Mitchell said, "Tell him I'll call him back," and hung up the phone.
He was in the Engineering office, sitting on a high stool under the bright fluorescent lights. He leaned over the drafting table again to study the cutaway drawings he had made of a clasp lock assembly. They were crude drawings, rendered freehand, without using the T-square. Lying open on the table was the black attache case he had received the day before. Next to the case was the switch actuator he had taken out of the scrap bin, also the day before.
He drew a rectangle, representing the open case, looking down into it; then drew a top-view indication of one of the two clasp locks that were on the facing of the case.
Vic, his superintendent, came into the Engineering office and stood looking down at the board.
Mitchell said, "Yeah?"
"That five hundred feet of number eight rod was due yesterday, it's not here yet."
"Call them up."
"I did call them. They said they'd see what they can do."
"Call them again," Mitchell said. "Tell them the rods aren't here by noon they can bend them around their ass and make Hula Hoops, we'll go someplace else."
"They'll say okay, and the rods'll get here about four, five o'clock."
"But you'll have them," Mitchell said.
Vic was staring at the drawing. "What're we in, the luggage business now?"
"I'm trying to figure out," Mitchell said, "how to snap this open-see, it's one of the clasps-and make an electrical connection inside."
"For what?"
"For example, if you wanted a light to go on when you opened the case."
"Like a refrigerator."
"Only the case isn't plugged in."
"You got to have a battery inside."
"I know that," Mitchell said. "I'm trying to figure out how to connect with the battery without messing up the case, changing the way it looks."
"It's a pretty nice case."
"You see the problem?"
"I think that switch actuator's too big. All you need's a little spring of some kind."
"Maybe you're right."
"Well, I guess you'll think of a way," Vic said, "if that's what you want to do, light up a briefcase."
"It's kind of what I want to do," Mitchell said.
He had the attache case with him when he went back to his office and stopped at Janet's desk.
"You remember the name of the place this came from?"
"I wrote it down, in case you wanted me to check on the card."
"I found the card," Mitchell said. "It was in here all the time."
Janet said, "Oh?" and waited.
"What I'd like you to do, go there sometime today and get me another case, just like it."
"You want another case," Janet said, "just like that one."
"I was fooling with the lock and I sprung it."
"Maybe it can be fixed."
"I'd just as soon have another case, a new one, if it's okay with you."
"Certainly it's okay."
"Thank you."
"Mr. O'Boyle called again. I told him I gave you the message the first time."
"Get him for me, will you?"
"Yes sir, Mr. Mitchell."
He looked at her. "Janet, I have a reason for wanting another case. Will you accept that, take my word for it?" He went into his office.
"I've got another one for you to look up," Mitchell said into the phone. "Robert Sly. I'll give you his address, his driver's license number if it'll help."
"Is he a friend of Leo Frank?" O'Boyle's voice asked.
Mitchell hesitated. "Why?"
"You haven't seen the paper this morning?"
"I spent the night here. Something I had to do."
"Get a paper," O'Boyle said. "Page three, a picture of the model studio with the window blown out."
"He have an accident? What happened?"
"He was shot four times. You give me the name of a guy to check on and three days later he's dead. Now do you want to tell me what's going on?"
"Was it a robbery, what?"
"He had forty-three dollars on him, a comb, a can of hair spray and a bottle of Beach Boy aftershave lotion. No, it wasn't a robbery and you're not answering my question. Mitch, what's going on?"
"Wait a minute, Jim. What about Alan Raimy?"
"What about him?"
"What'd you learn?"
"The only one I've found out about so far is Leo Frank. You remember Joe Paonessa, the assistant prosecutor you were so nice to? I checked with him. He called me yesterday afternoon to tell me what they had on Leo."
"What?"
"Mitch-" O'Boyle sounded impatient, let his breath out, probably shaking his head.
Mitchell said, "Come on, tell me."
"Leo Frank was arrested once," O'Boyle said, "for indecent exposure, three times for pandering, one conviction, served ninety days. What I want you to understand," O'Boyle said then, "the prosecutor's office checks him out as a favor, and the next day the man's dead. Now what do I tell Joe Paonessa when he calls?"
"Wait and see if he does."
"Mitch, the man was murdered."
Mitchell said, "I don't know what to tell you, Jim. I mean right now I don't have anything to tell you. Maybe in a couple of days."
