52 Pickup (15 page)

Mitchell said, “Joe—” He almost said, “Fuck you,” but he didn't. He said, “Joe, I'm looking at possibilities, that's all. I want to know, if things come up, what my alternatives are, if I've got any. What I don't need is any bored-sounding bullshit. I appreciate your coming and thank you very much.” Mitchell pushed his chair back and stood up.

“Jim, thank you. You get this one and I'll get the next.”

They watched him walk through the restaurant toward the front of the place. Paonessa said, “Christ, what's the matter with him?”

O'Boyle didn't answer. After a few moments he said, “Yes, the New York strip sirloin, it's pretty good here.”

Barbara was perspiring when she came off the court and it felt good; the soreness in her legs and right arm felt good. She had played singles for an hour with one of the assistant pros—who had not taken his sweater off—and lost two sets, 6–2 and 6–3. She had not gone out expecting to win; but she wished the long-haired good-looking son of a bitch would have taken his sweater off, at least after the first set. Today she would have beaten any girl she knew. She probably would have beaten Mitch. He was an unorthodox player who slapped at the ball instead of stroking it, but God, he hit it hard and he was all over the court. They had a doubles match coming up this weekend—arranged two weeks before—with Ross and a young girl with tight slender thighs they had played before and beaten. She wondered who would cancel the match, if Mitch would remember or if she would have to do it . . . or if Mitch would ask his girl
friend to be his partner. No, the girl wouldn't
play tennis. Barbara knew nothing about the girl, except that she was certain the girl did not own a tennis racket and had never played in her life. She said to herself, sitting down in a canvas chair and lighting a cigarette, You're a snob, aren't you? She sat looking down the length of the indoor courts that were five feet below the level of the lobby and saw Ross coming off number 4 with the head pro.

She stubbed out the cigarette, with time enough to reach the women's locker room before he saw her. But she waited, wondering if he knew. Coming up the steps to the lobby, seeing her then, his expression answered her question.

“Barb—” The sad, sympathetic look, coming over to her with his hand extended. He was the only person she knew who called her Barb.

Ross got two cans of Tab from the machine, steered her over to a couch—where they'd be more comfortable and out of the traffic—and they went through the preliminaries. I'm so sorry. Thank you. God, when Mitch told me I couldn't believe it. I'm really extremely sorry. Well, I guess it happens. Do you think he's serious? I mean how serious is it? I was going to ask you the same question.

“I've got an idea,” Ross said. “Why don't we have dinner tonight?”

“Thank you, but I don't think so.”

“Now wait. Have you talked to anyone about it?”

“No, not yet.”

“I mean do you have someone you can talk to?”

She said, “A shoulder to cry on?”

Ross gave her a sad smile. “Maybe you do cry sometimes, Barb, but I'll bet not very often. You keep it inside, and that's not good.”

“I cry,” she said. “I can probably cry as well as anyone you know.”

“Barb—I'm sorry. Really. I'd like very much to help you any way I can. I'm not a professional counselor, I'm a friend, and I know both of you very well. I've talked to Mitch and now, if you'll let me, I'd like to talk to you, or I'll keep my mouth shut and listen if you'd rather. Or we can talk about anything you want, take your mind off it. Barb—” He paused. “I think a quiet dinner would do you good. In fact, it might do us both good.”

She did not need Ross: his pseudosympathy or help or whatever he had in mind. God, she knew Ross well enough. But he had obviously talked to Mitch and maybe he did know a little more than she what was on her husband's mind. It was a possibility. He might even know the girl.

Barbara waited, making up her mind, before nodding slowly, looking at him. “All right, Ross,” she said. “Let's do it. See what happens.”

 

LEO FRANK WAS TIRED OF SITTING
and tired of reading the article about the 130-year-old jig who lived down in Florida somewhere. It sounded like a bunch of shit, what the guy was supposed to have remembered, and was written with a lot of dialect that was hard to pronounce and didn't make much sense. So he got up from his desk and went outside for some air. He stood on the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets, his back to the painted glass that said nude models. It was cool, about forty degrees out, damp and overcast with a shitty-looking sky—spring in Detroit—cars streaming up and down Woodward Avenue making hissing sounds on the wet pavement. He had one customer inside. Three in the last two hours. There was nothing to do. The guy was supposed to drop the money tonight and they'd go out to Metro. But until then there wasn't a goddamn thing to do.

When he looked over and saw Mitchell across the street—the
guy
, actually the
guy
standing
there—he felt something jump inside his stomach and he knew he had to move, right now. He thought of running. But he made himself turn and go back inside. The three girls looked up at the sound of the door and glanced at Leo as he walked past them.

“I'm going out for a while,” he said. “One of you can handle it, okay? Box's in the right-hand desk drawer.”

The three girls went back to their cigarette smoking, magazine reading and nail filing as he walked down the hall.

Leo Frank opened the back door that led to the alley where he parked his car. Looking over his shoulder, down the hall, he let the door close again and ducked quickly into the last cubicle, the one that served as his private office and interview room and was practically wallpapered with photographs of nude girls.

