52 pickup

18

Mitchell, carrying a hi-sheen Tuffy-Hyde attache case, let the fire door swing closed behind him. He reached for the wall switches, began killing every other bank of fluorescents and somewhere in the dim empty plant area a voice yelled out, "Hey! I can't see!"

Somebody was still here.

Mitchell didn't see who it was until he was walking toward the back, toward the sound, and John Koliba stepped out of a dark aisleway between rows of parts bins: Koliba, the white tight T-shirt stretched across his belly, holding a pair of rubber vacuum cups, one in each fist.

"I thought you was gone," Koliba said. "I would have swore you walked by five minutes ago with that case in your hand. I was over in Quality Control."

Mitchell said, "I was out here. I went back to my office for something."

"I guess I didn't see you go back."

"I didn't see you either," Mitchell said. "What're you up to?"

"Well-don't laugh, okay? I got an idea for a kind of handling rig I been fooling with, seeing if I can make it work. On my own time, you understand. Maybe I got something, I don't know yet."

"Why don't you work on it during your shift?" Mitchell said. And he was thinking, Why don't you get the hell out of here right now.

"Well, I figured I should do it on my own time. You know, you got designers, engineers. You didn't hire me for that kind of work."

"No, but if you think you've got something, John, I'm willing to take a chance, I mean pay you for your effort," Mitchell said. "Starting tomorrow, work on it during your shift."

"That's great." Koliba grinned, his eyes squinting almost closed. "You got a minute I'll show you what I'm doing, the idea."

"I'd like to see it," Mitchell said, "but let's wait'll tomorrow, okay? Why don't you knock off now, go on home?"

"Yeah, well listen, then I'll show it to you tomorrow."

"I want to lock up," Mitchell said. "The security man's sick or something. He's not around tonight."

"Right," Koliba said. "I'll wash up, be out in a minute."

"Good, I want to get out of here."

"Why don't you go ahead? I'll see the door gets locked."

"No, there's a couple of things I got to check," Mitchell said. "Just hurry it up, okay?"

He was thinking, Christ, quit talking, and walked away gripping the attache case at his side. Behind him Koliba said something about a couple minutes is all. Ahead of him, down the aisle past the turning machines and the rows of stock bins, a spot of light reflected on the glass section of the rear door. He reached the door and looked out.

The reflection was from a light pole. The parking lot was empty. Good.

No, Christ, there was one car parked in a lane over to the far right. Of course. Koliba's. He said to himself, Why did he pick tonight of all the nights? Guy showing initiative, wanting to get ahead. And it's your own fault, you talked to him, inspired him. God. He said, Come on, John, come out right now and get in your car and get the hell out of here, will you? God, get him out of here. But almost as he said it to himself, like a silent prayer, it was too late.

The headlight beams appeared, coming out of the driveway on the side of the plant, the way they had appeared, creeping along the pavement, the time before.

But not a white Thunderbird this time; a panel truck, the square shape of it, red as it reached the light pole, with something lettered on the side, circling slowly through the open parking area. Mitchell watched and he was thinking, it's not him. Somebody else to get rid of. But the truck came around, maintaining its creeping pace, and circled again, headlights sweeping the darkness beyond the cyclone fence.

Mitchell opened the door and walked outside, into the circle of light that came from the spots above the rear door.

As if sensing him, the panel truck, at the far end of the yard, turned and came slowly toward him until he was standing in the beam of its headlights. The truck stopped.

Mitchell raised the attache case shoulder high and lowered it again.

There was no response from the truck. The only sound was the low rumble of the engine idling.

"You want it or not?"

There was silence again, lengthening, until finally he heard Alan's voice.

"Whose car's that?"

"Guy working late."

"Man, you know what I told you."

"I didn't know he was here till just now." Mitchell waited. "Where's my wife?"

There was no answer from the truck.

Mitchell raised the case again. "Look, this is what you came for. Take it. Let my wife go and get out of here."

"Come a little closer," Alan's voice said.

