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got a feeling." The number indicated date,estimated area and relation to previous alerts in the month, estimatedintent, and frequency of report. The "a" meant intermittent. Only thelast three digits would change. "If it comes on again I think I'd lock acircuit on it right away." The rules called for any continuous readingover 75 to be contacted and connected after its sixth appearance.
"What about that one?" King said, pointing to a 70.4 that was unblinkingin its intensity.
"Some drunk," said Blaney. "Or a baby with a head cold. Been on therefor twenty minutes. You can watch for it if you like." His tonesuggested that to be a waste of time.
"I'll watch it," said King. His tone suggested that he knew how to reada circuit, and if Blaney had any suggestions he could keep them tohimself.
* * * * *
Joe Millsop finally staggered home, exhausted. He was half-drunk, andworn out from being on his feet all day, but the liquor had finally doneits work. He could think about the incident without flushing hot allover. He was too tired, and too sorry for himself to be angry at anyone.And with his new-found alcoholic objectivity he could see now where hehad been in the wrong. Old Bloomgarten shouldn't have chewed him out infront of a customer like that, but what the hell, he shouldn't havesassed the customer, even if she was just a dumb broad who didn't knowwhat she wanted. He managed to get undressed before he stumbled intobed. His last coherent thought before he fell into a drugged sleep wasthat he'd better apologize in the morning.
* * * * *
8:20:18:3059:78:4a stayed off the board.
At 1:18 am, the deAngelis flared to a 98.4 then started inching downagain. The young reporter sat up, alert, from where he had been dozing.The loud clang of a bell had brought him awake.
The older reporter glanced up from his cards and waved him down. "Forgetit," he said, "some wife just opened the door and saw lipstick on herhusband's neck."
* * * * *
"Oh Honey, how could you ... fifty dollars ..." She was crying.
"Don't, Mother ... I thought I could make some money ... some realmoney." The youngster looked sick. "I had four nines ... four nines ...how could I figure him for a straight flush, he didn't have a thingshowing."
"... How could you," sobbed the mother. "... Oh how could you."
* * * * *
The book ... businessman dealt the cards. The reporter picked his upand arranged them in his hand, he discarded one; the businessman ignoredit and drew from the deck, he discarded; the reporter picked the discardand threw away a card from his hand; the businessman drew from the deckand discarded the same card he'd drawn; the reporter picked it up,tapped it slowly in place with his elbow, placed his discard face down,and spread his hand.
"Gin," he said.
"Arrrgh," said the businessman. "Damn it, you play good. You play realgood."
A light on the deAngelis flashed red and showed a reading of 65.4 on thedial.
"Can't beat skill," said the reporter. "Count!"
"Fifty-six," said the businessman. "That's counting gin," he added.
"Game," the reporter announced. "I'll figure the damage."
"You play good," said the businessman in disgust.
"You only say that 'cause it's true," the reporter said. "But it's sweetof you all the same."
"Shut up!" said the businessman.
The reporter looked up, concerned. "You stuck?" he asked solicitously.He seemed sincere.
"Certainly I'm stuck," the businessman snarled.
"Then stay stuck," said the reporter in a kindly tone. He patted thebusinessman on the cheek.
The same light on the deAngelis flashed red. This time the dialregistered eighty-two. The operator chuckled and looked over at thegamblers, where the reporter was still adding up the score.
"How much you down, Bernie?" he asked the businessman.
"Four dollars and ninety-six cents," the reporter answered.
"You play good," Bernie said again.
The deAngelis went back to normal, and the operator went back to hismagazine. The bulb at the end of the second row turned from a light pinkto a soft rose, the needle on its dial finally flickered on to thescale. There were other lights on the board, but none called for action.It was still just a quiet night in the middle of the week.
* * * * *
The room was filthy. It had a natural filth that clings to a cheap room,and a man-made, careless filth that would disfigure a Taj Mahal. Itwasn't so much that things were dirty, it was more that nothing wasclean. Pittsburgh was no longer a smokey city. That problem had beensolved long before the mills had stopped belching smoke. Now, withatomics and filters on every stack in every home, the city was clean.Clean as the works of man could make it, yet still filthy as only theminds of man could achieve. The city might be clean but there werepeople who were not, and the room was not. Overhead the ceiling lightstill burned, casting its harsh glare on the trashy room, and thetrashy, huddled figure on the bed.
He was an old man, lying on the bed fully clothed, even to his shoes.He twisted fretfully in his sleep; the body tried to rise, anticipatingnature even when the mind could not. The man gagged several times andfinally made it up to a sitting position before the vomit came. He wasstill asleep, but his reaction was automatic; he grabbed the bottom ofhis sweater and pulled it out before him to form a bucket of sorts. Whenhe finished being sick he sat still, swaying gently back and forth, andtried to open his eyes. He could not make it. Still asleep, he duckedout of the fouled sweater, made an ineffectual dab at his mouth, waddedthe sweater in a ball, and threw it over in front of the bathroom door.