"I'm going to come over and talk to you," O'Boyle said.
"I won't be here."
"Mitch, I give the prosecutor's office two names. One of them is found murdered. Now what are they going to do? They're going to call me and say how do you know this guy, what was his problem? And they're going to look for the other name, Alan Raimy. Now I know Leo and Alan are involved in the blackmail, obviously. Joe Paonessa doesn't know that, naturally I didn't mention your name. But he could think about it and put it together and you could look up to see the police at your door. Before we get to that, I want you to tell me the whole thing. All right?"
"I don't see you have to tell them anything," Mitchell said. "Tell him they're clients of yours. They come in, you want to check them out first. Jim, guys who commit crimes go to lawyers, don't they? Or guys who've committed a crime and see they might get caught? Tell Joe what's-his-name they came to you, but haven't told you the whole story yet. They owe on a gambling debt, something like that, and have been threatened. Jim, you're the lawyer, you can think of something."
"I want to talk to you today, Mitch."
"All right. But later on, okay? I've got things to do and I'm running out of time."
"Mitch, promise me-you won't do anything until you've talked to me."
"We'll see," Mitchell said. "But I may not have a choice."
Alan pulled the bedroom phone out of the jack and took it with him when he went downstairs. He got the Free Press off the front steps and read about Leo while the water was boiling. That Bobby. Goddamn gunslinger had to blow the place up. Style but wild. Man loved to pull the trigger. Yeah, Alan said, and smiled.
It was working, he told himself, pouring the coffee. Everything was working. He went down a checklist in his mind.
Leo out of the way.
Guy's wife upstairs, under control.
Panel truck in the garage. Stolen but as good as clean, because Richard the dealer sure wasn't going to any police.
Guy busy at his plant, not knowing what shit was going on.
That was the luckiest jackpot great-timing break of all, the guy not coming home last night. Jesus, so he didn't have to sneak Slim out and hide her in some motel and leave a phony note saying she was out for the evening or visiting her mother or some goddamn thing-which the guy might buy or might not. That had been the riskiest part of the whole idea and it turned out to be nothing to worry about.
He placed the coffeepot and cups, the paper and the telephone on a tray and carried it upstairs to the bedroom. She was lying in the big king-size bed with the sheet covering her and seemed to be still asleep. But her eyes opened as he set the tray on the night table. She watched him put the gun in his pocket and plug in the phone.
"Where did you sleep?" she asked him.
"Hey, Slim, come on. That wasn't a dream you were having. That was for real."
"Did you give me another injection during the night?"
Alan grinned at her.
"I mean the heroin, or whatever it is."
"Just the one, before we went to bed. Some other time I'm going to keep you awake for the show."
"May I get dressed now?"
"You're fine the way you are. Sit up, we'll have some coffee. First though-" He sat on the edge of the bed, picked up the phone and dialed a number.
"Mr. Mitchell, please. Mr. Raimy calling." Alan looked over at Barbara and winked.
"What happened to your friend?" Mitchell said, as soon as he heard Alan's voice.
"Who's that?"
"Leo."
"Never heard of him. Listen," Alan said. "I've been thinking about you and getting very bad vibes, like you're trying to pull some kind of shit on me. You ever get that feeling?"
"If you're nervous, see a doctor," Mitchell said. "If you want to get this done, then let's do it."
"You got the fifty-two?"
"I can have it today."
"Okay. We'll do it tonight."
"Where?"
"Get the money, go back to your office and stay there. I'll call you."
"I assume," Mitchell said, "you want it in the briefcase you sent."
"You assume correct. Now, one other thing."
"What's that?"
"No police. Okay?"
"No police."
"Not that I don't trust you but, man, I don't like taking a chance. You understand? So I'm going to have somebody with me."
"Who, Bobby?"
"Hey, you've been busy. No, somebody else. Hang on a second."
Mitchell waited.
Barbara said, "Mitch?"
His chair came upright as he straightened and the arms banged against the desk. "Barbara! Where are you?… Barbara!"
There was a silence before Alan came on the line again.
"You see it now, sport? If I find out you got the police in this-man, if I even feel it-no wife. I'm taking a chance. You may not even give a shit about her and I'm left holding Slim, but I don't see any other way to do it. You give me the fifty-two, I give you your wife. Shake hands and go home."
