Mitchell followed her down the hall past the studios. He was still holding the Polaroid, but did not realize it or think about it at the time. He wanted to look at this man again whose name was Leo and ask him something about Cini. He wasn't sure what he would ask; but that was the reason he followed Doreen down the hall to the last door and was standing behind her when she opened it and he saw Leo behind the desk, the heavyset man straightening and seeing him at the same time. Doreen was saying, "Leo, give me thirty dollars for this, will you please?" But Leo was not looking at Doreen. His expression was fixed, frozen for a short moment, and Mitchell would remember the look on his face.
"It's good to see you again," Leo said, forming a smile. "Seems like you're becoming a regular."
Doreen said, "Leo, take this and give me thirty back, okay? The man's waiting."
Mitchell knew in that moment what he was going to do. He said, "Doreen?"
She said "What?"
He said again, "Doreen?"
This time she half-turned, looking around at him, and he said, "One more."
Mitchell raised the Polaroid and pressed his eye to the viewfinder. He heard Leo say, "Not here, no!" But it was too late. He clicked the shutter, paused a moment and lowered the camera to wait for the development process to take place.
Leo said, "Hey, I mean it. I'm going to have to ask you for that camera. You rent it to take pictures of the models, but now the time's up, you don't get to use it after that."
"My time isn't up," Mitchell said.
"Well, what I mean," Leo said, "it's all right to take pictures in the studios, but this is private property. You can't take any pictures you want. You know what I mean? You rent the camera to take pictures of models."
"She's a model," Mitchell said. He saw Doreen's expression. She had no idea what was going on.
"Yeah, she's a model," Leo said, "but you aren't in a studio. That's the rule. You have to be in a studio. You can understand that. I mean how would you like somebody to come in here and take your picture if you don't want it taken?"
As Mitchell raised the camera, pulled out the print and peeled it away from the negative, Leo Frank was saying, "I can demand you give me that picture." Mitchell looked at it a moment and slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat.
"Now come on, man, I'm serious." Leo Frank got up and came around his desk toward Mitchell, his hand extended. "Give me the picture."
Mitchell said to him, "If you want it, you'll have to take it. The question is, How bad do you want it?"
Mitchell waited, giving him time. When Leo didn't move or say anything Mitchell turned and walked out.
Leo was still at his desk when Alan entered the back way and came into the office.
"He took my picture," Leo said.
"What're you talking about? Who took your picture?"
"The guy, he came in here with Doreen a couple minutes ago, he tells her to turn around and takes a Polaroid shot."
Alan was sitting down. "You mean he took a picture of Doreen." Sitting forward in the office chair now, his hands on the edge of the desk.
"No, he made it sound like that, telling her to turn around. But I'm in the picture, I know I am."
"He show you the print?"
"No, he said, 'You want it, try and get it,' and walked out."
Alan stared at Leo before sitting slowly back in the chair. "All right, let's say he's got your picture. So what? He's seen you here a few times before, he knows what you look like. So what? Leo, think, all right? What good's the picture going to do him?"
"He's onto something," Leo said. "I know it."
Alan gave him a weary look, a slow shake of the head. "Leo, he's onto shit. He doesn't know you. There is no possible way he can tie you into it. Unless you tell him yourself."
"Tell him. Christ, you think I'd tell him?"
"I don't know," Alan said, "but you look like you're ready to have a fucking heart attack." He hunched forward again. "Leo, the guy takes your picture. You could've given him a picture, personally autographed, he can carry it around in his wallet. But Leo, listen to me, how's it going to help him?"
Leo didn't say anything and Alan stroked him again with a quiet, easy tone. "You got absolutely nothing to worry about. Go home take some pills and go to bed. Start counting up to a hundred grand, Leo, slowly." He grinned at the fat man behind the desk. "Hey, Leo, you'll be asleep before you get to your cut."
Alan got hold of Bobby Shy, just in time. Bobby was going out to Royal Oak to see his dealer and pick up some stuff. So Alan went along for the ride and told him about Mitchell taking the picture.
"What can the man do with it?" Bobby Shy asked him.
"Nothing. I'm talking about Leo," Alan said. Shit, he was more worried now about the way Bobby was driving in the fast-moving stream of night traffic on North Woodward. Bobby was up, gunning it away from lights, keeping up with the rods and muscle cars heading out to the drive-ins or for some street racing, past the flashy neon motel signs and used-car lots.
"What's wrong with Leo?"
"Leo is starting to whimper. He sees the guy again I think he's going to bust out crying."
"Talk to him," Bobby said. "Hold his little fat hand."
"Listen, I'll rock him to sleep every night if I have to," Alan said. "But if that doesn't work, then, buddy, we got a problem."
"Not a problem can't be fixed though, is it?"
"I'm not saying anything like that," Alan said. "Not yet. But from now on we got to keep a closer eye on him. Especially when he starts drinking."
"He can put it away," Bobby said. "I've seen him."
"He can also fall off the stool and bust wide open," Alan said. "That's what we don't want to happen."
10
Ross usually made his move during the after-dinner drinks. Over a Stinger or a Harvey Wallbanger he would lean in close and say, quietly, "Sweetheart, why don't we finish these and go to a motel?" Or, depending on the girl, "Sweetheart, you wouldn't want to go somewhere and screw, would you?" Responses to the direct approach ranged from, "Wow, you don't waste time, do you?" to "No, but I wouldn't mind fooling around." Once in a while he even got a straight "Sure." Very seldom a flat "No." Ross was successful because he was a good salesman and never afraid to ask for the order.
Tonight, though, was a little different. Barbara was a friend. The wife of a friend. And she didn't want an after-dinner drink. Just coffee. Black.
What he had going for him was the place. They had eaten dinner in the bar section of the restaurant. It was getting crowded and noisy and the wavy-haired middle-aged entertainer at the piano bar was singing things like "Some Enchanted Evening."
Ross said, "I think this place is going downhill. It's getting to be like a neighborhood bar. The local hangout."
"An expensive neighborhood bar," Barbara said. "Someone was telling me that hookers come in here now, pros. How do they compete with all the amateurs?"
Ross said, "That's in the afternoon the bored housewives stop by. Today the ladies either drink or play tennis."
"I would like to believe," Barbara said, "that somewhere, right now, a woman is sitting with a sewing basket on her lap, darning socks."
Ross said, "Would you?"
Barbara shrugged. "It doesn't matter." Her gaze moved past faces and raised glasses to the piano bar. "The thirty-five-to-sixty set. Out having a swinging time. How many do you think are married? Or how many have been married twice? Three times?"
"Those things happen," Ross said.
Barbara looked at him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it the way it sounded."
He saw the opening and said, "Barb, we haven't really talked yet. But I don't think this is the place." He sounded sincere.
She said, "That's all right. It's about time I was getting home."
"No, no-I mean I think we should go somewhere else. Have a quiet talk. It's only a little after ten." He leaned closer now, beginning to move in. "Is there someplace you'd especially like to go? Have one drink? Maybe a couple? Relax, and have a good talk?"