52 Pickup (20 page)

“I was just over at the studio. I thought I'd stop have a beer.”

“You get your money's worth?”

“It was pretty good. Mary Lou.”

“Yeah, well, I'll see you around,” Leo said.

Mitchell nodded, with a pleasant expression. “You probably will.”

He stopped inside the door, at the pay phone,
and called his office. When Janet came on he said, “Any calls?” He listened to her say, slightly agitated, “Any calls? That's all you've been getting are calls. All day yesterday and today.” Mitchell said, “Give me the important ones, any customers,” and made a list of them in a pocket notebook as Janet dictated the names. “Anybody else?” Nothing important, she told him. A man had called three times yesterday and twice this morning. She recognized his voice after the first time, but he wouldn't leave a name. Mitchell thanked her, said he'd see her later and hung up.

He walked from the dim front area, down the bar through pink spotlights, to a stool next to the service section with its rows of glasses and trays of olives and cherries and lemon twists. When the elderly bartender he had spoken to once before took his order, a draft beer, Mitchell turned on the stool to watch a good-looking dark-haired girl finish her dance and come down among the tables, slipping a blouse on over her bare breasts. Most of the tables were empty. Lunchtime was past and only a few beer drinkers were left, scattered around, one guy eating a sandwich. The place was quiet. He turned to see Doreen come out of a door at the end of the bar, wearing slacks and knotting a white shirt to show off her dark slender midriff. Doreen didn't
see him. He watched her go toward the tables and heard her say, “Hey Alan, what happened to Leo?” Her words momentarily clear in the silence before the rock music started again, filling the place with sound, and now a thin blond girl was dancing.

There was the name—Leo—like a signal. And another name—Alan. The guy at the table eating the sandwich, the guy with thin shoulders and long hair—looking at his back, seeing Doreen standing by him, talking, then walking away, toward the front door.

He was aware of the feeling again, the tightening in his stomach that was a real feeling, unmistakable, telling him something, giving him something to think about. He waited perhaps a minute—until he realized he might miss his chance if he waited any longer. Mitchell picked up his beer and walked over to the table where the skinny guy with long hair was sitting.

“I understand you been trying to get hold of me.”

Alan was taking a bite of the corned beef sandwich. Chewing, his eyes raised and he said, “What?”

Mitchell pulled out a chair and sat down, putting his beer on the table. “I understand you called me three times yesterday and a couple of times this morning.”

“I did? What'd I call you?”

“You probably been wondering about the money—why I didn't deliver it.”

Alan took another bite of the sandwich. “Man, this is weird. I'm having lunch, a guy I never saw before sits down says I called him.”

“You've seen me before,” Mitchell said.

“You sure of that?”

“Not a hundred percent,” Mitchell said, “but I've got a strong reason to believe it. Put it that way.”

Alan's tongue sucked at his teeth. “Okay, I give up. What's the game? Some kind of con?”

“The other way around,” Mitchell said. “Only it isn't a con. You said it yourself one time on the phone. You said, ‘This is no con.' “

“I got an idea,” Alan said. “Why don't you get the fuck out of here? You don't, I'm going to call the management, tell them you're bothering me.”

“You don't want the money?”

“What money?”

“The ten grand. If I don't know the locker number how'm I supposed to deliver it?”

“Weird,” Alan said. “No shit, you on something or what?”

“How about your accounting service,” Mitchell said. “You still got that?”

Alan's expression was bland, but he was silent, hesitant, before he said, “You mind if I leave you? Man, you're talking to yourself anyway.”

Mitchell watched him get up, reach into a tight pocket for a wad of crumpled bills and drop two of them on the table.

“You going home? Back to work?”

“I'm getting the fuck away from you, man, is where I'm going.” Alan walked off, toward the front door.

Mitchell said, “Hey, where do you live? Case I want to talk to you again.”

Alan didn't answer or turn around. He walked down the length of the bar and out the door.

Mitchell sat at the table for a couple of minutes, finished the glass of beer and went over to the bar, where the bartender he had talked to once before was drying glasses.

