52 Pickup (25 page)

Alan came around from the foot of the bed, holding the syringe upright in one hand. As her feet touched the floor he pushed her down again, effortlessly.

Alan smiled at her. “Feel pretty good, huh? You been up and away almost three hours. Tomorrow you may be a little constipated, but you'll get over it.”

She had nothing to cover herself with so she lay without moving, her hands flat on the bed at her sides. A patient watching her doctor.

“What did you to do me?”

“Guess.”

Barbara stared at him but said nothing.

Alan grinned. “You squirmed around a lot. You don't remember? You moaned, said a few things. Nothing dirty.”

“What did you do to me?”

“Give you a hint,” Alan said. “You can't even knock anybody up doing it.” He grinned at her and winked. “Now I got to shoot you up again. We're about ready to get out of here.”

As Barbara started to push up, to lunge at him or get past him, Alan hit her with a fist, chopping it quick and hard into her upturned face. “Be nice,” Alan said. He got her leg under his arm and squeezed the ankle to pop the vein.

The telephone rang.

Leo began that day with a vodka and 7-Up. It didn't help any. He had two more, not wasting much time. Usually the vodka picked him up and a couple of them would give him a nice glow; but he still couldn't feel anything. He ordered another one and said to the owner of the Kit Kat, who was behind the bar, “You haven't seen them today by any chance, have you?”

“Not since last night,” the bar owner said.

“They were together though, last night?”

“I don't know if they came in together. What I told you before, they left together.”

“What time was that?”

“I don't know what time. They're sitting at the bar, they got up and left.”

“I'll have another one,” Leo said.

The bar owner looked at him because Leo had only taken an inch off the top of his fourth drink; but when he came back with a fresh vodka and Seven-Up Leo was ready for it. The bar owner moved away and Leo sat there alone. One other guy was sitting up toward the front end of the bar with a Strohs.

Leo hadn't been able to locate either of them yesterday, to find out what the hell was going on. Alan hadn't been home or at work. Doreen said she hadn't seen Bobby or Alan all day. Bobby disappeared sometimes, but not Alan. He always knew where Alan was, or Alan knew where he was. Since getting into this deal they'd seen each other every day. Now, all of a sudden, Alan wasn't anywhere around.

Drinking the vodka Leo thought it over carefully, seeing Alan in his apartment the last time and remembering what he'd said. It was over. The guy couldn't pay. But the guy knew who they were. They couldn't take a chance on the guy not going to the police. Then sounding friendly toward the end, saying they had to stick together and maybe, after a while, look for another guy to hit. Why had he sounded so friendly? The whole deal blows up. They kill the girl for nothing. They have to kill the guy now.
And Alan sounds friendly, not the least bothered about it or nervous. If they were supposed to stick together then where the hell was Alan? Like they were ditching him.

There were guys he hung around with a long time ago used to do that, ditch him. Sometimes they'd just take off running and leave him behind when he couldn't catch up. Or he was supposed to meet them somewhere and they wouldn't be there. Or he'd find out they'd all gone to a show and nobody had bothered to call him or come by his house. Once he was sixteen his mother let him use the car a lot, a blue six-cylinder Plymouth coupe, and for a while they let him drive them around and hardly ever ditched him. He hadn't seen any of them in a long time now. Not since he worked at his first motel as a night clerk, a six-buck place out on Telegraph. They found out he could fix them up with young fifteen-dollar broads out of high school and sometimes they'd come by two-thirty in the morning half-loaded on beer.

Something was going on.

He wondered if maybe Alan had seen Mitchell again. Or if Bobby had seen him and put the guy away. There was nothing in the morning
Free Press
or the early edition of the
News.
It could be too soon. They could have taken the guy somewhere and dumped him and
his body hadn't been found yet. He said to himself, What's the matter with you?