When he got Alan on the phone—after seven rings, the slow-moving son of a bitch—he said, “He's coming here again. Honest to Christ, crossing the street.”

Alan asked him where he was and Leo told him, in his office.

That was good. Alan Raimy, in his own confined office at the Imperial Art Theater, could picture Leo surrounded by the nude shots, sweating.
He could almost hear him sweating, mixing the odor of his body with the smell of the cheap cologne he practically poured all over himself.

Alan said, “Leo, stay where you are, all right? Jesus, wait a minute. What'd you tell the girls? . . . That's fine, Leo. See, you're thinking. There's nothing to get excited about . . . . No, stay right where you are. Leo, listen to me. Sit there, have a joint, play with yourself or something, but don't move. I'll be over, I'll come in the back door. Just keep in mind he doesn't know who you are. Keep telling yourself that, Leo. He doesn't . . . know . . . who . . . you . . . are.” Alan hung up. He said to himself, Jesus Christ.

Mitchell remembered their names, the same three girls sitting in the same left-to-right order on the porch chairs: Peggy, Terry and Mary Lou. They looked up, stared at him and Peggy said, “You ever find her? What was her name? Cini?”

He shook his head. “I'm looking for the manager. The guy that was at the desk before.”

“Leo stepped out. Said he'd be out for a while.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Just a few minutes.”

“His name's Leo?”

“Leo Frank,” the girl said.

“Well . . .” Mitchell looked around the room, his
gaze finally going to the desk and the empty chair next to it. “I might as well sit down then, huh?”

Nobody seemed to care. Peggy said, “Help yourself.”

After a few moments he reached over and picked up the magazine that was open on the desk and began reading about a 130-year-old colored man who lived in Florida and sat all day on a bus-stop bench in front of his one-room house. He was reading about how the man had lived in the West and claimed to have known Jesse James and Billy the Kid, when Doreen came into the room from the hallway. She was followed by a young guy who passed her quickly without saying anything, glanced at Mitchell and went out the door. Mitchell watched Doreen drop into a chair, shaking her head.

“Those shoe clerks get spookier every day,” Doreen said. “You know what he wanted me to do?”

Peggy said, “Go pee-pee on him.”

“On his
face
,” Doreen said.

“I know, I've had him,” Peggy said. “How'd he like it?”

“I told him if he wanted a kick, go stick his head in the toilet and flush it.”

“He probably does that at home,” Peggy said. “Weird ones don't bother me anymore. After a while, what's weird?”

Mitchell looked down at the face of the 130-year-old man. He was sure. Still he waited a moment before looking up at the black girl again.

He said, “Doreen?”

Her expression brightened as she met his gaze. “Yeah, love. You want to take my picture?”

In the room she said, “You know my name, you must've been here before.”

“Couple of times,” Mitchell said. “And I saw you over at the go-go place. You don't work there anymore?”

“Kit Kat? Yeah, I work here and there, and around.” She untied her blouse, knotted beneath her breasts, and let it fall open. “I've seen you too, but I'm having trouble placing the face exactly.”

“Times I came here, I stopped over at the bar first.”

“Get up your nerve?”

“No, I don't see anything wrong coming here. As long as it's legal.”

“I admire your liberal attitude,” Doreen said. Her hands were in the waist of her light white slacks. “Now, are you just a tit man or do you want the whole show?”

Mitchell raised the Polaroid he'd taken from the desk, aimed it at her and snapped a picture. “We can start and see what happens. Work up to it.”

Doreen grinned. “Work
you
up. Whatever you want to do, love, long as it ain't against my religion.”

“It was at the bar,” Mitchell said then. “I remember, I met you there a few months ago.”

“You met me?”

“I was introduced to you. There was a girl used to work here, I think her name was Cini. She introduced us.”

Doreen hesitated, though her expression remained calm and told him nothing. She said, “Yeah, Cini used to work here some time ago. Very nice person. You used to see her?”

“A few times, that's all.”

“I think maybe she quit to go back to school.”

“Probably,” Mitchell said. He pulled the print out of the camera and peeled off the negative. “I understand a lot of the girls doing this are working their way through college.”

“That's as good a story as any,” Doreen said. “How'd it turn out?”

Mitchell studied the print. “Not bad. A little dark.”

“That's me, baby.”

“I mean the light. It's a little underexposed.”

“Then I say, ‘Wait till I take my pants off, you want some more exposure.' “

Mitchell gave her a big friendly grin. “That's pretty good.”

“Or the dude says, ‘Hey, honey, what size is your aperture?' “

“There must be something you do with focus,” Mitchell said.

Doreen nodded. “Dude's taking a picture of
two
of us? Paid double for the treat. I say, ‘Hey, are you trying to
focus
or what?' “

“Lots of laughs in your work, uh?” Mitchell snapped another picture of her and grinned. “Gotcha.”

“You really do take pictures, don't you?”

“Doesn't everybody?” He sounded honest, sincere.

Doreen's calm brown eyes lingered on Mitchell. “You ever go up to Cini's place?”

“You asked me if I used to see her. That's where it was.”

“Where exactly?”

“Apartment over on Merrill. You've got one in the same building,” Mitchell said. “Once in a while Cini used to drive you home.”