“That guy just left,” Mitchell said. “Alan something? You know his last name, what he does?”

“You know his first name, you know more about him than I do,” the bartender said.

“How about Doreen? She coming back?”

The bartender, who learned in forty years to do his job and mind his own business, said, “Which one's Doreen?”

The printed card on the mailbox of 204 said
D. MARTIN
. Mitchell looked at the other names once more—passing the box that had been Cini's, where a man's name appeared now—and came back again
to 204. D. Martin had to be Doreen. He pressed the button and waited in the narrow tiled foyer. Close to him, the voice from the wall speaker said, “Hey, love. Get up here.” With the loud buzzing sound he pressed the thumb latch and the door opened. She was careful about her name on the mailbox, but she let him in without asking who it was.

He found out why as she opened the apartment door and he saw the look of surprise on her face.

“Hey, I thought you were somebody else. Four o'clock this dude's supposed to be here.”

“Well,” Mitchell said, “that gives us ten minutes anyway.”

“You serious?” She moved aside to let him into the atmosphere of dim lights. Aretha Franklin in the background, incense burning on the coffee table and Doreen in billowy orange pants and a tight white blouse open to the waist.

“He's always late anyway,” Doreen said. “You probably got twenty-five minutes, and if you're anxious, love, you won't need that much. You want a drink?”

“I guess so. Bourbon?”

“Anything you want. Rocks?”

“And a splash of water.”

She went through a door into the kitchen. Mitchell sat down on the couch and lighted a cigarette. He heard her say, “How come we didn't
make it the other day? You act like you're all ready, you leave.”

He didn't answer, but waited until she was in the room again, handing him the drink.

“Leo was a little mad I took that picture.”

“Man's got hemorrhoids or something. He always acts uncomfortable.” She sat down on the couch, moving slightly with the blues beat of the music.

Mitchell took a sip of the drink. “Who was that guy he was with in the bar today, the skinny guy?”

“You were there? I didn't see you.”

“At the bar. Leo left, you asked him where Leo was.”

“You mean Alan?”

“Yeah, Alan. I met him before. What's his name?”

“Alan Raimy.”

“That's it. Raimy. What's he, a good friend of Leo's?”

“I guess he's a friend.”

“You know where I can get hold of him?”

“Now we're getting to it,” Doreen said. “Aren't we? You're not making conversation, you want to know something.”

“Where I can find him, that's all.”

She was thoughtful, off somewhere in her mind or listening to the music, then looked abruptly at Mitchell again. “You weren't taking that picture of me, were you? You were shooting Leo.”

“He happened to be there, that's all.”

“Come on—I don't think you're a cop,” Doreen said. “Cini would've found out and told me. But, man, you're up to
some
thing.”

“Where's he live? I won't tell him how I found out.”

“Ask Leo, you so anxious.”

“I did. He said he didn't know.”

“If he's got no reason to tell you,” Doreen said, “that's reason enough for me. I may like you, so far. But that doesn't mean I know you, or want to know you or what you're doing.”

“Does he live around here?”

“I don't know.”

“Where does he work?”

“For some reason,” Doreen said, “I don't seem to be getting through to you.”

“No, it's my fault,” Mitchell said. “I forgot you're a businesswoman.” He took the number 10 manila envelope out of his coat pocket, opened it and laid a one-hundred-dollar bill on the coffee table.

Doreen looked at it, unimpressed. “I make that in five minutes, sport, with the shoe clerks.”

“All right, you said something about twenty-five minutes.” Mitchell pulled out four more one-hundred-dollar bills and laid them on the table. “Twenty-five minutes' worth and you don't even
have to move your tail. Where do I find him?”

“How much more you got in there, love?”

“That's it. All we got time for.”

She looked at the five one-hundred-dollar bills and was thoughtful again. “I'll ask you a question,” she said finally. “Nobody can say I told you anything about him. I'm only asking you a question, you dig?”

