Down These Strange Streets

with a knife scar across the back of his hand, had joined him. One man took a battered, partially smoked cigarette from his pocket, lit it with a match, and passed it from hand to hand.

“Harry says you had a pack of cigs.” There was an angry buzz on the edge of the words.

The man with the knife scar was right behind him. Cross studied him; the light in the man’s eyes screamed out his desire for a fight. Cross decided to try appeasement. He took out the pack of Lucky Strikes and offered it around. The scarred man put his cigarette in his shirt pocket. Cross pulled out his Unique lighter and lit his smoke. The men stared at the silver Dunhill lighter in amazement.

“So, who the hell are you? Daddy Warbucks?” Knife Scar asked. “And what else you got, friend, that you might be willing to share?” His eyes held all the warmth of a chip of flint.

Cross leaned his shoulders against a support post. Around him mosquitoes whined like an angry wife. He took a slow drag, blew smoke, and said softly, “You don’t want to be going there, friend. It’ll turn out badly for you.”

The other men, sensing a fight, formed a circle. Their excitement and barely suppressed violence licked at the edges of Cross’s consciousness. He pushed away the intoxicating brew, studied his opponent, and considered how best to handle the situation. He was still weak from being shattered and what had happened on the bridge last night. There had also been an Old One in this locale very recently. Cross didn’t want to be playing with his powers, lest it draw the attention of one of his brethren.

His opponent shifted his weight from foot to foot and brought up his fists. Cross continued to lean while he finished his cigarette. He then dropped it and ground it out under his toe. The man rightly read Cross’s casualness as contempt, and his anger flared. It showed as jagged lines of red and sickening yellow erupting from his body. The watchers’ excitement flared in answer.

The man telegraphed the coming swing. Cross had lived a long time, much of it in human form, and he’d acquired a wide variety of fighting skills. He opted for one he’d learned in China fifty years before. He stepped into the roundhouse, blocked the punch with his forearm, then spun and delivered a kick to the side of the man’s knee. The man went down screaming.

Cross bent down and twitched the cigarette out of the man’s pocket. “And that’s the problem with going for more, friend. You can end up with nothing.” He straightened and scanned the crowd. The circle of spectators dissolved like ink floating away on a current.

The screen door flew open, crashing against the wall, and Sharon rushed out with her factotum right behind her. Planting her hands on her hips she said, “There is no fighting in this place of peace.” She pointed at Cross. “You! Just get out! Go on, get!”

Cross shrugged and headed down the porch steps while the other men filed back into the mission. Sharon got her shoulder under Knife Scar’s shoulder and supported him through the door.

“I’m going to put you to bed in Sean’s room,” he heard her say to the limping man. “You’ll be right as rain by morning.” The screen door fell shut, and then the heavy wooden front door was firmly closed.

Cross stood in the deepening twilight looking at that closed door and reflecting on what he had seen as the fight started. Sharon, shielded by the screen, watching with hunger in her eyes.

* * *

HE NEEDED A PHONE. NEEDED TO CALL CONOSCENZA. THIS COULDN’T WAIT for Cross to return to New York. Once his boss heard his report, Conoscenza would head for Chicago. Which meant that Cross had to go there too. Which was the last thing he wanted to do. The power in that ring had him spooked.

It was nearly eight at night. The post office had closed hours before. So he needed a house with a kind homeowner and the wherewithal to own a telephone. He moved off the main street and into a residential area, scanning the fences and gates for the bird symbol that indicated free phone. It took a while, but he found one. The name on the mailbox was Dr. Adam Grossman. It made sense a doctor would have a telephone.

There was a Ford Model A parked out front, and it had been carefully washed and waxed. Cross paused behind it and took money from his belt. He then pushed open the gate and walked up to the front door. His knock was answered by a sharp-featured young man with slicked-back black hair. The distinctive scent of Murray’s Superior Pomade floated to Cross’s nostrils. He wore the smart new style of cuffed trousers and plucked at the pants crease with nicotine-stained fingers, while with the other hand he pushed his wire-rim glasses higher onto the bridge of his nose. Cross’s image of the white-haired, heavyset country doctor went up in a pop.

“Dr. Grossman?”

“Yes? Is somebody sick?”

“No. I need to use your telephone,” Cross said, and he offered a folded double sawbuck, which he had pinched between his fingers.

The doctor’s eyes widened at the sight of twenty dollars. “I generally let people use the phone for free.”

“I know.”

Grossman frowned. “How?”

“There’s a sign on your gate.” The doctor peered out the door toward the white picket fence and gate. Cross laughed. “Hobo symbol.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Grossman opened the door wide. “Come on in. That explains a lot.”

Cross stepped across the threshold into a ruthlessly neat front room. Books were squared up on a small table next to an armchair. Throw pillows on the sofa were lined up like portly soldiers. There was no hint of a softening female presence. The room cried out ex-military, and a package of Army Club The Front- Line Cigarette cemented the impression into certainty. Returning doughboys had smoked the English cigarette during the Great War. Memory flickered and touched the senses. For an instant, Cross smelled rank water, unwashed bodies, and cordite, remembered the slip of mud beneath his boot soles.

“The phone’s in the hall,” Grossman said, breaking the hold of the past. Cross held out the bill. Grossman held up a negating hand. “Keep your money.”

“I don’t need it, really. Take it. Use it to buy medicine or pay yourself for treating someone for free,” Cross said. Grossman hesitated, then shrugged and took the bill.

The telephone was nestled in a niche in the wall, and a wooden chair was placed in front. Cross lifted the receiver. A few seconds later, the operator came on the line. He gave her the telephone exchange for Conoscenza’s penthouse. It took a while for the call to route through, but eventually it started ringing and his boss’s familiar basso rumble filled his ear.

“Conoscenza.”

“Hey, it’s me. I found it. It originated in Oklahoma. And you were right, it was an incursion, an Old One came through.”

“Can you deal with it?”

“Nope, because it blew out of town, heading for Chicago and riding on a bush-league Bible thumper who happens to be an alternate delegate to the convention.”

“What’s his name?” Conoscenza asked.

“Hanlin.”

There was silence for a few minutes and Cross heard the soft shush of turning pages. “He’s not getting any national ink. What do you know about him? Is he a rabble-rouser stoking populist anger?”

“Couldn’t say.” Cross paused, then asked, “Do you think this is aimed at you? A way to block your plans for FDR?”

“Perhaps, but whether it is or not we can’t take the risk. I’d best head to Chicago.”

“Not that you’re going to get on the floor,” Cross said sourly.

“There are a few Negro alternates,” Conoscenza said. The great raftershaking laugh filled Cross’s ear and seemed to echo in the hall. “And as far as the Democrat party bosses are concerned, my skin is green. I’ll get into the smoke-filled rooms, at least. You’re going to have to be my eyes on the floor.”

Cold coiled down Cross’s back. Then the other one will see me, and I have no strength to withstand an attack. It was absurd, but he found himself remembering the advertising for Army Club. This is the cigarette for the fellow with a full-sized man’s job to do. When you’re feeling all “hit up,” it steadies the nerves. Cross wondered if he could hit up the doctor for a few.

“Cross? Are you still there?”