52 Pickup (26 page)

Leo was staring at him, thinking. After a moment he leaned in close to the table. “What if you went to the cops on your own? Told them the whole story.”

“I think the odds are I'd go to jail.”

“No. I back you up. We make a deal with the cops. I testify against Alan and Bobby. I go on the stand, say they killed the girl—if the cops'll let me plead, I don't know, say just to the blackmail part. And that's the truth, I was never for killing the girl.”

“I don't know,” Mitchell said. “It'd be only your word. They'd still have a case against me.”

“What case?”

“The girl's body. My gun, the film—”

“You want to know something?” Leo said. “There is no girl's body.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's at the bottom of Lake Erie, in all the pollution and shit.”

“Since when?”

“Since they did it. You believe she's on ice somewhere because you can't take a chance she isn't. Right? Alan figured that. You see her killed and that's what you remember. It sticks in your mind. It scares the shit out of you and you agree to pay. Only now you know Alan and Bobby did it. They can't take a chance. You pay or you don't, either way they kill you.”

“Or us,” Mitchell said. He was silent a moment. “What about the films?”

“In the lake with the girl.”

“And my gun?”

Leo hesitated. “It's somewhere else. Case they need it again.”

“If nothing can be proved against me,” Mitchell said, “then I'm out of it, huh?”

“You can think so,” Leo said, “but they're still going to kill you, whether you pay or not. Listen,
they do it easy.”

Mitchell watched Leo finish his drink. He picked up his own glass, untouched, and placed it in front of Leo.

“For the road.”

“You going?”

“Why, we have anything else to talk about?”

“I'm telling you they're going to kill you.” Leo was tense, staring at him again. “You haven't said anything about what you're going to do.”

“I don't know yet,” Mitchell said. “Think about it, I guess. Or wait and see what happens to you. Then I'll know if they're serious or not.”

The way Ed Jazik's car was facing, away from the bar, into a vacant lot, he could watch Mitchell's Grand Prix through his rearview mirror. Coming out a few minutes ago he had looked at Mitchell's car and had come very close to smashing a window and doing the job right then. But Mitchell probably had seen him inside. Or he might come out too soon. When Mitchell did come out, and Jazik watched him drive the short distance up the road and turn into his plant, he was glad he waited. It would've been easier to smash the window and do it here, but doing it over in the plant parking lot would be better, because his employees would come running out
the back door and see it. The shift changed in a half-hour. Then give it another half-hour or so, wait till after the office employees all went home, then go over there. Pull in the drive, turn around to be facing out and keep the engine running. Take about half a minute.

Jazik went back inside the Pine Top and ordered a Strohs at the bar. His fourth one this afternoon. He looked over at the guy Mitchell had been talking to: fat clown in a striped suitcoat tight across his shoulders, hunched over the table with two drinks at once. Slob was probably a customer of Mitchell's, owned some manufacturing plant. Fat son of a bitch sitting there, nothing to do, nothing to worry about. The guys that had it all looked alike.

The package for Mr. Harry Mitchell arrived by United Parcel while Janet was clearing her desk, ready to leave for the day. The label imprint bore the name of a Detroit luggage shop, and by the compact size of the carton Janet was fairly sure it was a case of some kind. She opened the carton to find the case, or whatever it was, gift-wrapped in silver-and-white-striped paper with a ribbon and bow. There was no card on the outside.

Mitchell looked up as Janet came into his office and placed it on his desk.

“What's that?”

“I don't know. It's not your birthday, is it?”

“Who's it from?”

“The card must be inside. Do you want to open it or should I?”

“You do it.”

He watched Janet slit the taped ends with a letter opener and slide the case out without tearing the paper: a black attaché case with chrome clasps and lock. It was shiny, inexpensive-looking, like plastic passing for patent leather. Janet turned the case to face Mitchell, picked up the ribbon and began winding it around her hand, watching as he snapped open the clasps and raised the top half. She couldn't see inside.

“Isn't there a card?”

