52 Pickup (11 page)

“That beautiful structure on the left is the City-County Building,” the driver was saying into the mike clipped to his lapel. “And the statue in front is the world-famous ‘Spirit of Detroit.' Sitting there, that man is sixteen feet high and weighs over sixteen thousand pounds. Ahead of us now you see the Detroit River.”

As the bus turned left onto Jefferson, heads
raised and gazes shifted to look at the river and the dismal gray skyline beyond.

“Across the way, beautiful downtown Windsor, Ontario,” the driver said. “You can get over to Canada by tunnel or bridge. There used to be a ferry, but I believe he was arrested sometime back. The amazing thing is that, at this particular point, Canada is
south
of the United States.”

At the front of the bus now Bobby Shy ducked his head to look out. Straightening again he reached inside the jacket of his light-gray business suit, came out with a .38 Colt Special and placed the barrel gently against the driver's ear.

“Give me the mike, man,” Bobby Shy said.

The driver's head turned, eyes raised, and the bus swerved abruptly into the next lane. The sound of a horn came from behind them. Bobby Shy looked back past the faces staring at him, then at the driver again. He said, “Be cool, man, everything will be lovely. Turn left at the light. Three blocks up take a right, then left again. You dig? Just nod your head.”

Bobby Shy unclipped the handmike from the driver's lapel and turned to the faces again, the rows of eyeglasses and white round nametags.

He said, “Ladies and gentlemen, you all see how it is? I'm sure you all want everything to be lovely same as I do. Because if you don't, if anybody
tries to be brave, I'm going to blow this motherfucker's head off..” He paused and nodded toward the back of the bus.

“As we continue this sightseeing tour of the dynamic Motor City, my assistant is going to pass up the aisle for your contributions.”

Doreen was wearing sunglasses and a blond wig with a nice little flip-up where it reached her slim shoulders. She got out of her seat and started up the aisle with an A&P supermarket grocery bag, the top of it folded back tightly so it would stay open.

As the bus turned the corner, Bobby Shy said, “Feel free to give my assistant your wallets, billfolds, money belts, watches, jewelry. I mean don't hold back, 'cause we robbing the stagecoach, friends, taking everything you got.”

Doreen offered the open bag from one side of the aisle to the other, not missing anybody, saying, “Thank you, love . . . thank you . . . God bless you, ma'am, I sure admire those earrings. They real diamonds? . . . Sir, we'll take your watch too, if you don't mind. Thank you, love. God bless you.”

When the bus turned north, onto a main street in the black ghetto area, Bobby Shy said, “On the left coming up, past the hockshop and the poolhall, is the world-famous K.O.'s Bar-b-que y'all heard so much about. Past two a.m. you can get
a drink in there with your ribs. Any kind you want, comes in a Co'Cola can.” Looking down the aisle, Bobby Shy paused.

“Man, put your wallet in there, will you please? Thank you.”

He ducked his head to look through the windshield again. “For you gentlemen, up over that bar on the corner? That's a whorehouse. Nice clean establishment. Those places you see boarded up? Historic remains of the riot we had a few years ago. Got me a fine hi-fi set and a ‘lectric toothbrush . . . color TV for my mama.” To the driver he said, “Right at the next corner. Go to the end of the street.”

Doreen was near the front of the bus now, finishing up.

“How we doing?”

“Looks good,” Doreen said. “Some junk and travelers' checks, but looks good.”

At the end of the street the bus came to a stop in front of a black-and-white-striped dead-end barricade.

Bobby Shy grinned at the rows of tense, blank faces watching him. He said, “Detroit's a great big wonderful town, ain't it, gang? Enjoy yourselves. And thank you.”

The driver and the sightseers watched Bobby Shy and Doreen make their way down the grassy
embankment to the Chrysler Freeway, gauge the traffic, run across to the median, wait for the oncoming cars to pass and then run across to the other side and up the embankment. A car was waiting for them in the service drive. The car started off, in plain sight, moving through an area that had been razed for redevelopment, then reached a tree-lined block of old apartment buildings and was out of sight.