He fell back on the bed, exhausted, and went on with his fitful sleep.
* * * * *
At 4:15 in the morning a man walked into the station house. His name wasHenry Tilton. He was a reporter for the _Evening Press_. He waved agreeting to the desk sergeant and went over to kibitz the card game.
Both players looked up, startled. The reporter playing cards said,"Hello, Henry." He looked at his watch. "Whoosh! I didn't realize it wasthat late." He turned to the businessman. "Hurry up, finish the hand.Got to get my beauty sleep."
"Whaddaya mean, hurry up," said Bernie, "you're into me for fifteenbucks."
"Get it back from Hank here," the reporter said. He nodded at thenewcomer, "Want this hand? You're fourteen points down. Lover boy's gotsixty-eight on game, but you're a box up."
"Sure," said Tilton. He took the cards.
The morning news reporters left. The businessman dealt a new hand.Tilton waited four rounds, then knocked with ten.
Bernie slammed down his cards. "You lousy reporters are all alike! I'mgoing home." He got up to put on his coat. "I'll be back about ten, youstill be here?"
"Sure," said Tilton, "... with the score." He folded the paper and putit in his pocket.
The businessman walked out and Tilton went over to the deAngelis board."Anything?" he asked.
"Nah," said King. He pointed to the lights, "Just lovers' quarrelstonight; all pale pink and peaceful."
Tilton smiled and ambled back to the cell block. The operator put hisfeet up on his desk, then frowned and put them down again. He leanedtoward the board and studied the light at the end of the second row. Theneedle registered sixty-six. The operator pursed his lips, then flickeda switch that opened the photo file. Every five minutes an automaticcamera photographed the deAngelis board, developed the film, and filedthe picture away in its storage vault.
King studied the photographs for quite awhile, then pulled his log bookover and made an entry. He wrote: 8:20:19:3142:1x. The last three digitsmeant that he wasn't sure about the intensity, and the "x" signified acontinuous reading.
King turned to the audio controller, "Do me a favor, Gus, but strictlyunofficial. Contact everybody around us: Oakland, Squirrel Hill, PointBreeze, Lawrenceville, Bloomfield ... everybody in this
end of town.Find out if they've got one low intensity reading that's been on forhours. If they haven't had it since before midnight, I'm notinterested."
"Something up?" the controller asked.
"Probably not," said the operator. "I'd just like to pin this one downas close as I can. On a night like this my screen shows nothing butmilk."
* * * * *
"Give you a lift home?" the older reporter asked.
"Thanks," said the cub shaking his head, "but I live out by theYoughiogheny
"What about that one?" King said, pointing to a 70.4 that was unblinkingin its intensity.
"Some drunk," said Blaney. "Or a baby with a head cold. Been on therefor twenty minutes. You can watch for it if you like." His tonesuggested that to be a waste of time.
"I'll watch it," said King. His tone suggested that he knew how to reada circuit, and if Blaney had any suggestions he could keep them tohimself.
* * * * *
Joe Millsop finally staggered home, exhausted. He was half-drunk, andworn out from being on his feet all day, but the liquor had finally doneits work. He could think about the incident without flushing hot allover. He was too tired, and too sorry for himself to be angry at anyone.And with his new-found alcoholic objectivity he could see now where hehad been in the wrong. Old Bloomgarten shouldn't have chewed him out infront of a customer like that, but what the hell, he shouldn't havesassed the customer, even if she was just a dumb broad who didn't knowwhat she wanted. He managed to get undressed before he stumbled intobed. His last coherent thought before he fell into a drugged sleep wasthat he'd better apologize in the morning.
* * * * *
8:20:18:3059:78:4a stayed off the board.
At 1:18 am, the deAngelis flared to a 98.4 then started inching downagain. The young reporter sat up, alert, from where he had been dozing.The loud clang of a bell had brought him awake.
The older reporter glanced up from his cards and waved him down. "Forgetit," he said, "some wife just opened the door and saw lipstick on herhusband's neck."
* * * * *
"Oh Honey, how could you ... fifty dollars ..." She was crying.
"Don't, Mother ... I thought I could make some money ... some realmoney." The youngster looked sick. "I had four nines ... four nines ...how could I figure him for a straight flush, he didn't have a thingshowing."
"... How could you," sobbed the mother. "... Oh how could you."
* * * * *
The book ... businessman dealt the cards. The reporter picked his upand arranged them in his hand, he discarded one; the businessman ignoredit and drew from the deck, he discarded; the reporter picked the discardand threw away a card from his hand; the businessman drew from the deckand discarded the same card he'd drawn; the reporter picked it up,tapped it slowly in place with his elbow, placed his discard face down,and spread his hand.
"Gin," he said.
"Arrrgh," said the businessman. "Damn it, you play good. You play realgood."
A light on the deAngelis flashed red and showed a reading of 65.4 on thedial.
"Can't beat skill," said the reporter. "Count!"
