Mitchell pressed the phone button down, raised it and dialed his home. He listened to the phone ring ten times before he hung up.
He waited, picked up the phone again and this time put in a call for Ross.
Alan didn't say anything until the phone stopped ringing. "That's hubby checking up."
"It could be somebody else," Barbara said.
"It doesn't matter. We're not answering the phone today."
"I have a tennis match this afternoon. If I don't show up they're going to wonder. Someone may come over."
"Let me worry about that," Alan said. "Till we leave here we don't answer the phone or the door."
"Where are we going?"
"Hey, don't talk for a while, okay?" He picked up the phone again and was dialing a number.
After a moment, quietly, he said, "Bobby, I liked it… Yeah, you're a fucking cowboy… Listen, it's set for tonight. I'm going to call him later, let him know exactly where and all that. But listen, we don't want two cars. Have Doreen drive you out, meet me at Metropolitan Beach, it's just a little bit east of his plant, eight o'clock… I'm nowhere near you and I got things to do. Listen, get Doreen to drive you, drop you off. I'll meet you in the parking area over by… you'll see a sign, it says tot lot… where they got all the swings and slides and shit… Yeah, you'll see it over to the right as you come in. Hey, Bobby, and bring the guy's piece… That's right. Take you about forty-five minutes. So, I'll see you at eight. Man, on the button, eight o'clock."
As he hung up the phone Barbara said, "What are we going to do until then? That's a long time away."
Alan turned to look down at her, at the curve of her breasts beneath the sheet and her bare arms at her sides, lying flat, motionless.
"What do you want to do? Play a little tennis? At the club?"
She didn't say anything.
"Or we can shoot scag. Drift off somewhere and, you know, groove around."
"You do it," Barbara said. "I'll watch."
"Well, you're going to have some before we leave," Alan said. "You can bet on that."
Mitchell stood in the small outer lobby looking at the photographic lightbox display of Wright-Way trailers, campers and motor homes. He turned to the glass window with the round opening in it as the receptionist said, "Mr. Mitchell, he's out of the office right now."
"Is he in the plant?"
"Esther just said he was out of the office. Did you have an appointment?"
"Not in about three years," Mitchell said. "Why don't I wait a while, see if he turns up?"
"I'll try and locate him for you," the receptionist said.
Mitchell lighted a cigarette and stood looking into the front-office area, at the rows of secretaries and clerks sitting at their pastel green metal desks. After a few minutes the receptionist said, "He doesn't seem to be in the plant." Mitchell nodded. He smiled, showing her he was patient and in no hurry.
After a few more minutes he saw the Chief Engineer come out of the hall that led to the plant and go over to one of the secretaries. Mitchell waited. When the Chief Engineer turned from the desk, he saw Mitchell in the lobby, walked over waving for Mitchell to come in, and pulled open the glass door.
"What're you doing out there? Come on in for Christ sake."
"I'm waiting to see Ross. I guess they can't find him."
"I just talked to him five minutes ago," the Chief Engineer said. "What do you mean they can't find him? If he's not at his desk he's probably locked in the toilet with some broad."
Mitchell smiled. "How's it going? You got any problems?"
"A few things I could talk to you about," the Chief Engineer said. "Whyn't you come in my office?"
"How about after I get through with Ross?" Mitchell said. "He called, it sounded important."
They were walking down the executive hallway now, approaching Ross Wright's office. The Chief Engineer walked him all the way to the end, to Mr. Wright's secretary's desk. He said, "Esther, tell him Mr. Mitchell's here. And listen, then send this guy down to my office when he's through, in case he forgets."
That's how Mitchell got in to see Ross, sitting behind his black desk with a big smile on his face.
When the door closed behind him, Ross said, "Mitch, how's it going?"
"I called you a couple times this morning," Mitchell said. "You never called back."
"Meetings." Ross shook his head, poor overworked executive. "Some of the field people are in this week. I haven't had time to take a leak."
"Anything I can do for you?"
"I appreciate the offer, but not that I know of. Production's fine, but now it's sales. If you could keep both of them up at the same time, uh? That'd be something."
"I understand you were out with my wife," Mitchell said.
"Barbara?"
"That's her name. Barbara."
Ross had a surprised look for a moment, of innocence, that became serious, sincere.
"I took Barbara to dinner the other night. I thought she might want to talk about it, you know, offer her a shoulder to cry on if she wanted one."
"Yeah? Did she cry?"
"Of course not. I didn't think she would. I thought maybe if I could find out how she felt about the situation, you know, I could give you the word and maybe help you straighten things out."
"Where'd you go, the Inn?"
Ross nodded. "Yeah, had a pretty good dinner. Adequate. It's not as good though as it used to be."
"Champagne and brandy after?"
Ross nodded again, slowly, as if trying to remember. "Yeah, I believe we did."
"Barbara told me about it."
"Mitch, you're not thinking-" Ross turned on one of his smiles. "Hey, come on, you're not accusing me of anything, are you? I thought she'd want a quiet place to talk and I still had a suite for a customer'd been there-you know, a sitting room-I thought would be more comfortable."
"She didn't tell me about the room," Mitchell said.
"Oh," Ross said. "Well, we were only there a few minutes. Had one drink, talked a little bit and I took her home. That's all there was to it. I mean I'd even forgotten we went to the room, the suite. We sat down for a couple of minutes, talked about you most of the time. Hey, about when you were in the Air Force and you shot down the two Spitfires. Jesus, you never told me anything about that before. How many planes you shoot down?"
"Seven," Mitchell said. "No, nine."
"Jesus, goddamn ace, I never knew it."
"Ross, you still working on your ski slopes? Up north."
"What?" The abrupt switch stopped him.
"You said, last time we had lunch, you were putting in improvements at your ski resort. Doing some blasting."
"That's right. They started a few days ago."
"The guy with the dynamite's there?"
"He should be. Why?"
"I need some."
Ross stared at him. "You need some dynamite?"
"About a half-dozen sticks," Mitchell said, "and a cap, you know, a detonator. If you called somebody up there, they could be down here with it in about three and a half hours, couldn't they?"
"Yes, but"-Ross was frowning, puzzled- "what do you want it for?"
"I may have to blow some stumps," Mitchell said. "Maybe I won't need it, but I want to be ready just in case."
"Mitch, I don't know. Dynamite-I mean it's not like handing somebody a dozen eggs."
"I don't want eggs," Mitchell said. "I want dynamite. You can get it for me and I think you want to get it for me, Ross. As a favor. You know what I mean? Because we've always been so close. You and I, and now Barbara. So why don't you pick up the phone and get on it?"
O'Boyle was sitting at one end of the couch with his briefcase next to him and a file folder open on his lap.
He said, "Why don't you sit down for a minute? I don't know if you're listening or not."
"I'm listening," Mitchell said. He walked from the window back to his desk, but didn't sit down.
"It's a little hard to talk to you."
"I'm listening," Mitchell said. "You talk, I'll listen."
"You look like you're ready to climb the wall or go through it." O'Boyle watched him move to the window again, the early-evening light flat and dull against the pane.