52 Pickup (1974)
Elmore Leonard
*
SUMMARY: Detroit businessman Harry Mitchell had had only one affair in his twenty-two years of happy matrimony. Unfortunately someone caught his indiscretion on film and now wants Harry to fork over one hundred grand to keep his infidelity a secret. And if Harry doesn't pay up, the blackmailer and his associates plan to press a lot harder -- up to and including homicide, if necessary. But the psychos picked the wrong pigeon for their murderous scam. Because Harry Mitchell doesn't get mad...he gets even.
Chapter 1
HE COULD NOT GET USED TO GOING to the girl's apartment. He would be tense driving past the gate and following the road that wound through the complex of townhouse condominiums. Even when it was dark he was a little tense. But once he reached the garage and pressed the remote control switch and the double door opened, he was there and it was done.
It was cold in the garage, standing in the darkness between his car and Cini's, feeling for the key on the ring that held all the keys he had to carry. He didn't like keys and wished there was another way to do it. He wished he didn't have so many doors that had to be kept locked.
It was warm in the kitchen, with a warm glow coming from the light over the stainless steel range. Shiny and clean, nothing on the sink or the countertop. She was neat, orderly, and for some reason that had surprised him.
The rest of the apartment was dark, though dull evening light was framed in the sliding glass door across the living room. To the right was the front entrance and a suspended stairway that made one turn up to the hallway and two bedrooms. Beyond the stairway the door to the den was closed.
He called out, "Cini?"
Usually music was playing and in the silence the place seemed empty. But she was here because her car was in the garage. Probably in the shower. He listened another moment before going back into the kitchen to the wall phone.
The sound of the plant came on with the voice answering and he said, "This is Mr. Mitchell, see if you can find Vic for me, will you?"
The ice bucket wasn't on the counter. Usually there were the ice bucket and two glasses, ready. Maybe at other times when he came in they weren't on the counter, but tonight he was aware of it.
"Vic, it's Mr. Mitchell. I'm not going to be back today . . . . No, I'm tired. Son of a bitch has four vodka martinis, shish kebab, coffee and three stingers. We go back to his office and I have to listen to all this shit about delivery dates."
He was patient for almost a minute, leaning against the counter now, at times nodding, looking at the window over the sink where a stained-glass owl hung from the shade string.
"Vic, I'll tell you what. You call on the customers and eat the lunch every day, I'll run the shop . . . . Victor . . . All right, you got a problem, but we know weeks ahead when we have to deliver, right? We take into account the chance of screw-ups, breakdowns and acts of God. But, Victor, we deliver. We deliver, we pay our bills and we always take our two-percent ten days. That's what we always do, as long as I've been in business. If you've got a machine problem then fix the son of a bitch, because I'll tell you something, I'm not going to go out every day and eat lunch, Vic, and run the shop too. You see that?"
He listened again, giving his plant superintendent equal time. "All right, I'll talk to you first thing tomorrow . . . . Right . . . All right, Vic. Listen, if anybody wants me I'm there, I'll call them back, right . . . . Okay, so long."
He hung up, took time to light a cigarette and dialed his home. Waiting, he was thinking he could have handled that a little better with Vic, not sounded so edgy.
"Barbara, how you doing? . . . No, I'm back at the plant. Finally. Spent the afternoon at the Tech Center . . . . No, you better go ahead, I'll probably be late. Vic's got a problem I have to look into . . . . I know it. That's what I told him. But getting somebody else doesn't turn out a job that's due tomorrow. Listen, if you want me for anything and my night line doesn't answer, I'm back in the shop somewhere. Leave a message, I'll call you . . . . Okay, see you later."
He wasn't finished with the cigarette, but didn't need it now and stubbed it out as he hung up.
In the living room he turned on a lamp. He liked the furniture, all the orange-and-white stuff and abstract paintings and plants that were like trees. He had paid a decorator to pick them out and they were his. He was finally starting to get used to the place; though he still had the feeling, most of the time, he was in a resort hotel suite or someone else's house. At the foot of the suspended stairway he looked up and called the girl's name again.
