The Switch

by Elmore Leonard

  She should’ve said to her dad, “For Christ sake, so he’s good at business—” She should’ve known the moment she said to Frank, smiling a little, getting ready to giggle, “My dad says you’ve got a head on your shoulders.” And Frank, eyebrows raised slightly, had shrugged, accepting it. She did know. But she sold out, covered the smile and was contrite. What was so funny? What did a skinny little girl with hardly any breasts know about the seriousness of business? That was her mistake right there, selling out and accepting Frank’s blueprinted view of the world.

  Why had he married her? Because he knew she’d always back off from a disagreement. No, he wasn’t that perceptive. He never sensed what was in her head or was even curious about what she thought. He married her because she qualified, just as he did, and if marriage became monotonous that’s the way it was; there were plenty of things to do to keep busy.

  See? He missed the point. It wasn’t a question of keeping busy or having “nice things.”

  Her mother said that. “My, aren’t you lucky? You have such nice things.” Her dad said, “How’s my princess?” Bo said, “Why do we have to eat this casserole junk all the time?” Frank said, “Why don’t you get interested in something, for Christ sake, like all the other wives.”

  All that kind of stuff, you could grin and nudge somebody or you could take it seriously. Frank didn’t know that.

  Mickey turned into the drive, eased past the hedge and stopped abruptly in the backyard. Frank’s Mark V was parked in front of the garage door, the trunk lid open.

  22

  * * *

  HE SAID, “ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. How’re you?” Like two strangers. Mickey dropped her purse and keys on the breakfast table. Frank answered her, stooping at the counter to get something from the lower cupboard, but she didn’t hear him clearly. The trip went well, or it was hell, something like that. He came up with a bottle of vodka. There was a tray of ice on the counter, tonic water, a lime, an iced-tea spoon and a paring knife.

  “You want a drink?”

  “Fine,” Mickey said. “When did you get back?” Wondering who would finally break it open.

  “I just walked in. Oh, you mean the flight? I got in at 11:45; it was twenty minutes late. Then I stopped by the office on the way.”

  “Did you see Bo?”

  “On the way back, no, I didn’t have time. We’ve got a few more problems on the Grandview job. All the sod was supposed to be in a month ago? They’re not half finished. I come back, none of the landscaping’s done.”

  “Or would you rather talk about golf?” Mickey said.

  Frank stared at her, for a moment curious. “You asked me why I didn’t see Bo, I’m telling you. Because I’ve got nothing to do outside of getting a hundred goddamn units sold before the end of the summer and I didn’t have time down there to play any golf.”

  Or else he would have told her about it. She said nothing and used the silence, letting it settle, as Frank began to cut lime wedges with the paring knife. Now:

  “Did you pay them?”

  Frank glanced at her, the knife still for a moment. “No, I didn’t have to. They backed off.”

  “When did they back off?”

  “When? When I wouldn’t pay them. They were trying to pull something and they were in way over their heads.” He was squeezing the lime wedges, dropping them in the glasses. “It was a bluff and I called it, that’s all.”

  “What if they weren’t bluffing?” Mickey said.

  “But they were.” He was stirring the drinks now with the iced-tea spoon, concentrating, as though so many stirs were required and he was counting them. “I could see there wasn’t anything to worry about.”

  Mickey reached across with her left hand and swept the drinks from the counter. They struck the base of the wall by the telephone, exploding in a burst of glass, liquid and ice, but Mickey didn’t see this. She was watching Frank and saw his head snap up and his eyes open in a startled expression she had never seen before.

  She said, “What if they weren’t bluffing, Frank?”

  “Christ, what’s the matter with you?”

  “Answer me, goddamn it!”

  He seemed concerned with broken glass—glancing over at the wall and the floor—a mess in the kitchen.

  “You’re a little upset, I can understand that,” Frank said. “But if you’d listen, I said I knew, after talking to them, it was a bluff and they’d never go through with it.”

  “When did you know that,” Mickey said, “the first time they called? Monday? How could you possibly know it? A voice on the phone tells you if you don’t pay they’ll kill your wife.”

  “That isn’t what they said, they’d kill anybody.”

  “How about, you’ll never see your wife again? Are you going to argue about words? What were you thinking? Tell me. When you made up your mind you weren’t gonna pay.”

  “I think you’re a little hysterical,” Frank said. He got a lowball glass from the cupboard, poured vodka into it and dropped in an ice cube.

  “There had to be that moment,” Mickey said, “when you made the decision.”

  “I told them right from the beginning I wasn’t gonna pay.” He raised the glass and drank most of the vodka.

  “No, you didn’t. You said nothing. For three days, nothing. I want to know what you were thinking.”

  “I don’t believe this,” Frank said.

  “You don’t believe it? For Christ sake, Frank, what about me? I find out my husband’s gonna let somebody kill me and you don’t believe it.”

  Frank shook his head, weary but patient. “It wasn’t like that at all.”

  “Did you go to the police?”

  “No, I couldn’t. They said if I did—that’s when they threatened your life.”

  “I thought you knew it was a bluff.”

