Alan Cook - Hotline to Murder

“That’s the hardest call you’ll ever get on the Hotline. The suicide calls I’ve had are like, ‘I’m going to kill myself on the anniversary of my father’s death.’ ‘Oh, when is that?’ ‘Next February.’ Okay, that’s six months away. So I figure I’m safe.”

They chuckled, which reduced the tension that had been present in the room for so long, like a compressed spring.

“I have to go to the restroom-badly,” Tony said. “I’ve had to go for an hour.”

“That’s one thing I forgot to tell you,” Shahla said. “Down the hall to the right. The key is hanging by the door. While you’re gone, I’ll fill out your evaluation form.”

“Evaluation form?” He should have known there would be an evaluation form. “I hope I passed.”

“Oh you did. With flying colors.”

Tony parked his car in one of the two carport stalls allotted to his townhouse and noted that Josh’s car occupied the other one. He had hoped Josh would be out. It was too much to hope for that Josh would be asleep at this hour. He didn’t feel like talking to his roommate-housemate-he had to quit thinking like a college boy. After all, he had been out of college for almost ten years.

He opened the wooden gate leading to his small brick patio. The sliding glass door to the house was open. He slid open the screen door. As he entered the house, he saw light emanating from the living room and heard the sound of the television set. Blaring. Explosive. Bang bang bang. Not a good sign. On the other hand, if Josh was fully involved in one of the ultra-violent movies he loved, maybe Tony could whoosh past him and race up the stairs without being detained.

“Hey, Noodles. Where you going so fast? I want to hear about your evening.”

Caught. And “Noodles.” How Tony hated that nickname. But this wasn’t the time to lecture Josh for the thousandth time about it. Josh lay fully reclined on the reclining chair, facing the big-screen TV, which was the only thing in the living room that belonged to him. He held a can of beer in his hand. A cooler sat beside the chair to prevent him from, heaven forbid, actually having to walk into the kitchen to get more beer. Empty cans littered Tony’s carpet, undoubtedly dripping beer into it.

“I can’t talk with that thing on,” Tony shouted, over more explosions. He headed for the stairs.

Josh picked up the remote, aimed it at the TV like a gun, and muted the sound. “There. I don’t want to hurt your sensitive ears. Here, have a brewski.”

He picked a can out of the cooler and tossed it to Tony, oblivious to the fact that it was wet from melted ice. As Tony caught it, cold water spattered his face, arms, T-shirt, and jeans.

“So, how did things go during your first night on the Hotstuff Line?”

That wasn’t a question Tony could even begin to answer, given his current state of mind. He was still thinking about the suicide call. He popped open the can and took a long swallow. The cold bite of the liquid felt good sliding down his throat. Maybe this was what he needed.

“What’s the matter? Some pussy got your tongue? Talk to Uncle Josh. Okay, let’s start at the beginning. I believe, back in the days when you were actually speaking to me, you said you would find out where the Hotline office is for the first time tonight. So, where is it? And sit down, for God’s sake. Don’t look like you’re about to fly off and execute some noble deed.”

Josh flipped back his too long, but already thinning, red hair and folded his hands on his ample belly, while precariously balancing his beer can on said belly.

Tony sat down on the sofa underneath the living room windows. He took another long swallow. He had to talk to Josh sooner or later because Josh never let go. But it hadn’t occurred to him that he was going to have trouble with this question. “The location is confidential.”

“The location is confidential.” Josh mimicked him, but with a voice of exaggerated piety. “So this is how you treat your uncle Josh, after all the years we’ve known each other, after all we’ve been through together. After all the times I saved your worthless ass in college when you were about to flunk a course. After all the girls I fixed you up with. This is how it ends. ‘The location is confidential.’”

“Can the damned dramatics, Josh. I’m not going to tell you, okay? I signed a statement, and I’m not going to risk getting fired. I’ll tell you anything else.”

“I didn’t know you could get fired from a volunteer job. But Josh has a big heart, and I’ll let it pass. Even though it’s breaking. And let me risk another question, even if it means another bruise on my ego. You told me you were going to have a mentor tonight. Tell me about your mentor.”

Tony said, “Yes, I did have a mentor. She was very good.”

“Jesus, you sound like a first-grade reader. What was her name?”

“Uh, Sally,” Tony said, using Shahla’s Hotline alias. Among his other faults, Josh was a bigot.

“And is this Sally a babe?”

The last thing Tony was going to do was to admit to Josh that she was a babe. He said, “She’s a teenager. She’s seventeen.”

“So, is there a statute of limitations on babedom? Today’s teenyboppers are hot. I’ll bet she was wearing low-cut jeans and a top that was barely there. And a thong. Did you happen to notice when she bent over? Or does your new-found sanctity prevent you from peeking?”

Josh was uncomfortably close to the truth. To head him off, Tony said, “I took several calls. One was from a guy who was talking about blowing his brains out.”

“Holy shit.” Josh’s blue eyes widened, and he looked at Tony with what might be respect. “Did he have a piece?”

“He said he did.”

“What kind?”

“Our discussion didn’t go into that kind of detail. I got him to take it into another room.”

“So, did you convince him that life was worth living?”

Tony hesitated. That was the question he had been asking himself all the way home. “I…I’m not sure.”

“You mean, at this very moment he might be lying on the floor with his fucking brains scattered all over the room?”

A gruesome picture flashed into Tony’s head. He said, slowly, “At this very moment he might be lying on the floor with his fucking brains scattered all over the room.” He couldn’t look at Josh. He knew Josh was staring at him, with the freckles covering his face changing color, as they did when he felt emotion.

“Noodles, you need another beer.”

Josh tossed this one across his body, and it spattered Tony and the sofa with cold water. Beer was Josh’s answer to all the world’s problems. Maybe Josh was right. By the time he went to bed, Tony had drunk at least a six-pack.

It was Friday evening, August 30, two weeks after his first mentoring session. Tony walked into the building where the Hotline was located. Once again he smelled the odor he had come to associate with it. Perhaps it was some sort of cleaning compound.

Instead of riding the elevator, he went up the stairs, taking them two at a time, all the way to the third floor. He was glad there was nobody at the top to see him puffing-to see how out of shape he was.

He had also taken the stairs at his second and third Hotline sessions with a mentor, eschewing the elevator. Why? He could barely admit it to himself, but the reason apparently had to do with the fact that he wanted to get into better shape, lose those extra pounds that pushed his belt out. Why? It was ridiculous to think that he would do something he had never done in his life, at least for a woman-any woman, let alone for a seventeen-year-old. Someone who was legally jailbait.