52 pickup

8

Hemade himself wait until the next morning before going home. He made himself spend the night at the apartment he had leased for Cini, and for most of the night he sat near the floor-to-ceiling living-room window, in darkness, looking out at the dim shape of trees across the lawn. Sit down and think it out. That was the idea. Think about what to do and think about a girl he had-what?-gone with, fooled around with, had an affair with, laughed with, made love to, loved, maybe loved, for three months and who now was dead. He knew she was dead, but he couldn't accept it in his mind. Because when he thought of her he thought of her alive. But he told himself she was dead. She was dead because of him. He didn't drink that night in the apartment. He didn't want to feel sorry for himself or make excuses. He wanted to think it out as it was. But all he could think of was that she was dead and there was nothing he could do to change it.

When it was light he thought of calling Jim O'Boyle-because he had to begin doing something now and because he had called him before, from this room, six days ago. But he didn't reach for the phone this time; he hesitated and thought about it. He would hear O'Boyle saying they would have to go to the police. Maybe not right away but eventually. A girl was dead. Murdered. It wasn't simple blackmail anymore. But if he went to the police the newspapers would find out about it. Story and picture on page one-could he face that? He told himself, Yes, the girl was dead because of him. He wasn't going to run and hide; he'd have to face it.

But wait a minute. She wasn't dead because of Barbara. She wasn't dead because of his daughter or his son. He had to think about them also. How it would affect them. He had a business to run and responsibilities and, Christ, pretty soon a union contract to negotiate. He had more to consider than himself, his own feelings. Conscience said go to the police. Reason said wait, what are the consequences? What are your alternatives? The roof was coming down on him and he could yell for help or try to put it back himself.

How?

He didn't know how. Sitting in the girl's apartment, in the early-morning light, he didn't have the slightest idea what he was going to do. Though he was sure now he wasn't going to call O'Boyle or go to the police. At least not right away.

Take it a step at a time. Walk, don't run. Never panic in an emergency. Find out who they are first. If he could do that, if it was possible- He was beginning to get the good feeling of confidence again, the feeling of being keyed up but able to remain calm. There it is, he said to himself. Simple. Find out who they are. And then kick ass.

Barbara was in a housecoat. She opened the front door and stood looking at him for several moments before stepping aside.

"It's your house too," she said. "You don't have to ring the bell."

"I didn't want to walk in the back. You don't know who it is, you might be frightened."

"I think I know your sound," Barbara said.

"You're doing something, go ahead. I just want to pick up a few things."

He walked past her to the main stairway and started up. Barbara watched him. She hesitated, making up her mind, then followed him upstairs. He was at the dresser when she entered the bedroom, going through the top drawer, pushing aside his socks and handkerchiefs.

"I thought you were coming last night," she said. "I waited until Johnny Carson was over."

"I went to a movie," Mitchell said.

"You went to a movie. That was nice. With your girlfriend?"

Mitchell turned from the dresser. He looked at her and seemed about to speak, but said nothing and walked over to his closet.

Barbara watched him. "You know what I almost did? I almost threw all your clothes out the goddamn window. I get urges too, buddy, but I restrain myself. Usually."

"I'm sorry," Mitchell said, turning from the closet.

"For what? I don't know, Mitch. You can talk quietly and sound very sincere-but that doesn't change the fact you're a bastard. I'm the one who's hurt, for God's sake, not you."

"Barbara, who's been in the house in the last few days? I mean besides you."

"Who's been in the house?" The abrupt change in the conversation stopped her. "What do you mean, who's been in the house?"

"Has anyone come in that you don't know?" Mitchell asked quietly. "Or that you do know. A plumber or a painter, somebody like that."

"The only thing that needs fixing," Barbara said, "is the disposal. You said you were going to take care of it."

"All right, then have you noticed anything out of place? Like someone might have walked in or broken in while you were out?"

She shook her head slowly. "The milkman comes in…"

"Or door-to-door salesmen."

"No-"

She shook her head again. "No, there was somebody. A man from an accounting service. In fact he was in here when I got home from tennis."

"When?"

"A few days ago. Sitting in the living room. Can you believe it? Sitting there waiting for me."

"What company's he with?"

"No company. I looked it up, Silver Something Accounting Service, he said, but there's no such company."

"What did he look like?"

Barbara thought about it. "Kind of hippie looking, and the way he talked, very cheeky. He was wearing a dark suit and carried an attache case."

"He had a car?"

"A car picked him up. A white one. I didn't notice the make or year."

"Did he talk… slowly?"

Barbara nodded thoughtfully. "Like it was an effort."

"You're sure you've never seen him before?"

"Fairly sure. Mitch, what is it? Did he take anything?"

"A few things," Mitchell said, answering her but seeing the movie screen, his gun in the vise aimed at the girl and the old sport coat on the table. He saw the soundless gun fired and saw the gouges appear in the plywood as the girl's head snapped back and heard the lazy sound of the skinny guy, who had been in this house, this room, saying bang, bang… bang, bang, bang. Five times. Five shots. Making sure, when one would have been enough to murder her.