Mitchell picked up a small folded piece of product literature. “It's a Porta-Sec,” he read. “Your portable executive secretary from Travel-Rama . . . made of genuine Hi-Sheen Tuffy-Hyde.”

Janet wasn't sure what to say. She tried, “Do you like it?”

“What I've always wanted,” Mitchell said.

She hesitated another moment. “There isn't a card?”

“I don't see any.”

“Do you know who it's from?”

“Not offhand. Maybe they forgot to put it in.”

“I'll call the store if you want.”

“No, that's all right.”

“Well, if you don't have anything else for me . . .”

“Not that I can think of,” Mitchell said and looked up at her pleasantly. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

He waited until Janet was out of the office and the door closed before he picked up the little envelope from the empty case and took out the card. Printed in pencil it said,
HAPPY 52 SPORT! HOPE TO SEE THOUSANDS MORE!

John Koliba, second-shift leader, came out of the Quality Control room and walked down the aisle toward the last Warner-Swasey in the row of turning machines. It was a quarter of six, he would recall later. He was going over to tell the operator to shut the machine down and change the turret adjustment for a run of bushing plate stops. He wasn't sure if he happened to look over at the rear door first or if he heard the explosion outside and then looked over, because it all happened like at the same time. He heard it and, through the glass part of the door, saw the flames shoot up inside the car that was parked about thirty feet away. It wasn't a very loud explosion, a dull, sort of muffled sound, but heavy. Most of the other employees working toward this end of the shop heard it too and were right behind Koliba by the time he was outside and saw that it was Mr.
Mitchell's car on fire. Koliba yelled at a couple of guys to get fire extinguishers. Then he ran back inside and through the plant to
get Mitchell. But when he got to Mitchell's office the door was closed and for a moment he didn't know what to do, if he'd be interrupting him or what. He said to himself, For Christ sake, and banged on the door. The voice inside said, “Come in.” Koliba pushed the door open, stood there looking at Mitchell behind his desk and said, “I don't mean to bother you, but somebody just fire-bombed your car.”

By the time Mitchell and Koliba got there all the second-shift men who could shut down and get away from their machines were outside in the parking lot. The two men with the fire extinguishers were covering the car with blasts of white foam but not doing much good. The flames filled the interior of the car and smoke billowed out of a partly open window. Finally one of them edged in close enough to get a door open and shove the megaphone nozzle of the extinguisher inside and let go. The car filled with foam and the flames seemed to be smothered. Cars were being moved out of the near vicinity of the fire. A man would be watching with concentrated interest, then realize his own car was parked close to the Grand Prix and wake up and run to get it the hell out of there. Beyond the fire and thick smoke, for several minutes
cars were pulling out and making turns all over the parking lot.

Mitchell stood watching, his hand on the rim of a metal waste bin of scrapped parts. He said to Koliba, next to him, “Why'd you say it was a fire-bomb?”

Koliba's little eyes, squinting, held on the car. “I seen it before.” Mitchell didn't say anything and Koliba looked at him. “What else could it be? You leave a cigarette on the carpeting?”

Mitchell still didn't say anything.

“You ever seen wiring catch fire inside a car? Under the hood, yeah, but not inside.”

“Maybe it was the gas tank.”

“The tank didn't go. Not yet it didn't,” Koliba said. “It started inside, gasoline or something. But it wasn't poured in, you know, sloshed around the upholstery and the guy throws a match in. No, because I heard it. I was going over to Number Six and I seen it blow up, like the guy lit a wick or a rope soaked in gas or something and got the hell out before it went. Otherwise he'd thrown a match, I'd have seen him.”

Mitchell was staring at the car, at the interior filled with foam that was like soapsuds.

“No chance of it being an accident?”

Koliba looked at him again. He said, “Shit, you know as well as I do who done it.”

A machinist, coming out from the plant, spotted Mitchell and hurried over. “I called the fire department. They're on their way.”

“Fire department, the fire's out,” Koliba said.

“You think it's out,” the machinist said. “They make sure.”

