52 pickup

6

Mitchell waited.

Ross's hand was now up under the waitress's brief skirt, resting on her can. They were at Ross's table, the good table in the corner where he believed no one could ever see what he was doing.

"Do you still love me?"

The girl smiled, holding the order pad in front of her with both hands. " 'Course I do."

"Then when the hell are we going to consummate it?"

She smiled again. "Two of the same?"

"How about this weekend?" Ross said. "We'll go up north. You're a good girl, I'll take you up skiing next winter."

The girl wrote something on the pad. "I'll have to ask my mother."

"Your mother skis?"

"Vodka martini and a Bud," the girl said, and took off through the Motor City Mediterranean decor, through the roomful of businessmen having the businessmen's lunch at the tables with maroon lamps and maroon checkered cloths.

"Irene's twenty," Ross said, "but she's got the mind of a fifteen-year-old. I'm sorry, what were you saying? About the plant problem."

"No," Mitchell said patiently, "I told you we'd handle that."

"Right. I tell you we're putting in some improvements at the lodge? I mean big ones," Ross went on. "Blasting out a couple of hills, making the runs longer, putting in a couple more chair lifts. You don't ski, do you?"

"No. I never tried it." Mitchell wanted to say something, but he waited too long and Ross was off again.

"I look for a dynamiter, you know, for the job. I have to go all the way to Colorado to get a guy who knows what he's doing."

"There was something I wanted to ask you," Mitchell said.

"What?"

"Remember the day we went to all the go-go bars? About three months ago."

"Vaguely."

"We met a girl the last place, sitting at the bar."

"We did?"

"You were interested in the colored broad that worked there. Doreen. Very nice-looking."

Ross began to nod, lighting a cigarette. "Right. Big eyes. Cute little nose."

"The other girl, the one you were talking to first," Mitchell said and paused a moment, "I've been seeing her the past three months."

Ross looked at him, not grinning, not coming right out with it, but with a relaxed, comfortable expression, a look of quiet satisfaction as he settled back in his chair.

"You… son… of… a… gun. So you're normal after all. Healthy, red-blooded American boy-" He leaned against the table again. "How is she?"

"Ross, Barbara knows about it."

"Oh, Jesus. How'd she find out?"

Mitchell looked up as the waitress approached with their drinks.

Ross said to her, very seriously, "Irene, you know you're driving me right out of my goddamn mind. When're you going to run away with me?"

"How about Monday?" the waitress said. "It's my day off."

Ross nodded. "Monday, five o'clock. I'll pick you up right here." She moved off and Ross looked at Mitchell again, showing concern.

"How in hell she find out?"

"I told her."

"You told her? For Christ sake, why?"

"It's a long story," Mitchell said. "I just want to ask you, all the fooling around you've done-"

"Mitch, I don't fool. I fall in love. Like anybody else."

"All right then, with all the experience you've had. What I want to ask you, when you were still married to Pat, did she ever find out?"

Ross thought about it, sipping his drink. "I suppose so. Once or twice."

"Well, what happened? What'd she do?"

"She didn't do anything."

"You explained it somehow? I mean what happened?"

"Nothing. It never came up."

"Come on."

"Really," Ross said. "Why would she want to bring it up, cause a sticky situation? And I certainly wouldn't. Mitch, you must be out of your mind. Why'd you tell her?"

"I don't know. I just did."

"Mitch, they don't want to know about things like that. They want everything to be nice. Don't rock the boat. Don't fuck up what appears to everyone to be a perfect marriage." Ross pried an olive up from the bottom of his martini and put it in his mouth. Chewing, he said, "It sounds to me like your conscience grabbed you by the balls."

"Maybe that's it," Mitchell said. "The point is, she knows."

"Well, how did she take it, when you told her?"

"She was pretty calm about it. Didn't say much."

"Is that right?" Ross seemed surprised.

"She said a couple of times, 'What'd you tell me for?' "

"See what I mean? What else?"

"I don't know. She said she never thought it would happen."

"She didn't sound pissed off at all?"

"Yeah, she was mad, said a few things. But that staring at you, you know, giving you the look, that's worse."

"So how'd it end?"