The John waited in the doorway. He didn't move until Doreen had turned on a lamp. He walked in then, slightly drunk, looking around the apartment living room and nodding.

“You got a nice place here,” the John said. “Very sexy. You must do all right.”

When he looked at Doreen again her flip-up wig was perched on a fat candle in the center of the coffee table and she was at the record player, turning it on. Her hairstyle was natural, moderately full.

“You want a drink or something first?” Doreen asked.

“You got any . . . pot?”

“I think so, I'll look. Sit down, take your coat off if you want.” Aretha Franklin came on softly as she spoke.

The John watched her remove a book from a shelf, open it and take out a white number 10
envelope. He sat down on the couch, making himself comfortable.

“Hey, you didn't tell me your name.”

She knelt at the coffee table to roll the joint. “I told you, you forgot. Doreen.”

“You never told me how much, either.”

“Kick your shoes off, love. Then we can talk business.” She lighted the joint and handed it to him and watched him draw in. As he did his eyes opened, fixed on something, and he coughed, exhaling the smoke.

“Man,” Doreen said, “you supposed to hold it
in
.” She noticed the direction of his gaze and looked around.

Bobby Shy was standing in the doorway that led to a bedroom, standing there in his undershorts, an unlighted cigarette in his mouth.

“What time is it?” Bobby Shy said.

Doreen glanced at her watch. “Quarter to eleven. I thought you were sleeping.”

He came over to the coffee table and picked up the lighter. The John didn't move. He stared at Bobby Shy, at the flat gut and sloping shoulders and the veins that stood out in his arms like cords. Lighting the cigarette Bobby Shy said, “How long you going to be?”

Doreen shrugged. “All night if he's up to it. No pun intended.”

“I got to go out for a while.” Going back to the bedroom he said, “Come here a minute.”

The John watched Doreen get up and follow the black man to the doorway. When the black man looked at him, the John shifted his gaze quickly and studied an orange day-glo painting of Spanish galleons at sunset.

Bobby Shy said to Doreen, “He look like anything?”

“You want to hustle a shoe clerk,” Doreen said. “He been saving his money and his little dick a month for this.”

“I'll see you later,” Bobby Shy said. Going into the bedroom, closing the door, he heard Doreen say, “He's just a friend of mine, baby. He don't mind.”

Bobby Shy got to the Kit Kat Bar about eleven-thirty. He liked the beat of the number and felt very fine right now with twenty dollars worth of top-shelf coke working in his head. There was a good crowd for a weeknight; he had to look around before he saw Alan and Leo sitting at a table toward the back of the place.

Alan looked up at him. Leo was anxious and asked him right off, “Where you been all day?”

“Sightseein',” Bobby Shy said. He took a seat, glancing over at the white skinny chick
on the oval stage and pausing to watch her a few moments: a new one, not too bad; maybe he'd look into some of that.

“We been trying to get ahold of you,” Leo said.

Bobby Shy nodded. “I got the message. I'm here, ain't I?”

“You want something to drink?” Leo had had six vodka and Seven-Ups in the past few hours; Alan, one Fresca.

Alan kept his eyes on Bobby Shy. “How you doing?”

“I'm fine,” Bobby said. “Mellow.”

“I can see it,” Alan said now. “Coming in about five thousand feet.”

“Not coming in, man. Staying up a while.”

“You better land,” Alan said. “The guy's been around. Looking for Cini.”

“So what'd you expect?”

“He's holding back,” Leo said. “Stalling.”

“What you want me to do, run him over?”

“I talked to him on the phone,” Alan said quietly. “He wants more time. He's figuring ways to get out of it.”

“I would too,” Bobby Shy said. “Look all around me for ways.”

Alan was patient. He liked the idea of not ever raising his voice. “No, there's more to it,” he said. “We got to look at the guy a little closer.
He's not scared yet. He's nervous, but he's not scared. He doesn't sit home biting his fingernails, he asks for more time and then comes around looking for Cini. Maybe he doesn't believe it. Maybe he thinks it's a joke. You see what I mean? I mean I think we're going to have to dig the hole a little deeper for the guy and put him in, so when he looks up he doesn't see any way to get out. You follow me?”

