Ross thought about it, sipping his drink. "I suppose so. Once or twice."
"Well, what happened? What'd she do?"
"She didn't do anything."
"You explained it somehow? I mean what happened?"
"Nothing. It never came up."
"Come on."
"Really," Ross said. "Why would she want to bring it up, cause a sticky situation? And I certainly wouldn't. Mitch, you must be out of your mind. Why'd you tell her?"
"I don't know. I just did."
"Mitch, they don't want to know about things like that. They want everything to be nice. Don't rock the boat. Don't fuck up what appears to everyone to be a perfect marriage." Ross pried an olive up from the bottom of his martini and put it in his mouth. Chewing, he said, "It sounds to me like your conscience grabbed you by the balls."
"Maybe that's it," Mitchell said. "The point is, she knows."
"Well, how did she take it, when you told her?"
"She was pretty calm about it. Didn't say much."
"Is that right?" Ross seemed surprised.
"She said a couple of times, 'What'd you tell me for?' "
"See what I mean? What else?"
"I don't know. She said she never thought it would happen."
"She didn't sound pissed off at all?"
"Yeah, she was mad, said a few things. But that staring at you, you know, giving you the look, that's worse."
"So how'd it end?"
"I don't know. That's what I'm asking you. What happens now?"
"She kick you out?"
"No, I slept in Mike's room."
Ross was thoughtful again. He sipped his martini and lighted a cigarette.
"I think you ought to move out, Mitch. Really. You want my advice, I think you ought to clear out and let her think about it a while. You see what I mean? She's there by herself, the house isn't the same. It's too quiet. She gets lonely. She thinks, maybe I was too hard on him. So he fooled around with some broad for a while. It happens. But it isn't the end of the world."
"Well, I don't know if it's that simple," Mitchell said. "She's not sure it's over. I mean I wasn't asking to be forgiven, I was just telling her how it is."
Ross's eyebrows raised. "Is that right? It's still up in the air?"
"I don't know what she's going to do. So you can say it's still up in the air."
"What about the girl?"
"That'll end. If it hasn't already."
Ross nodded, leaning in closer. "You know, I wouldn't want to have Barbara mad at me, Mitch. She's very nice, probably the smartest woman I know. But, if you don't mind my saying, as nice as she is, she's a very tough lady."
"Ross, I been living with her twenty-two years."
"You know what I mean, I'm not being insulting, Mitch. I love Barbara."
Mitchell nodded. "I know."
"What I'm suggesting, I think you ought to move out and lay low for a while. Let her cool off."
"You think so?"
"That's what I'd do, Mitch. If I were married to Barbara I'd stay out of her way and play it very cool for a while, couple of weeks at least."
"Maybe you're right," Mitchell said. "Instead of hanging around and getting into arguments, try and let the thing die."
"That'd be my advice," Ross said. He picked up the martini, leaning back in his captain's chair. "And as you say, I've had a little experience with women. God help me."
His secretary, Janet, said, "Mr. O'Boyle called. Just a few minutes ago." She followed Mitchell into his office. "I told him you were still at lunch," and added, "you're back early."
Mitchell looked at her. "My wife call?"
"No. Your mail's on the desk. Nothing important. Except maybe the envelope on top. I didn't open it."
Standing behind his desk, Mitchell picked up the envelope. His name and company address appeared in a faint black typewriter face. The words PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL, in capital letters, were typed in red. There was no sender's name or return address. Janet waited, but he didn't open it or comment.
"Also, Vic would like to see you as soon as possible."
"Tell him to come in," Mitchell said. "And get me O'Boyle."
He sat at his desk now, looking at the envelope, feeling something small and hard inside. He knew it was a key and he knew who sent it. Mitchell tore open one end of the envelope and let the key slide out onto his blotter pad: a short dull-metal shape with the number 258 etched into the flat part of its surface. His telephone buzzed.
"Jim… Pretty good… Yeah, well listen, before you go into that, Jim, I told Barbara." He paused again. "I didn't mention the blackmail, but I told her about the girl and it's done. So they can show her the film or shove it up their ass, I don't care, it's done."
He listened for a few moments. "I've got a few other things on my mind too, Jim. I've got a god-damn plant to run."
Mitchell looked up, listening to O'Boyle again as his superintendent appeared in the open doorway.
"Jim," Mitchell said, "how're they going to confiscate the film? You think the guys carry it around with them? I don't even know who they are. How do I identify them?" Mitchell paused again, listening, and then said, "Let me get back to you, Jim. Vic's here, we have to discuss something, all right?… Right… No, I won't. I'll see you later."
Hanging up, Mitchell looked at his superintendent. "Now what?"
"All the trouble we been having," Vic said. "I don't know why I didn't see it. You know what's going on?"
"What do you mean do I know what's going on? The goddamn machines are breaking down."
Vic shook his head. "Not by themselves, Mr. Mitchell. I don't know why I didn't see it before this. I guess because I trust people or I expect too much, I don't know."
"So it's a slowdown," Mitchell said.
"It's got to be."
"Who's behind it? You know?"
"Guy was my second-shift leader, John Koliba," Vic said. "Maybe three or four other guys. You remember the breakdowns started on the second shift. Week ago Koliba comes up to me, says he wants to work days, he's in some bowling league. I say okay, but I don't need a leader on the first shift, I'll have to put you on a Warner-Swasey. He said that's okay. Right away we start getting breakdowns on the first shift. I say John, you been operating a fucking turning machine ten, twelve years, what's the matter with you? He says I don't know what's wrong, the goddamn thing freezes up on me. Acting dumb. But he knows I know. Maybe that fucking Polack is dumb a lot of ways, you're not going to get any arguments, but he isn't that dumb."
"So fire him," Mitchell said.
"I can't prove he's behind it," Vic said. "I know it, but I can't prove it. I fire him you got a grievance on your hands."
With negotiations coming up, Mitchell was silent. You dumb shit. He could see the guy from Local 199-the business agent, what was his name? Ed Jazik-following him down the hall, trying to push him or scare him, practically telling him he was going to have trouble-something to think about with contract bargaining time only two weeks away-practically writing the threat on the wall for him, slowdown!
But he had been too busy thinking about something else.
"Shit," Mitchell said. After a moment, getting up, he said, "Well, I guess it's time to kick ass."
Within a 25,000-square-foot area Ranco Manufacturing milled, bored, shaped and ground machine tool and machine accessories for the automotive industry. They turned out powered actuator clamps, cylinder rod couplers and adapters, switch actuator assemblies, transfer bar guide rolls, rest pads and bushing plate stops, locating and positioning blocks, tool block clamps, screw adjusting units, grippers, neoprene cushion conveyor rolls, vacuum lifters and handling systems, air exhaust silencers and ball swivel assemblies. Mitchell had designed about a third of the products: improvements of industrial applications in use.
It was a Detroit backyard operation. A specialty house. High-volume production out of a cinderblock building that looked like a hangar. Banks of fluorescent lights and power lines, a pair of five-ton overhead cranes, high above bins and racks of metal materials, raw stock or half-finished and heat-treated parts that would be fed into the rows of Bridgeport milling machines, grinders and big Warner-Swasey bar-tuning units-and come out in an assembly of parts and products that most people, even in Detroit, had never heard of before.