Joe lit a cigarette, turned on the radio, shivered and swore. The house was cold, but it was always cold. It was cold in the summer when the big trees overhead kept out the heat. You needed a week of breezeless eighties to warm the place up, and even then you had to leave the ice cream on the counter for ten minutes before you could put a spoon in it. But that was months away. In January at Joe’s house, you put things in the freezer to soften them up.

It was after supper, and time for Dragnet. Joe liked the show. Dragnet was slow and everyone talked as though they didn’t like anyone, but it was real. Too real, sometimes; when someone dropped a pen, you’d hear the guy scrape his chair back, grunt as he bent over, say “got it” and screech his chair back to the table. Real life was like that. Dull.

He had a TV, but he didn’t watch it much. He didn’t like how it made him feel – impatient, inert. It did all the work. With the radio you could move around and do something else, or you could just sit and smoke and look at the ceiling while someone got grilled for those stickups over on LaBrea. Wherever that was.

It beat the Shadow, too. He loved that show when he was a kid – the spooky cackle, and the way the underworld could never see him. The older he got the more he wondered exactly how that worked, how you could hypnotize someone just by walking in the room. Saying he had the power to cloud men’s minds somehow didn’t cut enough mustard. Did that work on deaf or blind people? Well, how, exactly? Apparently the Shadow could turn it on or off, because otherwise he’d have to wear a sheet everywhere and say “hey, I’m over here. Over here.” And then he’d have to say, oh, I’m not the Shadow. It’s just a condition I have.

The show was always sponsored by Blue Coal, so named because it glowed blue when burned. Joe had pestered his dad for some, thinking it would be aces to have blue flames in the house. It was more modern somehow, more scientific. Lamont Cranston no doubt sat in his study, reading about Crime, a blue glow coming from the fireplace. His dad said no. Joe said that the man on the radio said they’d bring a sample ton on request. A ton, dad! We could get a ton of coal! For free!

His father said that no one ever gave a ton of anything away for free. Not even a ton of manure. You got a ton of anything, son, someone would want it.

None of Joe’s friends had Blue Coal either, so the matter passed. But he thought of Blue Coal every time he ordered a new load. Which wouldn’t be long – he was having a fuel-oil tank put in come spring. The last winter of coal. He wanted to time it right, too: he wanted to burn the last chunk the day before the robins showed up.

Man, it’s freezing in here, he thought. He walked to the living room, turned up the thermostat, waited to hear the machinery rumbling up in the basement, then checked the radiator. Stone cold. What was it with this place? He’d bought the house two years before with money his father left him; it was a small two-story job on the West Side, thirty years old and solid. Narrow lot. Shotgun living room, a dining room with a table he used for bills and magazines, a charmless kitchen lit by a landlord’s halo on the ceiling and a breakfast nook in the back. He used it for any meal. That’s me, breaking all the rules. Upstairs, two bedrooms and a bath walled with crimson tile. Good place to cut an artery. He hadn’t done much – some cheap furniture that would last if you didn’t sit on it much, a lamp with a ceramic panther as a base, pictures of the folks and Sal. On the wall over the sofa two framed paintings he did from school in his Gritty Urban Period, back from the age when the tender young artist believes there’s some noble damning truth in trashcans and pawn-shop signs. Nothing you’d see at the museum but not bad. He was always pleased when someone asked who did them, knowing they’d be surprised when he told them. As long as they weren’t too surprised.

Not that he had many visitors.

Okay, dum de dum dum. He went to the kitchen, shook a Lucky out of the pack and listened to the show leaning up against the stove.

--------

It was okay. “The Big Mug.” It was always the Big Something. What would his day be called if it was a Dragnet show? The Big Lunch. The Big Walk Around the Block. The Big Inventing A New Way to Letter “Motel.” The Big Beer.

After Dragnet he had another beer. It was still freezing in here. He hadn’t run out of coal, had he? He looked through the drawer where he kept the household information – in this case a matchbook with a date written on the cover. Ah. Home Ice and Coal. I hope they keep the ice and coal sides of the business separate, Joe thought.

As good as the best. That’s a little defensive. If you’re equal to the best, then you’re the best, too. Go ahead, say it. If you’re feeling generous, say “No better coal.” That could mean you had equals. In case the other guys squawked about it.

Good to tie to. What a lousy slogan. So your house is a ship and the coal is your anchor. Help, Mr. Coal Salesman, my house is drifting. Moor me to some anthracite, brother.

He checked the inside of the book, calculated back from today to the last delivery - no, he should be set. So why’s it so –

Oh, right. Joe walked upstairs to the spare room. Odd how a room almost ceases to exist if you don’t need it every day. The spare room used to be a nursery, judging from how the previous owners decorated it. He hadn’t had the time to strip it, so he just used it for storage and kept the door shut. The wallpaper annoyed him, to be honest – it was like the kid still lived here, or his ghost, or something. Maybe he’d hire a guy to strip it. Maybe he’d hire a guy to hang a new window, too. Maybe he’d get a raise. Maybe Ingrid Bergman would show up in a bathrobe with a fifth of Calvert in the pocket.

The windows were open. They were casement types, rusty-hinged windows that swung out. Just great if you wanted your kid to fall out the window into the hedges. The windows didn’t shut right and the latch was cheap; any good gust rattled them enough to pop the latch and hello, come right in Peter Pan. He closed the windows and wished he had something to tie them shut, but he never had any of that stuff around the house.

Joe Friday probably didn’t either. He didn’t seem like the guy who’d have twine around. Even Big Twine.

He’d call a guy tomorrow.

Joe looked around the room. Ducks and bears and circus stuff. Peeling pink paper. Where was this kid now? Probably beyond the ducks and bears point in her life. The guy he bought the house from didn’t have kids either, just lived there a year with his wife before he got called up; they’d probably left the paper up because they wanted kids and hoped for a girl. Every time he came in here he felt bad for them and for the kid, too. It’s never better than when you’re in your room as a kid and everything’s nice and warm and safe and the whole world looks like it was made just for you. There’s no one in heaven but God and Jesus and your dog, and they’re all on your side too.

He turned off the light, put a towel at the bottom of the door to block the draft and went downstairs to light a fire. The kitchen was warm, but that’s because it was small. And the tubes on the radio ran hot. Hell with coal, I’ll heat the joint with Dragnet.

Around three he woke to the sound of the window, banging against the side of the home, as if someone wanted out. Or in.