Barbara, with a tense, concerned look now, was asking him, "What? Mitch, what did he take?"

His wife looked good. She looked clean. He liked the navy-blue housecoat and her hair and, this morning, the trace of dark circles beneath her eyes. He knew that if he held her he would feel the familiar feel of her body and she would smell good. She had seen the man and maybe she could identify him. She could be a part of this. Right now, not knowing anything about it, she could become involved-another woman involved because of him-and he didn't want her to be, if he could help it.

He said, "The guy took my gun."

"You're sure?"

"It's not here. He took the gun, my old sport coat and maybe a few other things." She would look after he was gone and find this out herself.

"But why?"

"Some people who steal need guns. The sport coat I don't know, maybe he just liked it."

She was staring at him, listening to his sound, analyzing it. She said quietly, "Mitch, that's not the reason he took it."

"I don't know why. I'm only saying it's gone."

"I think you do know," Barbara said.

Mitchell hesitated, but in the same moment said to himself, No. "I've got to get to the plant," he said, and started out of the room.

Barbara's voice followed him to the hall. "Mitch, tell me what's going on. Please."

But he reached the stairway and went down without answering.

O'Boyle said, "Mitch, this is Joe Paonessa. From the prosecutor's office." He saw the flicker of surprise on Mitchell's face, gave them enough time to exchange nods and a glad-to-meet-you, and then offered a brief explanation. "Joe was able to come at the last minute, Mitch. He's been kind enough to give us some of his time, talk to you personally and give his views on your situation."

The man from the prosecutor's office was younger than Mitchell. He was bald and wore a little mustache. He had dark sleepy-looking eyes and a mild expression. But, Mitchell noticed, the expression didn't change. The man didn't smile. He raised himself barely a few inches from his seat as they shook hands. O'Boyle was drinking a scotch and soda. The man from the prosecutor's office had a cup of coffee at his place. He was already eating his salad, spearing at it, fork in one hand and a slice of French bread, thickly coated with chunks of cold butter, in the other. Mitchell ordered a Bud.

"I've never been here before," Paonessa said. "I don't get out to the high-rent district very often."

"I've never been here either," Mitchell said.

"It's pretty popular for lunch," O'Boyle said. "In fact I think it's busier now than at night."

That was the end of the small talk.

"Most situations like yours," Paonessa said, "never get to us. We don't find out about them because the individual is too ashamed to tell anybody. Usually it's a Murphy game. The individual gets caught with some whore and he pays to keep from getting his balls cut off. Naturally he's not going to go to the police and tell them he was with some whore and take a chance his wife finding out."

"I wasn't with some whore," Mitchell said.

"In your case," Paonessa said, "it's the amount of money involved. It's not a simple Murphy situation. You're loaded and they know it. Pay them or they fuck you. Maybe they can do it, I don't know. At least they can tell your wife you've been seeing this whore and that might be enough to screw up your life to some extent, I don't know that either, or how much you can afford to pay to keep people off your back. Jim says you're a respected businessman, never fooled around before. All right, I'll take his word for that. Though I know a lot of respectable businessmen who do fool around." Finishing the salad, he began to mop the bowl with his bread.

"Naturally you don't want to pay them. Okay, but they're not going to let you off, are they? Assume that. They got some dirt on you. You're caught sticking your thing where it doesn't belong. You want to keep your secret a secret. So let's say they feel pretty sure you're going to come across. In fact, they have to feel that way. They have to believe they've made a deal you'll go through with, or else we never get close enough to them, the police don't, to find out who they are. They tell you meet us such and such a place with the money. Or they say leave the money such and such a place. The police either have to tail you or put a bug on you, get voices or whatever information they can from the bug, or stake out the place and pick the guys up when they come for the money. In other words the only way to apprehend them is if you pay or look like you're paying, offer the bait to bring them out in the open. We going to order or what?" He opened the big red menu that was bound by a red tassel around the fold.

"Or I don't pay them," Mitchell said.

"That's up to you," Paonessa said. His eyes roamed over the inside of the menu.

O'Boyle looked at Mitchell before turning to the man from the prosecutor's office. "Joe, Mitch is asking, if he doesn't pay them, and he's considered it, there isn't much they can do to him, is there? He's already told his wife about the girl."

Paonessa's eyes raised, his mild expression unchanged. "Yeah? You told her? What did she say?"

"I don't think that's got anything to do with the people blackmailing me," Mitchell said. "I've told my wife-all right, but I'd still like to see them caught."

Paonessa's eyes were on the menu again. "Then you have to pay them, or attempt to."

"That's the only way, uh?"

"Unless you can identify them," Paonessa said. "File a complaint, we see what we can do. I don't know, Jim, I think I'm going to have the New York strip sirloin. How's it here, any good?"

Before O'Boyle could answer, Mitchell said, "If they were to contact me again. I mean, let's say they get something else."

Paonessa's eyes held on the menu. O'Boyle said, "What do you mean, Mitch?"

