52 Pickup (14 page)

The camera followed the plywood sheet as it was pulled aside and turned over.

“Note, the bullet holes go all the way through.”

The camera returned to Cini. Mitchell looked and closed his eyes.

“Take my word, man, that's real blood, not catsup. Now watch this.”

The hand pulled the girl's head up by her hair and laid it against the pipe. Her eyes, wide open, stared out from the screen and continued to stare into the hot light as the hand appeared again and seemed to press against her mouth. After a few moments the hand twisted to show a mirror held in the palm.

“Note, the mirror's clear. No breath to fog it up. Actually we didn't need the mirror,” the narrator said. “Look at the eyes. Keep watching. They never blink, do they? That's because they don't see anything.” There was the sound of the narrator clearing his throat.

“Now, what we want you to see, sport, is that you got your tit tightly in the wringer and there ain't any way at all to pull it out. No, because we have this package hidden away: the broad's body, your coat with the broad's blood on it, the thirty-eight with your prints on it, the permit, a few snaps of you and the broad on the beach, all in this package where nobody can find it. Not unless we tell them. Like we call the cops and we say, hey, you want to know where there's a dead broad and all? We tell them, hang up. Pretty soon there's about eighteen fucking police cars outside your house and the neighbors are looking out. What the fuck's going on? They read about it in the paper, Christ, imagine, he seemed like such a nice guy. Yeah? Some fucking nice guy. Takes the broad's clothes off and shoots her five times in the left tit. Probably raped her after. Fucking pervert. Should be electrocuted. What does he get? Life in S.M.P. Jackson. He's over there making
our fucking license plates we got to put on our car for Christ sake.” The narrator paused.

“Or, as I said. You pay us the hundred and five a year the rest of your life or until we say stop, we got enough. Listen to me, sport. No more fucking around. Ten grand tomorrow, ten grand a week from tomorrow, ten grand a week later. Thirty thou in good faith, giving you time to get it together. Then you plan ahead and come up with the balance in cash monthly payments. You got it? Tomorrow night you go out to Metro yourself, personally, with ten big ones. At exactly eleven-thirty you put it in locker two-fifty-eight and put the key in with it. If you hang around, or if you don't show, or if you pull any kind of shit at all, the cops get a phone call.

“Now sit there a while and relax, watch another movie. When it's over, come up and get the reel and the projector if you want. They're rented from Film Outlet, over on Larned. In your name.”

Sitting alone in the darkness, Mitchell watched a cartoon cat chase three cartoon mice all over the house. He watched the cat get clobbered, flattened, blown up, set on fire and electrocuted and the dumb goddamned cat hardly ever got close to them. When it was over Mitchell walked across the street to his car. He wasn't sure for a while where he was going.

HE MADE 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 attaché 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?”