Leo closed the cupboard and turned to the sink that was full of dishes. He said, "What was that?" and began rinsing a coffee mug.
Mitchell didn't say anything until Leo looked over at him. "We were talking about employee relations."
"We were?"
"In your office last night. You said, 'I guess you have the same problems in your business, absenteeism and so on."
"Yeah?"
"How did you know what business I'm in?"
There was a pause, a silence, and Mitchell felt it, his gaze holding on Leo who was scratching or touching or fooling with the crotch of his red-and-black silky pajamas.
"I don't know what business you're in. I just assumed you're in business. The way you dress and all."
"I could be working for somebody," Mitchell said. "I could be a salesman or an engineer, anything. How'd you know I had my own company?"
"Hey, listen, I'm not even sure now what I said. I was just making a point about it's hard to keep people nowadays, that's all. Am I right? Isn't that what I said?"
"I don't know," Mitchell said. "I had the feeling--I thought about it after, in the car--you knew exactly what I did, the company, everything."
"Man, I don't even know your name."
"It's Mitchell. My company's Ranco Manufacturing."
"It's nice to know you," Leo said, "but listen, man, I think you heard it wrong. I never said I knew what business you're in. We never even talked before. How could I know?"
Mitchell stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. "Yeah, maybe so. I guess I heard you wrong."
"Well--you sure you don't want some coffee?"
"Thanks, but I got to make a call. I was down this way, that's why I stopped in. I'm sorry if I troubled you."
"No, it's no trouble at all. I've probably made the same mistake myself." Leo was behind Mitchell, following him to the front door. As they reached the door, and Leo opened it, the phone rang in the front hall and the kettle began to whistle in the kitchen. "Everything at once," Leo said.
Mitchell wanted to wait. He tried to think of a reason, but Leo was letting it ring, pushing the door closed. "I'll see you around," Leo said. He got Mitchell out and closed the door on him, hurried to the phone in the hall, but it stopped ringing as he reached it. The kettle was still giving off a shrill whistle. Leo got to it, steam pouring out, and took the kettle off the stove. He didn't make a cup of coffee though. He poured a vodka and 7-Up instead. In fact he had three of them while he was getting dressed.
Mitchell sat in his car, four houses down from the duplex. He was watching Leo's house and the white T-bird parked at the curb. He remembered Barbara saying the man who had been in their house, the skinny guy with long hair, had gotten into a white car. Looking at the car--that he hadn't noticed before, when he arrived--the gut feeling was stronger than ever. Thirty minutes later, when Leo Frank came out of the house and got into the white car, Mitchell's gut feeling moved up into his mind where he could look at it and reason and believe--not know, as O'Boyle would say, but believe--that Leo was one of them. Mitchell said to himself, Stay with him.
* * *
"Leo, what'd I say? At my office, right? Jesus, you come here."
"I went to your office," Leo said. "Man, you're out to lunch. I got to talk to you."
"You tell me he's following you, so you come here. Jesus."
"No, today I haven't seen the guy at all. Maybe he's quit, I don't know. Yesterday he comes in the studio again. Says hello, that's all. How you doing? Later on I go out have something to eat. I look over, the guy's sitting there having a cup of coffee. I go home last night, I see his car drive by twice, maybe three times."
Alan was having a corned beef sandwich and a bottle of red pop. He wasn't paying any attention to Doreen dancing topless on the stage, grinding out a slow rock number for the last of the lunch trade. He was tense because Leo was half in the bag and it wasn't three o'clock yet. But he had to appear calm and convince Leo that everything was all right, that the guy didn't know anything, the guy was groping, taking a shot in the dark.
"Let's say he really did forget the locker number," Alan said. "Okay, I call him again and tell him. I've been calling him, the son of a bitch is out following you around."
Leo was hunched over the table with his drink, his back to Doreen as the rock number ended and Doreen started down from the stage. "But why me?" Leo said. "Why's he picking on me?"