Doreen raised her nice soft eyes. “You did know her, didn't you?”

“Pretty well, I guess.”

“How much she used to charge you?”

Mitchell was pulling the print out of the camera. He looked up abruptly to meet Doreen's calm gaze watching him. He said, “She didn't
charge me anything.” And looked down again to peel open the photograph and study it.

“Not even the first time?”

“Not any time,” Mitchell said.

“Well, I guess that's her business,” Doreen said. “Or I guess I should say that was
not
her business.” Doreen grinned then. “Unless you're bragging, telling me a story.”

“What difference does it make,” Mitchell said, “if you believe it or not?”

“Well, love. I was entertaining the thought, maybe we ought to leave this store to the shoe clerks and head for my place. The only thing is, the management over there don't hand out any freebies, not to anybody.” She waited and said, “Well?”

He could see Cini in this room. He could see her in the apartment and he could see her on the beach in the Bahamas, the natural, nice-looking girl who smiled easily and made him feel good.

He said to Doreen, “How much?”

“A hundred dollars. With that you get tea, a smoke and a chance to try for seconds.”

Mitchell nodded. “All right, let's do it.”

Doreen worked her eyes again. “Hey, I like you. Whether it's my charm or you're just in heat I still like you. But there's one thing, love, you're going to have to pay for this little session first, twenty with the camera or else the boss'll cut off
my business.” When Mitchell opened his wallet and handed her a fifty-dollar bill, Doreen smiled and said, “You come ready, don't you?”

He was ready to go with her to her apartment or anywhere, to try to find out everything he could about a girl named Cynthia Fisher and how she lived and the people she knew. But there was a delay.

Doreen opened the cash box in the desk drawer. There wasn't enough change inside for Mitchell's fifty.

Doreen said, “Goddamnit, where's Leo, in the office?”

Peggy looked up from her magazine. “I think he went out.”

Doreen turned to Mitchell. “I'll go look. You can come along if you want, love, or wait here.”

Mitchell followed her down the hall past the studios. He was still holding the Polaroid, but did not realize it or think about it at the time. He wanted to look at this man again whose name was Leo and ask him something about Cini. He wasn't sure what he would ask; but that was the reason he followed Doreen down the hall to the last door and was standing behind her when she opened it and he saw Leo behind the desk, the heavyset man straightening and seeing him at
the same time. Doreen was saying, “Leo, give me thirty dollars for this, will you please?” But Leo was not looking at Doreen. His expression was fixed, frozen for a short moment, and Mitchell would remember the look on his face.

“It's good to see you again,” Leo said, forming a smile. “Seems like you're becoming a regular.”

Doreen said, “Leo, take this and give me thirty back, okay? The man's waiting.”

Mitchell knew in that moment what he was going to do. He said, “Doreen?”

She said “What?”

He said again, “Doreen?”

This time she half-turned, looking around at him, and he said, “One more.”

Mitchell raised the Polaroid and pressed his eye to the viewfinder. He heard Leo say, “Not here, no!” But it was too late. He clicked the shutter, paused a moment and lowered the camera to wait for the development process to take place.

Leo said, “Hey, I mean it. I'm going to have to ask you for that camera. You rent it to take pictures of the models, but now the time's up, you don't get to use it after that.”

“My time isn't up,” Mitchell said.

“Well, what I mean,” Leo said, “it's all right to take pictures in the studios, but this is private property. You can't take any pictures you want.
You know what I mean? You rent the camera to take pictures of
models
.”

“She's a model,” Mitchell said. He saw Doreen's expression. She had no idea what was going on.

“Yeah, she's a model,” Leo said, “but you aren't in a studio. That's the rule. You have to be in a studio. You can understand that. I mean how would you like somebody to come in here and take your picture if you don't want it taken?”

As Mitchell raised the camera, pulled out the print and peeled it away from the negative, Leo Frank was saying, “I can demand you give me that picture.” Mitchell looked at it a moment and slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat.

“Now come on, man, I'm serious.” Leo Frank got up and came around his desk toward Mitchell, his hand extended. “Give me the picture.”

Mitchell said to him, “If you want it, you'll have to take it. The question is, How bad do you want it?”

Mitchell waited, giving him time. When Leo didn't move or say anything Mitchell turned and walked out.

Leo was still at his desk when Alan entered the back way and came into the office.

“He took my picture,” Leo said.

“What're you talking about? Who took your picture?”

“The guy, he came in here with Doreen a couple minutes ago, he tells her to turn around and takes a Polaroid shot.”

Alan was sitting down. “You mean he took a picture of Doreen.” Sitting forward in the office chair now, his hands on the edge of the desk.

“No, he made it sound like that, telling her to turn around. But I'm in the picture, I know I am.”

“He show you the print?”

“No, he said, ‘You want it, try and get it,' and walked out.”

Alan stared at Leo before sitting slowly back in the chair. “All right, let's say he's got your picture. So what? He's seen you here a few times before, he knows what you look like. So what? Leo, think, all right? What good's the picture going to do him?”

“He's onto something,” Leo said. “I know it.”