The girl's face, in color, nearly filled the screen, her expression puzzled, changing, frowning, nearly obscuring the look of fear in her eyes.
Her lips moved and the narrator said, his voice slightly higher and almost in sync with the screen, " 'What is this? Come on, what're you guys doing? I told you, I don't want to be in a movie.' "
The camera began to pull back, out of the close shot of the girl's face. "Some people," the narrator said, in his natural, lazy tone again, "you got to tie down to convince them they can act. I told Cini she's a natural. But, as you can see, she's very modest."
Mitchell was looking at her full figure now. She was sitting in a straight chair against a vertical pipe; a cement wall in the close background; a basement room brightly lit. He could see that her hands were tied behind her. A rope circled her waist tightly and seemed to go around both the chair and the pipe. She was wearing a print blouse that he recognized and faded blue jeans.
"Next," the narrator said, "to keep your interest or whatever up, a little skin."
The girl's eyes raised expectantly as the camera began to move in again. She was looking off to the side of the camera and her lips said, in silence, "What're you going to do?"
The camera held on her face. The picture on the screen moved unsteadily and the camera dropped to her blouse. Two hands came in from the side--hands and forearms in a dark shirt--clutched the front of the girl's blouse and ripped it open to her waist, then pulled it back tightly over her shoulders. One hand lingered, lifted a bare breast and let it fall.
"Not a lot there," the narrator said, "but then this is a low-budget flick, done on pure spec. Next scene . . ."
Mitchell was looking at a square of what seemed to be half-inch plywood, the size of a newspaper folded once. Hands, the same hands as before, lifted the square from where it was leaning against the cement wall and turned it around.
"No marks on either side, right? Right."
The hands raised the sheet of wood. Again there was a close shot of the girl's breasts before the tan, grained surface of the wood appeared, filling the screen. The camera pulled back, unsteadily, and Mitchell was looking at the girl again from perhaps ten feet: the sheet of plywood resting upright on her lap, covering her from waist to shoulders, the upper end propped beneath her chin.
"Now what have we here?" the lazy tone said.
For a moment Mitchell wasn't sure what he was seeing.
"A reverse angle," the narrator said. "We're now looking past Cini from behind, over her shoulder, to see what she sees. And what is it?"
The camera began to zoom slowly toward a table fifteen feet away.
"Right. A gun."
The revolver was mounted in a vise that was clamped to the edge of the table.
"You recognize it?"
Mitchell recognized it.
"Let's see it from the side. There. A thirty-eight S and W. You ought to recognize it, sport. It's yours. The box of thirty-eights on the table? Yours. The piece of paper? That's your permit."
As Mitchell watched, an arm extended a sport coat into the frame and dropped it on the table.
"And the coat. I believe you wore that to our first home movie session. Ratty-looking goods, if you don't mind my saying. What I like about it is your name inside. Now then--
"Hello, what is that tied to the trigger?"
The camera moved in to feature the revolver.
"Why it looks like a wire. Funny, it extends back someplace, so that if you pull on the wire it fires the piece. That's pretty clever, isn't it? You can shoot the gun without messing up any prints that're on it. We'll let you think about that a moment. Meanwhile, here's our little star again."
The girl's face, above the plywood sheet, showed an expression of fright and bewilderment.
"Looks like she's sticking her head out of a box, doesn't it? Honey, relax. You're gonna do the scene. Don't worry about it."
Mitchell could see it coming. He pays or they kill her. And this is the way they would do it.
So what do you tell them?
He was watching her face. The face he knew and could picture clearly when he wasn't with her; but now he almost didn't recognize her. The awful expression. He could see tears glistening on her cheeks. He didn't understand the plywood, what it was for. He sat in the darkness looking at the screen and didn't know what he was going to do.
"This setup took some doing," the narrator said. "To get the full effect. Back and a little off to the side. So you can see the gun as well as our star. Okay, suspense time is over."