"Where are you?" Mitchell said.
"What difference does it make? I'll call you later."
"Let me talk to my wife again."
"Don't worry, I'll take good care of her."
The line went dead.
Mitchell pressed the phone button down, raised it and dialed his home. He listened to the phone ring ten times before he hung up.
He waited, picked up the phone again and this time put in a call for Ross.
Alan didn't say anything until the phone stopped ringing. "That's hubby checking up."
"It could be somebody else," Barbara said.
"It doesn't matter. We're not answering the phone today."
"I have a tennis match this afternoon. If I don't show up they're going to wonder. Someone may come over."
"Let me worry about that," Alan said. "Till we leave here we don't answer the phone or the door."
"Where are we going?"
"Hey, don't talk for a while, okay?" He picked up the phone again and was dialing a number.
After a moment, quietly, he said, "Bobby, I liked it… Yeah, you're a fucking cowboy… Listen, it's set for tonight. I'm going to call him later, let him know exactly where and all that. But listen, we don't want two cars. Have Doreen drive you out, meet me at Metropolitan Beach, it's just a little bit east of his plant, eight o'clock… I'm nowhere near you and I got things to do. Listen, get Doreen to drive you, drop you off. I'll meet you in the parking area over by… you'll see a sign, it says tot lot… where they got all the swings and slides and shit… Yeah, you'll see it over to the right as you come in. Hey, Bobby, and bring the guy's piece… That's right. Take you about forty-five minutes. So, I'll see you at eight. Man, on the button, eight o'clock."
As he hung up the phone Barbara said, "What are we going to do until then? That's a long time away."
Alan turned to look down at her, at the curve of her breasts beneath the sheet and her bare arms at her sides, lying flat, motionless.
"What do you want to do? Play a little tennis? At the club?"
She didn't say anything.
"Or we can shoot scag. Drift off somewhere and, you know, groove around."
"You do it," Barbara said. "I'll watch."
"Well, you're going to have some before we leave," Alan said. "You can bet on that."
Mitchell stood in the small outer lobby looking at the photographic lightbox display of Wright-Way trailers, campers and motor homes. He turned to the glass window with the round opening in it as the receptionist said, "Mr. Mitchell, he's out of the office right now."
"Is he in the plant?"
"Esther just said he was out of the office. Did you have an appointment?"
"Not in about three years," Mitchell said. "Why don't I wait a while, see if he turns up?"
"I'll try and locate him for you," the receptionist said.
Mitchell lighted a cigarette and stood looking into the front-office area, at the rows of secretaries and clerks sitting at their pastel green metal desks. After a few minutes the receptionist said, "He doesn't seem to be in the plant." Mitchell nodded. He smiled, showing her he was patient and in no hurry.
After a few more minutes he saw the Chief Engineer come out of the hall that led to the plant and go over to one of the secretaries. Mitchell waited. When the Chief Engineer turned from the desk, he saw Mitchell in the lobby, walked over waving for Mitchell to come in, and pulled open the glass door.
"What're you doing out there? Come on in for Christ sake."
"I'm waiting to see Ross. I guess they can't find him."
"I just talked to him five minutes ago," the Chief Engineer said. "What do you mean they can't find him? If he's not at his desk he's probably locked in the toilet with some broad."
Mitchell smiled. "How's it going? You got any problems?"
"A few things I could talk to you about," the Chief Engineer said. "Whyn't you come in my office?"
"How about after I get through with Ross?" Mitchell said. "He called, it sounded important."
They were walking down the executive hallway now, approaching Ross Wright's office. The Chief Engineer walked him all the way to the end, to Mr. Wright's secretary's desk. He said, "Esther, tell him Mr. Mitchell's here. And listen, then send this guy down to my office when he's through, in case he forgets."
That's how Mitchell got in to see Ross, sitting behind his black desk with a big smile on his face.
When the door closed behind him, Ross said, "Mitch, how's it going?"
"I called you a couple times this morning," Mitchell said. "You never called back."
"Meetings." Ross shook his head, poor overworked executive. "Some of the field people are in this week. I haven't had time to take a leak."
"Anything I can do for you?"
"I appreciate the offer, but not that I know of. Production's fine, but now it's sales. If you could keep both of them up at the same time, uh? That'd be something."
