Payback (20 page)

The lobby was silent. A kid he'd never seen looked up from the switchboard and the dull orange lights of an electric heater, watched Mitchell take his key, and went back to his paper.

The elevator creaked.

The night-table lamp was still burning in his room, the bed still rumpled from his unsuccessful efforts at an afternoon nap. He pulled out the gun. He was standing there looking for a place he'd want to stash it when he heard noises from the bathroom, the door bursting open as he swiveled in a crouch …

And then froze; stared; suspended in the middle of his own disbelief. He couldn't seem to move. For a time they just stood there staring at each other. Joanna looking down in amazement at the gun. Mitchell looking up at those wide brown eyes and that hair that reminded him of home fires burning, and the white flannel gown.

Joanna took a long slow breath and said, “Wow.”

He blinked, shook his head. He looked at the gun and then shoved it in his pocket. They were silent. They stared.

Joanna said, “I happened to be in the neighborhood.”

Mitchell said carefully, “I'm not gonna ask.”

She said, “I want to tell you how it's cold in this room.”

He nodded, and then he wasn't certain how it went, just who moved to who, but she was right there in his arms, kind of burrowing into his overcoat and tickling him with hair, and his arms closed tight around her slim cold back and his lips found warmth. He went with it, went out of where he was for a while. Then Joanna pulled away and said, “I'm no shit freezing,” and jumped under the covers and jerked them to her chin. Looking like a kid, he thought, ready for some cocoa and a bedtime story. He wondered what he was supposed to say. He said, “Body heat'll help.”

“Or otherwise,” she said, “you've got a heater in your pocket. Not that I'm asking about it or anything. I mean isn't it terrific? I'm not asking and you're not asking?”

“You're not,” he said, taking off his overcoat.

“Nope.”

“Good.” He went into the bathroom and slapped a lot of ice-cold water on his face and got into his bathrobe and took a pair of bathroom glasses and brought them to the bed. There was a bottle of Scotch on the dresser and he poured two shots. Joanna wasn't kidding; it was colder than a tomb.

Handing her a glass, he said, “You're not fooling me, you know.”

She drank. “About what?”

“About being here. You couldn't be here because you couldn't know I'd be here.”

“Oh.”

“Even my secretary doesn't know.”

She nodded. “That's true.—Where's this body heat you were talking about, Mitchell?”

He could tell her where it was. Or maybe she could see it: his sex gone rowdy under his bathrobe. He got under the covers. He moved in close and she folded right into him, shivered on his skin. He could feel it in his spine. Joanna said, “You think you can stand not knowing?”

He said, “I couldn't
stand
now if my life depended on it.”

“Good.”

She was reaching for the warmth.

Mitchell closed his eyes, kind of floating in the dark.

“That guy that lost the war because of the horseshoe nail …?”

He opened his eyes and looked at her.

“I was just thinking. Another guy
won
because of a horseshoe nail. I mean, boy—you start getting into chains,” Joanna said.

He waited for a while. “Are you saying how you got here?”

“Luck,” she said. “Timing. I called up your office. I got this really dumb girl.”

“Philomena,” Mitchell said. “A little southern type, right?”

“That's the one.”

“What'd she do?”

“I said, Are you his secretary? She said,
Me?
She said, Oh no. She said your secretary was up at your apartment waiting for an Elite Courier—”

“She
did?
”

“—because you needed something fast. I said, Oh. I called Elite. I said I was your secretary and I wanted to be sure they had the right destination. So the guy tells me, yeah, oh yeah. We got the change. We're now supposed to meet him at the gate to flight—”

“Jesus,” Mitchell said. “You didn't used to be sneaky.”

“Well … you didn't used to be Robert R. Mitchell.”

“True.—You want to finish?”

“So I called up the airline. To confirm your reservation? So they told me you'd also made a booking at the Wien.”

“Not me,” Mitchell said.

She looked at him.

“I mean it. That was somebody else.”

“If this is somebody else, I'm being raped,” Joanna said.

