"I don't think that's got anything to do with the people blackmailing me," Mitchell said. "I've told my wife-all right, but I'd still like to see them caught."
Paonessa's eyes were on the menu again. "Then you have to pay them, or attempt to."
"That's the only way, uh?"
"Unless you can identify them," Paonessa said. "File a complaint, we see what we can do. I don't know, Jim, I think I'm going to have the New York strip sirloin. How's it here, any good?"
Before O'Boyle could answer, Mitchell said, "If they were to contact me again. I mean, let's say they get something else."
Paonessa's eyes held on the menu. O'Boyle said, "What do you mean, Mitch?"
"Like what if they threatened the girl's life unless I paid?"
"That's called extortion," Paonessa said. "Now you're into something else."
O'Boyle continued to stare at Mitchell. "Have you heard from them again?"
"I'm talking about if I did. Then what?"
Paonessa shrugged. "It's the same situation. Extortion, or kidnapping-they set up a meeting or a drop and the police handle it from there."
Mitchell waited, took a sip of beer. "What if the girl's already dead?"
"What if?" Paonessa said. "They still make arrangements with you to get the money. They're not killing the girl for nothing, are they?"
"But what if they could work it so I pay? Somehow they do it. But nobody ever sees them and they get away with it."
Paonessa looked up again with his dead expression. "I'll tell you something. I've got cases, real ones, to prosecute for the next two years, on my desk, in my files, all over the goddamn office. I don't need any what-if ones at the moment. For all I know somebody's pulling a joke on you. And that's a good possibility, with all the fucking nuts there are around these days. So unless you tell me all this is real and you can prove it, and you're willing to cooperate with the police-what are we talking about?"
"But if it is real-" Mitchell began.
"If what's real? Blackmail or extortion? What are we talking about?"
"Either," Mitchell said. "Or both."
It was a free meal, if it ever came, but Joe Paonessa was not getting paid anything more to sit here. He said, "Look, you have to prove evidence. You have to show us, the police, a crime was committed. Otherwise it's just a story, and I know some better ones if you want to hear some real true-life crime stories, okay?"
Mitchell said, "Joe-" He almost said, "Fuck you," but he didn't. He said, "Joe, I'm looking at possibilities, that's all. I want to know, if things come up, what my alternatives are, if I've got any. What I don't need is any bored-sounding bullshit. I appreciate your coming and thank you very much." Mitchell pushed his chair back and stood up.
"Jim, thank you. You get this one and I'll get the next."
They watched him walk through the restaurant toward the front of the place. Paonessa said, "Christ, what's the matter with him?"
O'Boyle didn't answer. After a few moments he said, "Yes, the New York strip sirloin, it's pretty good here."
Barbara was perspiring when she came off the court and it felt good; the soreness in her legs and right arm felt good. She had played singles for an hour with one of the assistant pros-who had not taken his sweater off-and lost two sets, 6-2 and 6-3. She had not gone out expecting to win; but she wished the long-haired good-looking son of a bitch would have taken his sweater off, at least after the first set. Today she would have beaten any girl she knew. She probably would have beaten Mitch. He was an unorthodox player who slapped at the ball instead of stroking it, but God, he hit it hard and he was all over the court. They had a doubles match coming up this weekend-arranged two weeks before-with Ross and a young girl with tight slender thighs they had played before and beaten. She wondered who would cancel the match, if Mitch would remember or if she would have to do it… or if Mitch would ask his girl friend to be his partner. No, the girl wouldn't play tennis. Barbara knew nothing about the girl, except that she was certain the girl did not own a tennis racket and had never played in her life. She said to herself, sitting down in a canvas chair and lighting a cigarette, You're a snob, aren't you? She sat looking down the length of the indoor courts that were five feet below the level of the lobby and saw Ross coming off number 4 with the head pro.
She stubbed out the cigarette, with time enough to reach the women's locker room before he saw her. But she waited, wondering if he knew. Coming up the steps to the lobby, seeing her then, his expression answered her question.
"Barb-" The sad, sympathetic look, coming over to her with his hand extended. He was the only person she knew who called her Barb.
Ross got two cans of Tab from the machine, steered her over to a couch-where they'd be more comfortable and out of the traffic-and they went through the preliminaries. I'm so sorry. Thank you. God, when Mitch told me I couldn't believe it. I'm really extremely sorry. Well, I guess it happens. Do you think he's serious? I mean how serious is it? I was going to ask you the same question.
"I've got an idea," Ross said. "Why don't we have dinner tonight?"
"Thank you, but I don't think so."
"Now wait. Have you talked to anyone about it?"
"No, not yet."
"I mean do you have someone you can talk to?"
She said, "A shoulder to cry on?"
Ross gave her a sad smile. "Maybe you do cry sometimes, Barb, but I'll bet not very often. You keep it inside, and that's not good."
"I cry," she said. "I can probably cry as well as anyone you know."
"Barb-I'm sorry. Really. I'd like very much to help you any way I can. I'm not a professional counselor, I'm a friend, and I know both of you very well. I've talked to Mitch and now, if you'll let me, I'd like to talk to you, or I'll keep my mouth shut and listen if you'd rather. Or we can talk about anything you want, take your mind off it. Barb-" He paused. "I think a quiet dinner would do you good. In fact, it might do us both good."
She did not need Ross: his pseudosympathy or help or whatever he had in mind. God, she knew Ross well enough. But he had obviously talked to Mitch and maybe he did know a little more than she what was on her husband's mind. It was a possibility. He might even know the girl.
Barbara waited, making up her mind, before nodding slowly, looking at him. "All right, Ross," she said. "Let's do it. See what happens."
9
Leo Frank was tired of sitting and tired of reading the article about the 130-year-old jig who lived down in Florida somewhere. It sounded like a bunch of shit, what the guy was supposed to have remembered, and was written with a lot of dialect that was hard to pronounce and didn't make much sense. So he got up from his desk and went outside for some air. He stood on the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets, his back to the painted glass that said nude models. It was cool, about forty degrees out, damp and overcast with a shitty-looking sky-spring in Detroit-cars streaming up and down Woodward Avenue making hissing sounds on the wet pavement. He had one customer inside. Three in the last two hours. There was nothing to do. The guy was supposed to drop the money tonight and they'd go out to Metro. But until then there wasn't a goddamn thing to do.
When he looked over and saw Mitchell across the street-the guy, actually the guy standing there-he felt something jump inside his stomach and he knew he had to move, right now. He thought of running. But he made himself turn and go back inside. The three girls looked up at the sound of the door and glanced at Leo as he walked past them.
"I'm going out for a while," he said. "One of you can handle it, okay? Box's in the right-hand desk drawer."
The three girls went back to their cigarette smoking, magazine reading and nail filing as he walked down the hall.
Leo Frank opened the back door that led to the alley where he parked his car. Looking over his shoulder, down the hall, he let the door close again and ducked quickly into the last cubicle, the one that served as his private office and interview room and was practically wallpapered with photographs of nude girls.