"I don't know. That's what I'm asking you. What happens now?"

"She kick you out?"

"No, I slept in Mike's room."

Ross was thoughtful again. He sipped his martini and lighted a cigarette.

"I think you ought to move out, Mitch. Really. You want my advice, I think you ought to clear out and let her think about it a while. You see what I mean? She's there by herself, the house isn't the same. It's too quiet. She gets lonely. She thinks, maybe I was too hard on him. So he fooled around with some broad for a while. It happens. But it isn't the end of the world."

"Well, I don't know if it's that simple," Mitchell said. "She's not sure it's over. I mean I wasn't asking to be forgiven, I was just telling her how it is."

Ross's eyebrows raised. "Is that right? It's still up in the air?"

"I don't know what she's going to do. So you can say it's still up in the air."

"What about the girl?"

"That'll end. If it hasn't already."

Ross nodded, leaning in closer. "You know, I wouldn't want to have Barbara mad at me, Mitch. She's very nice, probably the smartest woman I know. But, if you don't mind my saying, as nice as she is, she's a very tough lady."

"Ross, I been living with her twenty-two years."

"You know what I mean, I'm not being insulting, Mitch. I love Barbara."

Mitchell nodded. "I know."

"What I'm suggesting, I think you ought to move out and lay low for a while. Let her cool off."

"You think so?"

"That's what I'd do, Mitch. If I were married to Barbara I'd stay out of her way and play it very cool for a while, couple of weeks at least."

"Maybe you're right," Mitchell said. "Instead of hanging around and getting into arguments, try and let the thing die."

"That'd be my advice," Ross said. He picked up the martini, leaning back in his captain's chair. "And as you say, I've had a little experience with women. God help me."

His secretary, Janet, said, "Mr. O'Boyle called. Just a few minutes ago." She followed Mitchell into his office. "I told him you were still at lunch," and added, "you're back early."

Mitchell looked at her. "My wife call?"

"No. Your mail's on the desk. Nothing important. Except maybe the envelope on top. I didn't open it."

Standing behind his desk, Mitchell picked up the envelope. His name and company address appeared in a faint black typewriter face. The words PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL, in capital letters, were typed in red. There was no sender's name or return address. Janet waited, but he didn't open it or comment.

"Also, Vic would like to see you as soon as possible."

"Tell him to come in," Mitchell said. "And get me O'Boyle."

He sat at his desk now, looking at the envelope, feeling something small and hard inside. He knew it was a key and he knew who sent it. Mitchell tore open one end of the envelope and let the key slide out onto his blotter pad: a short dull-metal shape with the number 258 etched into the flat part of its surface. His telephone buzzed.

"Jim… Pretty good… Yeah, well listen, before you go into that, Jim, I told Barbara." He paused again. "I didn't mention the blackmail, but I told her about the girl and it's done. So they can show her the film or shove it up their ass, I don't care, it's done."

He listened for a few moments. "I've got a few other things on my mind too, Jim. I've got a god-damn plant to run."

Mitchell looked up, listening to O'Boyle again as his superintendent appeared in the open doorway.

"Jim," Mitchell said, "how're they going to confiscate the film? You think the guys carry it around with them? I don't even know who they are. How do I identify them?" Mitchell paused again, listening, and then said, "Let me get back to you, Jim. Vic's here, we have to discuss something, all right?… Right… No, I won't. I'll see you later."

Hanging up, Mitchell looked at his superintendent. "Now what?"

"All the trouble we been having," Vic said. "I don't know why I didn't see it. You know what's going on?"

"What do you mean do I know what's going on? The goddamn machines are breaking down."

Vic shook his head. "Not by themselves, Mr. Mitchell. I don't know why I didn't see it before this. I guess because I trust people or I expect too much, I don't know."

"So it's a slowdown," Mitchell said.

"It's got to be."

"Who's behind it? You know?"