“I were you, I'd call the cops.”

She said, “Now?”

He said, “Later.”

She could take everything out of his mind. She could take his mind out of his head and sail it over the moon, keep it orbiting. He could let her. Always aware of her, not of himself, just of her. He could let go of everything. Space-walk. Buck Rogers. Holding her hand and just looking at all those stars.

She said, oh-oh-oh, very softly.

He said, Yeah. Still inside her. Then quiet for a time. Still there, still smiling, still kissing very softly. He said, “You think we could just run off with the circus? Pretend we're Siamese twins? Joined at the—what would you call this?”

“The heart?”

He was looking at her hair. He said, “You can't know …”

She waited. “Well I can't know if you don't tell me, Mitchell.”

He laughed and went out of her, rolled over and she folded right into him again, her head against his chest. He said, “I could tell you and you wouldn't even know.”

She said, “I flew eight thousand miles to you, Mitchell. My MasterCard is shot. Tell me.”

He laughed.

“Stop laughing.”

“I can't. I'm in the middle of such deep shit and you can make me want to laugh. I love you, Joanna. I love you for that more than anything.”

“Oh.” He could feel her eyelashes beating against his shoulder and he almost dozed off. He was tired, very warm. She said, “Boy, I gotta tell you this is testing my resolve.”

He opened his eyes. “You resolved something.”

“Yeah. Not to ask you any questions.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You invited me to come with you—remember? You told me no questions.”

He lit a cigarette. “That was a long time ago.”

“Monday,” she said. “That was Monday in the kitchen and you wanted me to come.”

“And you told me where to go.”

“Well … that was a long time ago,” she said. “I simplified.”

“Uh-huh.”

She grabbed his cigarette, took a puff and gave it back. “I got home around midnight—on Monday now we're talking—and I walked around my apartment and I looked at all the walls and I said, What the hell's the matter with you, Joanna? What're you holding out for? What're you hurrying home to? You want to keep living where it's safe and soundless? I said, Okay—you want to ask a lot of questions, let me ask you just one. Do you love him? I said yes. Are you sure? I said yes. So then I said, so what the hell are you doing about it? I mean everybody
talks
about love but nobody
does
anything about it.—Do you follow what I'm saying?”

Mitchell just looked at her. Leaning on her elbow with her head against her hand.

“I mean when somebody you love needs something, you give him what he needs. You don't just give him what
you
want to give but what
he
needs to have. Otherwise the whole thing's a hard-luck Christmas. You know what I'm saying? Like everybody getting the wrong thing always. So I figured, if you want me to be quiet, I'll be quiet.”

He grinned, and then bit it.

“I'm serious.”

“I know.” He ran his finger down her nose. “It's just funny how many words it takes to tell me you'll be quiet.”

“Oh to hell with you,” she said. “Jesus. You want to edit my copy? I'm telling you I love you and you're telling me I'm talky?”

“Okay, but you didn't let me finish,” Mitchell said. “I always loved that about you. I mean it. I'd sit there like a log most of the time and there was this bright little hummingbird flitting all around me.”

“I never flitted.”

“Okay. So you danced—is that better? I've got this picture of you. You're about eight and you're just about as skinny as a rail and you've got this huge black lunchbox, it looks like a mailbox.”

She said, “It was huge because it used to be my father's.”

“It was all-over decals.”

“They were butterflies.”

“Listen—okay? We're at Farm Hill Junction and we're waiting for the bus. And anyway the point is, I'm just standing there—”

“Scowling.”

“No.”

“You were always scowling, Mitchell. My mother used to say, Is that boy unhappy or is he nearsighted?”

“Hey?” He looked up at her. “The point is—we're standing there, the two of us alone, and you're talking, and you're not only talking but you're dancing. You were taking dancing lessons, kiddie, you were showing me the steps. You're saying,
See
, Mitchell, then we learned to do
this
one—and you're doing these giant leaps and these huge circles all around me and I'm trying to follow this stuff and I'm turning, like a pole.”