"Cini?"
He waited, "Hey, lady, I'm home!"
It sounded strange. He said it and could hear himself, but it sounded strange, not something he would say. He stood there, listening.
But the sound he heard, finally, did not come from upstairs. It came from the den, the faint, whirring sound of a motor, and he looked toward the closed door.
He identified the sound as he opened the door and there it was, the movie projector going, lamp on, illuminating a hot white square across the room; the screen, set up, waiting. There was the sound and the shaft of light. Nothing else, until the figure moved out of the darkness to stand in front of the screen: a man he knew immediately was a black man, though he wore a woman's nylon stocking over his face that washed out his features. At the same time he knew that the revolver in the man's hand was a .38 Colt Special.
Even with the stocking over his face the man's words were clear. He said quietly, "Take a seat, motherfucker. It's home movie time."
Later, he remembered saying, "What do you want?" and "Where is she?" and then half turning as he heard the sound behind him. Later, he tried to concentrate on what he saw in the moment before the living room lamp went out: two men, seeing them as a heavyset guy and a skinny guy with long hair, but not seeing their features or even their clothes, only remembering an impression, the contrast of a thin guy with bony shoulders coming toward him and the thick-bodied guy hunched over the lamp. That was all he saw of them. The black guy poked him with the revolver, moving him to a chair, and Mitchell said, "You mind telling me what's going on?"
The skinny guy, in the room now at the projector, said, "No talking during the show, man. Just watch, and listen."
The black guy pushed him into the chair and moved around behind him. Mitchell sat staring at the screen. He leaned back and felt the barrel of the revolver press against his head. In a moment he saw the countdown of numbers as the film started through the projector.
"You've seen some of this before," the skinny guy said. "Stuff your girlfriend shot. I want you to know what we know, so it'll be clear in your head. You dig?"
Mitchell saw himself on the screen in full color, green bathing trunks and suntan lotion shining on his arm. He was reclined in a lounge chair reading The Wall Street Journal. The projector hummed in the dark room. After a moment he saw himself lower the newspaper and look up and shake his head and then smile patiently. He remembered the moment. He remembered almost telling her for Christ sake, no. But he had not said anything because no one but the two of them would ever see the film.
As he watched himself the skinny guy's voice-over said, "Lucayan Beach. Grand Bahama, March seventeen through twenty-one, while your wife thought you were at a convention in Miami. You rascal. The broad's shooting you. Now here's you shooting the broad."
Cini came glistening out of the surf in the tan bikini he remembered very well, and from this distance, for a moment, she looked naked. Now she was closer, smiling, smoothing back her wet blond hair.
The voice-over said, "A nice body, but a little weak in the lungs. What do you think?"
He remembered Cini going over to the hairy bald-headed guy and talking to him and handing him the camera.
> "Now you and the broad together. There he is, Mr. Clean. Member of the Urban Renewal Committee, Bloomfield Village Council, Deprived Children's Foundation and the Northwest Guidance Center. You don't mind my saying, for a successful businessman and generally active in all that community bullshit, I think you got fucking rocks in your head, man, to let yourself get put on film. I mean, as you can see it's plain fucking dumb.
"Shots of the pool now . . . and all the schmucks lying around in their resort outfits. Hot shit, huh? Seventy-five bucks a day, couple hundred bucks for the jazzy outfits . . . . Here comes sport now, rum collins for the broad and a Heineken. Loaded and he still drinks beer. That's your background showing, man. Eleven years on the line at Dodge Main. Couple of shots and a beer every day after the shift. Right?"
Eleven and a half years, Mitchell was thinking, seeing himself in the green bathing trunks that were too big for him because he had lost fifteen pounds in one month after meeting Cini. Eleven years and seven months exactly. Two-eighty an hour when he quit.