"Guy was my second-shift leader, John Koliba," Vic said. "Maybe three or four other guys. You remember the breakdowns started on the second shift. Week ago Koliba comes up to me, says he wants to work days, he's in some bowling league. I say okay, but I don't need a leader on the first shift, I'll have to put you on a Warner-Swasey. He said that's okay. Right away we start getting breakdowns on the first shift. I say John, you been operating a fucking turning machine ten, twelve years, what's the matter with you? He says I don't know what's wrong, the goddamn thing freezes up on me. Acting dumb. But he knows I know. Maybe that fucking Polack is dumb a lot of ways, you're not going to get any arguments, but he isn't that dumb."

"So fire him," Mitchell said.

"I can't prove he's behind it," Vic said. "I know it, but I can't prove it. I fire him you got a grievance on your hands."

With negotiations coming up, Mitchell was silent. You dumb shit. He could see the guy from Local 199-the business agent, what was his name? Ed Jazik-following him down the hall, trying to push him or scare him, practically telling him he was going to have trouble-something to think about with contract bargaining time only two weeks away-practically writing the threat on the wall for him, slowdown!

But he had been too busy thinking about something else.

"Shit," Mitchell said. After a moment, getting up, he said, "Well, I guess it's time to kick ass."

Within a 25,000-square-foot area Ranco Manufacturing milled, bored, shaped and ground machine tool and machine accessories for the automotive industry. They turned out powered actuator clamps, cylinder rod couplers and adapters, switch actuator assemblies, transfer bar guide rolls, rest pads and bushing plate stops, locating and positioning blocks, tool block clamps, screw adjusting units, grippers, neoprene cushion conveyor rolls, vacuum lifters and handling systems, air exhaust silencers and ball swivel assemblies. Mitchell had designed about a third of the products: improvements of industrial applications in use.

It was a Detroit backyard operation. A specialty house. High-volume production out of a cinderblock building that looked like a hangar. Banks of fluorescent lights and power lines, a pair of five-ton overhead cranes, high above bins and racks of metal materials, raw stock or half-finished and heat-treated parts that would be fed into the rows of Bridgeport milling machines, grinders and big Warner-Swasey bar-tuning units-and come out in an assembly of parts and products that most people, even in Detroit, had never heard of before.

Someone at a party or in a foursome would get around to asking Mitchell, what do you do or who are you with, and he'd say Ranco Manufacturing, and they'd nod and say, oh yes. He was in machine tools and he knew the business and if they wanted details he'd provide them. Otherwise…

He didn't often talk shop. But now he was in the shop, in the glassed-off testing room, Quality Control, looking out at the machinery and the racks of material, listening to the never-ending noise of the place that he was used to, and here the only thing he talked was shop.

Vic had a dozen or so rotary-motion clamp housings on the test table: small, dull-metal hollow cylinders threaded on the outside.

"Like these," Vic said. "Start to spot-check and every one of them's off tolerance, cut undersize. Scrap. Got to set up and run half the job over again. This is the way most of it shows up, which the son of a bitch was supposed to've been checking. Then we got seven instances of tool breakage I know we can trace to him. I see oxidation of his machine, honest to Christ, rust, on the turret spindle. I realize he's mixing too much water in the coolant. Christ yes, it's gonna freeze up, or tear the fixture apart."

Mitchell turned from the window, hands in his pockets. "Where's he working?"

Vic looked out past him, his gaze moving. "He must be on his break."

"I think we better do it in my office," Mitchell said. "We don't need an audience."

"That wouldn't be so good. No."

"Okay, tell him to come see me."

Janet said, "Mr. Mitchell will be back in a minute. Go right in." John Koliba looked like he didn't know what was going on. He'd never been in Mr. Mitchell's office before. He came in wiping his hands on his gray work pants, looking around the office at the dark paneling and the hunting dog prints, the green-and-white-striped draperies, green carpeting, the TV set on a darkwood cabinet, big seven-foot desk and black-and-white Naugahyde chairs. She hadn't said to sit down so he stood there until Mr. Mitchell came in from the conference room next door. He was carrying some papers, studying them, and didn't look up until he dropped the papers on his desk.

"Have a seat."

"Vic said you wanted to see me."

"John, sit down, will you please?" Mitchell waited until Koliba was looking up at him with a serious, intent expression, sitting forward with his elbows on the chair arms, heavy shoulders hunched, his hands folded over the beer belly stretching his T-shirt into a tight mound.