"Leo, stop and think, will you? Because you knew his girlfriend. She used to work for you." Alan looked up as Doreen, still topless, approached their table.
She touched Leo on the shoulder as she went by and said, "Hey, baby, I want to see you before I leave. You still owe me for last week."
Alan waited until she was past them, going toward the bar. "Look, he pulls this cute stunt because he's got no place else to go--hey, you listening to me?"
"Yeah, I'm listening."
"He's got no place else to start. But what's he prove? Nothing. The only thing is, we don't want to take any chances, right? You're going to finish that drink before I finish this corned beef. So why don't you do it and get out of here?"
Leo drank down the rest of his vodka and 7-Up. He wanted another one, but Alan would say something and get nasty about it. He'd stop off someplace else, down the street, before going back to the studio.
"Okay, I see him again I'll let you know."
"On the phone," Alan said. "Don't ever come to the theater or my place unless I tell you it's all right. Now get out of here."
Leo paid his check at the bar, walked down past the stools into the dark front part of the place. He had his hand on the door to push it open, then moved forward quickly, off balance, as the door seemed to open by itself. He stopped to avoid bumping into the guy coming in--the guy--feeling the shock of suddenly seeing him, appearing out of nowhere.
Mitchell stepped back, holding the door open. He said, "How you doing?"
"Man, I don't know," Leo said, trying hard to smile. "We keep running into each other, don't we?"
"I was just over at the studio. I thought I'd stop have a beer."
"You get your money's worth?"
"It was pretty good. Mary Lou."
"Yeah, well, I'll see you around," Leo said.
Mitchell nodded, with a pleasant expression. "You probably will."
He stopped inside the door, at the pay phone, and called his office. When Janet came on he said, "Any calls?" He listened to her say, slightly agitated, "Any calls? That's all you've been getting are calls. All day yesterday and today." Mitchell said, "Give me the important ones, any customers," and made a list of them in a pocket notebook as Janet dictated the names. "Anybody else?" Nothing important, she told him. A man had called three times yesterday and twice this morning. She recognized his voice after the first time, but he wouldn't leave a name. Mitchell thanked her, said he'd see her later and hung up.
He walked from the dim front area, down the bar through pink spotlights, to a stool next to the service section with its rows of glasses and trays of olives and cherries and lemon twists. When the elderly bartender he had spoken to once before took his order, a draft beer, Mitchell turned on the stool to watch a good-looking dark-haired girl finish her dance and come down among the tables, slipping a blouse on over her bare breasts. Most of the tables were empty. Lunchtime was past and only a few beer drinkers were left, scattered around, one guy eating a sandwich. The place was quiet. He turned to see Doreen come out of a door at the end of the bar, wearing slacks and knotting a white shirt to show off her dark slender midriff. Doreen didn't see him. He watched her go toward the tables and heard her say, "Hey Alan, what happened to Leo?" Her words momentarily clear in the silence before the rock music started again, filling the place with sound, and now a thin blond girl was dancing.
There was the name--Leo--like a signal. And another name--Alan. The guy at the table eating the sandwich, the guy with thin shoulders and long hair--looking at his back, seeing Doreen standing by him, talking,
then walking away, toward the front door.
He was aware of the feeling again, the tightening in his stomach that was a real feeling, unmistakable, telling him something, giving him something to think about. He waited perhaps a minute--until he realized he might miss his chance if he waited any longer. Mitchell picked up his beer and walked over to the table where the skinny guy with long hair was sitting.
"I understand you been trying to get hold of me."
Alan was taking a bite of the corned beef sandwich. Chewing, his eyes raised and he said, "What?"
Mitchell pulled out a chair and sat down, putting his beer on the table. "I understand you called me three times yesterday and a couple of times this morning."
"I did? What'd I call you?"
"You probably been wondering about the money--why I didn't deliver it."
Alan took another bite of the sandwich. "Man, this is weird. I'm having lunch, a guy I never saw before sits down says I called him."
"You've seen me before," Mitchell said.
"You sure of that?"