She laughed. “Did I do that?”

He nodded. “I didn't know what the hell had hit me. I'm eight years old, I'm being KO'd by a little redhead leaping around with her lunchbox. I thought something was wrong with me. I mean everybody
else
I knew was still hating girls.”

“You were always quite mature,” Joanna said, yawning.

“I didn't know what to make of you.”

“Oh yeah. Yes you did.” She looked at him carefully. “You made me your friend. You used to talk to me, remember? I mean talk to me seriously.”

“Yeah. I've got to talk to you seriously right now.” Joanna said nothing. Mitchell leaned over now and poured another round. “Here,” he said. “For the road.”

She looked at him. “What road?”

“Crossroad. I'm going to St. Moritz and you're going home.”

“That's swell,” Joanna said. “You invite me to a freezing fleabag in Vienna, St. Moritz you go alone.”

“Hey?” he said.

“What?”

“This is serious.”

“I know. You're going after whodunit.”

He choked on his whisky. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You,” she said flatly. “Mitchell Raith Catlin. I've got a picture of you too. You remember the red wolf? Eating everybody's chickens and the farmers want to kill it? Big posse goes off. Then Mitchell goes off, and you were—what? Thirteen?”

“I think twelve.”

“Even better. So you're up there alone, this kid, you're gonna find the red wolf because you didn't want it killed. Just you against the world.”

“I didn't find it though, did I.”

“No, but you wanted to. You tried. You
believed
you could find it. You get these missions, Mitchell. You go riding off on your own. So what I figure is—Monday, when you went to see the cops—they said, look, we can't touch him. He's in Europe and he's smart, and we'll never get any hard evidence on him anyway, so—”

“Wait a second. Hold it.” She was leaping off the bed. “Joanna? What're you doing?”

“I'm
freezing
is what I'm doing.”

“Who's ‘him'?”

“Who's who?” In the closet now and putting on a heavy blue sweater. “You don't have to play games with me, Mitchell. I know. It's McAllister.”

“Billy?”

“Well I know he's in Europe. He's coked out and he thinks you stole the product—you want a sweater?”

“No.—Yes.” She tossed him a thick white one. “Nancy Drew,” he said. “No. It's got nothing to do with Billy. On the other hand you stumbled into the right ballpark, okay? So now I want you to turn around and kind of stumble right out.”

He was pulling on a turtleneck and lost her for a second. When his head came out she was still in the closet, reaching under the sweater and pulling down the bunched-up sleeves of her nightgown. “Boy,” she said. “Wow. That's pretty patronizing, isn't it? I'm not a kid anymore, Mitchell. Just in case you haven't noticed. I've been on my own for a long time. I've been to a lot of ballparks. I know how to take care of myself.”

He looked at her. Back in the bed with him, shivering. “C'mere—you want my overcoat?”

“No. Just your arms. I'm not as cute as you think I am, Mitchell.”

“You're tough,” he said. “Hard.”

“I'm thirty-seven's what I am.”

“Uh-huh.” Rubbing her arms. “You want to reach thirty-eight? You want to reach
for
a thirty-eight? These're guys're—let me tell you, these're very serious fellows.”

“Plural.”

“Two.”

“And you're going off alone.—Does anybody know what you're doing? Who you're after?”

Mitchell shook his head.

“Well then, I think you ought to think about a partnership.”

Mitchell shook his head.

“I make a pretty good detective.”

Mitchell shook his head.

“I found
you
,” Joanna said. Watching him. Looking for a hope of getting through. She said, “I'm not about to go where the guns are, Mitchell, but you ought to have a witness.”

He stopped, gave it thought.

“A kind of keeper of the record.”

“Be quiet,” Mitchell said.

“If you'd just—” She stopped talking. Closed up her mouth now and folded up her arms. It was quiet for a time. He drank, gave it thought.

“I gotta warn you it's a hell of a story,” Mitchell said. “You could hate me.”