"Fifty-six," said the businessman. "That's counting gin," he added.
"Game," the reporter announced. "I'll figure the damage."
"You play good," said the businessman in disgust.
"You only say that 'cause it's true," the reporter said. "But it's sweetof you all the same."
"Shut up!" said the businessman.
The reporter looked up, concerned. "You stuck?" he asked solicitously.He seemed sincere.
"Certainly I'm stuck," the businessman snarled.
"Then stay stuck," said the reporter in a kindly tone. He patted thebusinessman on the cheek.
The same light on the deAngelis flashed red. This time the dialregistered eighty-two. The operator chuckled and looked over at thegamblers, where the reporter was still adding up the score.
"How much you down, Bernie?" he asked the businessman.
"Four dollars and ninety-six cents," the reporter answered.
"You play good," Bernie said again.
The deAngelis went back to normal, and the operator went back to hismagazine. The bulb at the end of the second row turned from a light pinkto a soft rose, the needle on its dial finally flickered on to thescale. There were other lights on the board, but none called for action.It was still just a quiet night in the middle of the week.
* * * * *
The room was filthy. It had a natural filth that clings to a cheap room,and a man-made, careless filth that would disfigure a Taj Mahal. Itwasn't so much that things were dirty, it was more that nothing wasclean. Pittsburgh was no longer a smokey city. That problem had beensolved long before the mills had stopped belching smoke. Now, withatomics and filters on every stack in every home, the city was clean.Clean as the works of man could make it, yet still filthy as only theminds of man could achieve. The city might be clean but there werepeople who were not, and the room was not. Overhead the ceiling lightstill burned, casting its harsh glare on the trashy room, and thetrashy, huddled figure on the bed.
He was an old man, lying on the bed fully clothed, even to his shoes.He twisted fretfully in his sleep; the body tried to rise, anticipatingnature even when the mind could not. The man gagged several times andfinally made it up to a sitting position before the vomit came. He wasstill asleep, but his reaction was automatic; he grabbed the bottom ofhis sweater and pulled it out before him to form a bucket of sorts. Whenhe finished being sick he sat still, swaying gently back and forth, andtried to open his eyes. He could not make it. Still asleep, he duckedout of the fouled sweater, made an ineffectual dab at his mouth, waddedthe sweater in a ball, and threw it over in front of the bathroom door.
He fell back on the bed, exhausted, and went on with his fitful sleep.
* * * * *
At 4:15 in the morning a man walked into the station house. His name wasHenry Tilton. He was a reporter for the _Evening Press_. He waved agreeting to the desk sergeant and went over to kibitz the card game.
Both players looked up, startled. The reporter playing cards said,"Hello, Henry." He looked at his watch. "Whoosh! I didn't realize it wasthat late." He turned to the businessman. "Hurry up, finish the hand.Got to get my beauty sleep."
"Whaddaya mean, hurry up," said Bernie, "you're into me for fifteenbucks."
"Get it back from Hank here," the reporter said. He nodded at thenewcomer, "Want this hand? You're fourteen points down. Lover boy's gotsixty-eight on game, but you're a box up."
"Sure," said Tilton. He took the cards.
The morning news reporters left. The businessman dealt a new hand.Tilton waited four rounds, then knocked with ten.
Bernie slammed down his cards. "You lousy reporters are all alike! I'mgoing home." He got up to put on his coat. "I'll be back about ten, youstill be here?"
"Sure," said Tilton, "... with the score." He folded the paper and putit in his pocket.
The businessman walked out and Tilton went over to the deAngelis board."Anything?" he asked.
"Nah," said King. He pointed to the lights, "Just lovers' quarrelstonight; all pale pink and peaceful."
Tilton smiled and ambled back to the cell block. The operator put hisfeet up on his desk, then frowned and put them down again. He leanedtoward the board and studied the light at the end of the second row. Theneedle registered sixty-six. The operator pursed his lips, then flickeda switch that opened the photo file. Every five minutes an automaticcamera photographed the deAngelis board, developed the film, and filedthe picture away in its storage vault.
King studied the photographs for quite awhile, then pulled his log bookover and made an entry. He wrote: 8:20:19:3142:1x. The last three digitsmeant that he wasn't sure about the intensity, and the "x" signified acontinuous reading.
King turned to the audio controller, "Do me a favor, Gus, but strictlyunofficial. Contact everybody around us: Oakland, Squirrel Hill, PointBreeze, Lawrenceville, Bloomfield ... everybody in this
end of town.Find out if they've got one low intensity reading that's been on forhours. If they haven't had it since before midnight, I'm notinterested."
"Something up?" the controller asked.
"Probably not," said the operator. "I'd just like to pin this one downas close as I can. On a night like this my screen shows nothing butmilk."
* * * * *
"Give you a lift home?" the older reporter asked.
"Thanks," said the cub shaking his head, "but I live out by theYoughiogheny
The Circuit Riders