When he finished the cigarette he took a sheet of letterhead and a 10? 12 manila envelope from a desk drawer and buzzed his secretary on the intercom.
Janet waited while he wrote something, slowly, deliberately, on the sheet of paper, folded it once and slid it into the manila envelope that was fat and rounded, bulging with something inside.
"Give this to Dick or somebody," Mitchell said. "And this key. Tell him to run it out to Metro and put it in locker two-fifty-eight. Number's on the key. Hey, and tell him to be sure and put the key in with it."
"If the key's inside," Janet said, "how's anyone going to open the locker?"
"I just do what I'm told," Mitchell said.
She gave him a funny look. "What?"
"It's not our problem, Janet, so we're not going to worry about it."
His secretary took the envelope and went out, not saying any more.
Bobby Shy shot snooker on the mezzanine floor of Detroit Metropolitan Airport until the place closed. He went into the men's, paid a dime for a stall and sniffed a two-and-two, scooping the coke out of the Baggy with a silver Little Orphan Annie spoon. Man, almost immediately it was a better, brighter world. He bought the current issue of a magazine dedicated to "Sophisticated Men About Town" and studied the breasts and beaver shots for about a half hour, read an article that tested his sex I.Q., but didn't bother to total his answers to see how he scored. At ten past one in the morning he went to locker number 258 across from the Delta counter that was empty now, used the duplicate key Alan had given him, opened the locker and took out the plain manila envelope.
There was no one near him; no one in sight as far down as the Eastern counter; no one who could possibly reach him before he made it down the central arcade to the men's room and went inside.
"Mail's here," Bobby Shy said. He flipped the envelope with a backhand motion, watched it hit the tile and slide beneath the door of the third stall. He turned around and walked out.
Leo Frank, sitting on the toilet, picked up the envelope. It felt good and thick. The switchblade was already open in his hand, ready to cut the envelope and everything in it to shreds if anyone came banging in and tried to open his stall or ordered him to come out. Cut it quick and flush it down the toilet. They were good toilets with a high-speed force flush; you could keep flushing them without waiting for the tank to fill up.
Leo looked at his watch. Ten minutes later he stood up, shoved the envelope into his waist beneath his snappy double-knit, eight-button, checkered blazer and walked out.
The white Thunderbird was where it was supposed to be, on the arrival ramp across from the American sign.
Alan moved over as Leo got in behind the wheel and tossed him the envelope.
"Shake hands with ten grand," Leo said. "Twenties and fifties fill up the space, don't they?"
Alan's fingers felt the envelope as the Thunderbird curved down the ramp and straightened out on William Rogell Drive.
Leo said, "Open it, man. What're you waiting for?"
Alan didn't say anything. His fingers worked along the edges of the envelope and moved up to the clasp. His fingers said something was not right. They said somebody was trying to pull some shit and they didn't like the feel of it at all.
The Thunderbird turned right beyond the underpass and merged with the headlights going east toward Detroit.
Alan snapped open the glove box. In the framed square of light, hunched over, he pulled a folded copy of The Wall Street Journal out of the envelope. With the paper, resting on it, was the sheet of letterhead. Alan unfolded the sheet and read the three-word Magic Marker message in capital letters. bag your ass.
He said, very quietly, shaking his head, "Leo, honest to Christ, I don't know what this fucking world is coming to. You honestly, sincerely tell the guy how it is and the mother doesn't believe you."
7
At ten after nine Mitchell called his wife. He was still at the plant and had not seen her or spoken to her in four days.
"I want to make sure you were home," he said, "or if you're going to be home this evening. I want to stop by and get some clothes."
She said, "Are you moving out?"
"Well, I thought under the circumstances. It might be easier. Give you some time to think."
Barbara's voice said, "What am I supposed to think about?"
"All right, give us both time to get our thoughts together. Are you going to be home?"
"I'll be here."
"I was wondering-" He paused. "You didn't get anything in the mail? Some pictures?"
"Pictures? Of what?"
"Never mind. I'll be leaving in a few minutes," Mitchell said. "I'll see you about ten."
"I can hardly wait," Barbara said, and hung up.
Shit. For the past few days he had felt pretty good, but now he was tired again and wondered if he should go home. Maybe wait a while. And then said to himself, You started it. Let her have her turn.
Going out through the plant, past the rows of machines, he saw John Koliba in the Quality Control room. Mitchell paused, went over and stuck his head in the door.
"Second shift agreeing with you?"
"Yes, I don't mind working nights," Koliba said.
"It's where we need you, John. Keep the goddamn place from falling apart. Any problems?"
"Not a thing." Koliba held up a small metal part that fit in the palm of his hand. "We been running switch actuator housings since three-thirty. Every one's up to spec."
Mitchell didn't smile, but he felt better again. He said, "That's the eye, John," and continued on through the plant and out the rear door.
There were two spots above the door on the wall of the plant and light poles at the far end of the yard where a cyclone fence enclosed the plant property: bleak lights that laid a soft reflection over the rows of cars in the parking area. Mitchell unlocked the Grand Prix and opened the door. He was sliding in behind the wheel before he realized the interior light did not go on-though the goddamn buzzing noise sounded as he turned the key and kept buzzing until he slammed the door closed.
Beginning to back out he turned to look past his shoulder. The face with the stocking over it was staring at him from less than three feet away. When the.38 Special appeared the stocking face leaned in somewhat closer and the barrel of the revolver touched his right shoulder.
Bobby Shy said, "Keep your head on, man. Everything will be cool. Go west to Seventy-five. We going downtown."
On Metropolitan Parkway, Mitchell reached up to adjust the rearview mirror. Bobby Shy said, "That's fine. Look all you want, you know I'm still here with my eyes stuck to the back of your head. Hey man, and no smoking. Don't reach inside your clothes for nothing, not even to scratch yourself. You listening to me?" But Mitchell didn't answer or speak until they had turned onto Interstate 75 and were moving south in the light freeway traffic.
"My wife didn't get any pictures yet."
"We didn't send any," Bobby Shy said. "It was an idea, you know? I told them shit, guys fool around all the time. Names you read about. Man could be President of the United States, fucking somebody, nobody gives a shit. So the man's getting something on the side, everybody say he probably needs it, don't get enough at home. No, it was an idea is all. So we scratch it and make you another offer."
"Why don't you do yourselves a favor," Mitchell said. "Get into some other business. I don't think you guys could sell water to somebody on fire."
Bobby Shy laughed. "Try us one more time. I think you going to dig this trip."
"Tell me what you've got," Mitchell said.
"You got to see it."
"Another movie?"
"Only better. More excitement in it."