“Well, I can’t knock it,” he said aloud. “It works, and Hartford City can’t say as much all the time.”
He jumped down from the duct and thought to test the doors to either side of Paoli’s house. Both the doors were locked. Perhaps the occupants kept them locked to forestall the plumbers working in the backyard jungle; a lazy workman mending a water pipe just might wander through an unlocked door and take a nap on the cot inside.
Owen went inside but left his escape hatch unlocked.
The tired blonde was still sleeping flat on the bed with arms and legs akimbo. He looked at the long body for a fanciful moment but again decided against waking her and offering another smoochy session. His desire was there—the spirit and the flesh were most willing—but he knew from experience that sleeping partners didn’t always appreciate a sudden arousal and a repeat performance. They were apt to be rude at such times.
Owen retraced his steps to the workbench, sampled the bourbon, decided against a cigar for the time being, and gathered up a couple of screwdrivers. It was time to replace the front door.
The better way would be to manufacture one in the think-and-do machine, a splendid door to display his skills as a master carpenter and one that would be the envy of all the neighbors in the morning, but he had already learned that the oven was much too small to build a door in one piece. The leggy blonde wouldn’t fit into the oven for a simple restructuring job, therefore a new door to accommodate the height of the leggy blonde would be equally impossible. Of course, there would be large machines somewhere in the manufacturing district that were capable of producing doors, but he couldn’t run down to the manufacturing district just now.
There were handy substitutes all about.
Owen peered through the opening, alert for a challenge from a suspicious monitor. There were none in the vicinity. A few scattered workmen still rode the rolling road but the great bulk of them had disappeared into the warrens along the way. In the far distance, to the northeast, three monitors were working the road but the moving belt was carrying them away from him. He stepped out onto the lawn, self-confident in his new pink uniform, and turned away from the monitors toward the southwest. The next-door neighbor had a nice lavender door.
Owen removed the screws from the hinges and dropped them into a pocket. When the door was free of its fastenings he eased it away from the frame to disengage the lock—if there was a lock on the opposite side —and pulled the panel free of the striker plate. The door was his. The interior of the neighboring house was dark, and he was pleased at the absence of an outcry. Owen carried it across the grass, fitted it into Paoli’s doorframe, and came a cropper.
“Look at it!” he cried his disgust. “Just look at the double-damned thing! An apprentice could do better.” The borrowed door was half an inch too wide to fit into the frame. The height was right and the flapping hinges lined up with all but one of the screw holes, but the door would not close firmly until half an inch was trimmed off the latch side.
Owen yanked the misfitting door out of the frame and stalked out to the rolling road.
“Hey, you, Barney!” he yelled at a workman.
The zombie ignored him.
Owen hopped onto the road and chased after the man. The door was under his arm. When he caught up to the obstinate fellow he planted himself firmly in front of the dulled eyes and flashed pink. Owen put his free hand beneath the man’s chin and raised his head to see the pink. The workman exhibited a minute spark of recognition. He stared at the pink coveralls, looked up at Owen’s face, and dropped his gaze to the coveralls at chest height.
“Now you’re getting the idea, Barney. Don’t let my voice fool you—I’m a ventriloquist.” He transferred the stolen door to the workman. The man almost dropped it. “Hold it!” Owen ordered. “Hold it tight.”
The zombie clutched the door with both hands.
“Now you’ve got the idea, Barney. Listen closely— this is an order. Are you listening?”
The zombie made no answer.
“Good man,” Owen said approvingly. “You know the score. I’m wearing pink and pink is the boss around here. Now then, hold on to this door and don’t lose it. Take the door home with you. If anybody asks where you got it, tell them you won it in a poker game. Got all that?”
The worker held the door as if it were treasure.
Owen clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re a fine fellow, Barney. If I see you in the bar I’ll buy you a drink. Go along now.”
He hopped off the road and watched while the zombie rode away to the northeast, carrying his new possession.
Owen trotted back to the two open doorways and cast about for another likely door. Paoli’s neighbor on the opposite side had a pale yellow door, and Owen promptly went to work on the retaining screws.
The yellow door didn’t fit, it was too small and allowed a large gap on the latch side. Owen expressed his opinion of the carpentry skills prevalent in the town and compared the misfitting doors to the poor meat he’d had on the picnic in the woods. The slave labor hereabouts may be cheap and compliant, but it wasn’t worth a damn when it came down to quality workmanship; somebody just wasn’t fitting the man to the job. The rejected yellow door was given to another traveler on the road with the same instructions.
’ Owen pulled five doors before he found a winner.
The fifth and last door was a wretched shade of green, but, what the hell, it fitted smoothly and Owen was satisfied. The door hung well, balanced nicely, all the screw holes had lined up, and the latch went into the striker plate without fault, so he pronounced it a success and went inside for a well-deserved drink. Two drinks. (He’d have to do something about refilling the bottle.) Paoli would be pleased with her nice new door when she woke up, and meanwhile, somewhere in the town, four proud workmen were carrying home their winnings.
He heard a whining moan in the bedroom.
Owen ambled around the room divider, carrying the bottle to lift the lady’s spirits.