“You want to dig a hole,” Bobby Shy said. He looked over at the new go-go dancer again.

“In case we need it,” Alan said. “Just in case.” He grinned then. “I'll tell you, I got an idea, man, a way to do it that's un-fucking-believable. I mean it, I tell you and you're not going to fucking believe it at first.”

Slowly Bobby Shy looked away from the go-go dancer. “Well lay it on me. See if I like it.”

Alan was in control again. “There's time,” he said. “First we see if the man makes his down payment.”

BARBARA SAID, “YOU WANT A DRINK, DON'T YOU?”

“I guess so.”

She looked at him a moment, about to say something. Mitchell waited and it passed. He watched her take a fifth of Jack Daniels and two lowball glasses from the cupboard and place them on the counter that separated the kitchen from the breakfast room. Mitchell stood on the side away from the kitchen, leaning on the counter. He watched Barbara fill the glasses with ice from the freezer side of the refrigerator. He could smell something cooking in the oven. Pot roast. With browned potatoes and carrots.

“I thought we were going to eat out.”

“I didn't think you really wanted to.” Barbara poured two inches of whiskey into the glasses and added a splash of water from the sink faucet. “You looked tired this morning,” she said, her eyes raising with a calm, nice expression.

“I guess I am. Last few days I haven't slept much.”

“You should go to bed early tonight.”

“I'm planning to. If Victor or somebody doesn't call.”

“Haven't they fixed . . . whatever it is yet?”

“Still some machine problems. And now I've got a smart-ass union guy on my back trying to show me how tough he is.” He saw her watching him and he said, “I'm not making excuses. It's a simple fact.”

“I didn't say anything.”

“I know you didn't.”

There was a silence as they sipped their drinks. Mitchell lighted a cigarette and handed it to Barbara, then lighted one for himself.

“You didn't read Mike's letter this morning,” his wife said. “Now I don't know what I did with it.”

“That's right, I forgot. Anything new I ought to know about?”

“He still hasn't said how he's doing in class. It's mostly about parties. He's repairing his motorcycle in the apartment and there's no place to sit down. He has another rice and mushroom recipe he wants to fix for us when he gets home.”

“Doesn't know whether to be a cook or a mechanic.”

“Marion called. We're going there for dinner Saturday night.”

“Fine. Who's going?”

“I didn't ask. I'm sure we'll know everybody.”

“Yeah, I guess we usually do.”

“The disposal's acting up again. It works and then it doesn't.”

“Why don't you call somebody?”

“You said you were going to fix it.”

“That's right, I did.”

“About a month ago,” Barbara said. “The first time it got stuck or whatever it does.”

“Yeah, I keep forgetting.” Mitchell looked over at the sink. “This weekend, I'll open it up, take a look.”

“That would be nice,” Barbara said.

“Probably the blades're out of line.” He watched his wife sip her drink and place the glass on the counter again.

“I've been seeing a girl,” he said.

Barbara's gaze remained on the lowball glass, still holding it. He couldn't see her eyes. He knew she was waiting for him to continue and he didn't know what to say.

“I met her about three months ago.”

He waited again as she took a sip of her drink, her eyes still lowered.

“Go on.”

“I don't know how to tell it.”

“Try,” Barbara said. She looked at him directly now. She seemed calm. “Do I know her?”

“No. We met in a bar. I've been seeing her maybe two, three times a week.”

“You go to bed with her that often?”

“No, it's not like that.”

“Then what are you seeing her for?”

“I'm trying to say, we started seeing each other, it wasn't just sex.”

“Is she good in bed?”

“What're you asking something like that for?”

“Why, does it offend you? Your sense of morals?”

“I met the girl, we liked each other. It just happened. I don't know why. I wasn't looking for anything.”

“How old is she?”

“Twenty-two.”

“A year older than Sally.”

“I know. But she doesn't seem that young.”

“Sally's married.”

“She was, too. She's divorced.”

“What's her name?”

“Cini.”

“That's cute.”

“Cynthia. Her real name's Cynthia.”