"How's it going, John?"

Koliba shrugged. "Pretty good, I got no complaints."

"I have," Mitchell said. "I got a problem."

"Yeah? What is it?"

"I'm going to ask you a simple, direct question, John. You ready?"

"Sure, go ahead."

"Are you pulling a slowdown on me?"

"A slowdown-there ain't any slowdown I know of. We had some breakdowns, we have been having some problems, but you think it's on purpose, no sir. Or if it is I had nothing to do with it."

Mitchell took his time. He said quietly, "All right, John, now we both know where we're at. You know I'm aware what you've been doing. And I know you're going to sit there and give me a bunch of shit."

Koliba straightened, pushing his shoulders back. "I'm telling you I never fooled with the machines. You don't believe what I'm saying, then you're calling me a liar. Is that right?"

"That's right, John," Mitchell said. "You're a fucking liar. You want a drink?"

"Listen now, nobody calls me a liar."

"I just did, John. You want a drink or not?"

"You start accusing me, calling me a liar-let's see you prove I done anything."

Mitchell walked over to the darkwood cabinet, took out two glasses and a fifth of Jack Daniels that he held up, showing it to Koliba.

"I don't like somebody calling me a liar I don't care who it is."

Mitchell poured whiskey into the two glasses, walked over and handed one to Koliba, who took it, but kept watching Mitchell. He watched him walk slowly around his desk. He watched him sit down and lean back in the chair and then take a drink.

After a moment Koliba raised his glass and swallowed about an ounce of the whiskey.

"John," Mitchell said, "I don't need a slowdown." He picked up a ledger sheet and extended it toward Koliba. "You want to look at this week's P and L statement? That's profit and loss. Here… current sales analysis chart. Computer printout shows labor costs the past two weeks are up to eighteen percent of our gross sales volume. To make a profit we have to hold that figure at twelve. John, we go up six points we got a one percent loss. We're selling, but we're losing money. Here… sales department report. Competitor comes up with a lower price and we lose an account we've had for three years. But we can't cut our price because we're as low as we can get. This one… compensation rates are going up again. The government's increasing F.I.C.A. rates. And I got to make all this look good on a balance sheet. John… I'll tell you, I don't need a fucking slowdown."

Mitchell paused, watching Koliba.

"You been here two and a half years, John. You were at Ford Rouge, how long?"

"Six years," Koliba said. "Then over Timken three years."

Mitchell nodded. "You know I was on the line at Dodge twelve years."

"No, I didn't know that."

"Twelve years. I've had some luck, John, but I've also worked my ass off. And the harder I work the luckier I get. I don't expect any gifts or favors. Nothing is free. But I also don't expect any shit from anybody. No, I take that back. I do expect it. What I mean is, when it comes it doesn't come as a surprise. I watch where I'm walking and I don't step in it if I can help it. Why should anybody take any shit if they can help it? John, you agree with that?"

"Certainly. I don't take any shit I can help it."

"Right," Mitchell said. "Who needs it."

"Guy tries to give me some shit," Koliba said, "I let him know about it."

"Why put up with something you don't have to," Mitchell said. "Like this plant. I see it's losing money I shut it down, sell the equipment. Maybe take a bath. But, John, I'd rather lose it quick and forget it than piss it away while the goddamn business goes down the drain. You see what I mean? I own the joint, so I can do anything I want with it, can't I?"

"Sure," Koliba said. "I guess so."

"I can lock the door tomorrow I want to, right?"

"Yeah. Hell, you own the place."

"Hey, John," Mitchell said. "That's exactly what I'm going to do if one more machine breaks down. Close the place."

"Listen, I said before, I don't know anything about any slowdown."

"John, I believe you, because I see I can talk to you. You were a shift leader, and you got to have a feeling of responsibility to be a shift leader."

"Sure, I always want to see the job's done right."

"You see my position," Mitchell said. "I can't go out in the shop and make a speech to everybody. I got to rely on key people like yourself, people who see a future here and advancement… more money."

Koliba waited, thinking about it. "Well, I guess maybe we could watch it a little closer," he said. "You know, stay more on the ball so to speak."

