Chapter 22
I remember when I was shopping for a new cell phone, the salesman was very eager to sign me up for extra features. Call display, call forwarding, three-way calling, detailed billing, even video games I could play on the screen. Maybe, instead of a standard ring, I'd like to hear one of my favorite tunes when someone called me. And of course, there was the extended-warranty plan, for only seventy dollars. What the salesman seemed to be implying was, This is a great phone, the best on the market, but you better buy this added warranty, because, just between you and me, it's a piece of shit. And then, finally: "Would you like a phone that has the optional vibration feature, so that when you're in a theater you can tell someone's trying to phone you, but there's no ring to disturb everyone around you? It's a very good thing to have."
No, I said. I don't care about call display, call forwarding, three-way calling, detailed billing, or video games. I do not want to hear the theme from Titanic when someone calls me. I do not want an extended warranty. And I do not want a phone that vibrates. I turn my phone off when I go into a theater. I am not the guy who accompanies the President, who carries the briefcase with the codes. No one cares whether they can reach me immediately. I just want a phone that I can take with me. That's all.
But would it have killed the salesman to point out other possible scenarios where a vibrating phone might be an advantage? "What if, one night, you're hiding in a house under construction, eavesdropping on three guys as they discuss their murder plans and their wishes to kill you the next time they run into you, and your phone starts ringing, revealing to them your hiding spot? Wouldn't you want a vibrating phone then?"
And of course, I would have said yes.
It would have been very nice, at that moment, to have a phone that jiggled instead of ringing. But since I didn't, Don Greenway, Roger Carpington, and the psychopath I knew only as Rick were all looking in my direction.
"D'ya hear that?" Rick said.
"Sounds like a phone," Carpington said.
"No shit?" said Rick. "You think?"
By now it had rung three times. I was holding my breath, waiting for a fourth ring, but it never came. At the first ring, my mind was scrambling. My first impulse was to try to smother the gadget with my hands. If you could have seen me in the dark, you'd have thought I'd been shot in the chest, the way I was clutching it. I wanted to turn it off, but that would have meant taking it out of my jacket, at which point the ring would have become even louder. You had to press a button on the top and hold it hard for three seconds to shut it down, and it wouldn't take much more time than that for these three men to reach the building.
And then I had another idea. I slipped the phone out of my jacket and left it in plain view on the plywood floor, and scurried backward, crablike, into the darker recesses of the house. There was a stack of four-by-eight sheets of drywall, about two feet high, back around where the kitchen was going to be, and I slithered in behind it as the three men walked across the dirt toward the house. Now I could only hear what they had to say, not see them.
"It was right around here," Greenway said.
"Yeah, over this way," Rick said.
I heard feet stepping up into the house, then Carpington's voice. "Look, right here."
Then Greenway: "Must belong to one of the guys working on the site. Fell out of his pocket or something."
Yes, I thought. Keep thinking that way. It's just a cell phone. Not my cell phone.
"Prob'ly his mom calling to see why he isn't home yet," Rick cracked.
Greenway: "I'll take it back to the office, whoever belongs to it can claim it there. Maybe we should leave a note or something."
I heard the click of a ballpoint pen. "I'll leave a note right on this stud here," Rick said. " 'Lost a phone? Check at office.' That should do it."
"There's two 'f's in 'office,' " Greenway said.
Rick said nothing. I heard them step off the plywood, head back toward their cars. I felt it was safe enough to peek above the top of the drywall. They were huddled together by Carpington's Caddy, saying a few last words before they went their separate ways. And then, once again, the sound of a cell phone.
"I think it's mine," Greenway said. He reached into his jacket, opened a small flap, said, "Hello?"
But there was another ring.
"Not mine," said Greenway. Carpington reached into his own jacket, looked at his phone, shook his head.
Now Greenway reached down into his pants pocket, where evidently he had slipped my phone. As he pulled it out, the ringing became louder. He pressed a button.
"Yeah?"
I could hear my heart pounding in my chest.
"Who?"
The pounding got a little louder.
"No, I'm afraid this isn't Zack Walker. He's not available at the moment. Who's calling? Uh-huh. Well, I'm afraid you'll have to try again later." He ended the call, and as he slipped the phone back into his pants, all eyes were focused again on the house.