52 pickup

16

It was the next day that Alan panicked .

He came out of the men's room and there they were, a patrolman and a plainclothesman he knew right away was a cop, standing by the door to his office. So he walked down the aisle and took a seat and watched the last fifteen minutes of Going Down on the Farm, now in its Second Smash Week. Saved by his bladder.

Maybe the plainclothesman was on the vice squad and they were cracking down on dirty movies again. That was a possibility. Or maybe they were selling Police Field Day tickets to local merchants. Yeah, or they were here to give him a good citizenship award. Bullshit, Mitchell had changed his mind, hit by his straight-A conscience, and blown the whistle. That had to be it. After only a couple minutes of thinking about it, Alan was convinced Mitchell had gone to the cops. As the picture ended and some of the audience began to leave, Alan moved down the aisle to the fire exit and went out that way, into the alley.

He got away from there in a Michigan Bell telephone repair truck, a Chevy van, that was parked near the end of the alley with the key in the ignition. He drove out North Woodward for no reason other than it was the quickest way to get some distance.

But within a few miles he began to calm down and think about it again. Maybe the cops weren't after him. Maybe they really were from the vice squad. Every other year or so there was a crackdown on porno movies. No explicit sex within five feet of them actually doing it. No front shots of guys, though beavers were all right. Alan hated censorship. He hated himself a little now for running. He should have somehow found out what they wanted. Call and see if they talked to anybody. But was he really running? Or was he going this way for a reason? His instinct telling him what to do before his head even realized it. Like everything was clear and simple and he knew all the time what he was going to do. Why not? Put the plan to work that he'd been thinking about. A little luck wouldn't hurt; but if his timing was off he could always improvise, or try it tomorrow or the next day. The plan in general would work, one way or another.

He turned off Woodward into downtown Royal Oak, took the telephone company truck up to the top of a municipal parking structure and left it there. He'd pick up something else on the way out, something a little sportier.

At the pay phone by the entrance he dialed Mitchell's home number. He listened to Barbara say hello three times, then hung up. He dialed a local number next.

"Hey Richard, how you making it? Alan. Listen, I'm out your way, Bobby asked me to pick him up some scag… Man, I don't know. That's what he said, scag. Maybe he's changing his habits or it's for a friend, I don't know… Yeah… No, he'll pay you next time. Bet on it, you know Bobby… At the parking thing in town… Man, the big fucking five-story parking lot whatever the fuck you call it building…Yeah, I'll be up on top."

Alan went down the street to a drug store and paid a buck forty-seven for a package of ten Plastipak disposable U-80 Insulin syringe/needle units.

By the time he got back to the roof of the parking structure, Richard the dealer was there. Alan didn't see him-skinny young black guy with a big grin and a newspaper folded under one arm-until he stepped out of the med panel truck that had SUPER-RITE DRUGS painted on the side in white letters along with an RX prescription symbol.

"Jesus," Alan said, "nobody will ever say you don't have some kind of a fucking sense of humor."

"It's a touch," the dealer said, grinning. "I seen the truck in the used-car lot. I said, man, I got to have it."

"In your name?"

"Shit, my cousin's name. He still in the slam."

"Bobby's got to see it," Alan said. "Too fucking much."

"Yeah, Bobby have something to say. Speaking of Bobby." He handed Alan the folded newspaper. "Shit never been his pleasure, but as you say, maybe it's for some chickie friend. You need anything for yourself?"

Alan took the envelope out of the newspaper and folded it into his pocket. "You have it in the truck?"

"No man, but I can get it right now."

"I got to be somewhere," Alan said. "In fact, I'm late." He paused a moment. "Hey, you wouldn't let me use your truck, would you?"

"Use my truck-how'd you get here?"

"Guy dropped me off. Listen, it's a long story. What I got to do is see a man wants to buy some smoker movies. Take me about a half-hour at the most."

The dealer wasn't sure and wasn't grinning now. He said, "The man live around here?"

"Over in Southfield. He wants to buy some movies, you know, for his club; but he's got some old equipment and he doesn't know if it's any good. I got to look at it. Half-hour's all, Richard. You don't have any stuff in the truck, do you?"

"It's clean."

"Then what're you worried about? It isn't even in your name."

"I got a piece in there."

"So keep it there," Alan said. "You want to stand on the roof of the fucking parking lot with a piece in your hands?"

"You want to get stopped with it?"

"Stopped for what? I'm a very careful driver, obey all the traffic regulations. I'm not worried about the piece. I don't even know where it is, I don't want to know. All I want to do is to see a guy."

"Something I don't like," the dealer said.

"What don't you like? Richard, hey, go have a cup of coffee or something, I'll be back in half an hour. No shit, scout's honor."

That's how Alan got the panel truck with SUPER-RITE DRUGS written on the side. That was also how he got the piece, another Lucky Jackpot of the Year Award for clean living. It wasn't in the glove compartment-which he had to bust open, snapping the lock with a screwdriver-it was up under the instrument panel, hanging there in a wool sock: a kind of automatic he had never seen before, a cheap little Saturday night gun without a name or number, but it had nine live ones in the clip and that's what counted.

It was turning out to be a good day.

