and heat—unnecessary, the second, because the whole house was already stifling hot.
"Food over there," said Sammy. "What time professor coming?"
"Don't know." Job's voice would produce nothing above a hoarse whisper.
"Hmph. And Trace don't want me to call, she say? OK, hombre-delgado. We wait. Bed for you in basement, whenever you ready."
Job was ready now. He was lightheaded and dizzy. But he could smell food, and see a pot on the stove. It might not be there later. As Sammy left he
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