"Not a hundred percent," Mitchell said, "but I've got a strong reason to believe it. Put it that way."
Alan's tongue sucked at his teeth. "Okay, I give up. What's the game? Some kind of con?"
"The other way around," Mitchell said. "Only it isn't a con. You said it yourself one time on the phone. You said, 'This is no con.' "
"I got an idea," Alan said. "Why don't you get the fuck out of here? You don't, I'm going to call the management, tell them you're bothering me."
"You don't want the money?"
"What money?"
"The ten grand. If I don't know the locker number how'm I supposed to deliver it?"
"Weird," Alan said. "No shit, you on something or what?"
"How about your accounting service," Mitchell said. "You still got that?"
Alan's expression was bland, but he was silent, hesitant, before he said, "You mind if I leave you? Man, you're talking to yourself anyway."
Mitchell watched him get up, reach into a tight pocket for a wad of crumpled bills and drop two of them on the table.
"You going home? Back to work?"
"I'm getting the fuck away from you, man, is where I'm going." Alan walked off, toward the front door.
Mitchell said, "Hey, where do you live? Case I want to talk to you again."
Alan didn't answer or turn around. He walked down the length of the bar and out the door.
Mitchell sat at the table for a couple of minutes, finished the glass of beer and went over to the bar, where the bartender he had talked to once before was drying glasses.
"That guy just left," Mitchell said. "Alan something? You know his last name, what he does?"
"You know his first name, you know more about him than I do," the bartender said.
"How about Doreen? She coming back?"
The bartender, who learned in forty years to do his job and mind his own business, said, "Which one's Doreen?"
The printed card on the mailbox of 204 said d. martin. Mitchell looked at the other names once more--passing the box that had been Cini's, where a man's name appeared now--and came back again to 204. D. MARTIN had to be Doreen. He pressed the button and waited in the narrow tiled foyer. Close to him, the voice from the wall speaker said, "Hey, love. Get up here." With the loud buzzing sound he pressed the thumb latch and the door opened. She was careful about her name on the mailbox, but she let him in without asking who it was.
He found out why as she opened the apartment door and he saw the look of surprise on her face.
"Hey, I thought you were somebody else. Four o'clock this dude's supposed to be here."
"Well," Mitchell said, "that gives us ten minutes anyway."
"You serious?" She moved aside to let him into the atmosphere of dim lights. Aretha Franklin in the background, incense burning on the coffee table and Doreen in billowy orange pants and a tight white blouse open to the waist.
"He's always late anyway," Doreen said. "You probably got twenty-five minutes, and if you're anxious, love, you won't need that much. You want a drink?"
"I guess so. Bourbon?"
"Anything you want. Rocks?"
"And a splash of water."
She went through a door into the kitchen. Mitchell sat down on the couch and lighted a cigarette. He heard her say, "How come we didn't make it the other day? You act like you're all ready, you leave."
He didn't answer, but waited until she was in the room again, handing him the drink.
"Leo was a little mad I took that picture."
"Man's got hemorrhoids or something. He always acts uncomfortable." She sat down on the couch, moving slightly with the blues beat of the music.
Mitchell took a sip of the drink. "Who was that guy he was with in the bar today, the skinny guy?"
"You were there? I didn't see you."
"At the bar. Leo left, you asked him where Leo was."
"You mean Alan?"
"Yeah, Alan. I met him before. What's his name?"
"Alan Raimy."
"That's it. Raimy. What's he, a good friend of Leo's?"
"I guess he's a friend."
"You know where I can get hold of him?"
"Now we're getting to it," Doreen said. "Aren't we? You're not making conversation, you want to know something."
"Where I can find him, that's all."
She was thoughtful, off somewhere in her mind or listening to the music, then looked abruptly at Mitchell again. "You weren't taking that picture of me, were you? You were shooting Leo."
"He happened to be there, that's all."
"Come on--I don't think you're a cop," Doreen said. "Cini would've found out and told me. But, man, you're up to something."
"Where's he live? I won't tell him how I found out."