It was, in fact, the first warm sunny day in almost a month: a clear sky finally, now that it was the middle of May, temperature in the high sixties. The touch of wind was cool, but the stockade fence held off the gusts that came across the yard and it was almost hot on the patio.

Barbara reclined in a lounge chair with the backrest set low, her eyes closed, her face raised to the sun. The first good hot feel of sunshine in three months, since Mexico. She wore a yellow bikini that once had been her daughter's. With her flat-sunken stomach, firm thighs and trace of the winter-vacation tan, her body seemed made for the bikini. But she had a feeling about wearing one and she put it on only for backyard sunning or if she was off somewhere with Mitch, alone.

Lying there she thought of Mitch. She thought of the girl and wondered what she had looked like. No, she couldn't do that. She thought of Mitch again and hoped he was at the plant and if she called him he would answer. But she didn't get up to call. Mitch handled matters his own way. She would have to be patient and wait, not nagging or pleading or telling him to be careful. If you want him, she thought, that's the way he is. And she wanted him.

She thought about the house and having the storms taken off and the windows washed and the lawn cut and fertilized and the swimming pool cleaned out. She tried to think of the name of the pool maintenance company they had called last year. Aqua something. Aqua-Queen- "You got a nice navel."

Her eyes opened abruptly. The sun was on a line over his shoulder, a halo behind him, and for a moment until she shielded her eyes, she could not see his face clearly.

"I like a nice deep navel in a little round tum-tum," Alan said. "Please don't move, lady, till I tell you to."

She had started to push up out of the chair, swinging her legs to the side away from him. She stopped as he took the newspaper from under his arm, opened one fold and showed her the gun inside.

"You see it?" He folded the newspaper, putting it under his arm again. "Now you don't. But you know where it is."

Barbara stared at him. "What do you want?"

"You remember me? Silver Lining Accounting Service." Alan smiled. "What was the line? We make a mistake we eat it. Something like that."

"I know who you are," Barbara said. "I know what you are."

"So I don't have to introduce myself and give you references," Alan said. "Now what I want you to do is get up, put your little sandals on and go in the house. I'll be right behind you."

When Barbara swung her legs to his side of the lounge and bent over to straighten her sandals, to slip them on, Alan got a good clear shot of her breasts. He said, "Jesus, I don't know what he was fooling around with that skinny chick for."

Then, inside the house, after he had checked to make sure the doors were locked, following close behind her, his eyes holding on the movement of her hips, he said, "Jesus, I bet you start that thing going it takes all night to shut it off. My, having that right at home."

He took her into the kitchen and told her to get up on the table and fold her legs under her like an Indian. She sat there watching him, not sure what he was doing until he took the package of disposable syringes and the envelope out of his pocket.

Alan used an egg poacher. He got the water boiling, set the aluminum tray over it and cooked the heroin, diluted with a spoonful of water, in one of the concave sections of the tray, where the egg would go. Alan grinned and said, "Shit, man, gourmet cooking; Bobby'd take one look at this setup and have to get one." Bobby mostly blew coke, though, he told Barbara. Bobby said shit messed him up and made him sick.

She watched him bend over the egg poacher and carefully draw the white-powder-turned-to-liquid into a syringe, pushing the plunger in to release the air bubbles then drawing it out again slowly, getting almost every drop of the liquid.

When he turned to her, holding the syringe so that the needle pointed up, he said, "It won't feel hot. Maybe a little warm going in."

"I don't want it," Barbara said.

"Lady, it's just scag. Give you a nice slow ride uptown, see the lights."

"I don't want it."

"Jesus, I'm not hooking you. I just want to make you quiet and easy to handle. Put your leg out, either one." His free hand reached toward her.

When she pulled away from him, holding onto the edge of the table, he slapped her hard across the face. She made a sound, more of surprise than pain, and he hit her again.

"Now put your leg out!"

He grabbed her by the ankle and pulled. Barbara fell back against the curtain covering the lower part of the window, off-balance now, on her elbows. Alan turned, taking her leg under one arm, squeezing the angle and pushing the syringe into the vein that popped out beneath his thumb. He felt her tighten and try to draw her other leg free, but not in time to kick him or push him away. His thumb raised over the syringe, stroked it down slowly and the lady was on her way.

She remembered the feeling from a time before, lying in a hospital bed after the nurse had given her the shot. Like that, but a deeper, more complete feeling: her mind and body wrapped in comfortable comforting softness, floating without moving in warm water that had no wetness, floating without moving to keep afloat, suspended in the good feeling. She was aware but not sure if she was awake. It was not something to think about because there was nothing, no reason to think. Being, without touching, lying on a bed, her bed, their bed, that had always been firm but now had no feeling, as though she were lying not on the bed but in the bed and the bed was warm motionless water. Someone else was in the room. The skinny man. Skinny legs and shoulders and long hair, his hair hanging, his skinny face looking down at her. Now he was closer to her and she felt him touch her, his hand on her thigh, on her stomach. She said, "I'm so tired." His voice, someone's voice, said, "Then why don't you go sleepy-bye? Close your eyes-"

"How was it?"