Mitchell walked toward the headlights. When he was about thirty feet away Alan said, "Okay, right there. Open it up, show me what you got."

"Where's my wife?"

"You first," Alan said. "You show me yours and I'll show you mine."

"It's all here," Mitchell said. "You want to come get it or you want me to bring it over."

"Man, I told you, I want to see it! Now that's the last word I'm going to say."

Mitchell hesitated. He went down to one knee then, placed the case flat on the pavement and flicked open the two clasps with his thumbs.

"Turn it around," Alan said.

Mitchell turned the case, holding the top open toward him, so Alan could see the packets of ten-and twenty-dollar bills, banded, stacked neatly in rows that filled the inside of the case.

"Pick up some of it," Alan said. "Walk up to the front of the truck."

Mitchell rose with packets of bills in both hands. He approached to stand close to the headlights.

"Hold it up," Alan said.

Mitchell's head and shoulders were above the light beams now. He could see Alan through the windshield, behind the wheel. He held up the packets of bills.

"Where's my wife?"

He watched Alan turn and say something. After a moment Barbara appeared, part of her rising out of darkness, behind the empty passenger seat.

"Let her out."

"You bring me the case first," Alan said.

Mitchell stared at Barbara. "What's the matter with my wife?"

"She's on something, man. Having a high."

"Let her out!"

"When you bring the case. Hey," Alan said then, "you see this?" He held up Bobby's.38 Special and pointed it at Mitchell. "No bullshit now, right? You twitch, I'll shoot your fucking eyes out, man. Now bring the case."

Mitchell walked back to the open attache case and went down to one knee again. He dropped the packets of bills inside. With his back to the truck he fished a screwdriver out of the front part of the case, beneath the bills, and wedged the tip of it between one side and the top, brought the top down, pressed his weight on it, but it wouldn't snap closed. Mitchell fooled with it for a while.

"What's the matter?"

"I can't get the thing closed. The lock's sprung."

He rose to his feet with the case, hooding the top and bottom together between the palms of his hands, fingers spread wide.

"I'll get something to hold it together."

"Just bring it here."

"Take me a minute," Mitchell said. "I'll wire it up."

"Man, bring it over here! I don't give a shit!"

Mitchell stopped to half-turn. "I don't want it blowing away. You'll think I cheated you." He turned again and started for the rear door of the plant.

"Hold it there!"

Mitchell stopped and turned again. He saw that Alan was out of the truck now, behind the open door, resting the.38 on the window ledge and leveling it at him.

"I'll put a piece of wire or something around it. I come back, you let my wife out I'll give you the dough. Now think about it a minute," Mitchell said, "and try not to wet your pants."

He turned, ignoring Alan and the.38 pointing at him, continued on to the door of the plant and went inside.

John Koliba was coming down the aisle.

Mitchell said, "John, I think I left the light on in my office. You want to check it for me?"

Koliba waved at him. He said, "Sure thing," turned around and headed back up the aisle past the machines.

Mitchell walked over to a section of metal shelving that stood along the back wall near the door. He placed the attache case on a middle shelf, reached up to the top shelf above his head, and took down an identical Hi-Sheen Tuffy-Hyde black vinyl attache case with a strand of copper wire wrapped around it once, the ends twisted several times to bind them together.

He said to himself, You don't have a choice. He couldn't walk back out there and pull Alan out of the truck and hit him in the mouth and call the police. That would be good, but how could he do it? Alan had a gun and he was going to kill them. He was certain of it. Maybe he was afraid. He said to himself, Of course you're afraid. You didn't want to do it this way. And he said to himself, But if you don't you'll be dead, and so will Barbara. So do it.

Mitchell looked at his watch. He waited thirty seconds before he turned to the door.

Alan slid behind the wheel again and got Barbara into the seat next to him, within reach. She was awake, groggy but out of her buzz and he didn't want her behind him.

Sitting there, holding the.38 on the window ledge, he told himself to get out, right now. Flip it in gear, floor the gas pedal and get the hell out.

But he had seen the money. Jesus, all those tens and twenties filling up the case. It was there. The guy had it.

