52 pickup

14

Alansaid, "Are you listening to me? If you're busy I can wait, man, if you're busy. I don't want to interrupt you or anything."

Bobby Shy was listening. He could blow coke and not miss a word; there wasn't any trick to that. He was dipping into the Baggy again with his Little Orphan Annie spoon-little chick with no eyes or tits but she was good to hold onto and bring up to your nose, yeeeeeees, one then another, ten dollars worth of fine blow while Alan was talking out of his cut mouth, telling about the man coming to see him.

They were in Doreen's apartment because when Alan called he said he wanted to meet there. Alan, Bobby and Leo. It was one-thirty in the afternoon. Doreen was in the bedroom asleep.

Bobby had to grin at Alan's cut-up puffed-up mouth. Man had hit him good. That shit, are you listening to me? Talking but trying not to move his mouth. Like the mouth wasn't there. Like the man hadn't hit him. The man had looked easy, but the man didn't fuck around, did he? Bobby sat at one end of the couch, his feet in black socks on the coffee table. Leo sat at the other end of the long flowery couch, but Bobby could still smell that cheap shit he wore. Alan was standing, moving around some, shoulders hunched up, fingers in his tight little front pockets, looking at him.

Bobby tossed the Baggy over to the coffee table. He better save a blow for Doreen when she woke up, else she'd kill him. He said, "I hear you. I'm sitting right here, ain't I?"

"It's important we clear this up first," Alan said. "The guy didn't happen to be there. Somebody told him where to find me."

Leo was sitting forward on the deep cushion, ready. "I didn't tell him anything. I didn't even tell him your name, for Christ sake, anything."

Alan kept his eyes on Bobby Shy. "Leo says he didn't tell him."

"Man, I heard him ten times now. I believe him just so he quits saying it."

"All right," Alan said. "If Leo didn't tell him that leaves only one person."

"Hey, me? I talked to the back of the man's head a couple times, that's all."

"I'm not talking about you," Alan said.

"Well, they only three of us."

Alan shook his head. "Doreen. If it's not Leo told him then it's Doreen. She was in the bar right before he came up to me."

Bobby thought about it. "Unh-unh. She wouldn't tell him."

"How do you know?"

"Because we friends," Bobby said. "She know I found out I'd throw her off the roof."

"Let's talk to her."

"No need to."

"I want to be sure," Alan said.

"Hey, look. I'll talk to her after a while," Bobby Shy said. "You understand what I'm saying? I'll ask her about it and I'll let you know."

"Long as you do it," Alan said. Get the last word in and let it go. Black sleepy-eyed son of a bitch had to be handled with gloves. Don't disturb whatever was going on inside that fuzzy coked-up head. Leo was just as bad in his own way. Hold his hand or he'd fuck up. Jesus, what he had were a couple of beauties. A fat-ass juice head who was liable to melt with a little heat and a bad-ass spade gunslinger who blew fifty bucks a day on his highs. Jesus, the way the guy was turning out, these two were no help at all. The guy was coming on strong all of a sudden, different than the kind of straight-A stiff he had looked like at first.

"So, as I mentioned," Alan said, "the guy tells me he wants to talk about his financial situation. That's all he says. Except I got to come alone. Why?"

"That's the question," Bobby Shy said. "Now what's the answer?"

"Right away, I think he's pulling some kind of shit. Like the cops are there, waiting in the bushes. I walk in, he makes a payoff and they hit me. But then I think, why just me? If the cops are on it they'd want all of us. Right?"

"Or," Bobby said, "they take you, figure you'll tell them about the rest."

"Come on," Alan said. "It's easier to hit all three. It's done. We're standing there holding the fucking money."

"Doesn't answer the question, does it?" Bobby Shy said. "Why he wants you to come alone."

"I think we only got one way to find out," Alan said. "I go see the guy."

Bobby Shy's gaze stayed on him. "You and him don't happen to have something going, do you?"

