In a Mist Read Online Free Page A

to her chin. There are tears in the newsman’s eyes and he does not notice Roy. There is no sign of the girl’s companion and there is no sign of Alice. In the distance is the sound of sirens as Roy hurries down the street.
    He is out of breath when he reaches the corner where the studio should be and is greeted by a graffiti-covered facade with plywood over its windows and a door that does not open.
    Up the street, a bearded man with no laces in his boots has never heard of a place called Silhouette Studios, and is in need of thirty-five cents. Roy reaches into his pocket and hands the man a quarter.
    He smiles. “Check the book in the phone booth around the corner.”
    Roy finds the booth, where all the directory pages between “Q” and “V” have been torn out. He picks up the phone, not knowing whom he intends to call. He reaches a hand into his empty pocket, then slams the phone into the receiver in frustration. From the top of the phone something falls to the ground that is immediately familiar to Roy, though in the twilight he does not recognize it to be Alice’s address book until he holds it close to his face. It is open to the page for Silhouette Studios. Roy closes the book and attempts to place it in the inside pocket of his coat, which holds his half-empty flask. He shoves the bottom half of the book in his outer pocket as he makes his way back to 138 th Street.
    The girl’s body no longer lies on the sidewalk. There is no ambulance, or police car, or any sign that anything at all has happened. Roy tries the door to the diner and finds it locked. Inside the waiter mops the floor. When Roy bangs on the window with his fist the waiter mutters something inaudible and points to the “Closed” sign on the door. Roy works his way down the street, trying every door along the way.
    The fifth door is unlocked. Inside is a musty, narrow, high-ceilinged storeroom. Light from a single bare bulb illuminates a closed door at the end of the room. The walls are lined with metal shelves piled with old newspapers and magazines that spill out onto the floor. From behind the door at the back of the room there comes a sound and Roy decides he does not want to wait for the door to open. Onhis way out, he stumbles over a stack of
New Yorkers
and sends them scattering. Someone yells at him from behind.
    Roy finds a train waiting at the bottom of the 135 th St. stairs. He struggles through the turnstile and onto the nearest car without pausing to find out where the train is bound. Roy collapses in a seat and tries to still his shaking hands. Across the aisle, reading a copy of the
Amsterdam News
, sits the waiter from the restaurant.
    â€œExcuse me.”
    The waiter looks up, sees Roy and turns back to his paper.
    â€œCould you tell me where I could find Silhouette Studios?”
    The waiter’s expression softens. “You’re on the wrong side of town. You want
West
138 th . Get off at the next stop, turn yourself around. You play?”
    â€œNo. Not really. My girlfriend sings.”
    â€œDoes she now? That’s alright.” The man turns back to his paper, humming a tune that Roy does not recognize.
    â€œThank you,” says Roy, as he gets off the train. “Mm-hm,” says the man.
    Roy surveys the platform while he awaits the southbound train. The faces of those around him are turned away as he tips his flask to his lips.
    An hour after he last sees Alice, Roy sits in the lobby of Silhouette Studios, his head in his hands. The radiator ticks with heat. There is an empty water cooler, a half-empty coffeepot, a table covered with scribbled sheet music, and the withered leaves of a dying aspidistra. There are framed forty-fives on the wall, and above a closed, padded door an illuminated sign that reads “Recording: Do Not Enter.” Roy wants to examine the sheet music, to read the labels on the forty-fives, but his uneasy stomach and his throbbing head