  “It’s not—it isn’t a simple thing to explain,” Frank said. “At first I didn’t do anything, I didn’t call the police—see? even when you get into that, what police. In Detroit? Freeport? You see what I mean? Because they did threaten your life, yes, at that time. But then after, when I talked to them again—where you going?”

  Mickey walked to the breakfast table and got a pack of cigarettes from her purse. “Go on, I’m listening.” She lit one coming back to the counter.

  “So then after, when I talked to them again, I realized it was a bluff and if I didn’t do anything, stayed relatively quiet but firm about it, well, by this time I was convinced they’d back off. These guys, who are they? Probably somebody, some loser, who used to work for me and was fired. He talks to a couple of friends in a bar—I knew that as soon as I talked to them, I knew they’d back off and there was nothing really serious to worry about, outside of course, what you went through—I imagine you had a pretty frightening experience.”

  “You imagine,” Mickey said. “Do you want to imagine it or do you want me to tell you about it?”

  “Well, they didn’t . . . actually harm you, did they?”

  “You mean did they screw me?”

  “Jesus Christ,” Frank said, “what’d they do?”

  “Is it important? I mean would it make any difference?”

  “Yes it’s important. I want to know what happened.” Indignant now, his rights on the line.

  “I’d like to know something too,” Mickey said. “You’re not going to tell me, but you know what you did and so do I. So that’s all that matters, isn’t it?”

  “I think after a couple of days—get some rest you’ll feel better,” Frank said. “When’d you get home, yesterday?”

  “You mean when did they let me go? Thursday.”

  “Well, the reason I ask—since you’ve been home, has anyone delivered some papers? From the Oakland County Circuit Court.” He said then, “You might as well know.”

  “What kind of papers?” Mickey did know as she said it, as she saw his bland expression, as though he had nothing to hide—the son of a bitch, inst
ead of coming right out and telling her.

  “Say it, Frank.”

  “I’m trying to tell you—last Friday before I left, yes, I filed for divorce.”

  “Before?”

  “You gonna tell me you’re surprised, with the way things’ve been? I finally decided if I didn’t file, you would.”

  “Before—“ Mickey said. “So when they were talking to you about the money—”

  “Now wait a minute,” Frank said.

  “When they threatened to kill me, you’d already filed for a divorce? God, no wonder.”

  “No, you’re absolutely wrong. That had nothing to do with anything.”

  He repeated nearly everything he had said about being sure they were bluffing as Mickey wondered if she should sit down. But she also felt like moving, she was excited and it was a strange mixed feeling: one defeating, the other stimulating, as though her feelings and not her mind were giving her a choice. She could play poor-me and wring her hands and roll over, or she could go after the son of a bitch and let him have it. The rotten son of a bitch—but, that was enough of that. It was all right to be mad, furious; God, she had a right to be. But not if she became emotional and cried and played into his hands. (She could hear him say, “Christ, how can you talk to a woman?”) There was no other Mickey perched there watching, prompting words the nice Mickey would never say. There was only one Mickey here—the Mickey she wanted to be—and it was about time to let her loose.

  She said, “Is that why you went to Freeport? So you’d be gone when I got the—what’s it called?”

  “I think it’s a summons.”

  “A summons. And you filed last week?”

  “Yeah, Friday. If you’d been here, well, you would’ve been served by now.”

  She closed her eyes and opened them. He was still there, with still the blank expressionless gaze, never to change, never to know even when he was funny. She imagined telling someone (Louis?) that if she had been here, see, if she hadn’t let herself be dragged off and held in a room for three and a half days, she would’ve been served with the divorce sumnons. Summons. As though she was being accused of something.

  She said to Frank, “I’m sorry the guy from the court will have to make another trip.”

  He said, “Well, I guess they run into that. You don’t always find people home.”

  There, that was the old Frank she knew so well. Mickey said, “No, you don’t, do you?” (Did you get that one, Louis? And Louis would say, Is he for real?)

  “I wanted you to have time to read it over,” Frank said. “Then you can see about a lawyer, if you think you’ll need one. I mean before there’s any discussion about the settlement.”

  “I see,” Mickey said. “That’s what I started to ask, if you sneaked off to be with what’s her name, Melanie, while I read the divorce papers.”

  He seemed to flinch, not expecting her to say the name. “I didn’t sneak off. I went down on business.”

  “Are you gonna marry her?”

  “Well, instead of discussing what I feel is personal—I think it was Henry Kissinger who said, ‘Never complain, never explain.’ “ He looked a little smug as he sipped his drink, the son of a bitch.

  “It was Henry Ford the Second,” Mickey said, “the time he was arrested in California for drunk driving, with another woman in the car. Did you bring your girlfriend with you or not?”

  “I just said, I’m not gonna discuss it.”

  “Okay, then let’s see,” Mickey said. “You think I should get a lawyer, huh?”

  “Unless you want to use mine,” Frank said. “They do that sometimes, people getting a divorce, when the settlement’s agreeable to both parties. Saves expenses.”

  “Who’s your lawyer?”

  “Sheldon. The one I use.”

  “Your business lawyer?”

  “He’s a good man.”

  Mickey said, “Frank, you’re too much.” (Louis would say, Jesus Christ, he must think you’re a fucking moron.)

