Detective

four blocks. Asshole! Dumb fucking asshole! Any moron would have rented the costume first. I’d been so concerned with Murphy not blowing it that I was blowing it myself.
    The shop had no telephone repair outfit. Reluctantly the proprietor directed me to a third costume shop.
    They had one. But the guy wouldn’t hurry. Jesus Christ! Weren’t there ever emergencies where actors were trying to make the curtain? They’d have missed the whole first act in this shop.
    Finally I had it. I tried it on in the shop. It was a little big, but I had no time to be fussy.
    “I can take that in for you,” the old guy said.
    I nearly punched him in the face. I threw money at him, grabbed my street clothes, and ran out the door.
    It was only 8 blocks to my car, but I hailed a cab. Seconds counted now. I’d lost my precious half hour and more, nearly 15 minutes more. Maybe I could make it up by not having to change.
    I got in my car and went through the midtown tunnel. It was jammed. Another 15 minutes lost. On the other side of the tunnel I finally passed the jackknifed tractor trailer truck that was causing all the fuss. How you jackknife coming out of a tunnel onto a toll plaza is beyond me, but the guy had managed. I gave him the finger as I went by, unnecessarily cruel, I know, but I was beginning to lose it by that point.
    I drove like hell. I’m not used to driving fast. On the job I always drive slow. That’s because a speeding ticket will wipe out the entire profit for a four hour sign-up, making the trip meaningless. A parking ticket will do it too, and I’ve had a few of those, usually when I pulled up to a phone to answer the fucking beeper. Jesus Christ, why am I thinking about that now? Just concentrate like hell and keep the car on the road.
    I sped off the L.I.E. on to the Grand Central. I took the exit ramp at 65, nearly lost it on the last curve, then straightened out, ducked in front of a semi, and shot out into traffic.
    I sailed down the Van Wyck, hoping there wouldn’t be a jam up at the airport. There wasn’t. Miracle. I shot onto the Belt Parkway, headed east.
    My car has a digital clock and the fucking thing is always accurate, so I knew when 3 o’clock came. I wasn’t even on the Southern Parkway yet, and Murphy would already be starting to spill his guts. Maybe they wouldn’t believe him at first. Maybe they’d take time. Yeah, maybe.
    But Ospina would be arriving right now. The meeting would be starting. All in all, it was a fucking mess.
    I raced down Sunrise Highway, turned south, skidded around a few turns. I almost hit a kid on a bicycle. Great. Vehicular homicide on top of everything else. Asshole.
    I slowed down for the last few turns, and suddenly there was the car. I pulled in right behind it, shut off the motor, grabbed my repair kit, and got out.
    I strode off down the road toward Pluto’s house. My pants were too big and kept falling down. The least of my worries. I reached the telephone pole. I could see in the driveway. The cars were all there, so Pedro must have gotten back from the airport. So that was that. The meeting had started. They were all inside.
    I slipped the belt on and shinnied up the pole. I was getting pretty good at it by now, and I might have made good time if it hadn’t been for my pants, which kept trying to fall down. I reached the top. I pulled the clamps from my pocket, connected them to the wires on either side of the connection. I pulled the electrical tape off, and tugged at the splice. Luckily, my splice wasn’t very good. It gave like that. Seconds later I was sliding down the pole.
    I unhooked the belt and strode up the driveway to the front door. There was no time to be scared now, which was a blessing in itself. No time for reflection. No time for thought. Just do it.
    I rang the bell. I rang five times before Tall, Dark, and Ugly opened the door. He frowned as he recognized me.
    “What the hell do you want?” he said.
    “The phone’s out again,” I told him.
    He stared at me. “What?”
    “The phone’s out. Is that so hard to understand? Your phones are out again.”
    “No they’re not. I used the phone this morning. It’s working fine.”
    “Well, it’s out now,” I told him.
    He wasn’t convinced. “I don’t understand,” he said. “We didn’t report the phone’s out.”
    “You don’t have to,” I said. “It doesn’t matter. See, what happens is, someone tries to call you and keeps getting a busy signal. Then they