Her eyes were open. She was looking at the white ceiling. She thought of the hospital room again. No, she was at home, lying on her bed. In bed. Someone had spoken to her, a sound of words, or a dream. There was light in the room, maybe time to get up, but she felt more asleep than awake: the nice drowsy early-morning feeling of peace and quiet and a warm bed. Roll over and look at the alarm clock on the bed table. Next to the telephone. The telephone had been moved and was in the way. She raised her head from the pillow. It was only six o'clock. It seemed later. She let her face sink into the pillow and closed her eyes. A few more minutes. Lying on her side she drew her legs up. Her body was warm, but she felt a chill, a draft, on her back and she reached down for the sheet and blanket. Her hand felt only her bare thigh and hip. She turned, opening her eyes and pushing up on one arm, still with the drowsy feeling, but with awareness and memory clicking in her mind. She was naked except for the yellow bikini bra covering her breasts.

"I asked you how was it?"

"What time is it?"

"Six."

"You were here all night?"

"It's six in the evening, Slim, not the morning."

She sat up, too quickly, almost falling back down again, seeing Alan at the foot of the bed, and had to put her hands behind her to support herself, closing and opening her eyes with the warm light feeling in her head, but also aware of herself reclining naked in front of him, like a painting, a model in a painting. The Nude Maja. By-she rolled to the edge of the bed, trying to push her legs over the side and get up.

Alan came around from the foot of the bed, holding the syringe upright in one hand. As her feet touched the floor he pushed her down again, effortlessly.

Alan smiled at her. "Feel pretty good, huh? You been up and away almost three hours. Tomorrow you may be a little constipated, but you'll get over it."

She had nothing to cover herself with so she lay without moving, her hands flat on the bed at her sides. A patient watching her doctor.

"What did you to do me?"

"Guess."

Barbara stared at him but said nothing.

Alan grinned. "You squirmed around a lot. You don't remember? You moaned, said a few things. Nothing dirty."

"What did you do to me?"

"Give you a hint," Alan said. "You can't even knock anybody up doing it." He grinned at her and winked. "Now I got to shoot you up again. We're about ready to get out of here."

As Barbara started to push up, to lunge at him or get past him, Alan hit her with a fist, chopping it quick and hard into her upturned face. "Be nice," Alan said. He got her leg under his arm and squeezed the ankle to pop the vein.

The telephone rang.

Leo began that day with a vodka and 7-Up. It didn't help any. He had two more, not wasting much time. Usually the vodka picked him up and a couple of them would give him a nice glow; but he still couldn't feel anything. He ordered another one and said to the owner of the Kit Kat, who was behind the bar, "You haven't seen them today by any chance, have you?"

"Not since last night," the bar owner said.

"They were together though, last night?"

"I don't know if they came in together. What I told you before, they left together."

"What time was that?"

"I don't know what time. They're sitting at the bar, they got up and left."

"I'll have another one," Leo said.

The bar owner looked at him because Leo had only taken an inch off the top of his fourth drink; but when he came back with a fresh vodka and Seven-Up Leo was ready for it. The bar owner moved away and Leo sat there alone. One other guy was sitting up toward the front end of the bar with a Strohs.

Leo hadn't been able to locate either of them yesterday, to find out what the hell was going on. Alan hadn't been home or at work. Doreen said she hadn't seen Bobby or Alan all day. Bobby disappeared sometimes, but not Alan. He always knew where Alan was, or Alan knew where he was. Since getting into this deal they'd seen each other every day. Now, all of a sudden, Alan wasn't anywhere around.

Drinking the vodka Leo thought it over carefully, seeing Alan in his apartment the last time and remembering what he'd said. It was over. The guy couldn't pay. But the guy knew who they were. They couldn't take a chance on the guy not going to the police. Then sounding friendly toward the end, saying they had to stick together and maybe, after a while, look for another guy to hit. Why had he sounded so friendly? The whole deal blows up. They kill the girl for nothing. They have to kill the guy now. And Alan sounds friendly, not the least bothered about it or nervous. If they were supposed to stick together then where the hell was Alan? Like they were ditching him.

There were guys he hung around with a long time ago used to do that, ditch him. Sometimes they'd just take off running and leave him behind when he couldn't catch up. Or he was supposed to meet them somewhere and they wouldn't be there. Or he'd find out they'd all gone to a show and nobody had bothered to call him or come by his house. Once he was sixteen his mother let him use the car a lot, a blue six-cylinder Plymouth coupe, and for a while they let him drive them around and hardly ever ditched him. He hadn't seen any of them in a long time now. Not since he worked at his first motel as a night clerk, a six-buck place out on Telegraph. They found out he could fix them up with young fifteen-dollar broads out of high school and sometimes they'd come by two-thirty in the morning half-loaded on beer.

Something was going on.

He wondered if maybe Alan had seen Mitchell again. Or if Bobby had seen him and put the guy away. There was nothing in the morning Free Press or the early edition of the News. It could be too soon. They could have taken the guy somewhere and dumped him and his body hadn't been found yet. He said to himself, What's the matter with you?