He watched her, deciding to let her do it her own way, and nodded. “Go ahead.”

Doreen's nice brown eyes raised to Mitchell again as she said, “Do you like dirty movies, love?”

Mitchell decided one hard-core porno would last him a long time. Barbara said she couldn't believe it. She would say, “My God!” in a startled whisper and nudge Mitchell's arm with her elbow. She nudged him all the way through
Going Down on the Farm
until, at the end, the ratty-looking guy and the girl with stringy hair kissed. After all they had done to each other on the screen for the past sixty minutes, in positions Mitchell had never heard of or ever imagined, they kissed in the Duck Head bib overalls, wearing nothing underneath, and walked out of the barn toward a pickup truck. The main feature was over and the house lights came on. Mitchell reached over for his wife's hand.

“We'll wait a few minutes.”

Barbara sat unmoving now. “I don't believe it.”

“You said that.”

“My God, we've led a sheltered life.”

“As they say, whatever turns you on.” He let his gaze move to the sides, turning his head slightly to see the rows emptying, but didn't look all the way around.

“Did you see anything,” Barbara said, “that—interested you?”

“Well, I don't know. There're a couple numbers we could look into.”

“You know, they didn't kiss at all, until the very end.”

“I guess their mouths weren't ever close enough.”

“Where do they get the actors?”

A light, somewhere behind them, went off. Then it came on again and Mitchell heard the familiar voice.

“Okay, mom and dad, the show's over. Time to go home.”

A silence followed. He was waiting or had walked away. Mitchell didn't look around. He said to his wife, “Not yet.”

“Mitch, now I'm scared.”

“He can't hurt us,” Mitchell said.

In that moment he hoped he was wrong about
Alan. Because Barbara was here and it would be easier if he was wrong. But he still had the gut feeling and he knew—no, he wasn't certain yet, though he would bet on it—that Alan was one of them. And if he was, then face the next fact. Alan was capable of killing. He could have a gun. Under his coat, in his office, somewhere. So if Alan was one of them he would have to first get Barbara out of the way, then approach him carefully. Hold back and be nice. Don't do anything dumb. He wished Barbara didn't have to be here. But he had to
know
about Alan—not simply feel it—and there wasn't any other way to do it. Barbara was the only one who could identify him.

He said to her, “All right, let's go.”

They took their time walking up the aisle, Mitchell with his hand on her arm. The theater was empty now. As they came out of the aisle he saw Alan in the lobby, watching the last few patrons straggling out.

“I can't see his face,” Barbara said.

They saw him reach over to flick a wall switch and the lights on the marquee, outside the theater, went off. On the wall next to him was a poster in a glass cabinet advertising a coming attraction.
The Gay Blades.
A color drawing of several young men who appeared to be wearing only jockstraps and were holding swords in the air. Mitchell hadn't noticed the poster coming up. Guys with jockstraps
and swords. He saw Alan turn, take a few steps his way, look up and instantly stop.

Barbara stared at him. Quietly, she said, “He's the one.”

“Go to the car,” Mitchell said. “Wait for me there.” When she hesitated, he said, “Barbara, please get out of here.”

He walked with her, stopping when he was even with Alan, a few feet away. Barbara kept going and Alan's gaze followed her as she went out through the glass door. When he turned back to look at Mitchell, he said, “I've seen you someplace. Hey yeah, you're the weird guy in the bar this afternoon.”

“That was the third time,” Mitchell said.

“Third time what?”

“Do you want to play let's pretend,” Mitchell said then, “and go through a lot of bullshit or do you want me to give you the money?”

Alan hesitated. “What money?”

“You asked for ten thousand dollars, delivered today.”

“I did?”

Mitchell, starting past him, got about four steps.

“Now wait up,” Alan said. “Tell me this again about the ten grand.”

Mitchell shook his head. “I must have the wrong guy.”

“Why do you think I'm the one?” Alan saw
Mitchell turn again to walk off. “Now wait a minute!” Quietly then, he said, “Who told you where to find me? Leo?”