“Hello, there, tootsy. How do you like my wake?”
Paoli opened her eyes. “What did you do to me?” she demanded.
“Don’t tell me you can’t remember! Lollypop, we did first one thing and another, and then tried some of the better ones all over again.”
“You poisoned me!” she accused.
“I did no such thing—” He stopped, studied her face and then said, “Ah … you’ve got a hangover. Say, that’s too bad. Now me—I’ve never had a hangover in my life.” Owen offered the bottle. “Take a nip of this—it will cure any hangover ever made.”
“Go away. You are a poisoner!”
“I am not ” Owen was offended. “You just drank too much the first time around, that’s all. You don’t see me poisoned, do you? Of course not—I can handle any old rotgut ever made, and I had twice as much as you did. It won’t last, baby doll. Got any aspirin in the house?” He sat down on the bed and ran his hand up and down her leg in friendly fashion. That seldom failed to excite a woman. “Try some of the hair of the dog. It did wonders for me.”
The blonde reacted in a startling manner. The blonde kicked him. The blow caught him smartly on the rib cage and knocked him off the bed onto the floor.
“Hey!” he cried in alarm.
“My head is splitting, I am coming apart. I don’t want you playing with my leg.”
“Well, you don’t have to kick me apart to say it.”
“Owen Hall, you are a fiend. I despise you!” She put her hands to the sides of her head and moaned. “Your gods are barbarians. You are a barbarian.”
“Lady, you sure have changed. A couple of hours ago I was the salt of the earth, to hear you tell it—I was the greatest stud ever to come down the pike, to hear you tell it. You liked it and you wanted more.” Owen spread his hands with despair. “But now look—”
“Leave this house. Go somewhere.”
Owen picked himself up off the floor but kept a prudent distance between himself and the bed.
The blonde made a strange strangling sound. Owen watched with a keen interest but then decided that she wasn’t really strangling; she was only attempting to scream but the vocal chords weren’t cooperating with the desire. He pocketed the friendly bottle and backed away another few steps. If she were able to get to her feet and remain there an appreciable time she might even attack him.
“Go!” she finally managed to cry. “Leave!”
“I guess that means no supper.”
Paoli rocked on the bed. She braced her hands behind her back and struggled to sit up, but then abruptly realized it as a rash move and fell back.
Owen was poised for flight. “All right, all right, I can take a hint. There ain’t no flies on me. This means our one-night stand is cancelled—this means you’re backing down on your promise.”
Paoli screamed at him. “I despise barbarians! Get out now. Go somewhere. Do not come back!” She put her hands over her eyes to shut out the sight of him—and then jerked them away to stare at his clothing. “You are wearing my clothes. Take them off and get out!”
Owen said, “Like hell I will,” and broke for the door.
There was a sodden sound behind him, as if the angry blonde had tried to roll from the bed and had fallen to the floor. He bolted through the green door.
“My clothes,” Paoli cried from behind him.
Owen sped down the walkway without bothering to scan the area for monitors. He ran across the rolling road without losing balance and jumped into the concealing grasses beyond the roadway. Owen hugged the ground and warily watched the open doorway.
After a long while Paoli appeared there, staggering to keep herself upright. She clutched the doorframe and peered hazily up and down the road. By the expression on her face, Owen thought she would be cursing if only she knew the words. He tried to burrow deeper into the grass. There were no ‘more than a dozen workmen in sight, and all of them were wearing the drab coveralls and staring at their feet. It was sunset and the day was nearly done.
The blonde was nearly done. She closed the door and disappeared from Owen’s sight. He waited in the grass for a cautious time, but she did not reappear. Owen thought it likely that she had tottered back to bed.
“She didn’t even thank me for the new door,” he complained aloud. “And after all I did for her, too.”
Nine
In every deed of mischief he had a heart to resolve, a
head to contrive, and a hand to execute,
—Edward Gibbon
Owen Hall felt like Charlie Chan’s number one son, crouching in the grass and watching the road and the many, doorways. He was uncomfortably aware that his new pink coveralls exposed his position in the grass if anyone cared to look and that his own drab pair lay on the lawn before Paoli’s house like a betraying banner.
He raised his head to scan the ways.
Only one monitor was visible in the distance and her back was to him. Owen climbed up, scampered across the road, and snatched up his discarded clothing. He was back into the concealing grasses within minutes, but this time he fell into a new hiding place farther along, where the road had carried him.
He supposed the fool thing ran all night.
Owen folded the dun-colored coveralls into a loose package and stuffed them into the opening at his waist, buttoning up for safekeeping. The grayish-brown color of the garment would be suitable for midnight skulking. He wormed away from the road for added safety and then stopped to reconnoiter.
The solitary warden was still visible in the remote distance but the road was carrying her toward him. Owen counted bodies. There were eight—no, nine—workmen stretched out in a ragged and disconnected line along the roadway, and as he counted, one of them dropped off to enter a house. The fellow hadn’t bothered to knock, and Owen made a note of that. The man had simply swung off the road in a familiar maneuver, shuffled up the short walk to his appointed door, and opened it without sound or signal. Just like the man of the house coming home from a hard day at the salt mines. Owen looked at the empty doorways across the way and at the closed doors near them. He thought it likely that he could do the same, but it wouldn’t be smart to enter one of the places having a missing door. The lady of the house just might send him packing—send him right back to the salt mines.
