52 Pickup (16 page)

Alan gave him a weary look, a slow shake of the head. “Leo, he's onto shit. He doesn't know you. There is no possible way he can tie you into it. Unless you tell him yourself.”

“
Tell
him. Christ, you think I'd tell him?”

“I don't know,” Alan said, “but you look like you're ready to have a fucking heart attack.” He hunched forward again. “Leo, the guy takes your
picture. You could've given him a picture, personally autographed, he can carry it around in his wallet. But Leo, listen to me, how's it going to help him?”

Leo didn't say anything and Alan stroked him again with a quiet, easy tone. “You got absolutely nothing to worry about. Go home take some pills and go to bed. Start counting up to a hundred grand, Leo, slowly.” He grinned at the fat man behind the desk. “Hey, Leo, you'll be asleep before you get to your cut.”

Alan got hold of Bobby Shy, just in time. Bobby was going out to Royal Oak to see his dealer and pick up some stuff. So Alan went along for the ride and told him about Mitchell taking the picture.

“What can the man do with it?” Bobby Shy asked him.

“Nothing. I'm talking about Leo,” Alan said. Shit, he was more worried now about the way Bobby was driving in the fast-moving stream of night traffic on North Woodward. Bobby was up, gunning it away from lights, keeping up with the rods and muscle cars heading out to the drive-ins or for some street racing, past the flashy neon motel signs and used-car lots.

“What's wrong with Leo?”

“Leo is starting to whimper. He sees the guy
again I think he's going to bust out crying.”

“Talk to him,” Bobby said. “Hold his little fat hand.”

“Listen, I'll rock him to sleep every night if I have to,” Alan said. “But if that doesn't work, then, buddy, we got a problem.”

“Not a problem can't be fixed though, is it?”

“I'm not saying anything like that,” Alan said. “Not yet. But from now on we got to keep a closer eye on him. Especially when he starts drinking.”

“He can put it away,” Bobby said. “I've seen him.”

“He can also fall off the stool and bust wide open,” Alan said. “That's what we don't want to happen.”

 

ROSS USUALLY MADE HIS MOVE DURING
the after-dinner drinks. Over a Stinger or a Harvey Wallbanger he would lean in close and say, quietly, “Sweetheart, why don't we finish these and go to a motel?” Or, depending on the girl, “Sweetheart, you wouldn't want to go somewhere and screw, would you?” Responses to the direct approach ranged from, “Wow, you don't waste time, do you?” to “No, but I wouldn't mind fooling around.” Once in a while he even got a straight “Sure.” Very seldom a flat “No.” Ross was successful because he was a good salesman and never afraid to ask for the order.

Tonight, though, was a little different. Barbara was a friend. The wife of a friend. And she didn't want an after-dinner drink. Just coffee. Black.

What he had going for him was the place. They had eaten dinner in the bar section of the restaurant. It was getting crowded and noisy and the wavy-haired middle-aged entertainer at the piano bar was singing things like “Some Enchanted Evening.”

Ross said, “I think this place is going downhill. It's getting to be like a neighborhood bar. The local hangout.”

“An expensive neighborhood bar,” Barbara said. “Someone was telling me that hookers come in here now, pros. How do they compete with all the amateurs?”

Ross said, “That's in the afternoon the bored housewives stop by. Today the ladies either drink or play tennis.”

“I would like to believe,” Barbara said, “that somewhere, right now, a woman is sitting with a sewing basket on her lap, darning socks.”

Ross said, “Would you?”

Barbara shrugged. “It doesn't matter.” Her gaze moved past faces and raised glasses to the piano bar. “The thirty-five-to-sixty set. Out having a swinging time. How many do you think are married? Or how many have been married twice? Three times?”

“Those things happen,” Ross said.

Barbara looked at him. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean it the way it sounded.”

He saw the opening and said, “Barb, we haven't really talked yet. But I don't think this is the place.” He sounded sincere.

She said, “That's all right. It's about time I was getting home.”

“No, no—I mean I think we should go somewhere
else. Have a quiet talk. It's only a little after ten.” He leaned closer now, beginning to move in. “Is there someplace you'd especially like to go? Have one drink? Maybe a couple? Relax, and have a good talk?”

She shook her head. “No, I don't care. Wherever you want to go.”

“Good,” Ross said.

He paid the check, got their coats and walked past the dining rooms and down the hallway that was lined on both sides with original paintings for sale, to the lobby of the hotel-motel that was called an inn, the
in
Inn. Barbara hesitated.