Leo went to the pay phone near the entrance. He had to get the number of Ranco Manufacturing from the operator because it was out of the city, in Fraser. When he dialed the number and asked for Mr. Mitchell, the girl's voice asked who was calling please. He said, "Tell him Alan Raimy." He waited. When he heard Mitchell's voice, recognizing it immediately, he hung up the receiver and held it down hard in the cradle until he was sure Mitchell was off the line. He lifted it to his face again and dialed Alan's apartment. Still no answer. He dialed the movie theater. Alan wasn't in yet. Was he expected? Nobody seemed to know. He dialed Doreen's number again. No answer.

Leo had two more vodka and Seven-Ups at the bar. He was sure something was going on. He was beginning to be sure they didn't want to be seen with him. Because something was going to happen to him and if they were seen with him anytime before it happened they could be taken in and questioned. This way, if they were questioned for any reason, they'd say no, they hadn't seen him in a couple of days. And nobody could prove otherwise.

What the hell was he doing sitting here? Making it easy for them. The whole thing had looked easy. Foolproof, Alan had said. They'd have to be fucking idiots to blow this one. It was their chance to make it for life. Christ, his life was going by so fast all of a sudden. Christ, what had he done, accomplished? Worked at some motels. Handled some broads. Got them their business but had to pay when he wanted a little. Even the dumb-looking ones nobody wanted and didn't last, he had to pay. Three arrests for pandering. Two suspended, one conviction. Ninety days in DeHoco, fucking Detroit House of Correction. Famous milestones in the life of Leo Frank. When his mother died he was the beneficiary of a $25,000 life insurance policy and a year-old T-bird. Hot shit, his troubles were over. He'd invest it in some kind of business. He rented a storefront and set up the model studio; that took five. He met Alan, loaned him almost ten and pissed away the rest of it in less than a year. Alan had bought a sports car and fixed up his apartment with a lot of weird shit and hadn't paid him back as much as a dime of the ten he borrowed. All Alan ever did, pushed him around, ditched him, insulted him- Leo walked back to the phone and dialed Ranco Manufacturing again. This time, when Mitchell came on, Leo didn't hang up.

He said, "Mr. Mitchell, this is Leo Frank. From the model studio?… Yeah, how are you?… Listen, I'd like to talk to you sometime soon, I mean today, you get a chance…"

Mitchell could have walked-the Pine Top was across the road and only a block down-but it might have looked funny. Where was the boss going, walking off at two o'clock in the afternoon? It was an industrial area of small plants, warehouses and vacant lots for sale. There wasn't anyplace he could be walking to except the bar. So Mitchell drove over and parked the Grand Prix in the lot on the side of the green-painted cinder-block building, among the pickup trucks and sedans with hardhats on the rear window ledges.

Mitchell had been inside only a few times before. He remembered nothing in particular about the place: a bar that looked like hundreds of other bars, a country ballad on the jukebox and about a dozen workingmen sitting around drinking Strohs, most of them at the bar. The first person Mitchell recognized was Ed Jazik, the Local 199 Union business agent. He was alone at the bar. Mitchell walked past him and Jazik didn't turn around or seem to notice him. He saw Leo Frank at a table against the wall, fooling with a plastic swizzle stick. A drink and another stick were on the table.

Standing up extending his hand, Leo gave him a big smile. Mitchell took the hand firmly, giving the limp thick flesh a little pressure, and heard Leo's voice catch as he said, "I'm glad you could make it. I didn't meeeeean… to take you away from your work." There was a hint of relief in his expression as the waitress came over and Mitchell sat down. "What would you like?"

"Nothing," Mitchell said.

"Well, I might as well have another one," Leo said to the waitress, "long as you're here." As the waitress left he took a moderate sip of his vodka drink and looked over at the bar and toward the front, avoiding Mitchell's gaze.

"Place does pretty well for the afternoon," Leo said. "I bet they got some go-go in here they could do even better."

"Three-thirty and eleven-thirty they do their business," Mitchell said, "when the shifts let out."

"I imagine it's strictly shot and a beer, huh?"

"I imagine," Mitchell said. He waited, in no hurry, watching Leo sipping at the drink, then lighting a cigarette, working up his nerve.

"I understand," Leo said, "you finally got in touch with Alan, the guy you were looking for?"

"I saw him," Mitchell said. "Then he came out to see me. He tell you about it?"

"He mentioned it. Ah, fine," Leo said to the waitress, taking the fresh drink and handing her his empty. He stirred the drink for a moment. "What I been wondering, why you told him it was me who said where to find him."

"I didn't tell him it was you."

"He said you did. He said"-Leo grinned-"your exact words, your friend told me, Leo Frank."

"Somebody's mistaken," Mitchell said. "I didn't tell him anything."

"Well, why would he tell me that?"

"You know him better than I do," Mitchell said. "Why would he?"

Leo thought about it. He took about a third of his drink and thought about it some more.

"I don't know. It was like he was blaming it all on me."

"Blaming what all on you?"

"I mean, well, you know. What he talked to you about, the deal? It fell through, didn't it?"

"He told you that?"

"Well, see, I really don't know much about it, you know? I was just trying to get you two guys together. As a favor is all. And he says you said it was me told you where to find him."

"Leo," Mitchell said, "I know you, I know Alan and I know the colored guy. I got his name, Robert Shy, and the number off his driver's license. I know where all of you live or work. I know it's you three that killed a girl named Cynthia Fisher and I know it's you three I have to pay to get out of this. Leo, why don't you have another drink?"