"Ask Leo, you so anxious."
"I did. He said he didn't know."
"If he's got no reason to tell you," Doreen said, "that's reason enough for me. I may like you, so far. But that doesn't mean I know you, or want to know you or what you're doing."
"Does he live around here?"
"I don't know."
"Where does he work?"
"For some reason," Doreen said, "I don't seem to be getting through to you."
"No, it's my fault," Mitchell said. "I forgot you're a businesswoman." He took the number 10 manila envelope out of his coat pocket, opened it and laid a one-hundred-dollar bill on the coffee table.
Doreen looked at it, unimpressed. "I make that in five minutes, sport, with the shoe clerks."
"All right, you said something about twenty-five minutes." Mitchell pulled out four more one-hundred-dollar bills and laid them on the table. "Twenty-five minutes' worth and you don't even have to move your tail. Where do I find him?"
"How much more you got in there, love?"
"That's it. All we got time for."
She looked at the five one-hundred-dollar bills and was thoughtful again. "I'll ask you a question," she said finally. "Nobody can say I told you anything about him. I'm only asking you a question, you dig?"
He watched her, deciding to let her do it her own way, and nodded. "Go ahead."
Doreen's nice brown eyes raised to Mitchell again as she said, "Do you like dirty movies, love?"
Mitchell decided one hard-core porno would last him a long time. Barbara said she couldn't believe it. She would say, "My God!" in a startled whisper and nudge Mitchell's arm with her elbow. She nudged him all the way through Going Down on the Farm until, at the end, the ratty-looking guy and the girl with stringy hair kissed. After all they had done to each other on the screen for the past sixty minutes, in positions Mitchell had never heard of or ever imagined, they kissed in the Duck Head bib overalls, wearing nothing underneath, and walked out of the barn toward a pickup truck. The main feature was over and the house lights came on. Mitchell reached over for his wife's hand.
"We'll wait a few minutes."
Barbara sat unmoving now. "I don't believe it
."
"You said that."
"My God, we've led a sheltered life."
"As they say, whatever turns you on." He let his gaze move to the sides, turning his head slightly to see the rows emptying, but didn't look all the way around.
"Did you see anything," Barbara said, "that--interested you?"
"Well, I don't know. There're a couple numbers we could look into."
"You know, they didn't kiss at all, until the very end."
"I guess their mouths weren't ever close enough."
"Where do they get the actors?"
A light, somewhere behind them, went off. Then it came on again and Mitchell heard the familiar voice.
"Okay, mom and dad, the show's over. Time to go home."
A silence followed. He was waiting or had walked away. Mitchell didn't look around. He said to his wife, "Not yet."
"Mitch, now I'm scared."
"He can't hurt us," Mitchell said.
In that moment he hoped he was wrong about Alan. Because Barbara was here and it would be easier if he was wrong. But he still had the gut feeling and he knew--no, he wasn't certain yet, though he would bet on it--that Alan was one of them. And if he was, then face the next fact. Alan was capable of killing. He could have a gun. Under his coat, in his office, somewhere. So if Alan was one of them he would have to first get Barbara out of the way, then approach him carefully. Hold back and be nice. Don't do anything dumb. He wished Barbara didn't have to be here. But he had to know about Alan--not simply feel it--and there wasn't any other way to do it. Barbara was the only one who could identify him.
He said to her, "All right, let's go."
They took their time walking up the aisle, Mitchell with his hand on her arm. The theater was empty now. As they came out of the aisle he saw Alan in the lobby, watching the last few patrons straggling out.
"I can't see his face," Barbara said.
They saw him reach over to flick a wall switch and the lights on the marquee, outside the theater, went off. On the wall next to him was a poster in a glass cabinet advertising a coming attraction. The Gay Blades. A color drawing of several young men who appeared to be wearing only jockstraps and were holding swords in the air. Mitchell hadn't noticed the poster coming up. Guys with jockstraps and swords. He saw Alan turn, take a few steps his way, look up and instantly stop.
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