“Ross—”

He took her arm. “Don't say anything yet. All right?” And guided her through the lobby around the planters and down another hallway to suite number 112, his hand in his coat pocket holding the key.

In the sitting room, on the coffee table—the first thing Barbara saw as she went in—was a bottle of champagne in a silver ice bucket, a bottle of good cognac and glasses. Closing the door behind them, Ross said, “I had this for a customer who was here a few days. He left this afternoon, it's paid for, I thought why not use it?—nice quiet spot.”

Barbara said, “And the champagne. Is that left over?”

Ross laughed. “No, that's for us. Seriously though, folks—” Ross paused. “Barb, really, I
thought this would be more comfortable. But if you feel . . . funny about it, we can always leave.”

“It's fine,” Barbara said.

“I promise you, I don't have any sneaky motives. Say the word, we'll turn around and walk out.”

“Don't overdo it,” Barbara said. “Right now I believe you.” She sat down on the couch by the coffee table.

“I'll admit I've always been attracted to you,” Ross said, opening the champagne. “I will even admit to having entertained fantasies about you.”

“Sexual fantasies?”

“What other kind is there? But you know I didn't bring you here to get you in bed.”

“Without my consent.”

Ross grinned. “Well, maybe the possibility flashed through my mind. Any way I can give comfort, I'd be pleased to oblige. No, really.” Serious again. “There's nothing better in a situation like this than to talk it out with someone, see what you think and how you honestly feel.”

She watched him pour champagne, then open the cognac bottle.

“Touch of this? Make us a couple of French seventy-fives.”

Barbara shook her head. “No thanks.”

Ross poured about an ounce of cognac into his champagne and sat down on the couch, leaving
a little space between them.

“Now then—have you told Sally and Mike?”

“No, I haven't really even talked to Mitch yet. I have no idea what his plans are.”

“Does it matter?”

“Does it matter? Of course it matters.”

“I mean, what if he wants a divorce?”

“Then we'll get a divorce,” Barbara said. “Do you think I'd hold him against his will?”

“You wouldn't try to talk him out of it?”

“I'm not going to chase him,” Barbara said. “He knows how I feel and what we've had for a long time. God, he's more sentimental than I am. The bottom drawer of his dresser, it's full of pictures of the kids when they were little. Birthdays, Christmas, a lot of them taken in Florida. We still have some of the old furniture, in the basement, my folks gave us to start out with when we got married. It's falling apart. He won't get rid of it; he won't even give it to the Goodwill.”

“Sort of a bleeding heart,” Ross said.

“Don't make him sound dumb,” Barbara said. “He's not dumb. I'm saying if he wants to throw away twenty-two years to play house with some young broad, he's doing it with his eyes wide open.”

Ross raised his arm to lay it on the backrest of the couch. The tip of his fingers touched Barbara's shoulders.

“I'm not saying he's dumb. But I do think he's out of his mind.”

“Why, because he told me?”

“No, to get involved with somebody else. Do you know if he ever fooled around before?”

“I don't know when he would've had time. Now I think all of a sudden it's his age. Wanting to be twenty-five again.”

“The trouble is, once they start . . .”

Barbara turned her head to look at him. “Is that the way it happened with you?”

“No,” Ross said, “I always fooled around. Looking, I guess.” His fingers moved idly on her shoulder. “What I'm saying—why I think he's out of his mind—I don't think I would've ever fooled around if I'd been married to you.”

“You weren't happy? Either time?”

“Not really. I always had the feeling something was missing. I guess because I thought I loved my wives at the time, but never particularly liked them.” He watched her sip the champagne. “How is it?”

“Very nice. Good and cold.”

“Taste this.”

She took a sip of his champagne-cognac because she knew he would insist.

“I like it, but it's a little heavy.” She realized he was closer now as he took the glass from her hand.

“I'm not too concerned with Mitch,” Ross said, “or how he got involved. I'm thinking more about you. I look at you, I think, what a waste.”

“I haven't exactly been scrapped.”

“No, what I'm saying, I think you're better-looking now, more attractive, than at any time since we've known each other.”

“Trying to grow old gracefully. Like everyone else.”

“You're not old.” His fingers touched her cheek. “Not a line. Smooth, clear skin . . . a great figure. God,” Ross's eyes raised to her face. “How long has it been since you've made love?”

“Do you want to know the exact day, and hour?”

“Barb, if we can relax and enjoy each other, what's wrong with that? Does it hurt anyone?”

“Maybe some other time, Ross. All right?”

“Barb, I'm not trying to rush you. I'm terribly attracted to you, I want to go to bed with you, and I'm not afraid to admit it.” He paused and said, even more quietly, “Barb, I'll make love to you like you've never had it before.”