He could smell Leo's after-shave. The man seemed afraid to move, sitting there holding onto his glass and looking directly at Mitchell now. He tried a little drink, shaking his head.

"You got it wrong if you think I'm in on it. Alan told you that?" Like he couldn't believe it.

"Leo," Mitchell said, "why don't we quit beating around? I made a deal with Alan. Evidently he hasn't told you about it yet. Or the colored guy. He came to see me, he didn't know about it either."

"Alan said you couldn't pay, you owe the government."

Mitchell nodded. "That's what the colored guy said."

"Bobby came to see you?"

"Leo, let's talk about Alan. I made him an offer. I said I'd give you guys fifty-two thousand bucks, because that's all I can afford to pay. He looked at my books, he said all right, he'd settle for that. I said, you're going to split with your partners? I don't want them on my back, I want it done. He says, of course."

"He told us you didn't have any money. You owed the government."

"Leo, I know that. You want to talk about that, talk to Alan."

"Son of a bitch. I knew something was going on."

"You want another drink?" Mitchell looked over toward the bar. He didn't see Jazik now. "I'll have one with you."

"The son of a bitch. Yeah, vodka and Seven."

Mitchell raised an arm to the waitress and held up two fingers.

"I knew it," Leo was saying, "by the way he acted, the way he talked, he was pulling something."

"If you expect me to feel sorry for you," Mitchell said, "that's quite a bit to ask, isn't it? Under the circumstances." He was surprised at his own tone and the fact he could be calm and talk to Leo and not punch him through the wall. When the waitress brought their drinks, Mitchell raised his glass.

"I'm sorry I can't wish you luck, buddy. But I'm sure you can understand I don't give a shit what happens to you. Or to Alan, or the colored guy, Bobby."

Leo took a drink. "I'm telling you I'm not as involved in this as you might think."

"Well, you're sort of mixed up in it then."

"It was Alan's idea."

"I believe it," Mitchell said.

"What they did to the girl? Honest to God, I told them I wouldn't have any part of it."

"You were there though, weren't you?"

"You can't prove that."

"I'm not trying to prove anything," Mitchell said. "I'm trying to get this settled, over with. Even if I have to pay fifty-two thousand. I've made that clear."

"You pay and it's over with all right," Leo said. "He's already set it up. Once you pay him he puts Bobby on you. Or he does it himself. Jesus, for all I know they're both in it. They were together yesterday. Bobby knows Alan was pulling something, but they're still hanging around together."

"Like they're taking you out of the picture," Mitchell said, "splitting two ways."

"I don't know. Christ, you never know what he's thinking, Alan, he's got a weird fucking mind."

"I don't know either," Mitchell said. "But I have to take his word and pay, or else I face a murder charge with a good case against me."

Leo was staring at him, thinking. After a moment he leaned in close to the table. "What if you went to the cops on your own? Told them the whole story."

"I think the odds are I'd go to jail."

"No. I back you up. We make a deal with the cops. I testify against Alan and Bobby. I go on the stand, say they killed the girl-if the cops'll let me plead, I don't know, say just to the blackmail part. And that's the truth, I was never for killing the girl."

"I don't know," Mitchell said. "It'd be only your word. They'd still have a case against me."

"What case?"

"The girl's body. My gun, the film-"

"You want to know something?" Leo said. "There is no girl's body."

"What do you mean?"

"It's at the bottom of Lake Erie, in all the pollution and shit."

"Since when?"

"Since they did it. You believe she's on ice somewhere because you can't take a chance she isn't. Right? Alan figured that. You see her killed and that's what you remember. It sticks in your mind. It scares the shit out of you and you agree to pay. Only now you know Alan and Bobby did it. They can't take a chance. You pay or you don't, either way they kill you."

"Or us," Mitchell said. He was silent a moment. "What about the films?"

"In the lake with the girl."

"And my gun?"

Leo hesitated. "It's somewhere else. Case they need it again."

"If nothing can be proved against me," Mitchell said, "then I'm out of it, huh?"

"You can think so," Leo said, "but they're still going to kill you, whether you pay or not. Listen, they do it easy."

Mitchell watched Leo finish his drink. He picked up his own glass, untouched, and placed it in front of Leo.

"For the road."

"You going?"

"Why, we have anything else to talk about?"

"I'm telling you they're going to kill you." Leo was tense, staring at him again. "You haven't said anything about what you're going to do."

"I don't know yet," Mitchell said. "Think about it, I guess. Or wait and see what happens to you. Then I'll know if they're serious or not."

The way Ed Jazik's car was facing, away from the bar, into a vacant lot, he could watch Mitchell's Grand Prix through his rearview mirror. Coming out a few minutes ago he had looked at Mitchell's car and had come very close to smashing a window and doing the job right then. But Mitchell probably had seen him inside. Or he might come out too soon. When Mitchell did come out, and Jazik watched him drive the short distance up the road and turn into his plant, he was glad he waited. It would've been easier to smash the window and do it here, but doing it over in the plant parking lot would be better, because his employees would come running out the back door and see it. The shift changed in a half-hour. Then give it another half-hour or so, wait till after the office employees all went home, then go over there. Pull in the drive, turn around to be facing out and keep the engine running. Take about half a minute.

