52 Pickup (21 page)

“I spoke to him,” Mitchell said. “He wouldn't take the money. So I came here. Now do you want it or not?”

“You want to give it to me, that's fine.”

“Have I got the right guy?”

“You seem pretty sure.”

“I want to hear it from you,” Mitchell said.

Alan nodded past Mitchell. “There's a guy in the office right there. Another guy up in the projection room—if you think you're going to pull something. I'll tell you something else. I've got a gun on me.”

Mitchell took the envelope out of his pocket and held it out in his left hand. “Is this for you or isn't it?”

“I said if you want to, give it to me, if you're sure.”

“And I want to hear you say it.”

“All right, for Christ sake, yeah! I'm the guy, now gimme it!”

Mitchell gave him his right balled into a fist, went in after him and hit him again, hard, with the same right hand. Alan shattered the glass showcase as his back slammed against it, tried to roll away, screaming, and stumbled to his hands and knees. Mitchell stood over him, waiting.

“You touch me again, honest to God—” Alan
spit blood, his head hunched between his shoulders. “I'll scream loud enough to bring somebody quick, I swear it!”

“You already have,” Mitchell said. “I think everybody's gone home.”

“There's a cop always outside when we close. You touch me, honest to Christ, I'll yell loud enough to get him.”

Mitchell stooped slowly to a squatting position next to Alan. He said, “We don't need cops. What do you want to call the cops for?”

“You touch me—” Alan's hair hung in his face. He reminded Mitchell of an animal that had been beaten and was terrified.

“I'm not going to touch you. I want to talk to you.”

“You cut my mouth up. Christ.”

“I got carried away,” Mitchell said. “There's something about you makes me want to kick your fucking face in, but I'm all right now. All I want to do is talk to you. Show you something. That's all.”

“What?”

“Am I talking to the right guy? I mean are you in charge? I don't want to waste my time otherwise.”

He waited, then heard Alan say, “You're pulling some kind of shit. You go to the cops, you're the one gets nailed.”

Mitchell shook his head. “What do you keep talking about cops for? Do I look stupid? I don't
want any cops in this. But I don't like dealing with more than one person either. I can talk to one person and reach an understanding. But you get a crowd involved—and three's a crowd, buddy—then I'm never sure if they all agree with each other. You follow me?”

“You want to talk,” Alan said, “so say something.”

“I want to talk to you, but I have to show you something too. I have to show you facts and figures.”

“What facts and figures?”

“Can you read a balance sheet?”

“Come on, say it.”

“Look,” Mitchell said, “I know I have to make a deal with you. I don't want to blow everything I've got, go to prison for life. But I can't give you what you're asking, because I can't give you something I haven't got. You come to my office at the plant tomorrow night, eleven-thirty, after the second shift, I'll show you my books, my investments, trust funds. I'll show you where my dough is and exactly how much I can pay you. You're the one's been doing the talking—I mean if you're the one—you know about capital-gains tax, things like that, then I think you'll understand it and, hopefully, take a more realistic approach. You understand? But you got to come alone or there's no deal. Maybe you decide no, you'd rather call the cops on me. I'll have to take that chance. But I promise you this, there's no deal unless
you and I sit down together and talk it over. If we don't then you get
nothing for your trouble.”

Alan looked up at him. “I could be walking into something.”

“Buddy, you could also be dying right now. Tomorrow night, eleven-thirty.” Mitchell rose, putting the envelope back in his pocket.

“The ten grand,” Alan said. He got up on his knees and held out his hand.

“No,” Mitchell said, “you're pretty convincing, but I'm still not sure I've got the right guy.”

Alan watched him walk out. Son of a bitch, pulling something; he was sure of it. He saw the car at the curb—the bronze Grand Prix, and—yes, you bet your ass it was—his wife standing by the car. Old Slim. Slim legs and reasonably large knockers. A very nice combination. Alan walked outside—shit, the guy wasn't going to do anything to him now—and got a good look at her as she got in the car, not noticing him, but showing him some thigh. Jesus, her legs were something. Little muscle line down the outside of the calf. Thin strong legs. Good squeezing legs, get the scissors around you.

As the Grand Prix pulled away, taillights growing smaller in the darkness, he was thinking, That could be looked into again. There could be a part for Slim in this somewhere.

ALAN SAID, “ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?
If you're busy I can wait, man, if you're busy. I don't want to interrupt you or anything.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I'm not talking about you,” Alan said.

“Well, they only three of us.”

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

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

“How do you know?”

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

“Let's talk to her.”

“No need to.”

“I want to be sure,” Alan said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Paper said you got over four thousand.”

“Shit.”

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

“I thought you'd like it.”

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

“You trying to tell me something?”

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

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

He said quietly, “Doreen?”

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

“What time is it?”

“About three.”

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

“What man was that?”

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

“His name Mitchell? Was a friend of Cini's?”

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

“Was he here yesterday?”

“Who?”

“Man name Mitchell.”

“Yesterday. Yeah—about four. I told him I
was expecting somebody.”

“What else you tell him?”

“I told him to come back sometime.”

“What else?”

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

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

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

“You know me,” Bobby Shy said. “You know people I know.”

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

“He ask you any questions?”

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

“He come to buy or talk?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, you feel all right?”

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

“I believe
you,” Bobby Shy said. “I believe everybody.”

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

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

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

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

Murder? What murder? What girl?

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

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

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

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

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

What else?

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

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

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

“Mr. Mitchell?”

Mitchell didn't say anything.

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

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

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

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

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