Detective

could have gotten a telephone repair truck, but that was beyond my resources and, even if it hadn’t been, I wouldn’t have known how to go about getting one. Besides, the suit was just protective coloration. I hoped no one would notice me this time.
    I walked up to Pluto’s driveway and right to the telephone pole. I put the climbing belt around the pole, snapped it onto the hooks on my belt, and started up the pole.
    I’d practiced climbing a pole on Riverside Drive with the belt the day before, but I hadn’t had the added weight of the tools, and I hadn’t gone much above six or eight feet, not wanting to attract attention and get myself busted for nothing.
    I should have practiced more.
    Pain. Agony. Oh God, I don’t know how to do this. I’m forty years old and out of shape and I never climbed like this in my life anyway. Oh, let’s splurge on the telephone repair truck. I don’t care what it costs. Give me a cherrypicker, I can’t do this. I don’t care if a murderer gets away. Fuck it. Shit. Get me down.
    I reached the top. Settled into what I hoped was a secure position. There were two wires running into the house. One would be the phone, one would be electric. I sure wanted to choose the right one. I could see the headline: “PRIVATE DETECTIVE FRIED ON PHONE POLE. The body of Stanley Hastings, inexplicably dressed as a telephone repairman, was found. . .” Stop it! Asshole. You did lights for that summer stock theater, didn’t you? What’s so damn hard? That’s the electric, that’s the phone. Get on with it.
    I took out of my belt the gadget I’d made. It consisted of two clamps connected by about twelve inches of wire. I clamped them to the phone wire about a foot apart. I didn’t light up like a Christmas tree, which was encouraging. Now I could cut the wire without it falling to the ground. I took out my wire cutters, chose a point half-way between the clamps, and cut. It was harder than I’d expected, but I managed to claw my way through. The wire snapped. The clamps held. The two pieces of severed wire dangled about 6 inches from each other. I put the cutters back in my belt and started down the pole.
    Going down was a lot easier than coming up, but it was still tricky. I reached the bottom, heaved a sigh of relief, and unhooked the belt. I took a step back and looked up at the wire. It wasn’t bad. The clamps were visible, but if you weren’t looking for them, you’d never notice they were there.
    I hurried back to my car and drove to the McDonald’s. Again the bathroom was empty, I changed quickly, became a civilian. I got back in my car and drove back to Pluto’s. I pulled off the road and parked in a place a little way down the street from which I could see his driveway. I sat in the car and waited.
    I waited over two hours. Jesus Christ, what was the matter with these guys? Didn’t they ever use the phone?
    Then I started getting worried. What if they did use the phone? What if they used it a lot? What if Pluto had tried to use the phone right after I cut the wire. Worse, what if Pluto was on the phone when I cut the wire? What if he’d already run out and called the repair service while I was changing my clothes at McDonald’s?
    Christ, had I blown it again? Probably. It would be just like me. So afraid they’d spot me in my telephone repair outfit that I run out and change my clothes while the whole thing slips away. They must have already called. Any minute now, a telephone repair truck will pull into the driveway and the game will be over.
    If they’re even home. Hell, I hadn’t even thought of that. What if Pluto isn’t even home. What if I’m watching an empty house, and—
    A car emerged from the driveway and drove past me, headed back the way I’d come. As soon as he was out of sight, I pulled a U-turn and followed. I caught up within three blocks and stayed a safe distance behind. The car hit the main drag, drove two blocks, and stopped at a pay phone on the corner.
    The driver got out. He was a tall, dark, hulking man, with one of the ugliest faces I’d ever seen. He went to the pay phone and made a call.
    This wouldn’t be Pluto himself, I figured, just one of his henchmen. It didn’t matter. This was the call I wanted.
    Tall, Dark, and Ugly got back in his car and drove off. I didn’t follow. Instead, I pulled up next to the phone booth, got out, and called Emergency Repair.
    “Emergency service,” a gruff male voice answered.
    “This is