Jazik went back inside the Pine Top and ordered a Strohs at the bar. His fourth one this afternoon. He looked over at the guy Mitchell had been talking to: fat clown in a striped suitcoat tight across his shoulders, hunched over the table with two drinks at once. Slob was probably a customer of Mitchell's, owned some manufacturing plant. Fat son of a bitch sitting there, nothing to do, nothing to worry about. The guys that had it all looked alike.

The package for Mr. Harry Mitchell arrived by United Parcel while Janet was clearing her desk, ready to leave for the day. The label imprint bore the name of a Detroit luggage shop, and by the compact size of the carton Janet was fairly sure it was a case of some kind. She opened the carton to find the case, or whatever it was, gift-wrapped in silver-and-white-striped paper with a ribbon and bow. There was no card on the outside.

Mitchell looked up as Janet came into his office and placed it on his desk.

"What's that?"

"I don't know. It's not your birthday, is it?"

"Who's it from?"

"The card must be inside. Do you want to open it or should I?"

"You do it."

He watched Janet slit the taped ends with a letter opener and slide the case out without tearing the paper: a black attache case with chrome clasps and lock. It was shiny, inexpensive-looking, like plastic passing for patent leather. Janet turned the case to face Mitchell, picked up the ribbon and began winding it around her hand, watching as he snapped open the clasps and raised the top half. She couldn't see inside.

"Isn't there a card?"

Mitchell picked up a small folded piece of product literature. "It's a Porta-Sec," he read. "Your portable executive secretary from Travel-Rama… made of genuine Hi-Sheen Tuffy-Hyde."

Janet wasn't sure what to say. She tried, "Do you like it?"

"What I've always wanted," Mitchell said.

She hesitated another moment. "There isn't a card?"

"I don't see any."

"Do you know who it's from?"

"Not offhand. Maybe they forgot to put it in."

"I'll call the store if you want."

"No, that's all right."

"Well, if you don't have anything else for me…"

"Not that I can think of," Mitchell said and looked up at her pleasantly. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He waited until Janet was out of the office and the door closed before he picked up the little envelope from the empty case and took out the card. Printed in pencil it said, HAPPY 52 SPORT! HOPE TO SEE THOUSANDS MORE!

John Koliba, second-shift leader, came out of the Quality Control room and walked down the aisle toward the last Warner-Swasey in the row of turning machines. It was a quarter of six, he would recall later. He was going over to tell the operator to shut the machine down and change the turret adjustment for a run of bushing plate stops. He wasn't sure if he happened to look over at the rear door first or if he heard the explosion outside and then looked over, because it all happened like at the same time. He heard it and, through the glass part of the door, saw the flames shoot up inside the car that was parked about thirty feet away. It wasn't a very loud explosion, a dull, sort of muffled sound, but heavy. Most of the other employees working toward this end of the shop heard it too and were right behind Koliba by the time he was outside and saw that it was Mr. Mitchell's car on fire. Koliba yelled at a couple of guys to get fire extinguishers. Then he ran back inside and through the plant to get Mitchell. But when he got to Mitchell's office the door was closed and for a moment he didn't know what to do, if he'd be interrupting him or what. He said to himself, For Christ sake, and banged on the door. The voice inside said, "Come in." Koliba pushed the door open, stood there looking at Mitchell behind his desk and said, "I don't mean to bother you, but somebody just fire-bombed your car."

By the time Mitchell and Koliba got there all the second-shift men who could shut down and get away from their machines were outside in the parking lot. The two men with the fire extinguishers were covering the car with blasts of white foam but not doing much good. The flames filled the interior of the car and smoke billowed out of a partly open window. Finally one of them edged in close enough to get a door open and shove the megaphone nozzle of the extinguisher inside and let go. The car filled with foam and the flames seemed to be smothered. Cars were being moved out of the near vicinity of the fire. A man would be watching with concentrated interest, then realize his own car was parked close to the Grand Prix and wake up and run to get it the hell out of there. Beyond the fire and thick smoke, for several minutes cars were pulling out and making turns all over the parking lot.

Mitchell stood watching, his hand on the rim of a metal waste bin of scrapped parts. He said to Koliba, next to him, "Why'd you say it was a fire-bomb?"

Koliba's little eyes, squinting, held on the car. "I seen it before." Mitchell didn't say anything and Koliba looked at him. "What else could it be? You leave a cigarette on the carpeting?"

Mitchell still didn't say anything.

"You ever seen wiring catch fire inside a car? Under the hood, yeah, but not inside."

"Maybe it was the gas tank."

"The tank didn't go. Not yet it didn't," Koliba said. "It started inside, gasoline or something. But it wasn't poured in, you know, sloshed around the upholstery and the guy throws a match in. No, because I heard it. I was going over to Number Six and I seen it blow up, like the guy lit a wick or a rope soaked in gas or something and got the hell out before it went. Otherwise he'd thrown a match, I'd have seen him."

Mitchell was staring at the car, at the interior filled with foam that was like soapsuds.

"No chance of it being an accident?"

