4
THE KEY TO the third drawer was taped to the back side of the old metal desk. There was nothing in the drawer but the red telephone, and it hadn’t rung for nearly ten years. Unless the phone rang, the drawer stayed locked. There was a phone jack behind the desk, and the phone cord exited through a hole drilled in the back of the drawer. Most of the time it was unplugged from the wall, the cord shoved back into the drawer. It was only when Flanagan was in the building alone that he plugged it in. And it was only when the phone rang that he called himself Flanagan. He had plugged the phone in religiously for the ten years that the phone hadn’t rung at all. It was like walking along a sidewalk: once it occurred to him to avoid stepping on cracks, it became a small obsession. And until he arrived at his destination, he was a careful man.
As far as the phone was concerned, he hadn’t arrived at his destination yet, but there was something in the rainy winter air this morning that made him fear that he was close. It was twenty years ago that he had helped send three men off in the general direction of Hell, and by now he understood that the pit he had dug for these other men was deep enough to contain him too.
So when the phone rang now, inside its drawer, it wasn’t really a surprise, despite the ten years. He put down his pen, letting the phone ring four times before he reached behind the desk and pried the key out from under its tape. He unlocked the drawer, still counting the rings, and picked it up on the tenth.
“Flanagan.” The name sounded idiotic to him.
There was a silence. Then a voice said, “Is it you?”
“It’s me.”
“We have to talk.”
“We’re talking.”
“I don’t mean over the telephone. This kind of business can’t be conducted over the telephone. I think … I believe something’s happening.”
“I’m certain it is.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“What do you mean?”
There was a silence again, as if the man was forcing himself to be patient. His voice was urgent; something had happened to frighten him. “I mean I want out,” he said at last.
Now it was Flanagan’s turn to be silent. Was this what he had expected? He looked around at the old paint, the exposed extension cords, the water dripping in the sink that Mrs. Hepplewhite optimistically called her “kitchen.” He didn’t have to do any calculations now; he had already done them a hundred times—how much hard cash he needed just to keep the church afloat. “I can’t help you,” he said, and he knew it was only partly right even as he said it. The flesh was weak.
“Name your price.”
“I’m not talking about price. I mean to say that I’ve never helped you. What you’ve done, you’ve done alone.” This was wrong too. He himself was as blameworthy as a felon.
“You know, Mr. Flanagan, I don’t think so. If I thought so, I wouldn’t have called you. What have you taken from me over the years, twenty thousand?”
“I don’t keep accounts.”
“Of course you do. We both know the truth.”
“The truth is, I’m not in that line of work any more, so never mind the past. You might say that I’ve changed; I’ve gone over to the other side.”
“The other side! And yet you answer to the same name and at the same old number. I wonder if some things haven’t changed. How about the color of money? Has that changed, too?”
“I recommend that you ask God for help.”
“Let’s not drift off the subject,” the man said. “I’m willing to pay you a hundred thousand dollars, any way you like—through Obermeyer, cash in a briefcase, trust fund, you name it. I have a certain naive faith in you. Can you believe that? You’ve kept your word to me in the past, and I’m willing to take a gamble on you again. What do I have to lose? Stay near the phone while you think it over. I’ll call back.”