Hall of Small Mammals by Thomas Pierce Read Free Book Online

ancient transformer towers runs down the middle of the rolling field.
    He dials
A. Gass
first, and a woman answers. Her voice is so quiet and shaky that she has to repeat herself three times before Walker understands that her husband, Albert Gass, passed away the year before last.
    Walker gets out of the car. The road is not a busy one. He dials the next number, but the Alan Gass who used to live therehas moved to Columbia, the city, or possibly to the other Colombia, the one with the drugs. The man on the phone can’t remember which it was.
    He dials the last number. The phone rings and rings. Walker is about to give up when the voice mail message begins.
    â€œYou’ve reached Alan and Monica,” the man on the line says. “We’re not around to take your call, so leave your name and digits at the beep.” It beeps. Walker hangs up quickly. The tall grass beneath the transformers swishes back and forth. He gets back in the car and starts the engine.
    The address in the phone book leads him to a part of town he rarely visits. It isn’t dangerous or run-down; it’s just out of the way. The houses on the street are adjoining, with small grass yards in front. At one corner there is a video store. Walker doesn’t recognize any of the movies in the front window. On the opposite corner, two women smoke cigarettes outside a Piggly Wiggly.
    Alan Gass lives in the middle of the block in a three-story house painted light blue, so light that it’s almost white. To the right of the front door there are three buttons, a label taped above each. The third doorbell says GASS 3B .
    He pushes it and stands back. After what feels like an eternity, a small speaker in the wall crackles and a man who sounds like he might have been asleep answers with a cough.
    â€œBobby? That you? You’re early.”
    â€œI’m not Bobby,” Walker says.
    The line crackles. “Okay, who are you, then?”
    â€œSorry for just showing up like this,” he says, “but there’s a chance we know each other through a friend. Do you have a moment to talk? I promise I won’t keep you long.”
    The man doesn’t answer. A buzzer sounds, and the door clicks open. The stairway inside is narrow and long, with a dirty blue carpet runner, smudged with old black gum, shredded at the edges. The door at the top of the stairs is half open.
    â€œMr. Gass?” he calls, and steps into the apartment. “Hello?”
    The room is almost as narrow as the staircase. Walker feels like he’s looking down the barrel of a shotgun. The half of the room nearest the door serves as a living area, with a small television against one wall and a futon-couch against the other. At the far end of the hall a single window provides light. The parts of a dismantled computer are scattered across a flimsy table beneath the window. Alan Gass emerges from a room to the right of the desk. As he steps into the light of the window, his tall Art Garfunkel hair is illuminated a wispy golden brown. He looks nothing like the man Claire has described.
    He cannot be the real Alan Gass.
    Walker feels idiotic for coming and tries to think of the best way to extricate himself from the situation as quickly as possible. The man wears a starched red shirt with pearl buttons tucked tightly into a pair of gray corduroys despite the summer heat. He is a small man, shorter than Walker. His eyes are gray, almost translucent.
    â€œI think I’ve got the wrong Alan Gass,” Walker says. “But just in case, do you know a Claire?”
    Alan licks his bottom lip. He says that he knew a Claire once, way back in middle school, but he hasn’t heard from her in decades. So, no, currently he does not know any Claires.
    â€œThat’s all right. Like I said, wrong Alan Gass. I’ll let you get back to whatever you were doing.” Walker turns to leave.
    â€œBefore you go,” Alan says, “now that you’re up here,