"I understand you were out with my wife," Mitchell said.
"Barbara?"
"That's her name. Barbara."
Ross had a surprised look for a moment, of innocence, that became serious, sincere.
"I took Barbara to dinner the other night. I thought she might want to talk about it, you know, offer her a shoulder to cry on if she wanted one."
"Yeah? Did she cry?"
"Of course not. I didn't think she would. I thought maybe if I could find out how she felt about the situation, you know, I could give you the word and maybe help you straighten things out."
"Where'd you go, the Inn?"
Ross nodded. "Yeah, had a pretty good dinner. Adequate. It's not as good though as it used to be."
"Champagne and brandy after?"
Ross nodded again, slowly, as if trying to remember. "Yeah, I believe we did."
"Barbara told me about it."
"Mitch, you're not thinking-" Ross turned on one of his smiles. "Hey, come on, you're not accusing me of anything, are you? I thought she'd want a quiet place to talk and I still had a suite for a customer'd been there-you know, a sitting room-I thought would be more comfortable."
"She didn't tell me about the room," Mitchell said.
"Oh," Ross said. "Well, we were only there a few minutes. Had one drink, talked a little bit and I took her home. That's all there was to it. I mean I'd even forgotten we went to the room, the suite. We sat down for a couple of minutes, talked about you most of the time. Hey, about when you were in the Air Force and you shot down the two Spitfires. Jesus, you never told me anything about that before. How many planes you shoot down?"
"Seven," Mitchell said. "No, nine."
"Jesus, goddamn ace, I never knew it."
"Ross, you still working on your ski slopes? Up north."
"What?" The abrupt switch stopped him.
"You said, last time we had lunch, you were putting in improvements at your ski resort. Doing some blasting."
"That's right. They started a few days ago."
"The guy with the dynamite's there?"
"He should be. Why?"
"I need some."
Ross stared at him. "You need some dynamite?"
"About a half-dozen sticks," Mitchell said, "and a cap, you know, a detonator. If you called somebody up there, they could be down here with it in about three and a half hours, couldn't they?"
"Yes, but"-Ross was frowning, puzzled- "what do you want it for?"
"I may have to blow some stumps," Mitchell said. "Maybe I won't need it, but I want to be ready just in case."
"Mitch, I don't know. Dynamite-I mean it's not like handing somebody a dozen eggs."
"I don't want eggs," Mitchell said. "I want dynamite. You can get it for me and I think you want to get it for me, Ross. As a favor. You know what I mean? Because we've always been so close. You and I, and now Barbara. So why don't you pick up the phone and get on it?"
O'Boyle was sitting at one end of the couch with his briefcase next to him and a file folder open on his lap.
He said, "Why don't you sit down for a minute? I don't know if you're listening or not."
"I'm listening," Mitchell said. He walked from the window back to his desk, but didn't sit down.
"It's a little hard to talk to you."
"I'm listening," Mitchell said. "You talk, I'll listen."
"You look like you're ready to climb the wall or go through it." O'Boyle watched him move to the window again, the early-evening light flat and dull against the pane.
"Are you going home for dinner?"
"I don't know yet."
"You want to get a bite somewhere?"
"Why don't you read me what you've got?"
"I have a feeling you're off somewhere."
Mitchell looked at his lawyer. "I'm here. I'll be here. Now tell me about the guy."
Jim O'Boyle was soft-spoken, intelligent and a successful lawyer. He knew Mitchell pretty well, sometimes; he thought he knew his moods. One thing, he was not going to waste time beating his head against an immovable mind. He looked down at the open file folder.
"Alan Sheldon Raimy," O'Boyle said, "born in Detroit. Was graduated seven years ago from Michigan with a Masters in Biz Ad, top third of his class, taught accounting on a fellowship, was suspended, fired, for operating an abortion service."
Mitchell looked over. "What?"
"He was an abortion broker," O'Boyle said. "The little girls called him when they got in trouble, Raimy arranged the operation and took ten percent. Like an agent. He was arrested by the Ann Arbor Police, once, also by the Washtenaw County Sheriff's Department. No convictions until-"
O'Boyle's hand moved down the page in the folder. "Arrested for embezzlement three years later. Accountant for a chain of women's dress shops in Detroit. He'd send them invoices from phony companies with names that sounded very much like legitimate suppliers, pay the invoices himself and open bank accounts in the phony names. He made over twenty thousand before he was caught, convicted and served a year and a half in Jackson. Since then he's been arrested for, let's see, once for lewd and indecent conduct-he was part of a live smoker act. Alan and two girls."