The view was level with the revolver and the wire that extended out of the foreground. Mitchell didn't move. Past the barrel of the revolver Cini seemed to be looking directly at him.
"Ready," the narrator said, "aim . . . fire."
The wire jerked taut again and again and continued as the lazy voice said, "Bang, bang . . . bang, bang, bang," as the five splintered gouges appeared in the plywood sheet and as the girl's eyes and mouth stretched open and her head hit against the pipe and fell forward with the last lazy-sounding bang.
In a silence, hearing only the faint sound of the projector, Mitchell sat staring at the screen. He said to himself Unh-unh, come on. He said, People get killed in movies all the time, but they don't get killed. He had experienced the same reaction before in a movie, making something jump inside, believability stabbing him in the belly, and it had never ever been real any of those times. It couldn't be real because people didn't really honest-to-God shoot people in moving pictures.
The narrator said, "Hey, you still there?" He paused. "The thing about Cini that makes her a star, she not only lives her part she dies it. And if you don't believe me, watch."
The camera followed the plywood sheet as it was pulled aside and turned over.
"Note, the bullet holes go all the way through."
The camera returned to Cini. Mitchell looked and closed his eyes.
"Take my word, man, that's real blood, not catsup. Now watch this."
The hand pulled the girl's head up by her hair and laid it against the pipe. Her eyes, wide open, stared out from the screen and continued to stare into the hot light as the hand appeared again and seemed to press against her mouth. After a few moments the hand twisted to show a mirror held in the palm.
"Note, the mirror's clear. No breath to fog it up. Actually we didn't need the mirror," the narrator said. "Look at the eyes. Keep watching. They never blink, do they? That's because they don't see anything." There was the sound of the narrator clearing his throat.
"Now, what we want you to see, sport, is that you got your tit tightly in the wringer and there ain't any way at all to pull it out. No, because we have this package hidden away: the broad's body, your coat with the broad's blood on it, the thirty-eight with your prints on it, the permit, a few snaps of you and the broad on the beach, all in this package where nobody can find it. Not unless we tell them. Like we call the cops and we say, hey, you want to know where there's a dead broad and all? We tell them, hang up. Pretty soon there's about eighteen fucking police cars outside your house and the neighbors are looking out. What the fuck's going on? They read about it in the paper, Christ, imagine, he seemed like such a nice guy. Yeah? Some fucking nice guy. Takes the broad's clothes off and shoots her five times in the left tit. Probably raped her after. Fucking pervert. Should be electrocuted. What does he get? Life in S.M.P. Jackson. He's over there making our fucking license plates we got to put on our car for Christ sake." The narrator paused.
"Or, as I said. You pay us the hundred and five a year the rest of your life or until we say stop, we got enough. Listen to me, sport. No more fucking around. Ten grand tomorrow, ten grand a week from tomorrow, ten grand a week later. Thirty thou in good faith, giving you time to get it together. Then you plan ahead and come up with the balance in cash monthly payments. You got it? Tomorrow night you go out to Metro yourself, personally, with ten big ones. At exactly eleven-thirty you put it in locker two-fifty-eight and put the key in wit
h it. If you hang around, or if you don't show, or if you pull any kind of shit at all, the cops get a phone call.
"Now sit there a while and relax, watch another movie. When it's over, come up and get the reel and the projector if you want. They're rented from Film Outlet, over on Larned. In your name."
Sitting alone in the darkness, Mitchell watched a cartoon cat chase three cartoon mice all over the house. He watched the cat get clobbered, flattened, blown up, set on fire and electrocuted and the dumb goddamned cat hardly ever got close to them. When it was over Mitchell walked across the street to his car. He wasn't sure for a while where he was going.