"You want to go instead of me?" Alan stared back at him. "I don't care, man. You go, find out what he wants. Then it's your ass if he's pulling shit, man, not mine." Alan waited. That ought to be enough. He didn't want to overdo it.

Bobby Shy grinned out of the deep flowery cushion of the couch. It was a lovely high he could feel all over him with everything clear and cool and not to be wasted hassling this skinny puff-mouth little dude with the hair. He said, "Hey, be nice. You go see the man, tell me what he says. I believe you. Why shouldn't I believe you? We all in this."

Leo Frank said, "Ask him who told you. Ask him if it was me. You'll find out."

Alan gave them each a little more time. No hurry. No need to talk anymore. Okay, wrap it up. "All right," he said. "Meet at my place tomorrow. Same time." He started for the door, then turned and looked at Bobby again.

"That tour bus stick-up. I finally figured who the cat was."

Bobby Shy's eyes were half-closed. "Is that right?"

"Paper said you got over four thousand."

"Shit."

"You're a regular fucking cowboy, aren't you?"

"I thought you'd like it."

"I don't know," Alan said. "Kind of dumb, but stylish."

"You trying to tell me something?"

Alan winked at him. "I'm saying I know you did it, man, that's all."

Bobby Shy sat on the edge of the double bed looking down at Doreen: soft brown face a little puffy with sleep, the long black eyelashes she stuck on one at a time closed over her eyes. Sweet girl breathing quietly, her face raised, her naked body forming a half-twist beneath the sheet, giving him the firm curve of her hip against the thigh.

He said quietly, "Doreen?"

He said her name again and this time gently squeezed her bare shoulder. "Hey, baby, come on. Time to get up, cook me something." His hand moved from her shoulder to the pillow next to her, pulled it across her body and laid it on his lap. The movement opened her eyes. They stared at him calmly, moved to look at the square of daylight on the window shade and came back to his face again.

"What time is it?"

"About three."

"Seven o'clock this morning, man wants to start all over. I say hey, get your ass out, baby, go to work. He say, real surprised, 'I'll pay you.' "

"What man was that?"

"Seven in the morning. I tell him, baby, I don't even do it for fun seven in the morning."

"His name Mitchell? Was a friend of Cini's?"

Doreen didn't move; she kept her eyes on Bobby Shy's face and after a moment, said, "No, it wasn't him. Somebody else."

"Was he here yesterday?"

"Who?"

"Man name Mitchell."

"Yesterday. Yeah-about four. I told him I was expecting somebody."

"What else you tell him?"

"I told him to come back sometime."

"What else?"

"What do I know I can tell him? I don't know anything."

Bobby Shy raised the pillow. He saw her eyes briefly before he dropped the pillow over her face and pressed down on it with his hands spread open, his arms rigid. He turned his head to the side as she clawed at him and kicked and her body thrashed beneath the sheet.

When he lifted the pillow he saw her eyes again, like they'd been open all the time. She gasped and said almost immediately, "I don't know anything to tell him!"

"You know me," Bobby Shy said. "You know people I know."

She was rigid, afraid to move; afraid to say the wrong thing.

"He ask you any questions?"

"He was only here five minutes. I ask him he want a drink, he say yes, I give him one."

"He come to buy or talk?"

"I told him I was busy, he finish the drink and left."

"You don't answer none of my questions," Bobby Shy said. He raised the pillow again and had to force it down over her face, fight through her hands trying to push it away. He saw her eyes again and could put himself in her place and know what she was seeing. Then he was looking down at the pillow, feeling her body twisting against him, her legs coming up and straightening and coming up again. He saw, close to him, her underarm and a trace of powder and fine little black dots in the deep hollow. She was thin and wiry, tough little hundred-pound chick would fight as long as she could stay alive and probably keep moving after she was past it. Her legs straightened again and stiffened. Her arm, raised, close to his face, seemed to go limp and come down slowly, outstretched.

