At first, people thought it was a joke. They said that the phone booth looked like a privy and they wouldn’t be caught dead going into it right out there in front of God and everybody on the town square. But it wasn’t long before they got used to the convenience, and sometimes you’d see two or three folks lined up, waiting for their turns. To make a call, you simply picked up the receiver, cranked the handle for the operator (who was on the other side of the wall, in the Exchange office behind the diner), and gave her the number you wanted to call. She connected you and told you how many coins to drop into the slots so you could start talking. She listened for the sounds of the coins you put in, and told you to go ahead with your call. When you were finished, you hung up and waited for the operator to call you back and tell you how much more money you owed. (Nobody ever tried to leave the booth without paying the rest, because there was a note on the wall that said that the switchboard operator would send somebody out from the diner to collar the cheapskate.) The new arrangement had proved to be so popular that Mr. Whitworth was planning to install a pay telephone in the lobby of the Old Alabama Hotel, so that hotel patrons would have access to a private phone, since there were no phones in the rooms.

By now, Lizzy and Bessie were close enough to get a good view of their quarry—a little too close for Lizzy’s comfort, actually, especially if Verna was right and he was one of Al Capone’s boys. But Mr. Gold paid no attention to them at all. He paused in front of the phone booth’s folding glass door, put his hand into his pocket, and took out a leather coin purse. He dumped his change into his palm, counted it, and then—apparently deciding that he didn’t have enough coins to make his call—turned and went into the diner.

Lizzy and Bessie followed as Mr. Gold stepped up to the counter and took out his wallet. “Gimme some change for the pay phone,” he said to Myra May, and put down two dollar bills.

“You won’t need all that if it’s a local call,” Myra May said pleasantly, as she rang up a no-sale on the cash register. She was wearing khaki-colored trousers, a green knit polo shirt, and a bleached cotton apron. Violet had embroidered the words The Darling Diner across the apron’s bib in purple and red embroidery floss.

“It’s long distance,” Mr. Gold said. He frowned, cocking his head. “I can make a long distance call from that phone out there, can’t I?”