“She's young,” Barbara said. “She's different.
You met her in a bar but she's really a nice girl. She's in love with you and she's ready to get married again. Anything else?”

“That's not the way it is.” He was trying to appear calm and raised his glass slowly to finish the drink.

Barbara waited, staring at him. “If that's not the way it is, then why are you telling me about it? If you've got something going on the side, why in hell would you want to tell
me
?”

“You want another one?” He was already pouring whiskey into his glass.

“I might as well,” his wife said. The glass was something to touch and turn and look at thoughtfully. She couldn't stare at the wallpaper or the cupboards for very long. She couldn't look at Mitchell for more than a few moments at a time. She couldn't press down on him with her gaze and purposely make him uncomfortable. The son of a bitch.

She said, “All right, two supposedly intelligent people who have been living together for twenty-two years are now having a little talk. If you're not planning to marry the girl—can I assume that?”

“No, I'm not planning to marry her.”

“Then what are you telling me about it for? Why wouldn't you use a little sense and keep it
to yourself? Are you bragging about it or what?”

“I don't know. I guess it's been bothering me.” He looked at his wife and made himself hold her gaze. “Barbara, I don't do things like this. I can't get used to sneaking around. I feel like I'm somebody else.”

“It's been bothering you,” Barbara said. “Poor baby.”

“Do you want to hear about it or not?”

“I don't know. Maybe I don't.”

“All right, let's forget about it.”

“
Forget
about it!”

“I mean talk about it some other time. Maybe I shouldn't have brought it up.”

Barbara shook her head, almost in wonderment. “You're too much.
Maybe
you shouldn't have brought it up.”

“Look, it isn't a simple thing to explain.”

“I guess not, if it could blow a perfectly good marriage that's lasted twenty-two years.” She paused. “Or hasn't it been so good? God, all of a sudden I'm not sure I know you. Much less her. Is she pretty or flashy or what? She have big knockers?”

“Barbara—she's not what you picture. She's kind of plain-looking.”

“Well, tell me what the big attraction is. She know a lot of kinky sex tricks?”

Mitchell shook his head. “We got along, that's all. We laughed, we had a good time together.”

“
We
get along,” Barbara said. “
We
laugh. At least we used to.”

“I know it. It doesn't make sense. It's just something I felt.”

Barbara frowned. “Wait a minute. Why the past tense? Aren't you going to see her again?”

“I don't know. Right now I don't even know where she is.”

“You mean she left you? But you're still interested?”

“It's a little more complicated than that.”

“What is?”

“If I told you the whole story—I don't know, I guess my timing's bad. It'd sound like I was sucking around you for sympathy.”

“Boy, it would have to be an awfully sad story to get any sympathy from me.”

“Well, it's not something that happens every day.”

“But you won't tell me about it.”

“Not yet.”

“So all I know is you've been fooling around.”

Mitchell let it pass and took a sip of his drink. Barbara stared at her glass. She said, “I never thought it would happen to us. I never even considered it. Ever.”

“I didn't either,” Mitchell said. “I think about it now—it would've ended, you never would have known the difference.”

“I think I have known,” Barbara said, “for at least a month. But God, I wish you hadn't told me.”

From ten until twelve that morning Barbara Mitchell played doubles with her regular Wednesday group at the Squire Lake Racquet Club. It was twenty-five minutes past twelve when she reached home and turned into the drive. Barbara didn't get out. She sat in the Mercedes and lighted a cigarette. She was alone. She could hear the engine idling and, faintly, Roberta Flack's voice on the radio. It was warm in the car, reasonably comfortable. She wore a scarf and a suede coat over her tennis whites, no pantyhose; her legs were still tan from two weeks in Mexico in February. She could go in the house and change into slacks and go to Marion's for lunch and talk to the girls and laugh and pretend nothing had happened. Or she could back out the drive and get to a freeway and go north or south or any direction, it didn't matter, and keep going and feel the speed of the car—see how fast it would go—and see fields and trees and road reflectors rushing past and . . . what?

Or she could drive over to Ranco Manufacturing and go into Mitch's office and
kick the great lover in the balls. The bastard. The rotten son of a bitch. Twenty-two years. And he had to tell her about it.