Koliba looked at him again. He said, "Shit, you know as well as I do who done it."

A machinist, coming out from the plant, spotted Mitchell and hurried over. "I called the fire department. They're on their way."

"Fire department, the fire's out," Koliba said.

"You think it's out," the machinist said. "They make sure."

"Tear the car apart doing it," Koliba said.

"Yeah, well you think it's out," the machinist said, "all of a sudden the son of a bitch blows up on you."

Mitchell wasn't listening to them. He had thought of Alan Raimy first-coming out and seeing the car burning-the hip creepy guy Alan, wondering why he would do something like this. He didn't think of Ed Jazik or remember Jazik at the bar across the street until Koliba said you know as well as I who did it. Koliba knew; there wasn't any question in his mind. It was as though everything lately had to do with Alan Raimy and the fat guy and the colored guy and dealing with them had become his primary business. But he was still operating a plant and had a maverick union management guy on his back. Jazik seemed a long time ago. Except that he was here and now, as real as the burned-out car. Something else to be handled. All right, call the local and yell at the president again. Or let it go. Maybe Jazik felt better now. He couldn't concentrate on both Jazik and Alan Raimy. One of them had to be set aside. Jazik. Though he should keep his eyes open. Maybe for another slowdown. Jazik shows off and maybe wins a couple of new friends in the shop. So maybe there would be more breakdowns to watch for. Christ.

He looked at the metal bin he was leaning against, at the hundreds of machined parts that had been scrapped during the past two weeks. He reached in and picked out of the bin a switch actuator housing and held it in the palm of his hand. It looked fine, except the inside diameter was off tolerance maybe a thousandth of an inch. Mitchell held the part in his hand as he walked over to the wet, smoking car and looked inside at the gutted scorched interior that was steaming glistening charred black and smelled of burned vinyl and rubber.

Somebody said, "Mr. Mitchell, you better get back. That gas tank's liable to go."

Next to him, John Koliba said, "It'd gone by now. Look, see the pieces of glass on the seat? Down in the springs. I bet you anything it was a bottle of gasoline exploded," Koliba grinned, his little eyes squinting. "I hope it was lead-free gas, uh? Don't want to pollute the air."

Right away he thought maybe he shouldn't have said it. Mitchell didn't smile or seem to think it was funny. He was looking at something he was holding in his hand.

"What's 'at?" Koliba said. "Something you found?"

Mitchell opened his hand to show him the metal part, the switch actuator housing. "Nothing. Piece of scrap."

"I thought maybe it was something you found in the car." Koliba watched Mitchell turn to walk away. "You gonna call the cops?"

"I don't know, I'll think about it," Mitchell said.

He walked back toward the plant. Koliba watched him toss the scrapped part in the air about a foot or so and catch it in one hand, then toss it up again and catch it, playing with it. His car was burned up and he didn't seem to think anything about it. Christ, I'd have the cops here, Koliba was thinking. Not the local cops, the goddamn FB fucking I, they'd take the broken glass or prints or something and pin the son of a bitch. Koliba heard the sirens then, out on the road coming this way. He looked over toward the drive with renewed interest to watch the fire engines arrive.

At six o'clock, sitting in his office with the Hi-Sheen Tuffy-Hyde attache case on the desk in front of him, Mitchell called his home.

The phone rang seven, eight, nine times. He was about to hang up when he heard his wife's voice say hello.

"Hi. You sound like you've been sleeping."

There was a long pause before she said yes, she'd taken a nap and just woke up.

"No tennis today-how come?"

There was a pause again. "I didn't feel like it," her voice said. "I guess I was tired."

"From what?"

"I don't know. Working around the house. I guess."

He said, "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

Maybe she was, but she sounded funny. He said, "The reason I called-I won't be home tonight. For two reasons. First I've got to work on something, a design, and I don't know how long it's going to take me. Maybe all night, or longer. And, I don't have a car. It's out of commission and I won't be able to get another one from the leasing place until tomorrow. I'll tell you about that later. The main thing, I'll be in my office or in Engineering-you've got that extension in your book-so if you need me for anything, be sure and call."

There was a silence on the other end of the line.

"Barbara?"

"Yes. I'm here."

"What's the matter? Don't you feel good?"

"I'm fine really. Just a second."

He waited several moments before she came on again.

"What time will you be home tomorrow?"

"I guess the usual. If the car isn't delivered, I'll get a ride with somebody. So I'll see you then." He paused before saying, "Barbara, I miss you."

The lifeless voice said, "I miss you too. God, I miss you." And hung up.

Mitchell replaced the receiver and sat with his hand still holding it, hearing her words and the voice he barely recognized. She hadn't said goodbye or given him a chance to say it. He thought about her, picturing her by the telephone in the kitchen, though she was probably in the bedroom if she had been taking a nap. He couldn't imagine her sleeping this late in the afternoon.

Well, he'd see her tomorrow. Or he could call later. Right now he'd better put his design hat on and get to it. He took the new attache case and the switch actuator he'd fished out of the trash bin, went into the drafting room of the Engineering Department and turned on the fluorescent lights that always seemed brighter and colder at night, with no one else in the room.