He saw the beach again, deserted now in the early evening. Their last day. He had stayed in the room to take a nap and she had gone for a walk.
"And as the sun sinks slowly in the west . . . we leave the beautiful Bahamas, isles of intrigue and plenty of extracurricular screwing, and get back to real life."
He saw his car on a street, moving, the bronze Grand Prix.
"We spliced this in with the other," the voice-over said, "so we wouldn't waste your valuable time changing film. You recognize it, sport? That's you. Now watch where you go."
Mitchell knew where the car was going. He remembered the day and the time and the street and the Caravan Motel.
There it was.
A zoom lens on the camera got him coming out of the motel office and driving over to unit number 17. There was a good shot of him looking out toward the street before he opened the door and they went inside.
Fifteen bucks. Not a bad place. It had been their third time. They had taken a shower together and drunk a bottle of champagne in bed, before, during and after, with a lot of kissing and squirming around, kissing the way he hadn't kissed in twenty years. She had said to him, "I think I'm falling in love with you. If I'm not already." But he did not say anything about love to her that time.
Over footage of them coming out to the car the narrator said, "I like this one, the expression. Mr. Casual. We cut to . . . suburbia."
Now Mitchell was looking at his home in Bloomfield Hills and saw himself in a tennis warm-up suit jogging down the driveway past the big red-brick colonial to the street.
"Keeping fit," the voice-over said. "You start chasing twenty-one-year-old tail you got to stay in shape. Mile-and-a-half jog every morning before going to . . . the plant.
"Here we are. Ranco Manufacturing near Mt. Clemens. Gross sales last year almost three mil. Forty-something employees working two shifts. You bank at Manufacturers, you pay your bills on time and you have a very clean D and B. I like that. I also like the hundred and fifty grand you make a year on the patent you hold. What is it, some kind of a hood latch? Doesn't cost two bits to stamp out, but all the cars got to have one and, man, you own it."
Mitchell had never seen his plant before on a movie screen. It didn't look bad: the front ledge-rock and Roman brick, and the aluminum sign that read, ranco.
"One of your trucks going out on a delivery," the voice-over said. "Or is it making a haul to the bank? We like your style, sport, so we're gonna make a deal with you."
The film stopped, holding on the plant that was now slightly out of focus.
"The deal is, you get to buy this complete home movie for only a hundred and five grand. Not a hundred and fifty, no, we're not greedy and we know you got to pay capital gains on your patent royalties. So we'll let you pay it and give us approximately what's left. That's all, one year's royalty check. You won't even miss it and you'll have this fun movie for your very own. Nice color footage of what must be the most expensive piece of ass you ever had in your life."
There was a silence before Mitchell spoke.
"Is she part of this?"
The narrator paused. "Well, I wouldn't say she's a hundred-percent pure. We had a talk and the chick is not dumb. She decided to move out, figuring fun and games were over."
Mitchell sat in the chair, not moving, realizing he was calm and in control and this surprised him.
"What happens if I don't pay?"
"We get stills made of you and the broad--on the beach, the motel--and pass them around. A set to your wife. Set to your customers at G.M. Maybe a newspaper. I don't know, we'd think of ways to mess you up. Maybe it's no big deal, but you don't seem like the kind of guy who'd want to get smeared around. On the Keep Michigan Beautiful Committee, you go to church every Sunday, all that shit."
Mitchell thought about it. "You think I just go to a bank and draw a hundred and five thousand dollars?"
"No, it could take you a little time. But we want ten grand tomorrow. Like a down payment. Show us you're acting in good faith. You dig?"
"Give it to you where, here?"
"I'll call you at work, let you know." The voice paused. "Any more questions?"
"I'll have to think about it."
"You got all night, sport. We'll pack up and leave you alone."
"When do I get the film?"
"After the last payment. When'd you think?"
He sat in the dark room for perhaps a half hour after they had left. Finally he went into the kitchen and poured Jack Daniels over ice, took a drink of it and thought of something. He opened the door to the garage and saw that Cini's car was no longer there. Then he called his lawyer.