"What'd they do?"
"Probably everything. He was arrested again for contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Caught in a motel with a gallon of wine, marijuana and a fourteen-year-old girl. Thirty days in the House of Correction. Another indecency charge, the last one, showing a smoker movie, stag film, dismissed. So that's Alan Sheldon Raimy," O'Boyle said. "Now he's gone from dirty movies to blackmail to what else?"
"You want a drink?" Mitchell walked over to the cabinet. He took out a bottle of bourbon and poured two short drinks.
O'Boyle watched him. "The police are after Raimy. They can't find him."
"How do you know?"
"Mitch, I'm the first one the prosecutor's office called. Why am I asking about a Leo Frank, deceased, and Alan Raimy? I told them I don't know of any connection between the two. The reason I was inquiring about them is privileged communication. But, I had to tell them if I learned anything I'd get in touch. And that may hold them off and it may not."
Mitchell handed O'Boyle a drink. He took his own and walked around the desk and sat down.
"I don't know where Raimy is," Mitchell said.
"But he's threatening you, isn't he?"
"He's doing more than that." Mitchell took a sip of the bourbon. "He's got Barbara."
He described the phone call and hearing her voice briefly on the line. Mitchell spoke quietly, taking his time. He said, "Yes, he's threatening me. He's going to come here for a payoff or tell me where to meet him. And if he suspects the police are involved, I never see Barbara again, at least alive. That's what's going on."
O'Boyle was silent. Questions jumped in his mind, but he tried to ignore them for the moment and concentrate on Mitchell sitting at his desk with a glass of bourbon, in control now after pacing around the room. That part of it was a little frightening. His calm. Almost as though he felt nothing. Or had made up his mind about something and that was it.
"Why didn't you tell me this earlier?" O'Boyle said.
"Earlier than what? He called this afternoon. I'm waiting for him to call back."
"Before he does-" O'Boyle paused, as if anticipating Mitchell's reaction and wanting to put it off. "We've got to bring in the police."
"No," Mitchell said. A flat statement, that was it. "I told you what he said on the phone and I believe him. No police. He kills people, Jim. As you said, he doesn't just show dirty movies anymore. What he does, he kills people."
"That's right, and he can kill you too."
"Or Barbara, if I don't handle it right."
"What do you mean, handle it?"
"I have a choice. I can pay him or not pay him. But the first thing I have to do is get Barbara away from him."
"We agree on something," O'Boyle said. "But we still have to call the police."
"No." The flat statement again. "At first, up until a few days ago, I had a vague idea of setting him up. I hand him the money and, somehow, flatten him, break his arm if I have to and then hand him over to the police. But I've got another idea now and it may be the only way."
"Mitch, the police have experience in this kind of situation, a procedure-"
He shook his head. "Jim, remember when this started you came here and I told you about it? I put down on tape everything I remembered from the first meeting with them. This afternoon I put some more stuff on tape. Everything that's happened since and what I may have to do. I'm going to give it to you, Jim, and if anything happens to me you'll know who the guys are, what they did, everything. But I'm not going to discuss it with you now and I'm not going to bring the police in, because this son of a bitch, Alan Raimy, I know would walk out of court. How do they get him for murder? How do they prove it? The girl's gone, so is the movie. He says, 'What girl?' Arrest him for kidnapping? Maybe. But also maybe he feels he's come too far to give up. Jim, this guy kills people. He could kill again, Barbara or me, and get away with it." Mitchell paused. "So I'm going to handle it. One way or the other."
O'Boyle stared at him, as if trying to read his mind. "All right, what're you going to do?"
"I'm going to pay him off."
"I don't believe you."
"Then don't. I appreciate your help, Jim, your concern, but I'm not going to argue with you."
"Mitch, I've got an awful feeling you're going to do something-God, I don't know what-that you've got no business even considering."
"But I do know my business," Mitchell said. "Keep that in mind."
"Now I don't even know what you're talking about."
And Mitchell said, "Good."
Bobby Shy was sitting low, looking straight ahead through the windshield at the tree-lined parkway that led into Metropolitan Beach.