Chapter 8
HE MADE HIMSELF WAIT UNTIL THE NEXT MORNING before going home. He made himself spend the night at the apartment he had leased for Cini, and for most of the night he sat near the floor-to-ceiling living-room window, in darkness, looking out at the dim shape of trees across the lawn. Sit down and think it out. That was the idea. Think about what to do and think about a girl he had--what?--gone with, fooled around with, had an affair with, laughed with, made love to, loved, maybe loved, for three months and who now was dead. He knew she was dead, but he couldn't accept it in his mind. Because when he thought of her he thought of her alive. But he told himself she was dead. She was dead because of him. He didn't drink that night in the apartment. He didn't want to feel sorry for himself or make excuses. He wanted to think it out as it was. But all he could think of was that she was dead and there was nothing he could do to change it.
When it was light he thought of calling Jim O'Boyle--because he had to begin doing something now and because he had called him before, from this room, six days ago. But he didn't reach for the phone this time; he hesitated and thought about it. He would hear O'Boyle saying they would have to go to the police. Maybe not right away but eventually. A girl was dead. Murdered. It wasn't simple blackmail anymore. But if he went to the police the newspapers would find out about it. Story and picture on page one-could he face that? He told himself, Yes, the girl was dead because of him. He wasn't going to run and hide; he'd have to face it.
But wait a minute. She wasn't dead because of Barbara. She wasn't dead because of his daughter or his son. He had to think about them also. How it would affect them. He had a business to run and responsibilities and, Christ, pretty soon a union contract to negotiate. He had more to consider than himself, his own feelings. Conscience said go to the police. Reason said wait, what are the consequences? What are your alternatives? The roof was coming down on him and he could yell for help or try to put it back himself.
How?
He didn't know how. Sitting in the girl's apartment, in the early-morning light, he didn't have the slightest idea what he was going to do. Though he was sure now he wasn't going to call O'Boyle or go to the police. At least not right away.
Take it a step at a time. Walk, don't run. Never panic in an emergency. Find out who they are first. If he could do that, if it was possible---
He was beginning to get the good feeling of confidence again, the feeling of being keyed up but able to remain calm. There it is, he said to himself. Simple. Find out who they are. And then kick ass.
Barbara was in a housecoat. She opened the front door and stood looking at him for several moments before stepping aside.
"It's your house too," she said. "You don't have to ring the bell."
"I didn't want to walk in the back. You don't know who it is, you might be frightened."
"I think I know your sound," Barbara said.
"You're doing something, go ahead. I just want to pick up a few things."
He walked past her to the main stairway and started up. Barbara watched him. She hesitated, making up her mind, then followed him upstairs. He was at the dresser when she entered the bedroom, going through the top drawer, pushing aside his socks and handkerchiefs.
"I thought you were coming last night," she said. "I waited until Johnny Carson was over."
"I went to a movie," Mitchell said.
"You went to a movie. That was nice. With your girlfriend?"
Mitchell turned from the dresser. He looked at her and seemed about to speak, but said nothing and walked over to his closet.
Barbara watched him. "You know what I almost did? I almost threw all your clothes out the goddamn window. I get urges too, buddy, but I restrain myself. Usually."
"I'm sorry," Mitchell said, turning from the closet.
"For what? I don't know, Mitch. You can talk quietly and sound very sincere--but that doesn't change the fact you're a bastard. I'm the one who's hurt, for God's sake, not you."
"Barbara, who's been in the house in the last few days? I mean besides you."
"Who's been in the house?" The abrupt change in the conversation stopped her. "What do you mean, who's been in the house?"
"Has anyone come in that you don't know?" Mitchell asked quietly. "Or that you do know. A plumber or a painter, somebody like that."
"The only thing that needs fixing," Barbara said, "is the disposal. You said you were going to take care of it."
"All right, then have you noticed anything out of place? Like someone might have walked in or broken in while you were out?"
She shook her head slowly. "The milkman comes in . . ."
"Or door-to-door salesmen."
"No--"
She shook her head again. "No, there was somebody. A man from an accounting service. In fact he was in here when I got home from tennis."
"When?"
"A few days ago. Sitting in the living room. Can you believe it? Sitting there waiting for me."
"What company's he with?"
"No company. I looked it up, Silver Something Accounting Service, he said, but there's no such company."
"What did he look like?"