Like Charlie Chan, the world’s oldest man had to use his head in perilous times like these.
Owen speculated on his chances of starting a revolution. The town was ripe for revolt—here were all those poor zombies being worked from sunrise to sunset and then made to sleep on a bare cot in the back room, and all without benefit of a water cooler or a restroom at the factory. It was likely that none of them had ever heard of President Roosevelt’s Fair Wages and Hours Law, none of them had an inkling of their rights, none of them knew that they were entitled to at least sixty cents an hour for their sweat. Well, no, they didn’t sweat, come to think of it, but that was no excuse—they were entitled to a decent wage and only eight hours’ work a day, and their rights were being violated on every hand. That kind of treatment bred riots and revolutions, and these poor fellows were ripe for a revolution. Owen thought he was just the man to lead a revolt; he was pretty sharp at bargaining for a fair price, and once he’d served on a grievance committee.
He’d have to give the matter some serious thought. A new approach would be needed—a different approach from the simple one he’d used that morning when urging the factory employees to strike. They hadn’t paid any attention to him, of course, but that was because he lacked the proper color of uniform. If he appeared before them while dressed in pink they’d jolly well listen to his orders. He was a commanding figure, given the proper uniform.
He’d once worn an Uncle Sam uniform in the Fourth of July parade in Hartford City, and another time for the Harvest Moon ^Festival he’d masqueraded as an Apache.
After the revolution, of course, he’d want to choose a suitable position for himself, a responsible place of leadership to the downtrodden masses. The mayor’s office might be nice. If there was one thing this town needed—
Owen hastily flopped down into the grass, startled by a sudden glimpse of pink.
A monitor stood with her back to him, staring in open-mouthed astonishment at the gaping doorways. She hopped off the road and took a few hesitant steps across a lawn the better to see the phenomenon. Owen thought he could understand her shock; the word had surely gone all over town of the one missing door earlier in the afternoon, but now there were four. It couldn’t be blamed on mice.
The woman walked up to the nearest doorway and peered inside. She called a greeting—or perhaps it was a question—but there was no answer from within. After a minute hesitation she stepped across the sill and went in for an inspection. Owen held his breath and waited. He was fairly certain that all the houses had been empty when he purloined the doors. No one had challenged him.
The puzzled monitor reappeared after a moment and moved on to the adjoining place, where the ritual was repeated. That house was also empty. The questing woman bypassed Paoli’s putrid green door (for which Owen was deeply grateful) and went on to investigate the two dwellings beyond hers. Jackpot. Someone answered from the darkened interior of the fourth and last doorless house, and in a moment there were two agitated women standing on the sill debating the loss.
It was almost as much fun as a mud show.
There seemed to be an argument. The occupant of the house was visibly upset, and it appeared to Owen that she was holding the warden personally responsible for the long-gone door. One of the voices was raised in accusation. The other voice vehemently denied the thievery. There was much waving of arms and flapping of hands. The warden stepped away and pointed to the other empty frames nearby. The occupant followed her outside to have a better view and the exchange began anew. A babble of questions and counter-questions ensued. Their voices turned shrill.
In the end both of them took to
their heels on the roadway. The road wasn’t moving nearly fast enough to carry them wherever they wanted to go, and they broke into a trot to speed their journey. Owen sat up to watch them go. They hurried away to the northeast, to the section of the city he thought of as downtown because the factories were there. It was likely that City Hall—if the town had a City Hall-—was also located in the downtown area.
Owen seized the opportunity.
He jumped from his hiding place in the grass and dashed across the road to the vacated house. It was as dim as twilight inside, but that presented no problems to an accomplished cat burglar like himself. The floor plan was precisely the same as that of Paoli’s apartment.
The dwelling wasn’t entirely vacant.
There was nothing on the workbench to interest him; it was cluttered with work shoes and coveralls and the usual instruction books on how to build a man in your own home. The topmost manual was opened to a foldout page, but Owen pointedly ignored that page and ignored a coffin propped up in a Corner. The lounging area was as empty as the bedroom, although the bed was rumpled. Owen ran to the rear door to slide the bolt free, then backed off to stare at the workman lying on the cot. The man lay as if dead. His eyes were closed and he appeared to be sleeping, but Owen decided against poking him to find out. *
There were two unused candles on the table in “the dining area, plus a small metal tube that resembled a woman’s lipstick tube and the remains of a half-eaten meal on a plate. Owen scooped up the food to feed his face and recognized the very good bread of the master baker he’d seen at work that morning. The meat was poor horse and wholly unrecognizable—it may have been sorry meatloaf—but the bread was of top quality —the kind found at home rather than in a restaurant. Perhaps it was accidental, but someone had finally found and matched a man to his trade. Owen checked the house a last time, saw nothing more that would be useful to him, and hurried next door to repeat the search.
Ressurection Days Page 12