"What time is it?"
Doreen turned her hand, holding the top arc of the steering wheel, to look at her watch.
"Just ten after. Staying light longer, isn't it?"
Bobby didn't say anything.
"Now where?"
They were entering the parking area that covered a good forty acres: open empty pavement that reached to a low line of tan-brick structures-the bathhouse, pavilion and maintenance buildings, empty, deserted this time of the year-and a glimpse of Lake St. Clair beyond, flat gray water that extended to the horizon.
"Over to the right," Bobby said. "See the truck?"
"That's Alan?"
Bobby didn't answer. Doreen glanced over at him but didn't ask him again. She saw him reach inside his jacket, draw his.38 Special out of the waistband of his trouser and put it on the seat, tucking it in tight against his left thigh. Mitchell's Smith amp; Wesson was in the right-hand pocket of his jacket.
"Pull up on the left side of the truck," Bobby said, "two, three spaces over."
Doreen was frowning. "How you know it's him?"
"It's him," Bobby said. "Watch me, don't say nothing. I say get out of here, that's when we get. You dig? Not before I say it."
As they eased to a stop, facing the fenced-off playground area and the sign that said tot lot, Alan got out of the panel and came over, relaxed, friendly-looking, with a nice smile.
Bobby smiled back at him. "You in the drugstore business now?"
"How do you like it?"
"Richard call, he ask if I seen you anywhere. Said you was buying some shit for me."
"I needed it for something," Alan said. "Also I needed wheels and there he was. I figure this is not the day to grab a car and get picked up for joyriding."
"Richard going to climb up your ass."
"Let's not worry about Richard right now," Alan said. "Did you bring the man's piece?"
"I got it."
"Let me see it."
Bobby's hand came out of his side pocket with Mitchell's Smith amp; Wesson. He looked up at Alan with a mild expression, the trace of a smile, as he took the revolver in his left hand by the barrel and extended it through the open window to Alan.
Alan took it by the grip, his finger curling around the trigger.
"Is it loaded?"
Bobby grinned. "No, baby, it ain't."
"This one is," Alan said.
He pulled Richard's Saturday night gun out of his hip pocket, stepped back with his left foot and shot Bobby Shy three times-in the face, in the neck, and in the chest. Doreen was screaming, banging against the door to get it open, then twisting to reach the lock button and pull it up. Alan shot her twice in the back of the head as the door swung open and she went out.
He looked closely at Bobby slumped in the seat, reached over, and got the.38 Special without touching him. He walked around the car to Doreen, his gaze moving over the empty parking lot, then looked at her lying twisted on the pavement and prodded her in the ribs with the toe of his boot.
Barbara, frowning, looked at him as he got back in the panel. "I heard an awful noise. Loud noise somewhere."
"Fireworks," Alan said. "Somebody celebrating."
He checked them into a Holiday Inn on the south end of Mt. Clemens. Barbara was a little slow-moving, beginning to drag after her high; but he got her out of the panel without any trouble and into the nice twenty-buck room with a telephone. She said she had a headache. He told her to lie down on the bed, the one away from the door, and he'd take care of her head after a while. First thing, he called room service for hamburgers, fries and a bottle of rose, mentioning to Barbara as he hung up he always liked wine when he was in a motel with a lady. It was romantic. Alan figured they had at least a half-hour before the food came, so he picked up the phone again and dialed Ranco Manufacturing.
He said, "How you doing, sport? You got it?… That's very good. It fits in the case all right?… Good. Now listen. Eleven o'clock I want you to leave your place and go north on Ninety-four toward Port Huron. You go past the turnoff to Selfridge Aim Force Base, you'll see the sign. Go past about two miles… Wait a minute…Wait… wait, hey wait, will you! What do you mean you don't have a car?" He listened for a moment. "Hold on." Alan put his hand over the mouthpiece and looked at Barbara lying on the bed with her eyes open.
"Yesterday your husband said something about he didn't have a car."
"What?"
"When he called, saying he wasn't coming home. He said something about his car. What was it?"
Barbara shook her head. "I don't remember."
"He just said he's leasing another one. He was supposed to get it today, but it didn't come, it's not ready yet."
Barbara shook her head again. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Alan waited.
Son of a bitch. He had to think about it, but he had to tell Mitchell something. He said into the phone then, "Borrow one, I'll call you back." And hung up.