She wondered if he'd ever had a girlfriend before. No, he would have somehow given it away. Or, with his conscience killing him, he would have told her. She doubted that he had ever lied to her. Harry Straightarrow. The good guy.

But God, he was dumb. Falling for some little ass-shaker, cute little mindless fluff who probably didn't wear a bra and said “groovy” and “cool” and smoked pot.

She could see Mitch trying it, holding the twisted cigarette delicately in his big tool-grinder fist, trying to hold in the smoke curling out of his nose. The dope. The wrong dope got the dope. Bob Hope had said that in a movie. She remembered the line but didn't know why. She didn't remember the name of the picture, only that they had seen it together before they were married: Mitch working days at Dodge Main and taking engineering courses at night—while she was working on her masters in English lit, which she never completed—and every Saturday or Sunday they'd go to a show or a ball game, Tigers or the Lions, depending on the season.

Twenty-two years used up, gone. Photographs in a bottom drawer. She remembered sitting on the
floor with Mitch—a year ago, right after Sally was married—looking through the pile of snapshots they were going to sort out someday and put in albums, chronologically, with dates, a pictorial family record. But there were no dates on most of the photographs. Sally and Mike, little kids on the beach. Sally and Mike standing by the car. Barbara younger, with a tight hairstyle and a long skirt. By the car. Mitch, heavier, with a crewcut. By the car. Why did they always take pictures standing by a car? It was a good thing, Mitch said. It was a way to identify the year. The cars changed and the people changed. A time they could look at but not remember as a particular day. There were pictures taken at a party at least eighteen or twenty years ago. Look at how young everyone looked. Good friends who were still friends, most of them. Everyone laughing. Every weekend. Bring your own. A case of beer or a bottle of
Imperial, two-forty-nine. No money, but they talked and laughed and seldom seemed to worry about anything. She remembered saying to him—perhaps a month ago—“Why don't we have fun anymore?” And he said, “We have fun. We go to Florida and Mexico, we've gone to Europe, we play tennis, we go out to dinner every week, we go to shows.” And she remembered saying, “You haven't answered the question.” That time, looking at the photographs,
she said, “Can you hardly wait till Sally has a baby?” And she remembered him saying, “I guess not, except then I'd be married to a grandmother, wouldn't I?” Being funny, but telling her something at the same time.

Go upstairs and throw his clothes out the window. His drip-dry shirts and jockey shorts and ratty sport coat and the blue sweatsuit he jogged in every morning. Let him come home and find all his things in a pile on the front lawn, the bastard, and have to shovel them into his showboat bronze Grand Prix.

Grow up, she said to herself, and go to lunch.

Barbara got out of the car and crossed the lawn to the front steps. She was reaching for the handle when she noticed the door slightly open, the copper weatherseal touching the jamb but not closed all the way. This morning she had gone out the back to the garage. Had she opened the front at all? Yes, to get
The Free Press.
Then had slammed it closed. She could have left it unlocked easily enough—they had lost the key to the front door and usually didn't make a point of locking it until they were in for the night. But, she knew, she had not left the door open this morning.

In the foyer she took off her coat and draped it over a chair. It was when she paused then, listening, that she knew someone was in the house. There was no sound that she heard; she sensed it. Someone was here, now.

Alan Raimy was sitting in a big chair by the fireplace, his legs crossed, an attaché case on the floor at his feet.

He watched Barbara come into the living room: nice tan legs in the short tennis dress, yes, very nice. A good-looking well-preserved broad. Nice hips; she moved nice.

He said, “Slim, I'll tell you what I'm going to do.”

Barbara turned abruptly to see him fifteen feet away from her in the easy chair: a bony, pale-looking young man with long hair, wearing a dark business suit, sitting in Mitchell's chair. She noticed his boots and the attaché case.

“I'm going to give you a personalized monthly accounting service,” Alan said. “Take care of all your bills and expenditures for a low three-and-a-half-percent charge, guaranteed to be accurate or we eat the difference.”

“Who are you?”