Chapter 2
FROM THE BEDROOM WINDOW Barbara Mitchell watched her husband for several minutes. Sometimes in the summer, while she was still in bed, she would hear him in the pool doing his twenty-five lengths. This morning it was cold and there was no sound.
He was directly below her on the patio, sport coat open, hands in his pants pockets. He never wore gloves, and only occasionally a raincoat during the cold months. She wasn't sure what he was looking at or how long he had been there. When he moved finally it was to walk along the edge of the swimming pool, looking down, as if inspecting the pale plastic cover that was stained and streaked with dead leaves and the dirt of winter and spring.
When she came outside, wearing a housecoat over her nightgown, he was still at the pool.
"Thinking about going for a swim?"
A trace of a smile appeared as he turned. "Pretty soon. Get her cleaned out, be ready for Memorial Day."
Barbara's hands were deep in the pockets of the housecoat, her shoulders hunched against the chill.
"Did you sleep at all?"
"Little bit, on my couch. Couple of the turning machines were giving us the trouble. They got them adjusted and set, then I had to wait while they started the run again and checked the pieces, cylinder rod couplers. Some reason the outside diameters were coming out trimmed a hair undersize and we had to scrap thirty percent of the run. That costs money."
She knew he was not explaining but was talking to be talking, filling a void. She knew his sounds. Something was on his mind and it could be cylinder rod couplers or it could be something else.
"I'm going to change and get back. Sit on the job till it's out. Supposed to be in Pontiac this afternoon."
"You make the deliveries now, too?"
"Sometimes it looks like it's coming to that."
"Well, how about breakfast first?"
"Couple of soft-boiled eggs would be good. Four minutes."
"I know," Barbara said.
She was in the bedroom waiting for him. She heard the shower turn off. He would be drying himself now. In a few minutes he would open the bathroom door to clear the steam from the mirror and would shave with the towel wrapped around his waist that was flat through the stomach, hard-muscled, but bulged slightly above his hips and around into his back. You could never get that area, he
said. You could do two hundred situps and twists a day and never quite get to those little bulging handles of fat. Love handles, Barbara said. Or she would say it was because he wore his pants so low, down on his hips. Something left over from younger days. And he would say he would never wear his pants way up high, the way fat old men did. Where did they get those pants? The goddamn zipper must be two feet long.
When he came out, with the towel around his middle, and went over to the dresser, Barbara said, "I'll wait until you come down before I put your eggs on."
He said, "Fine," and got a pair of jockey shorts out of the dresser. He never wore an undershirt top or a T-shirt.
Watching him, Barbara's expression was calm, her dark hair combed, her skin clear and clean-looking without make-up. She was forty-two; a very attractive forty-two. She had confidence in herself and in her husband, but she was worried about him and wasn't sure why.
She took off her housecoat, then timed it, waiting until he turned before she stepped into her panties, raising the short nightgown and pulling it up over her head.
"I probably got about two hours sleep," Mitchell said. "I need a bigger couch."
"Usually it's the wife who makes the excuse."
He looked at her, her body, the lines showing her tan and the white breasts. "What?"
"The wife says she has a headache as the husband reaches for her."
"I'm not making excuses. I'm not only tired, I got to get back to work."
She reached behind her to hook the bra. "I've seen you dead on your feet, but you could always move other parts of you."
"Barbara--do people argue about making love?"
"I don't know what other people do."
"Don't you think it's better when it happens naturally? You both want to do it?"
"Let me know when you feel natural again," she said and put the housecoat back on and went downstairs.
Now she was at the breakfast table with The Detroit Free Press, her coffee finished. He came into the kitchen, wearing a clean shirt but the same sport coat, one that had been his favorite at least eight years. He took the sports section of the paper and began to scan it as she served his eggs, English muffin and coffee. When this was done Barbara sat down again.
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