Alan drove Leo's white T-bird out to Ranco Manufacturing. His own car, a yellow Datsun 240Z, had been gone almost two months. Stolen. Parked in front of the movie theater not ten minutes in the no-parking zone while he ran in to check receipts on his day off and the car was gone when he came out. He called the police every day for three or four weeks, reminding them it was a yellow Datsun 240Z, for Christ sake, with an eight-track Panasonic outfit, wire wheels and Michelin X radials-asking them how many yellow Datsun 240Z's did they think there were in Detroit or northern Ohio or Indiana or wherever cars went to get sold or dumped. They told him, each time, don't worry, it would turn up. Of course it would probably be stripped of the eight-track Panasonic outfit, the wire wheels and the Michelin X radials, and would probably need some bodywork, but it would turn up. The pricks. Alan stopped calling the police right after he found out about Harry Mitchell of Ranco Manufacturing and looked him up, checked him out, got his D and B and everything but a urine specimen and knew he was the guy to hit. The one he and Leo had been waiting for.
Alan parked the T-bird across the street from the plant, a half-block away, and watched as the line of headlights, the second-shift employees, came out the drive from the parking lot behind the place and turned into the street. Some of the cars came out and made a little jog over to the Pine Top Bar. Alan could see the green neon sign in his rearview mirror, a couple hundred feet behind him. He waited until the driveway cleared, then waited another fifteen minutes to be sure. He didn't like it at all. Would have to watch what he said, in case Mitchell's office was bugged. He would accept no money tonight, even if he was offered the whole load, in case the cops were waiting in the next room or in the goddamn closet. What could they get him for?
Murder? What murder? What girl?
Answer: Yeah, I know a few girls worked there. Big turnover; they leave, you never see them again.
He had been out to Mitchell's house, hadn't he?
Answer: Yeah, I was there once, I explained it to his wife. I'm starting up a personalized accounting service for households, people who spend a few thousand a month and don't like to bother with bills and bank statements. That's my background, accounting.
Quick thinking wins again. He almost told Mitchell's wife he was a real estate salesman. This was much better. He could point to his background, and hope they didn't look into it too closely.
All right. Mitchell had asked him to come out and look at his books. Almost his exact words. That's all he knew and that's why he was here.
What else?
He couldn't think of anything else, of any way they could nail him and make it stick. But he still didn't like it.
The Thunderbird made a lazy circle through the empty parking lot, crept toward the plant and came to a stop not far from Mitchell's Grand Prix. There was a silence before the car door slammed.
Mitchell stood in the light that came from above the rear door. When he saw the figure coming toward him, he pulled the door open and held it.
"Mr. Mitchell?"
Mitchell didn't say anything.
"Mr. Mitchell?" Alan walked up to him, taking his time. "I understand you'd like me to look at your books."
"There's nobody here," Mitchell said. He went in first, letting Alan catch the door and follow.
"My, you got some machinery, haven't you? What is it exactly you make, Mr. Mitchell?"
Alan grinned, beginning to relax, looking around as he followed Mitchell through the plant and along the hallway to the front offices, past clean metal desks and filing cabinets in bright fluorescent light, into Mitchell's office. Mitchell closed the door and nodded toward his desk.
"There. That represents everything I owe or own, my net worth as of right now. Help yourself."
Alan walked around the desk, looking down at the forms, ledgers and bankbooks. "What is it you want me to do, see if everything's in order?"
"I told you there's nobody here," Mitchell said. "There's no hidden recording device of any kind. You can look if you want."
Alan sat down at the seven-foot glass-top desk. It was easier not to say anything than to nose around looking for a bug. He began studying the titles on the forms and statements.
Mitchell stood across from him. "If you know what you're doing, it'll take you three or four hours to go through all this. If you don't know what you're doing it could take you forever and you still wouldn't know."
Alan grinned up at him. "Don't worry about me, Mr. Mitchell. I bet I can read this quicker than your own accountant."
"I had a feeling you could," Mitchell said. "You took Biz Ad in college and what happened?"
"I found there's more to be made in the film business," Alan said pleasantly. "But I like to keep my hand in accounting, so to speak."
"In other people's accounting."
"Yes sir, pick up a little extra here and there."
"You going to go through everything?"
"I'll look enough to get the feel of it anyway."
"The government takes sixty-five percent of my salary."
"I see that."
"We live on the rest. The balance of my royalty each year has been going into municipals and other long-term investments. Past royalty income is in trust funds and neither can be touched. You understand?"
"Yes sir. Like so many people who make a lot of money, you don't seem to have any."
"That sheet in front of you, it itemizes everything, adds, subtracts and comes up with a figure. You see it?"
Alan nodded. "Fifty-two thousand."
"That's what I can put my hands on right now," Mitchell said. "Not a dime more than that before next April."
"That's when your fiscal year ends?"
"When we pledge our allegiance to the I.R.S."
"What about next year?" Alan said. "Same amount, uh? Unless you can convert some of these other stocks."
"I'm not worried about next year," Mitchell said. "There's something about your life-style tells me you probably won't be around. I'm thinking only of the present, and I'm thinking of my family. I've worked hard to leave them something and I intend to do it without selling my company or house or changing my way of life. So I'll deal with you right now, at a figure you'll see is the going rate. Fifty-two thousand dollars. If you insist on more, then I won't pay you anything. If you go through with your threat to inform the police, then I'll tell them everything I know and you'll be up to your neck in it. I think I'd have a fairly good chance of beating the charge. Even better than you'd have. But I don't want to take that chance. Mainly because of what it would do to my family." Mitchell paused. "So do you want fifty-two thousand dollars or a lot of trouble and a reasonably good chance of going to jail?"
Alan looked at Mitchell but didn't say anything.
Mitchell waited. He said then, "How you split it is up to you. A hundred and five cut three ways is thirty-five thousand each. Fifty-two split is seventeen-three… if you split it in thirds, but that's up to you." He waited again.
"Look at it this way. Whatever you get is better than nothing. I might have shown you a debit balance with all kinds of liens against me, including the I.R.S. You see what I mean? You threaten me with a murder conviction and jail, and all the while the government could have had first crack at me."
"You never know," Alan said, "do you? Life is full of surprises." He was thoughtful again. "How long would it take you to get your hands on the fifty-two?"
"Five days. Something like that."
"Well, let's take a look at it."
"You want to come here?"
"Maybe, I'll let you know."
"One other thing," Mitchell said. "Keep your buddies out of it. Pay them what you want, but I'm only dealing with you. Otherwise it's off."
"It's all right with me." Alan thought a moment and then got up from the desk. "Answer me something. Who was it told you where to find me?"