Barbara studied him for a moment before she said, “How do you know?”

“I promise.”

“Really, why do you think you'd be better than Mitch?”

“After twenty-two years, Barb, I promise you, a little change, just the fact that it's new and different,
can't help but be better.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Come on, don't be clinical. Relax and let it happen.”

“I could, couldn't I? No one would know the difference.”

“I certainly won't tell,” Ross said. He placed his glass on the table. He brought Barbara to him gently, his hands on her shoulders, and kissed her, using a little restraint at first, then showing her how fervent and serious he was as he tried to get his tongue in there.

Barbara turned her head to slide her mouth away from his and Ross moved his hands around to her back, keeping her, holding her tightly to him.

Close to his ear she said, “Ross—”

“Barb, don't say anything. Let it happen.”

The strange thing was that she could, easily, close her eyes and let it happen. She felt warm and comfortable; slightly tight. She was in a hotel room with a man. Ross smelled good. He was fairly attractive. If he would keep quiet and not say anything, she could rationalize being here and go to bed with him and maybe, as he said, it would be better than she had ever had it before.

But Ross said, “God, you turn me on,” and breathed through his nose and it was like a movie. A not very good movie. She realized she was not part of what was going on. She was an observer, perched up
somewhere watching the two of them on the couch.

As Ross's left hand came around to close on her breast, she said, “I was just thinking.”

“What?” Ross breathed.

“What Mitch would do if he saw us like this.”

Ross pulled away to look at her, his expression grimly serious. “That doesn't do a lot for the mood.”

“What do you think he'd do, though?” Barbara asked.

“I don't think he's in a position to do anything. You mean something physical?”

“Whatever,” Barbara said. “The thing is, he's unpredictable. You wouldn't think that, would you?”

“I would say he's fairly steady,” Ross said. “If he tells you he's going to deliver, he delivers.”

Barbara leaned back against the cushion. “He can also be—I was going to say cold-blooded and I can't think of any other word for it. Not vicious or mean, but—”

“Barb, why don't we talk about Mitch later on. Here, have some more.” Ross reached for the champagne, filled her glass and raised it to her mouth, helping her with the first sip. “Let's not ruin a nice glow,” Ross said.

She took another sip of the champagne as he quickly refilled his own glass. Ross took a gulp, turned to get back to Barbara, but not in time.

“Did you know Mitch was in the Air Force
during the war?”

“Barbara, come on.”

“I said he was unpredictable, you said he was steady. And we're both right in a way.”

Ross took a cigarette out of a pack on the table and lighted it, for the moment resigned.

“Did you know he was in the Air Force?”

“No, I didn't. What was he, a mechanic?”

“See?” Barbara said. “No, he was a fighter pilot. Everyone assumes he was a grease monkey. But at twenty years old he was a first lieutenant. He flew a P-Forty-seven.”

“That's interesting,” Ross said.

“You know what's more interesting?” Barbara waited a moment. “He shot down seven German planes in less than three months.”

“No kidding?” Ross seemed interested now. “He's never mentioned it.”

“He also shot down two Spitfires.”

“Spitfires?” Ross frowned. “Those are British planes.”

“I know they are,” Barbara said. “Mitch was returning to his base, I think he was over France. The two planes dove at him firing cannons, thinking for some reason he was German. To protect himself, Mitch turned into them. He fired and with two bursts—he says it was pure luck—he shot down both of the planes.”

Ross was intent now. “My God, really?”

“There was a hearing,” Barbara went on, “an official investigation. Mitchell explained the situation as he saw it and, because of his experience and record, he was exonerated, as they said, of any malicious intent or accidental blame. The general, or whoever it was, closed the hearing. Mitch stood up and said, ‘Sir, I have a question.' The general said, ‘What is it?' And Mitch said, ‘Do I get credit for the Spitfires?' He was held in contempt of court and sent home the next week, assigned to an air base in Texas.”

“I can picture him,” Ross said, nodding. “Young and wild.”

Barbara shook her head. “Quiet and calculating. He hasn't changed that much since. Always mild-mannered, the nice guy—until someone steps over the line and challenges him.”

“Or fools around with his wife.”

“He's never had to worry about that.”

“It began,” Ross said, “with you wondering what he would do if he walked in here.”

“Right,” Barbara said. “What do you think?”

“Barb—” Ross paused. “I don't think you're quite ready for this sort of thing. Or my timing is bad or something.”

“I thought we were going to talk.”

“Let's talk some other time,” Ross said. “It is getting a little late.”