Leo went to the pay phone near the entrance. He had to get the number of Ranco Manufacturing from the operator because it was out of the city, in Fraser. When he dialed the number and asked for Mr. Mitchell, the girl's voice asked who was calling please. He said, “Tell him Alan Raimy.” He waited. When he heard Mitchell's voice, recognizing it immediately, he hung up the receiver and held it down hard in the cradle until he was sure Mitchell was off the line. He lifted it to his face again and dialed Alan's apartment. Still no answer. He dialed the movie theater. Alan wasn't in yet. Was he expected? Nobody seemed to know. He dialed Doreen's number again. No answer.

Leo had two more vodka and Seven-Ups at the bar. He was sure something was going on. He was beginning to be sure they didn't want to be seen with him. Because something was going to happen to him and if they were seen with him anytime before it happened they could be taken in and questioned. This way, if they were questioned for any reason, they'd say no, they hadn't seen him in a couple of days. And nobody could prove otherwise.

What the hell was he doing sitting here? Making it easy for them. The whole thing had looked easy. Foolproof, Alan had said. They'd have to be fucking
idiots to blow this one. It was their chance to make it for life. Christ, his life was going by so fast all of a sudden. Christ, what had he done, accomplished? Worked at some motels. Handled some broads. Got them their business but had to pay when he wanted a little. Even the dumb-looking ones nobody wanted and didn't last, he had to pay. Three arrests for pandering. Two suspended, one conviction. Ninety days in DeHoco, fucking Detroit House of Correction. Famous milestones in the life of Leo Frank. When his mother died he was the beneficiary of a $25,000 life insurance policy and a year-old T-bird. Hot shit, his troubles were over. He'd invest it in some kind of business. He rented a storefront and set up the model studio; that took five. He met Alan, loaned him almost ten and pissed away the rest of it in less than a year. Alan had bought a sports
car and fixed up his apartment with a lot of weird shit and hadn't paid him back as much as a dime of the ten he borrowed. All Alan ever did, pushed him around, ditched him, insulted him—

Leo walked back to the phone and dialed Ranco Manufacturing again. This time, when Mitchell came on, Leo didn't hang up.

He said, “Mr. Mitchell, this is Leo Frank. From the model studio? . . . Yeah, how are you? . . . Listen, I'd like to talk to you sometime soon, I mean today, you get a chance. . . .”

Mitchell could have walked—the Pine Top was across the road and only a block down—but it might have looked funny. Where was the boss going, walking off at two o'clock in the afternoon? It was an industrial area of small plants, warehouses and vacant lots for sale. There wasn't anyplace he could be walking to except the bar. So Mitchell drove over and parked the Grand Prix in the lot on the side of the green-painted cinder-block building, among the pickup trucks and sedans with hardhats on the rear window ledges.

Mitchell had been inside only a few times before. He remembered nothing in particular about the place: a bar that looked like hundreds of other bars, a country ballad on the jukebox and about a dozen workingmen sitting around drinking Strohs, most of them at the bar. The first person Mitchell recognized was Ed Jazik, the Local 199 Union business agent. He was alone at the bar. Mitchell walked past him and Jazik didn't turn around or seem to notice him. He saw Leo Frank at a table against the wall, fooling with a plastic swizzle stick. A drink and another stick were on the table.

Standing up extending his hand, Leo gave him a big smile. Mitchell took the hand firmly, giving the limp thick flesh a little pressure, and heard Leo's voice catch as he said, “I'm glad you
could make it. I didn't meeeeean . . . to take you away from your work.” There was a hint of relief in his expression as the waitress came over and Mitchell sat down. “What would you like?”

“Nothing,” Mitchell said.

“Well, I might as well have another one,” Leo said to the waitress, “long as you're here.” As the waitress left he took a moderate sip of his vodka drink and looked over at the bar and toward the front, avoiding Mitchell's gaze.

“Place does pretty well for the afternoon,” Leo said. “I bet they got some go-go in here they could do even better.”

“Three-thirty and eleven-thirty they do their business,” Mitchell said, “when the shifts let out.”

“I imagine it's strictly shot and a beer, huh?”

“I imagine,” Mitchell said. He waited, in no hurry, watching Leo sipping at the drink, then lighting a cigarette, working up his nerve.

“I understand,” Leo said, “you finally got in touch with Alan, the guy you were looking for?”