Barbara thought about it. "Kind of hippie looking, and the way he talked, very cheeky. He was wearing a dark suit and carried an attache case."
"He had a car?"
"A car picked him up. A white one. I didn't notice the make or year."
"Did he talk . . . slowly?"
Barbara nodded thoughtfully. "Like it was an effort."
"You're sure you've never seen him before?"
"Fairly sure. Mitch, what is it? Did he take anything?"
"A few things," Mitchell said, answering her but seeing the movie screen, his gun in the vise aimed at the girl and the old sport coat on the table. He saw the soundless gun fired and saw the gouges appear in the plywood as the girl's head snapped back and heard the lazy sound of the skinny guy, who had been in this house, this room, saying bang, bang . . . bang, bang, bang. Five times. Five shots. Making sure, when one would have been enough to murder her.
Barbara, with a tense, concerned look now, was asking him, "What? Mitch, what did he take?"
His wife looked good. She looked clean. He liked the navy-blue housecoat and her hair and, this morning, the trace of dark circles beneath her eyes. He knew that if he held her he would feel the familiar feel of her body and she would smell good. She had seen the man and maybe she could identify him. She could be a part of this. Right now, not knowing anything about it, she could become involved--another woman involved because of him--and he didn't want her to be, if he could help it.
He said, "The guy took my gun."
"You're sure?"
"It's not here. He took the gun, my old sport coat and maybe a few other things." She would look after he was gone and find this out herself.
"But why?"
"Some people who steal need guns. The sport coat I don't know, maybe he just liked it."
She was staring at him, listening to his sound, analyzing it. She said quietly, "Mitch, that's not the reason he took it."
"I don't know why. I'm only saying it's gone."
"I think you do know," Barbara said.
Mitchell hesitated, but in the same moment said to himself, No. "I've got to get to the plant," he said, and started out of the room.
Barbara's voice followed him to the
hall. "Mitch, tell me what's going on. Please."
But he reached the stairway and went down without answering.
O'Boyle said, "Mitch, this is Joe Paonessa. From the prosecutor's office." He saw the flicker of surprise on Mitchell's face, gave them enough time to exchange nods and a glad-to-meet-you, and then offered a brief explanation. "Joe was able to come at the last minute, Mitch. He's been kind enough to give us some of his time, talk to you personally and give his views on your situation."
The man from the prosecutor's office was younger than Mitchell. He was bald and wore a little mustache. He had dark sleepy-looking eyes and a mild expression. But, Mitchell noticed, the expression didn't change. The man didn't smile. He raised himself barely a few inches from his seat as they shook hands. O'Boyle was drinking a scotch and soda. The man from the prosecutor's office had a cup of coffee at his place. He was already eating his salad, spearing at it, fork in one hand and a slice of French bread, thickly coated with chunks of cold butter, in the other. Mitchell ordered a Bud.
"I've never been here before," Paonessa said. "I don't get out to the high-rent district very often."
"I've never been here either," Mitchell said.
"It's pretty popular for lunch," O'Boyle said. "In fact I think it's busier now than at night."
That was the end of the small talk.
"Most situations like yours," Paonessa said, "never get to us. We don't find out about them because the individual is too ashamed to tell anybody. Usually it's a Murphy game. The individual gets caught with some whore and he pays to keep from getting his balls cut off. Naturally he's not going to go to the police and tell them he was with some whore and take a chance his wife finding out."
"I wasn't with some whore," Mitchell said.
"In your case," Paonessa said, "it's the amount of money involved. It's not a simple Murphy situation. You're loaded and they know it. Pay them or they fuck you. Maybe they can do it, I don't know. At least they can tell your wife you've been seeing this whore and that might be enough to screw up your life to some extent, I don't know that either, or how much you can afford to pay to keep people off your back. Jim says you're a respected businessman, never fooled around before. All right, I'll take his word for that. Though I know a lot of respectable businessmen who do fool around." Finishing the salad, he began to mop the bowl with his bread.
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