“Tear the car apart doing it,” Koliba said.

“Yeah, well you think it's out,” the machinist said, “all of a sudden the son of a bitch blows up on you.”

Mitchell wasn't listening to them. He had thought of Alan Raimy first—coming out and seeing the car burning—the hip creepy guy Alan, wondering why he would do something like this. He didn't think of Ed Jazik or remember Jazik at the bar across the street until Koliba said you know as well as I who did it. Koliba knew; there wasn't any question in his mind. It was as though everything lately had to do with Alan Raimy and the fat guy and the colored guy and dealing with them had become his primary business. But he was still operating a plant and had a maverick union management guy on his back. Jazik seemed a long time ago. Except that he was here and now, as real as the burned-out car. Something else to be handled. All right, call the local and yell at the president again. Or let it go. Maybe Jazik felt better now. He couldn't concentrate on both Jazik
and Alan Raimy. One of them had to be set aside. Jazik. Though he should keep his eyes open. Maybe for another slowdown. Jazik
shows off and maybe wins a couple of new friends in the shop. So maybe there would be more breakdowns to watch for. Christ.

He looked at the metal bin he was leaning against, at the hundreds of machined parts that had been scrapped during the past two weeks. He reached in and picked out of the bin a switch actuator housing and held it in the palm of his hand. It looked fine, except the inside diameter was off tolerance maybe a thousandth of an inch. Mitchell held the part in his hand as he walked over to the wet, smoking car and looked inside at the gutted scorched interior that was steaming glistening charred black and smelled of burned vinyl and rubber.

Somebody said, “Mr. Mitchell, you better get back. That gas tank's liable to go.”

Next to him, John Koliba said, “It'd gone by now. Look, see the pieces of glass on the seat? Down in the springs. I bet you anything it was a bottle of gasoline exploded,” Koliba grinned, his little eyes squinting. “I hope it was lead-free gas, uh? Don't want to pollute the air.”

Right away he thought maybe he shouldn't have said it. Mitchell didn't smile or seem to
think it was funny. He was looking at something he was holding in his hand.

“What's ‘at?” Koliba said. “Something you found?”

Mitchell opened his hand to show him the metal part, the switch actuator housing. “Nothing. Piece of scrap.”

“I thought maybe it was something you found in the car.” Koliba watched Mitchell turn to walk away. “You gonna call the cops?”

“I don't know, I'll think about it,” Mitchell said.

He walked back toward the plant. Koliba watched him toss the scrapped part in the air about a foot or so and catch it in one hand, then toss it up again and catch it, playing with it. His car was burned up and he didn't seem to think anything about it. Christ, I'd have the cops here, Koliba was thinking. Not the local cops, the goddamn FB fucking I, they'd take the broken glass or prints or something and pin the son of a bitch. Koliba heard the sirens then, out on the road coming this way. He looked over toward the drive with renewed interest to watch the fire engines arrive.

At six o'clock, sitting in his office with the Hi-Sheen Tuffy-Hyde attaché case on the desk in front of him, Mitchell called his home.

The phone rang seven, eight, nine times. He was about to hang up when he heard his wife's voice say hello.

“Hi. You sound like you've been sleeping.”

There was a long pause before she said yes, she'd taken a nap and just woke up.

“No tennis today—how come?”

There was a pause again. “I didn't feel like it,” her voice said. “I guess I was tired.”

“From what?”

“I don't know. Working around the house. I guess.”

He said, “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine.”

Maybe she was, but she sounded funny. He said, “The reason I called—I won't be home tonight. For two reasons. First I've got to work on something, a design, and I don't know how long it's going to take me. Maybe all night, or longer. And, I don't have a car. It's out of commission and I won't be able to get another one from the leasing place until tomorrow. I'll tell you about that later. The main thing, I'll be in my office or in Engineering—you've got that extension in your book—so if you need me for anything, be sure and call.”

There was a silence on the other end of the line.

“Barbara?”

“Yes. I'm here.”