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| Sooner or Later, cont'd |
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| This story nominated at: |
| The perkiness of those "sirs" was beginning to get on Spike's nerves. He took a deep breath before replying, "Yessss...Rome, Italy." "In that case, sir, you'll need to dial '00' for the long distance operator." "Right. Well then, thanks." He hung up and tried again. "International operator. Can I help you?" This one sounded bored, with a hint of a New York accent. Union, no doubt, and just counting the minutes to her next smoke break. "Yeh, I need to make a call to Rome, Italy." "Let me look up the country and city codes for your, please hol--." The musak began before she'd even finished her sentence. Spike drummed his fingers. A smoke was sounding pretty good right now. He fumbled in his duster pocket and had just lit up and re-draped himself over the phone when the operator returned. "That's country code 39, city code 6." "Right. So, I dial 1-3-9-6 and then --" "No, you dial 011 for international access first, then 39, then 6, then the phone number in Rome that you want." "Okay, so 011-39-6...but I also need to get the number I want. I don't know it." "Uh-huh...well, I can attempt to get that number. You're calling from a pay phone?" "Yeh." "Please deposit $3.50, and I can try to find the number you want." "I have one of those calling card-amabobs." "Well, then you'll need to call the customer service number on your calling card and they can put you through and charge it direct to the card." Spike leaned his head back against the plate glass storefront while one booted heel vented his growing frustration on the wall below the window. He gritted his teeth but managed to hold on to his temper. "Fine...I'll try them." "Thanks and have a nice d--." He pulled the card out of the pocket of his jeans. He'd nicked it along with the wallet of a would-be vamp snack he'd saved a few days before. Using some of the cash inside, he'd mailed the rest of the wallet back to its owner, but kept the phone card for this purpose. Scant payment for saving the git's life. Idiots, walking about in dark alleys at all hours of the night.... He punched in the toll-free number printed on the back of the phone card with a bit more force than was strictly necessary, the smouldering cigarette between his fingers tracing runes of smoke in the air as his hand moved over the keypad. This time the operator was male. "MCT Call Pass Services, how can I help you." "Look here, Skippy, I'm trying to make a call to Rome, the one in Italy, and no one seems to be able to help me out. I'm banking on third try being the charm here. Otherwise, I just might not be responsible for what I do." "I see...," the voice replied warily. "Well...okay, then. If you can give me the number, I can connect you." "That's part of the trouble, see...I just rang off with an ever so helpful long distance operator, who said she couldn't get me the number until I put some money in this bloody call box. I told her I had your card, so she said to call you. Now, I'm gettin' impatient, and I'm feelin' pretty capable of crawling through this phone line, if that's what it takes, to make it happen." "Well...I see...." Skippy seemed to have an extensive vocabulary. The silence on the line lengthened until Spike began to wonder if he'd been disconnected. An eruption of fury was averted, however, when the fellow cleared his throat nervously and finally continued, "I'm not supposed to do it this way, but since you've already gotten the run-around, I'll put you on hold, call the long distance operator back myself, and get either the number of the party you'd like, or for information in Italy. Why don't you give me the card number and PIN, so I can charge the cost to the card, and then patch you through?" Spike felt his frustration begin to dissipate, now that he seemed to be making headway. Funny how threats just always seem to make people more cooperative. He read the numbers off the bit of plastic, provided the name Summers-comma-Buffy, then settled back to wait, taking several deep, soothing draws on his cigarette, and trying not to count the tink-tink-tinks of a moth battering itself against the yellowed glass dome of a light fixture mounted a foot or so above the payphone. Finally, the young man came back on the line, explaining that his database couldn't locate a Buffy Summers in Italy, but that it wasn't updated particularly often. "I'll put you through to local information in Rome, and you can see if they can find the number for you." "Fine!" He dropped the butt of his cigarette and ground it out with his toe. He crossed his arms. He |
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