But if the guy was pulling something…

Get out of here and call him.

No, there wasn't time for any more screwing around. It was right there in the case.

If it's still in the case.

If the guy wasn't out in ten seconds…

The door opened. Mitchell, with the attache case at his side, was walking out into the light.

Alan put the gun on him, after a moment shifting it from the ledge to the windshield as Mitchell walked into the beam of the headlights and came directly toward the front of the truck. He stopped where he had stood before and raised the attache case to the front of the hood.

"Your money," Mitchell said. "Now let my wife go."

Alan shifted the.38 to his right hand and rested it on the dashboard, the barrel almost touching the windshield.

"Open it."

Mitchell hesitated. "You saw the money."

"I want to see it again."

"I'm tired," Mitchell said. "I don't want to play anymore."

He took the case off the hood and started around to the passenger side of the truck.

"Hold it there!" Alan turned the gun on him.

But Mitchell kept moving, reached the door and pulled it open. "I said I'd pay you." He took Barbara by the arm and helped her out, swung the attache case up, his eyes holding on Alan, and dropped it on the seat. "Here. I'm paying you."

"Open it!" Alan screamed it at him. Mitchell slammed the door. "You open it." He walked off, still holding Barbara's arm, keeping her close to him, around the front of the truck and through the beam of the headlights.

"Hold it there! Man, I'll bust you-both of you!"

Mitchell stopped, thirty feet from the truck now, and looked around.

"You got it. What do you want me to do, count it for you?" He turned, holding Barbara, and kept going.

Alan had the.38 on him, dead center on his back moving away, halfway to the door of the plant.

But the black attache case with the wire around it was next to him, right there, two feet away. He glanced at it.

Open it. Do it quick.

His hand reached over and felt the twisted ends of the wire, wrapped around each other two or three times, as stiff as a coat hanger.

They were almost to the building, in the arc of the high spotlights that spread down over the pavement.

"I count to three-you're dead!"

Mitchell stopped. He didn't turn around. He moved Barbara in front of him and pushed her gently, so that if she reached out now she could touch the door.

Alan held the gun on Mitchell's back and kept his eyes on him as his free hand untwisted the wire. He felt it come loose and bent the top strand back, out of the way. He glanced at the case then, turning it so the front of it faced toward him.

He looked toward Mitchell again and began to bring in his hand holding the gun.

"You move, man, you're dead!"

He laid the.38 on his lap and turned to the attache case with both hands.

Mitchell said to his wife, "Barbara, how're you doing?"

He saw her nod. "I'm all right. A little sick."

"When I touch your back, go through the door fast. Don't hesitate. I'll reach in front of you and open it."

"Mitch-"

"Right now," Mitchell said, and moved with her, his hand flat against her back.

Alan saw them. He caught a glimpse of them over his shoulder. He wanted to pick up the gun and blast away, catch the guy before he got inside. But even as he saw them he knew it was too late, the way he was twisted around, his thumbs on the metal clasps of the attache case.

This was what he had come for and he had to open it. Right now.

It was in his mind, for part of a moment, that the case wasn't broken. The lock wasn't sprung. It was closed now. It didn't need the wire to hold it. But again he was too late. His thumbs were already pressing open the clasps.

The panel truck, with super-rite drugs lettered on the body and Alan Sheldon Raimy inside, exploded, blew apart in a burst of fire and scattered pieces of itself all over the Ranco Manufacturing parking lot.

Koliba turned from the shattered window in the door to look over at Mitchell standing with his arm around the lady in the raincoat.

"Was he in it?"

"Who?"

"Jazik," Kolib said. Like, who else?

"I don't know," Mitchell said. "Somebody was."

"I'll call the fire department. Twice in two days. We're keeping them guys busy, eh?" Koliba started to move away. He glanced back to see Mitchell taking his attache case from the metal shelf against the wall. "You want me to call the cops too?"

"If you want to," Mitchell said. He was taking the lady by the arm again as he looked at Koliba. "But who're they going to arrest?"