"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.