He let her out of the bathroom after the young kid from room service was gone. The tray, with its metal-covered plates and wine bottle in a plastic bucket, sat on the low sectional dresser in front of the mirror and at first she thought there were two trays.
Barbara could smell the french fries and felt nauseated again. She shook her head when Alan told her to help herself. He didn't seem to care. He was digging into the fries with his fingers, dipping them in catsup and stuffing them into his mouth as he got the wine out and poured two glasses. Barbara took one because she was thirsty and it looked cold. He made her come over to take it. Standing by the dresser she saw herself in the mirror. She looked ill, as though she'd been in bed with the flu. She should have on a robe, not a raincoat. She needed makeup and a hairbrush. But she knew she had no purse with her. The bottom of the raincoat was partly open. She buttoned it with one hand and was aware, then, that she wasn't wearing anything beneath the coat. Alan told her to sit on the bed and be a good girl. The wine was very cold. As she sipped it he let her have a cigarette and she began to feel a little better.
Alan was standing eating his hamburger, getting it done, staying close to the french fries and catsup on the tray. He was hungry. He could worry about Mitchell and wonder if the son of a bitch was pulling something, but he was still hungry and had to eat. The wine was good; it helped him relax. But he wished he'd taken a little longer yesterday afternoon, another twenty minutes, and had Richard get him some reefer. With reefer he could get his head together and see everything clearly.
He said to Barbara, "He been having trouble with his car?"
"Not that I know of."
"How was he going to get home?"
"You said he was leasing another one, didn't you?"
"But it didn't come. The day of all days he's got to have a car he says it didn't come."
"That happens, doesn't it?"
Alan was thoughtful. "I don't know. He could be pulling something. But I don't have time anymore to fool around."
Barbara watched him drink his wine and fill the glass again.
"If my husband told you he'll pay you, he will."
"I take your word for it."
"This is your idea," Barbara said, "not ours. I would assume you have to be optimistic in your business, believe you're going to be paid, or you'd never have gone into it."
She continued to watch him as he moved to the front of the motel room and pulled the draperies back to look out. It was dark now. She could see the shiny front of a car and neon lights on the street beyond.
"Why does he have to have a car?"
"To go where I tell him."
"I mean why not meet him at the plant, pick up the money there?"
Alan turned from the window to look at her but said nothing.
"You're afraid of the police," Barbara said. "But wherever you tell him to meet you he could bring the police, couldn't he?" Barbara paused. "But he won't. If he said he'll pay you, he will."
"Lie down," Alan said. "If I want to talk to you, I'll let you know."
He went into the bathroom, leaving the door open, came out and poured himself another glass of wine. He sat down now, turning off the lamp next to the chair, sipped the wine and smoked two cigarettes in the semidarkness. Barbara wasn't sure how much time passed, perhaps twenty minutes or a half-hour. He came over to the phone, sat on the bed facing her and lighted another cigarette before giving the operator Mitchell's number.
She heard him say, "You get a car?… All right, forget it, I'm going to come see you, sometime after your shift lets out… Just be there, alone. You know who's going to be with me. I'm going to drive in the parking lot. I don't like it, I drive out and that's all for your wife. I like it, you bring the money out and we do business… No, we get there I'll tell you what happens next." He paused, listening. "No, she's fine, man. Fact I didn't know an old lady'd be that good. Hey, don't she moan and squirm?" Alan laughed out loud hanging up the phone.
At a quarter past eleven he poured heroin into a Holiday Inn spoon and heated it over a candle he had brought from the Mitchell house. Barbara said to him, as he came over with the syringe, "Please don't, I'm already sick." Alan told her this would make her better, popped a vein in her arm this time and shot her high before she had time to kick, scream or say thank you. He didn't use all of the spoon on her; about half of it, good for an hour or so. He took a fresh needle and shot the rest of the scag into his own left arm. Yeeees. Man, that would help over the rough part. Reefer was sweeter, but a touch of scag would do in a pinch.
At ten to twelve Alan brought a couple of blankets and a pillow out of the room and made a nice little bed in the back of the panel, got Barbara into the truck without anyone seeing them and took off south down the highway. Barbara was making little moaning humming sounds as though she might be singing. Alan felt pretty good himself. Shit, he ought to. It was payday.