Nightlines Read Free Page A

he and Fisher were on display. “Aren’t you, er, afraid someone might overhear?”
    Fisher smiled beneath his wide graying mustache. He had the eyes of an anarchist. “I do the overhearing around here.” He waved an arm, gold wristwatch glinting. “Nobody’ll hear us in here; I took precautions.”
    “Good,” Nudger said, “because I came here for information.”
    Not telling Fisher why he wanted that information, Nudger explained what he needed to know. Fisher confirmed that there were such service numbers, and that it was common knowledge within the company that they were used for illegal late night conversations but that nothing was being done about it. The reasons he gave for the phone company’s inaction were the same that Jeanette had stated.
    “There are five such numbers, Nudge,” Fisher said. “The caller dials, hears a tone, then waits until someone dials the corresponding number that makes the connection. The line will stay open until that happens.”
    “There’s no ring?” Nudger asked.
    “Not on these lines,” Fisher said. “During the day they’re kept open for installers and repairmen. At night the weirdos get on the lines and wait for a similar weirdo to make a connection. Weird talk ensues. Nobody knows exactly how these numbers become known to the public, but people have a way of finding out, especially the kinds of people who might use the lines at night.”
    “Can more than two people use one line at the same time?”
    “No. They’re not like party or conference lines. Anyone wanting to use a busy line has to wait until one of the callers has hung up.”
    “Would there be any permanent record of such calls from a particular number?”
    Fisher shook his head. “None.”
    An impeccably groomed executive type in a three-piece pinstripe suit knocked on the glass cubicle and pointedly held up his wristwatch, apparently reminding Sam Fisher of an appointment, probably for lunch. Fisher waved and the man went away.
    “What I need to know, Sam . . .” Nudger said.
    But Fisher was already jotting down the five phone numbers on his memo pad. He was probably hungry. He ripped off the sheet of paper and handed it to Nudger.
    Nudger thanked him.
    “I’ll send you a bill,” Fisher said, “just like the telephone company.”
    After Nudger left phone company headquarters, he drove to a restaurant on Washington Avenue and ordered a bacon omelet and a glass of milk. His waitress was a coltish teenage girl with a hundred fiery pimples. She almost dropped or spilled everything and smiled a lot with self-conscious charm.
    He sat picking at his food and staring out the grease-spotted window at the traffic on Washington, thinking about how things didn’t feel right the way they were shaping up. Nudger didn’t like danger, and in the manner of any sensible citizen did what he could to avoid it. Of course in his occupation that wasn’t always possible, not unless one tried extra hard. He tried extra hard, always, and had developed a warning sense like that of a ten-point deer during hunting season. That warning tingle at the base of his spine was fairly screaming at him that this time he had stepped into something particularly nasty. He felt like Alice after falling down the rabbit hole, only everybody was trying to keep it from him that he was in Wonderland.
    Leaving half the glass of milk and most of the under-cooked omelet, he paid his check and left a reasonable tip for the acne-marred teenager. He hoped she realized that someday she would be a beauty. Just as he stepped from the restaurant door onto the sidewalk, it began to rain again. This city and its come-and-go weather.
    Nudger returned to his office, locked the door, and got out the army surplus cot and his sleeping bag from the closet. After checking the answering machine for phone messages and hearing about past-due bills and a limited discount on lakeside resort property, he set his wristwatch’s alarm for midnight. Then he