Bobby Shy lifted the pillow to see her eyes still open. They looked dreamy. She breathed in air and let it out and began to take short little quick breaths like she'd been running. Her eyes stared at him with the dull dreamy look, something gone out of them. Sweet girl going to sleep, too tired to speak.

Bobby Shy said, "One more time. You tell him where I or anybody I know works or lives?"

Doreen's head moved on the pillow, just a little, from side to side. "I didn't. Please-"

"Hey, you feel all right?"

"Believe me? Please, I didn't tell him nothing."

"I believe you," Bobby Shy said. "I believe everybody."

"I told him I was busy. That's all I said to him."

Bobby Shy leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. "Baby, why don't you sleep some more? You going to sleep, hey, keep telling yourself, I ain't ever going to talk to that man again. I ain't ever going to look at him. He come here, shit, I slam the door in his face. Hey, Doreen?" Bobby Shy said. "Do that, everything will be lovely."

Alan drove Leo's white T-bird out to Ranco Manufacturing. His own car, a yellow Datsun 240Z, had been gone almost two months. Stolen. Parked in front of the movie theater not ten minutes in the no-parking zone while he ran in to check receipts on his day off and the car was gone when he came out. He called the police every day for three or four weeks, reminding them it was a yellow Datsun 240Z, for Christ sake, with an eight-track Panasonic outfit, wire wheels and Michelin X radials-asking them how many yellow Datsun 240Z's did they think there were in Detroit or northern Ohio or Indiana or wherever cars went to get sold or dumped. They told him, each time, don't worry, it would turn up. Of course it would probably be stripped of the eight-track Panasonic outfit, the wire wheels and the Michelin X radials, and would probably need some bodywork, but it would turn up. The pricks. Alan stopped calling the police right after he found out about Harry Mitchell of Ranco Manufacturing and looked him up, checked him out, got his D and B and everything but a urine specimen and knew he was the guy to hit. The one he and Leo had been waiting for.

Alan parked the T-bird across the street from the plant, a half-block away, and watched as the line of headlights, the second-shift employees, came out the drive from the parking lot behind the place and turned into the street. Some of the cars came out and made a little jog over to the Pine Top Bar. Alan could see the green neon sign in his rearview mirror, a couple hundred feet behind him. He waited until the driveway cleared, then waited another fifteen minutes to be sure. He didn't like it at all. Would have to watch what he said, in case Mitchell's office was bugged. He would accept no money tonight, even if he was offered the whole load, in case the cops were waiting in the next room or in the goddamn closet. What could they get him for?

Murder? What murder? What girl?

Answer: Yeah, I know a few girls worked there. Big turnover; they leave, you never see them again.

He had been out to Mitchell's house, hadn't he?

Answer: Yeah, I was there once, I explained it to his wife. I'm starting up a personalized accounting service for households, people who spend a few thousand a month and don't like to bother with bills and bank statements. That's my background, accounting.

Quick thinking wins again. He almost told Mitchell's wife he was a real estate salesman. This was much better. He could point to his background, and hope they didn't look into it too closely.

All right. Mitchell had asked him to come out and look at his books. Almost his exact words. That's all he knew and that's why he was here.

What else?

He couldn't think of anything else, of any way they could nail him and make it stick. But he still didn't like it.

The Thunderbird made a lazy circle through the empty parking lot, crept toward the plant and came to a stop not far from Mitchell's Grand Prix. There was a silence before the car door slammed.

Mitchell stood in the light that came from above the rear door. When he saw the figure coming toward him, he pulled the door open and held it.

"Mr. Mitchell?"

Mitchell didn't say anything.

"Mr. Mitchell?" Alan walked up to him, taking his time. "I understand you'd like me to look at your books."

"There's nobody here," Mitchell said. He went in first, letting Alan catch the door and follow.

"My, you got some machinery, haven't you? What is it exactly you make, Mr. Mitchell?"

