"I can't see his face," Barbara said.
They saw him reach over to flick a wall switch and the lights on the marquee, outside the theater, went off. On the wall next to him was a poster in a glass cabinet advertising a coming attraction. The Gay Blades. A color drawing of several young men who appeared to be wearing only jockstraps and were holding swords in the air. Mitchell hadn't noticed the poster coming up. Guys with jockstraps and swords. He saw Alan turn, take a few steps his way, look up and instantly stop.
Barbara stared at him. Quietly, she said, "He's the one."
"Go to the car," Mitchell said. "Wait for me there." When she hesitated, he said, "Barbara, please get out of here."
He walked with her, stopping when he was even with Alan, a few feet away. Barbara kept going and Alan's gaze followed her as she went out through the glass door. When he turned back to look at Mitchell, he said, "I've seen you someplace. Hey yeah, you're the weird guy in the bar this afternoon."
"That was the third time," Mitchell said.
"Third time what?"
"Do you want to play let's pretend," Mitchell said then, "and go through a lot of bullshit or do you want me to give you the money?"
Alan hesitated. "What money?"
"You asked for ten thousand dollars, delivered today."
"I did?"
Mitchell, starting past him, got about four steps.
"Now wait up," Alan said. "Tell me this again about the ten grand."
Mitchell shook his head. "I must have the wrong guy."
"Why do you think I'm the one?" Alan saw Mitchell turn again to walk off. "Now wait a minute!" Quietly then, he said, "Who told you where to find me? Leo?"
"I spoke to him," Mitchell said. "He wouldn't take the money. So I came here. Now do you want it or not?"
"You want to give it to me, that's fine."
"Have I got the right guy?"
"You seem pretty sure."
"I want to hear it from you," Mitchell said.
Alan nodded past Mitchell. "There's a guy in the office right there. Another guy up in the projection room-if you think you're going to pull something. I'll tell you something else. I've got a gun on me."
Mitchell took the envelope out of his pocket and held it out in his left hand. "Is this for you or isn't it?"
"I said if you want to, give it to me, if you're sure."
"And I want to hear you say it."
"All right, for Christ sake, yeah! I'm the guy, now gimme it!"
Mitchell gave him his right balled into a fist, went in after him and hit him again, hard, with the same right hand. Alan shattered the glass showcase as his back slammed against it, tried to roll away, screaming, and stumbled to his hands and knees. Mitchell stood over him, waiting.
"You touch me again, honest to God-" Alan spit blood, his head hunched between his shoulders. "I'll scream loud enough to bring somebody quick, I swear it!"
"You already have," Mitchell said. "I think everybody's gone home."
"There's a cop always outside when we close. You touch me, honest to Christ, I'll yell loud enough to get him."
Mitchell stooped slowly to a squatting position next to Alan. He said, "We don't need cops. What do you want to call the cops for?"
"You touch me-" Alan's hair hung in his face. He reminded Mitchell of an animal that had been beaten and was terrified.
"I'm not going to touch you. I want to talk to you."
"You cut my mouth up. Christ."
"I got carried away," Mitchell said. "There's something about you makes me want to kick your fucking face in, but I'm all right now. All I want to do is talk to you. Show you something. That's all."
"What?"
"Am I talking to the right guy? I mean are you in charge? I don't want to waste my time otherwise."
He waited, then heard Alan say, "You're pulling some kind of shit. You go to the cops, you're the one gets nailed."
Mitchell shook his head. "What do you keep talking about cops for? Do I look stupid? I don't want any cops in this. But I don't like dealing with more than one person either. I can talk to one person and reach an understanding. But you get a crowd involved-and three's a crowd, buddy-then I'm never sure if they all agree with each other. You follow me?"
"You want to talk," Alan said, "so say something."
"I want to talk to you, but I have to show you something too. I have to show you facts and figures."
"What facts and figures?"
"Can you read a balance sheet?"
"Come on, say it."
"Look," Mitchell said, "I know I have to make a deal with you. I don't want to blow everything I've got, go to prison for life. But I can't give you what you're asking, because I can't give you something I haven't got. You come to my office at the plant tomorrow night, eleven-thirty, after the second shift, I'll show you my books, my investments, trust funds. I'll show you where my dough is and exactly how much I can pay you. You're the one's been doing the talking-I mean if you're the one-you know about capital-gains tax, things like that, then I think you'll understand it and, hopefully, take a more realistic approach. You understand? But you got to come alone or there's no deal. Maybe you decide no, you'd rather call the cops on me. I'll have to take that chance. But I promise you this, there's no deal unless you and I sit down together and talk it over. If we don't then you get nothing for your trouble."
Alan looked up at him. "I could be walking into something."
"Buddy, you could also be dying right now. Tomorrow night, eleven-thirty." Mitchell rose, putting the envelope back in his pocket.
"The ten grand," Alan said. He got up on his knees and held out his hand.
"No," Mitchell said, "you're pretty convincing, but I'm still not sure I've got the right guy."
Alan watched him walk out. Son of a bitch, pulling something; he was sure of it. He saw the car at the curb-the bronze Grand Prix, and-yes, you bet your ass it was-his wife standing by the car. Old Slim. Slim legs and reasonably large knockers. A very nice combination. Alan walked outside-shit, the guy wasn't going to do anything to him now-and got a good look at her as she got in the car, not noticing him, but showing him some thigh. Jesus, her legs were something. Little muscle line down the outside of the calf. Thin strong legs. Good squeezing legs, get the scissors around you.
As the Grand Prix pulled away, taillights growing smaller in the darkness, he was thinking, That could be looked into again. There could be a part for Slim in this somewhere.
14
Alansaid, "Are you listening to me? If you're busy I can wait, man, if you're busy. I don't want to interrupt you or anything."
Bobby Shy was listening. He could blow coke and not miss a word; there wasn't any trick to that. He was dipping into the Baggy again with his Little Orphan Annie spoon-little chick with no eyes or tits but she was good to hold onto and bring up to your nose, yeeeeeees, one then another, ten dollars worth of fine blow while Alan was talking out of his cut mouth, telling about the man coming to see him.
They were in Doreen's apartment because when Alan called he said he wanted to meet there. Alan, Bobby and Leo. It was one-thirty in the afternoon. Doreen was in the bedroom asleep.
Bobby had to grin at Alan's cut-up puffed-up mouth. Man had hit him good. That shit, are you listening to me? Talking but trying not to move his mouth. Like the mouth wasn't there. Like the man hadn't hit him. The man had looked easy, but the man didn't fuck around, did he? Bobby sat at one end of the couch, his feet in black socks on the coffee table. Leo sat at the other end of the long flowery couch, but Bobby could still smell that cheap shit he wore. Alan was standing, moving around some, shoulders hunched up, fingers in his tight little front pockets, looking at him.
Bobby tossed the Baggy over to the coffee table. He better save a blow for Doreen when she woke up, else she'd kill him. He said, "I hear you. I'm sitting right here, ain't I?"