“I saw him,” Mitchell said. “Then he came out to see me. He tell you about it?”

“He mentioned it. Ah, fine,” Leo said to the waitress, taking the fresh drink and handing her his empty. He stirred the drink for a moment. “What I been wondering, why you told him it was me who said where to find him.”

“I didn't tell him it was you.”

“He said you did. He said”—Leo grinned—“your exact words, your friend told me, Leo Frank.”

“Somebody's mistaken,” Mitchell said. “I didn't tell him anything.”

“Well, why would he tell me that?”

“You know him better than I do,” Mitchell said. “Why would he?”

Leo thought about it. He took about a third of his drink and thought about it some more.

“I don't know. It was like he was blaming it all on me.”

“Blaming what all on you?”

“I mean, well, you know. What he talked to you about, the deal? It fell through, didn't it?”

“He told you that?”

“Well, see, I really don't know much about it, you know? I was just trying to get you two guys together. As a favor is all. And he says you said it was me told you where to find him.”

“Leo,” Mitchell said, “I know you, I know Alan and I know the colored guy. I got his name, Robert Shy, and the number off his driver's license. I know where all of you live or work. I know it's you three that killed a girl named Cynthia Fisher and I know it's you three I have to pay to get out of this. Leo, why don't you have another drink?”

He could smell Leo's after-shave. The man seemed afraid to move, sitting there holding onto his glass and looking directly at Mitchell now. He tried a little drink, shaking his head.

“You got it wrong if you think I'm in on it. Alan told you that?” Like he couldn't believe it.

“Leo,” Mitchell said, “why don't we quit beating around? I made a deal with Alan. Evidently he hasn't told you about it yet. Or the colored guy. He came to see me, he didn't know about it either.”

“Alan said you couldn't pay, you owe the government.”

Mitchell nodded. “That's what the colored guy said.”

“Bobby came to see you?”

“Leo, let's talk about Alan. I made him an offer. I said I'd give you guys fifty-two thousand bucks, because that's all I can afford to pay. He looked at my books, he said all right, he'd settle for that. I said, you're going to split with your partners? I don't want them on my back, I want it done. He says, of course.”

“He told us you didn't have any money. You owed the government.”

“Leo, I know that. You want to talk about that, talk to Alan.”

“Son of a bitch. I knew something was going on.”

“You want another drink?” Mitchell looked
over toward the bar. He didn't see Jazik now. “I'll have one with you.”

“The son of a bitch. Yeah, vodka and Seven.”

Mitchell raised an arm to the waitress and held up two fingers.

“I knew it,” Leo was saying, “by the way he acted, the way he talked, he was pulling something.”

“If you expect me to feel sorry for you,” Mitchell said, “that's quite a bit to ask, isn't it? Under the circumstances.” He was surprised at his own tone and the fact he could be calm and talk to Leo and not punch him through the wall. When the waitress brought their drinks, Mitchell raised his glass.

“I'm sorry I can't wish you luck, buddy. But I'm sure you can understand I don't give a shit what happens to you. Or to Alan, or the colored guy, Bobby.”

Leo took a drink. “I'm telling you I'm not as involved in this as you might think.”

“Well, you're sort of mixed up in it then.”

“It was Alan's idea.”

“I believe it,” Mitchell said.

“What they did to the girl? Honest to God, I told them I wouldn't have any part of it.”

“You were there though, weren't you?”

“You can't prove that.”

“I'm not trying to prove anything,” Mitchell
said. “I'm trying to get this settled, over with. Even if I have to pay fifty-two thousand. I've made that clear.”

“You pay and it's over with all right,” Leo said. “He's already set it up. Once you pay him he puts Bobby on you. Or he does it himself. Jesus, for all I know they're both in it. They were together yesterday. Bobby knows Alan was pulling something, but they're still hanging around together.”

“Like they're taking you out of the picture,” Mitchell said, “splitting two ways.”

“I don't know. Christ, you never know what he's thinking, Alan, he's got a weird fucking mind.”

“I don't know either,” Mitchell said. “But I have to take his word and pay, or else I face a murder charge with a good case against me.”