Alan grinned, beginning to relax, looking around as he followed Mitchell through the plant and along the hallway to the front offices, past clean metal desks and filing cabinets in bright fluorescent light, into Mitchell's office. Mitchell closed the door and nodded toward his desk.

"There. That represents everything I owe or own, my net worth as of right now. Help yourself."

Alan walked around the desk, looking down at the forms, ledgers and bankbooks. "What is it you want me to do, see if everything's in order?"

"I told you there's nobody here," Mitchell said. "There's no hidden recording device of any kind. You can look if you want."

Alan sat down at the seven-foot glass-top desk. It was easier not to say anything than to nose around looking for a bug. He began studying the titles on the forms and statements.

Mitchell stood across from him. "If you know what you're doing, it'll take you three or four hours to go through all this. If you don't know what you're doing it could take you forever and you still wouldn't know."

Alan grinned up at him. "Don't worry about me, Mr. Mitchell. I bet I can read this quicker than your own accountant."

"I had a feeling you could," Mitchell said. "You took Biz Ad in college and what happened?"

"I found there's more to be made in the film business," Alan said pleasantly. "But I like to keep my hand in accounting, so to speak."

"In other people's accounting."

"Yes sir, pick up a little extra here and there."

"You going to go through everything?"

"I'll look enough to get the feel of it anyway."

"The government takes sixty-five percent of my salary."

"I see that."

"We live on the rest. The balance of my royalty each year has been going into municipals and other long-term investments. Past royalty income is in trust funds and neither can be touched. You understand?"

"Yes sir. Like so many people who make a lot of money, you don't seem to have any."

"That sheet in front of you, it itemizes everything, adds, subtracts and comes up with a figure. You see it?"

Alan nodded. "Fifty-two thousand."

"That's what I can put my hands on right now," Mitchell said. "Not a dime more than that before next April."

"That's when your fiscal year ends?"

"When we pledge our allegiance to the I.R.S."

"What about next year?" Alan said. "Same amount, uh? Unless you can convert some of these other stocks."

"I'm not worried about next year," Mitchell said. "There's something about your life-style tells me you probably won't be around. I'm thinking only of the present, and I'm thinking of my family. I've worked hard to leave them something and I intend to do it without selling my company or house or changing my way of life. So I'll deal with you right now, at a figure you'll see is the going rate. Fifty-two thousand dollars. If you insist on more, then I won't pay you anything. If you go through with your threat to inform the police, then I'll tell them everything I know and you'll be up to your neck in it. I think I'd have a fairly good chance of beating the charge. Even better than you'd have. But I don't want to take that chance. Mainly because of what it would do to my family." Mitchell paused. "So do you want fifty-two thousand dollars or a lot of trouble and a reasonably good chance of going to jail?"

Alan looked at Mitchell but didn't say anything.

Mitchell waited. He said then, "How you split it is up to you. A hundred and five cut three ways is thirty-five thousand each. Fifty-two split is seventeen-three… if you split it in thirds, but that's up to you." He waited again.

"Look at it this way. Whatever you get is better than nothing. I might have shown you a debit balance with all kinds of liens against me, including the I.R.S. You see what I mean? You threaten me with a murder conviction and jail, and all the while the government could have had first crack at me."

"You never know," Alan said, "do you? Life is full of surprises." He was thoughtful again. "How long would it take you to get your hands on the fifty-two?"

"Five days. Something like that."

"Well, let's take a look at it."

"You want to come here?"

"Maybe, I'll let you know."

"One other thing," Mitchell said. "Keep your buddies out of it. Pay them what you want, but I'm only dealing with you. Otherwise it's off."

"It's all right with me." Alan thought a moment and then got up from the desk. "Answer me something. Who was it told you where to find me?"

Mitchell gave him a surprised look. "Your friend Leo. Who'd you think?"

He watched the car drive out of the parking lot, then walked back through the plant to his office, sat down at the desk and wrote himself a note.

Call O'Boyle in the morning. See what his friend can find out about Alan Raimy and Leo Frank.

And went straight home.