  Frank seemed to be having trouble: frowning, trying to figure her out, her tone, and still maintain an open, honest expression. He said, “I’m trying to do it without strain or pain, if you’re willing to cooperate.”

  “Yes, but how do I know you aren’t trying to screw me?” Mickey said.

  It stopped him cold for a moment. “Why would I do that?”

  “What is the settlement?” Mickey said. “What exactly do I get?”

  “Well, basically what it is, we sell the house and divide the equity, which is close to two-hundred thousand. Plus, there’s alimony and child support. I’m not gonna fight over Bo. I don’t think that’s fair to him, have to make him choose. So you don’t have to worry about that.”

  “How much alimony?” Mickey said.

  “Two thousand a month.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Am I serious, that’s twenty-five grand a year. Plus child support, $200 a month. I pay for school, his college, his tennis, within reason.”

  “How about your business?” Mickey said. “FAD Homes. What’s that worth?”

  Frank shook his head and said patiently, “No, you see, I derive my income from the business, and out of that I pay the alimony and child support. That’s the way it works.”

  Okay, now.

  “And we divide the money you’ve been sneaking into the Freeport account?”

  It didn’t have the effect she wanted. Frank paused, but he was ready. He didn’t ask her what she was talking about or look puzzled. He said, “There is no Freeport bank account in my name and no possible way anyone can prove there is. If you heard some kind of wild story or speculation, that’s all it is.”

  “I’ll bet somebody could cause you a lot of trouble though.”

  “No way,” Frank said.

  “Maybe not anybody,” Mickey said, “but I bet I could.”

  Frank came close to smiling. “You want to look at my books?”

  “No, but I’ll look at your apartment buildings and the refrigerators and ranges, all the appliances.”

  Frank said, “I don’t own apartment buildings.”

  “What if the person you bought all the stuff from was arrested and identified as a kidnapper on top of everything else? Are you following me?”

  Frank was not smiling now. He stood very straight, his hands on the counter, and still insisted, trying to give it some conviction, “You can’t prove anything.”

  “But if I started talking to people about it, all your apartment buildings, how you save on stolen materials and stuff, how you pay your old buddy Ray Shelby to front for you—without even getting into the kidnapping I could probably stir up enough to nail your ass,” Mickey said mildly, “couldn’t I? I mean if I were that type of person and wanted to see you go to jail.”

  She had him and knew it with a feeling of pure satisfaction. He could protest, deny, make sounds, shrug and shake his head, fool with his glass, but she had him—Mr. Wonderful, the country club champ, scared to death his wife was going to turn him in.

  She waited a moment before saying, “Frank?” Quietly.

  “What?”

  “Are you gonna marry what’s her name?”

  He was looking down at his glass. “I hope to.”

  “You mean if you don’t go to jail?”

  “No, I don’t mean that.”

  “Frank, to put your mind at ease,” Mickey said, “I don’t want any of your Freeport money. And I’m not gonna tell on you . . . I don’t think. That’s something you’ll have to live with.” He began to protest again about nothing anyone could prove and she waved it aside. “If you say so, Frank. But there is a question about the settlement. You said $2,000 a month?”

  “Well, that’s what the lawyer put down.”

  “It’s low, Frank. You want to try again?”

  “What were you thinking, around 3,000?”

  “I guess we’re wasting time,” Mickey said. “Let’s wait till I get a lawyer.”

  “That’
s fine, but if you go out and get an expensive divorce lawyer, just remember,” Frank said, “it comes out of the settlement and there’s only so much in the kitty. Otherwise I don’t give a shit who you get.”

  Mickey almost smiled, for the first time since she walked in. She said, “Watch it, spunky. There’s always Freeport.”

  He asked Mickey if she was going to open that can of worms again and reminded her that you can’t get blood out of a turnip. He was moving out and she could have the house until they agreed on a settlement. Mickey watched him pour a splash of vodka and finish it. He was trying to come back up, regain some of his swagger. Well, let him, she thought. He was the original Frank Dawson—considerably less than he appeared to be—and what’s her name could have him.

  Frank said, “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  “Did they, you know, rape you or anything like that?”

  Mickey shook her head. “Unh-unh.”

  “Something happened to you,” Frank said, “you’re different.” He walked out.

  Mickey went to the breakfast table and picked up her purse, then walked to the doorway that opened on the front hall and stood facing the stairway, looking up. About fifteen seconds passed before Frank’s voice came down from the bedroom.

  “What the hell happened to my closet!”

  The jerk.

  Louis picked up the phone. He said Hello and then said, “Hey, it is, isn’t it? I don’t believe it. How’re you doing?” He listened, nodding. “Yeah, I finally found out a few things. Really crazy, the whole thing. Weird.” He listened again and looked over at the coffee table that was still littered with debris, with crusts of pizza and the carry-out box, beer cans, napkins, dirty glasses, ashtrays full of cigarette butts and roaches, the box of Halloween masks, Mickey’s bra . . . “Yeah, it’s here . . . Sure, no, it’s no trouble at all. No inconvenience. Are you kidding? . . . Fine, okay then.”