Leo got stopped by the Royal Oak Police coming across Ten Mile Road. He was sure the cop was going to make him get out and walk a line and stand on one foot and try and pick up a quarter-that's it, in for a breath test; he'd blow a twenty, the shape he was in, and spend the night in the tank. But the cop didn't make him get out. Maybe his luck was turning. The cop asked him for his operator's license and registration and asked him where he was going. Leo said he was going home. He said he had to go to the bathroom something awful and maybe that's why he was hurrying a little. He probably looked like he was in pain. He had used the bathroom excuse he'd learned from somebody a few times and sometimes it worked. Even cops had to go to the bathroom and unless the cop was sadistic he'd understand. This cop didn't waste a lot of time giving him the speech on safety and how they were just trying to keep people alive or any of that shit. He gave Leo a ticket for thirteen miles over the limit and told him to stop at the next gas station.

The plan: he was going to go home and pack a few things, his new double-knit houndstooth check, stop by the studio, get whatever dough was in the box, lock the place up and move to a motel, maybe out around Pontiac somewhere, contact Mitchell in a day or two and talk to him again about going to the cops. Maybe cops never smiled but they could be understanding and they were known to make deals. Give one guy a year, something like that, for blackmail, to get two guys for airtight first-degree murder. That was the plan.

But when he got home to the flat in Highland Park, he started worrying again what he should do with his mother's things, all her clothes and crappy jewelry. He should have sold the place and her stuff a year ago, right after she died. Now he'd have to leave it for God knows how long. He was sure somebody would break in and steal everything and wreck the place. The goddamn neighborhood was going to hell, becoming overpopulated with heads and freaks and hustlers, people supporting their habits. So he worried about that for a while. Until he decided he'd better take a couple of downers and sleep off some of the vodkas and Seven. He didn't have a glow now; he had a headache and a timed, heavy feeling.

When he woke up it was dark. By the time he got to the model studio it was after ten.

He emptied the metal box in his office, thirty bucks, got some pills, hair spray and after-shave out of the drawers, stuffed them in his coat pockets, went out to the desk in the lobby and checked the box there, empty, which he knew it would be but checked anyway. He was sitting there thinking. Okay, don't waste anymore time, go downtown or out to Pontiac but do it now.

He looked over and saw Bobby Shy watching him, over by the hallway and near the furniture, standing there with his hands in his pockets, watching him.

Leo said, "How'd you get in? Man, I didn't hear a sound."

"I walked in the back," Bobby Shy said.

"The door was locked. How could you walk in?"

"I don't know," Bobby said, "but here I am."

"Where you been? I been looking all over for you, for two days."

Bobby said, "Where have I been? I was where I was. What you mean where have I been?"

"Two days I haven't seen either of you. Man, I was starting to wonder."

"We're fixing up something to take care of the man," Bobby said. "I need his piece."

"You're gonna use his gun on him?"

"That's the idea."

"Tonight?"

"You want to know all that?" Bobby said. "Why don't you get me the piece, not worry about it?"

They went back to the office. Leo opened the top drawer of the file cabinet, felt around and came out with the.38 Smith amp; Wesson.

"I almost forgot I had it. I don't have the bullets," Leo said. "Alan kept them."

"I'll see Alan about that," Bobby said. He took the revolver and put it in the right-side pocket of his jacket.

Going back to the lobby Leo said, "I'll tell you the truth, I was starting to get nervous. I don't know what happened to you guys, where you could be. Then, you know, you start imagining things, like something's going on and they're leaving me out of it."

"We wouldn't leave you out," Bobby said. "You part of the group."

"You know how you start thinking when you don't know what's going on."

"Man," Bobby said, "sit down at the desk and take it easy. Think about nice things."

"I'm not worried now," Leo said. "I was a little nervous, but I'm okay now."

Bobby steered Leo over to the desk and gently, with his hands on his shoulders, sat him down.

"What're you doing?" Leo said. "Hey, what's going on?"

"Nothing going on," Bobby said. "I want you to sit down and rest, man, take it easy."

"Yeah, but I don't get it."

"What's to get? Sit there, man, don't move for a while. Let your body relax, feel at peace. There now."

Bobby walked away from the desk to the front door counting one, two, three, four and a half steps. He opened the door, gave Leo a nod and a little smile and walked outside.

The place next to the nude-model studio, also closed but with a light burning inside, was a dirty-book store. Bobby stepped into the alcove of the doorway, stood with his back to the street and the headlights of the cars passing, took the Smith amp; Wesson and five.38 cartridges out of his jacket and loaded the revolver. Glancing at the street, at the few cars going by but not studying them or worrying about them, he walked back to the front door of the model studio, counted one, two, three, four and a half steps past it, stopped, faced the black-painted plate glass in front of the D in nude models, raised the revolver belt-high and fired it at the glass, getting the heavy report and a hundred and twenty square feet of shattering glass and the D disappearing in front of him, gone, all at the same time. There was Leo still sitting behind the desk like he hadn't moved. Bobby didn't know if Leo had been hit. He extended the.38 in front of him and shot Leo four times, hitting him dead center in the chest, getting that last one in before Leo slid down behind the desk. Bobby didn't need to go in and check. He knew Leo was dead about the time he reached the floor.