"Like what if they threatened the girl's life unless I paid?"

"That's called extortion," Paonessa said. "Now you're into something else."

O'Boyle continued to stare at Mitchell. "Have you heard from them again?"

"I'm talking about if I did. Then what?"

Paonessa shrugged. "It's the same situation. Extortion, or kidnapping-they set up a meeting or a drop and the police handle it from there."

Mitchell waited, took a sip of beer. "What if the girl's already dead?"

"What if?" Paonessa said. "They still make arrangements with you to get the money. They're not killing the girl for nothing, are they?"

"But what if they could work it so I pay? Somehow they do it. But nobody ever sees them and they get away with it."

Paonessa looked up again with his dead expression. "I'll tell you something. I've got cases, real ones, to prosecute for the next two years, on my desk, in my files, all over the goddamn office. I don't need any what-if ones at the moment. For all I know somebody's pulling a joke on you. And that's a good possibility, with all the fucking nuts there are around these days. So unless you tell me all this is real and you can prove it, and you're willing to cooperate with the police-what are we talking about?"

"But if it is real-" Mitchell began.

"If what's real? Blackmail or extortion? What are we talking about?"

"Either," Mitchell said. "Or both."

It was a free meal, if it ever came, but Joe Paonessa was not getting paid anything more to sit here. He said, "Look, you have to prove evidence. You have to show us, the police, a crime was committed. Otherwise it's just a story, and I know some better ones if you want to hear some real true-life crime stories, okay?"

Mitchell said, "Joe-" He almost said, "Fuck you," but he didn't. He said, "Joe, I'm looking at possibilities, that's all. I want to know, if things come up, what my alternatives are, if I've got any. What I don't need is any bored-sounding bullshit. I appreciate your coming and thank you very much." Mitchell pushed his chair back and stood up.

"Jim, thank you. You get this one and I'll get the next."

They watched him walk through the restaurant toward the front of the place. Paonessa said, "Christ, what's the matter with him?"

O'Boyle didn't answer. After a few moments he said, "Yes, the New York strip sirloin, it's pretty good here."

Barbara was perspiring when she came off the court and it felt good; the soreness in her legs and right arm felt good. She had played singles for an hour with one of the assistant pros-who had not taken his sweater off-and lost two sets, 6-2 and 6-3. She had not gone out expecting to win; but she wished the long-haired good-looking son of a bitch would have taken his sweater off, at least after the first set. Today she would have beaten any girl she knew. She probably would have beaten Mitch. He was an unorthodox player who slapped at the ball instead of stroking it, but God, he hit it hard and he was all over the court. They had a doubles match coming up this weekend-arranged two weeks before-with Ross and a young girl with tight slender thighs they had played before and beaten. She wondered who would cancel the match, if Mitch would remember or if she would have to do it… or if Mitch would ask his girl friend to be his partner. No, the girl wouldn't play tennis. Barbara knew nothing about the girl, except that she was certain the girl did not own a tennis racket and had never played in her life. She said to herself, sitting down in a canvas chair and lighting a cigarette, You're a snob, aren't you? She sat looking down the length of the indoor courts that were five feet below the level of the lobby and saw Ross coming off number 4 with the head pro.

She stubbed out the cigarette, with time enough to reach the women's locker room before he saw her. But she waited, wondering if he knew. Coming up the steps to the lobby, seeing her then, his expression answered her question.

"Barb-" The sad, sympathetic look, coming over to her with his hand extended. He was the only person she knew who called her Barb.

Ross got two cans of Tab from the machine, steered her over to a couch-where they'd be more comfortable and out of the traffic-and they went through the preliminaries. I'm so sorry. Thank you. God, when Mitch told me I couldn't believe it. I'm really extremely sorry. Well, I guess it happens. Do you think he's serious? I mean how serious is it? I was going to ask you the same question.

"I've got an idea," Ross said. "Why don't we have dinner tonight?"

"Thank you, but I don't think so."

"Now wait. Have you talked to anyone about it?"

"No, not yet."

"I mean do you have someone you can talk to?"

She said, "A shoulder to cry on?"

Ross gave her a sad smile. "Maybe you do cry sometimes, Barb, but I'll bet not very often. You keep it inside, and that's not good."

"I cry," she said. "I can probably cry as well as anyone you know."

"Barb-I'm sorry. Really. I'd like very much to help you any way I can. I'm not a professional counselor, I'm a friend, and I know both of you very well. I've talked to Mitch and now, if you'll let me, I'd like to talk to you, or I'll keep my mouth shut and listen if you'd rather. Or we can talk about anything you want, take your mind off it. Barb-" He paused. "I think a quiet dinner would do you good. In fact, it might do us both good."

She did not need Ross: his pseudosympathy or help or whatever he had in mind. God, she knew Ross well enough. But he had obviously talked to Mitch and maybe he did know a little more than she what was on her husband's mind. It was a possibility. He might even know the girl.

Barbara waited, making up her mind, before nodding slowly, looking at him. "All right, Ross," she said. "Let's do it. See what happens."