"That's the way I see it, John," Mitchell said. "I've learned it's always better to stay on the ball than it is to fall off and bust your ass."

Mitchell swiveled his chair around to put his feet on the corner of the desk. The envelope marked PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL, the single sheet of typed instructions and the locker key, lay on the blotter close to his leg. He stared out the window at the pale-gray afternoon sky, taking a rest now, a breather. He felt good. He felt his confidence coming back and, with it, the beginning of an urge to get up and do something. That was the essence of the good feeling: to be able to remain calm and relax while he was keyed up and confident. Never panic. Never run. Face whatever had to be faced. Be practical, reasonable, up to a point. And if reason doesn't work, get up and kick it in the teeth. Whatever the problem is. He smoked a cigarette, taking his time, looking at the dull afternoon sky that didn't bother him at all now.

When he finished the cigarette he took a sheet of letterhead and a 10? 12 manila envelope from a desk drawer and buzzed his secretary on the intercom.

Janet waited while he wrote something, slowly, deliberately, on the sheet of paper, folded it once and slid it into the manila envelope that was fat and rounded, bulging with something inside.

"Give this to Dick or somebody," Mitchell said. "And this key. Tell him to run it out to Metro and put it in locker two-fifty-eight. Number's on the key. Hey, and tell him to be sure and put the key in with it."

"If the key's inside," Janet said, "how's anyone going to open the locker?"

"I just do what I'm told," Mitchell said.

She gave him a funny look. "What?"

"It's not our problem, Janet, so we're not going to worry about it."

His secretary took the envelope and went out, not saying any more.

Bobby Shy shot snooker on the mezzanine floor of Detroit Metropolitan Airport until the place closed. He went into the men's, paid a dime for a stall and sniffed a two-and-two, scooping the coke out of the Baggy with a silver Little Orphan Annie spoon. Man, almost immediately it was a better, brighter world. He bought the current issue of a magazine dedicated to "Sophisticated Men About Town" and studied the breasts and beaver shots for about a half hour, read an article that tested his sex I.Q., but didn't bother to total his answers to see how he scored. At ten past one in the morning he went to locker number 258 across from the Delta counter that was empty now, used the duplicate key Alan had given him, opened the locker and took out the plain manila envelope.

There was no one near him; no one in sight as far down as the Eastern counter; no one who could possibly reach him before he made it down the central arcade to the men's room and went inside.

"Mail's here," Bobby Shy said. He flipped the envelope with a backhand motion, watched it hit the tile and slide beneath the door of the third stall. He turned around and walked out.

Leo Frank, sitting on the toilet, picked up the envelope. It felt good and thick. The switchblade was already open in his hand, ready to cut the envelope and everything in it to shreds if anyone came banging in and tried to open his stall or ordered him to come out. Cut it quick and flush it down the toilet. They were good toilets with a high-speed force flush; you could keep flushing them without waiting for the tank to fill up.

Leo looked at his watch. Ten minutes later he stood up, shoved the envelope into his waist beneath his snappy double-knit, eight-button, checkered blazer and walked out.

The white Thunderbird was where it was supposed to be, on the arrival ramp across from the American sign.

Alan moved over as Leo got in behind the wheel and tossed him the envelope.

"Shake hands with ten grand," Leo said. "Twenties and fifties fill up the space, don't they?"

Alan's fingers felt the envelope as the Thunderbird curved down the ramp and straightened out on William Rogell Drive.

Leo said, "Open it, man. What're you waiting for?"

Alan didn't say anything. His fingers worked along the edges of the envelope and moved up to the clasp. His fingers said something was not right. They said somebody was trying to pull some shit and they didn't like the feel of it at all.

The Thunderbird turned right beyond the underpass and merged with the headlights going east toward Detroit.

Alan snapped open the glove box. In the framed square of light, hunched over, he pulled a folded copy of The Wall Street Journal out of the envelope. With the paper, resting on it, was the sheet of letterhead. Alan unfolded the sheet and read the three-word Magic Marker message in capital letters. bag your ass.

He said, very quietly, shaking his head, "Leo, honest to Christ, I don't know what this fucking world is coming to. You honestly, sincerely tell the guy how it is and the mother doesn't believe you."