“George Bailey, Pete. Listen, have you noticed the weather?”
“Damn right. No lightning, and there should be with a thunderstorm like this.”
“What’s it mean, Pete? The vaders?”
“Sure. And that’s just going to be the start if—” A crackling sound on the wire blurred his voice out. “Hey, Pete, you still there?”
The sound of a violin. Pete Mulvaney didn’t play violin. “Hey, Pete, what the hell—?”
Pete’s voice again. “Come on over, George. Phone won’t last long. Bring—” There was a buzzing noise and then a voice said, “—come to Carnegie Hall. The best tunes of all come—”
George slammed down the receiver.
He walked through the rain to Pete’s place. On the way he bought a bottle of Scotch. Pete had started to tell him to bring something and maybe that’s what he’d started to say.
It was.
They made a drink apiece and lifted them. The lights flickered briefly, went out, and then came on again but dimly.