opening it. When Klinger offered the two twenties, Tommy told him to keep them. A double shot of Jameson anchored the C-note to the bar. Klinger had a sipbefore retiring to the head for an additional bump. They partied until dawn.
Thus it was that Klinger found himself fully clothed in bed in his hotel room about an hour after the sun came up, $247.19 to the good and listening to his heart beat erratically, almost as loud as the rain on the invisible window panes, but breathing easily, because that’s the way speed-ball affected Klinger. He knew from nothing about other metabolisms.
After a while he sat up, took off his shoes, fluffed up the hopelessly thin pillow, and lay down again without bothering to remove the rest of his clothes.
He clasped his hands behind his head. So, Klinger thought with a contented sigh, it’s about time a job went smooth.
Thus it was that Klinger almost had a coronary when, some three minutes later, Phillip Wong’s cellphone rang in the breast pocket of his, Klinger’s, jacket, and vibrated the thin layer of fascia between his damp shirt and his purring heart.
TEN
The ringtone crescendoed “Creation of Tron” by Wendy Carlos through his lingering chemistry, although Klinger might have assayed a longer sojourn on Planet Earth than the one for which he was slated without stumbling across that piece of information.
But really, in the event, the ringtone scared the piss out of him.
He fumbled at the breast pocket until he’d extracted the phone he hadn’t known was there. He couldn’t have handled it any more gingerly than if it had been a live scorpion. It was a smart phone, however, and as soon as it realized that it had received the attention for which it had signaled, it opened the connection. “Hello?” somebody said, and, “Phillip?” and, “Phillip, you are a genuine son of a bitch.”
Klinger couldn’t tell one end of the phone from the other. “Hello?” he responded uncertainly.
“What in heaven’s name are you doing down here?”
“Down where?”
“In the Tenderloin!”
Klinger took umbrage. “How about I can’t afford to be elsewhere?”
“Can’t afford—? I’ve got your check. I—. Say, Phillip? Are you sick? You sound all nasally.”
“Who wants to know?”
“What, you got software to disguise my voice instead of yours? This is Marci, you lummox.”
“Marci, Marci …”
“I know you’re not in the bar,” the voice persisted, “because I’ve already looked in the bar.”
This got Klinger’s attention. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “What bar?”
“What is a hawse hole, anyway?”
“You’re there now?”
“I minimized my exposure. It’s only nine-fifteen in the morning and there’s guys in there who look like they’ve been there since last week.”
“That’s the place all right.”
“I’m on the sidewalk outside. WhereIz says you’re close by.”
Klinger tried to think faster than an app called WhereIz. Does electricity flow faster through dendrites or copper? How about speedballed dendrites? You mean, like, cryogenic copper? Perhaps it’s at the metabolic level, Klinger did not permit himself to muse, that the vernacular breaks down.
“WhereIz, being a killer app, never fails,” the woman’s voice pointed out. “I am poised for when they go public. Hello?”
“I’m here,” Klinger grudgingly admitted. Usually, in a rat trap like this, he took the trouble to ascertain the location of the fire escape. If he’d done his homework he might have been able to abandon the phone to the pillow and disappear. Maybe he could wing the phone out the window and onto the roof across the street? And she’d go look for it there? Maybe he could beat the phone to death with a chair leg? Maybe …
Maybe I should take the bull by the horns, Klinger abruptly thought: She mentioned a check.
“Say,” he told the phone, using his most ingenuous phone voice, “I was just trying to figure out how to callsomebody
Thus it was that Klinger found himself fully clothed in bed in his hotel room about an hour after the sun came up, $247.19 to the good and listening to his heart beat erratically, almost as loud as the rain on the invisible window panes, but breathing easily, because that’s the way speed-ball affected Klinger. He knew from nothing about other metabolisms.
After a while he sat up, took off his shoes, fluffed up the hopelessly thin pillow, and lay down again without bothering to remove the rest of his clothes.
He clasped his hands behind his head. So, Klinger thought with a contented sigh, it’s about time a job went smooth.
Thus it was that Klinger almost had a coronary when, some three minutes later, Phillip Wong’s cellphone rang in the breast pocket of his, Klinger’s, jacket, and vibrated the thin layer of fascia between his damp shirt and his purring heart.
TEN
The ringtone crescendoed “Creation of Tron” by Wendy Carlos through his lingering chemistry, although Klinger might have assayed a longer sojourn on Planet Earth than the one for which he was slated without stumbling across that piece of information.
But really, in the event, the ringtone scared the piss out of him.
He fumbled at the breast pocket until he’d extracted the phone he hadn’t known was there. He couldn’t have handled it any more gingerly than if it had been a live scorpion. It was a smart phone, however, and as soon as it realized that it had received the attention for which it had signaled, it opened the connection. “Hello?” somebody said, and, “Phillip?” and, “Phillip, you are a genuine son of a bitch.”
Klinger couldn’t tell one end of the phone from the other. “Hello?” he responded uncertainly.
“What in heaven’s name are you doing down here?”
“Down where?”
“In the Tenderloin!”
Klinger took umbrage. “How about I can’t afford to be elsewhere?”
“Can’t afford—? I’ve got your check. I—. Say, Phillip? Are you sick? You sound all nasally.”
“Who wants to know?”
“What, you got software to disguise my voice instead of yours? This is Marci, you lummox.”
“Marci, Marci …”
“I know you’re not in the bar,” the voice persisted, “because I’ve already looked in the bar.”
This got Klinger’s attention. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “What bar?”
“What is a hawse hole, anyway?”
“You’re there now?”
“I minimized my exposure. It’s only nine-fifteen in the morning and there’s guys in there who look like they’ve been there since last week.”
“That’s the place all right.”
“I’m on the sidewalk outside. WhereIz says you’re close by.”
Klinger tried to think faster than an app called WhereIz. Does electricity flow faster through dendrites or copper? How about speedballed dendrites? You mean, like, cryogenic copper? Perhaps it’s at the metabolic level, Klinger did not permit himself to muse, that the vernacular breaks down.
“WhereIz, being a killer app, never fails,” the woman’s voice pointed out. “I am poised for when they go public. Hello?”
“I’m here,” Klinger grudgingly admitted. Usually, in a rat trap like this, he took the trouble to ascertain the location of the fire escape. If he’d done his homework he might have been able to abandon the phone to the pillow and disappear. Maybe he could wing the phone out the window and onto the roof across the street? And she’d go look for it there? Maybe he could beat the phone to death with a chair leg? Maybe …
Maybe I should take the bull by the horns, Klinger abruptly thought: She mentioned a check.
“Say,” he told the phone, using his most ingenuous phone voice, “I was just trying to figure out how to callsomebody
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