52 Pickup (29 page)

“Richard going to climb up your ass.”

“Let's not worry about Richard right now,” Alan said. “Did you bring the man's piece?”

“I got it.”

“Let me see it.”

Bobby's hand came out of his side pocket with Mitchell's Smith & Wesson. He looked up at Alan with a mild expression, the trace of a smile, as he took the revolver in his left hand by the barrel and extended it through the open window to Alan.

Alan took it by the grip, his finger curling around the trigger.

“Is it loaded?”

Bobby grinned. “No, baby, it ain't.”

“This one is,” Alan said.

He pulled Richard's Saturday night gun out of his hip pocket, stepped back with his left foot and shot Bobby Shy three times—in the face, in the neck, and in the chest. Doreen was screaming, banging against the door to get it open, then twisting to reach the lock button and pull it up. Alan shot her twice in the back of the head as the
door swung open and she went out.

He looked closely at Bobby slumped in the seat, reached over, and got the .38 Special without touching him. He walked around the car to Doreen, his gaze moving over the empty parking lot, then looked at her lying twisted on the pavement and prodded her in the ribs with the toe of his boot.

Barbara, frowning, looked at him as he got back in the panel. “I heard an awful noise. Loud noise somewhere.”

“Fireworks,” Alan said. “Somebody celebrating.”

He checked them into a Holiday Inn on the south end of Mt. Clemens. Barbara was a little slow-moving, beginning to drag after her high; but he got her out of the panel without any trouble and into the nice twenty-buck room with a telephone. She said she had a headache. He told her to lie down on the bed, the one away from the door, and he'd take care of her head after a while. First thing, he called room service for hamburgers, fries and a bottle of rosé, mentioning to Barbara as he hung up he always liked wine when he was in a motel with a lady. It was romantic. Alan figured they had at least a half-hour before the food came, so he picked up the phone again and dialed Ranco Manufacturing.

He said, “How you doing, sport? You got it? . . . That's very good. It fits in the case all right?
 . . . Good. Now listen. Eleven o'clock I want you to leave your place and go north on Ninety-four toward Port Huron. You go past the turnoff to Selfridge Aim Force Base, you'll see the sign. Go past about two miles . . . . Wait a minute. . . .Wait . . . wait, hey
wait
, will you! What do you mean you don't have a car?” He listened for a moment. “Hold on.” Alan put his hand over the mouthpiece and looked at Barbara lying on the bed with her eyes open.

“Yesterday your husband said something about he didn't have a car.”

“What?”

“When he called, saying he wasn't coming home. He said something about his car. What was it?”

Barbara shook her head. “I don't remember.”

“He just said he's leasing another one. He was supposed to get it today, but it didn't come, it's not ready yet.”

Barbara shook her head again. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Alan waited.

Son of a
bitch.
He had to think about it, but he had to tell Mitchell something. He said into the phone then, “Borrow one, I'll call you back.” And hung up.

He let her out of the bathroom after the young
kid from room service was gone. The tray, with its metal-covered plates and wine bottle in a plastic bucket, sat on the low sectional dresser in front of the mirror and at first she thought there were two trays.

Barbara could smell the french fries and felt nauseated again. She shook her head when Alan told her to help herself. He didn't seem to care. He was digging into the fries with his fingers, dipping them in catsup and stuffing them into his mouth as he got the wine out and poured two glasses. Barbara took one because she was thirsty and it looked cold. He made her come over to take it. Standing by the dresser she saw herself in the mirror. She looked ill, as though she'd been in bed with the flu. She should have on a robe, not a raincoat. She needed makeup and a hairbrush. But she knew she had no purse with her. The bottom of the raincoat was partly open. She buttoned it with one hand and was aware, then, that she wasn't wearing anything beneath the coat. Alan told her to sit on the bed and be a good girl. The wine was very cold. As she sipped it he let her have a cigarette and she began to feel a little better.

Alan was standing eating his hamburger, getting it done, staying close to the french fries and catsup on the tray. He was hungry. He could worry about Mitchell and wonder if the son of a bitch was pulling something, but he was still hungry and had
to eat. The wine was good; it helped him relax. But he wished he'd taken a little longer yesterday afternoon, another twenty minutes, and had Richard get him some reefer. With reefer he could get his head together and see everything clearly.

He said to Barbara, “He been having trouble with his car?”

“Not that I know of.”

“How was he going to get home?”

“You said he was leasing another one, didn't you?”

“But it didn't come. The day of all days he's got to have a car he says it didn't come.”

“That happens, doesn't it?”

Alan was thoughtful. “I don't know. He could be pulling something. But I don't have time anymore to fool around.”

Barbara watched him drink his wine and fill the glass again.

“If my husband told you he'll pay you, he will.”

“I take your word for it.”

“This is your idea,” Barbara said, “not ours. I would assume you have to be optimistic in your business, believe you're going to be paid, or you'd never have gone into it.”

She continued to watch him as he moved to the front of the motel room and pulled the draperies back to look out. It was dark now. She
could see the shiny front of a car and neon lights on the street beyond.

“Why does he have to have a car?”

“To go where I tell him.”

“I mean why not meet him at the plant, pick up the money there?”

Alan turned from the window to look at her but said nothing.

“You're afraid of the police,” Barbara said. “But wherever you tell him to meet you he could bring the police, couldn't he?” Barbara paused. “But he won't. If he said he'll pay you, he will.”

“Lie down,” Alan said. “If I want to talk to you, I'll let you know.”

He went into the bathroom, leaving the door open, came out and poured himself another glass of wine. He sat down now, turning off the lamp next to the chair, sipped the wine and smoked two cigarettes in the semidarkness. Barbara wasn't sure how much time passed, perhaps twenty minutes or a half-hour. He came over to the phone, sat on the bed facing her and lighted another cigarette before giving the operator Mitchell's number.

She heard him say, “You get a car? . . . All right, forget it, I'm going to come see you, sometime after your shift lets out . . . . Just be there, alone. You know who's going to be with me. I'm going to drive in the parking lot. I don't like it, I drive out and that's all
for your wife. I like it, you bring the money out and we do business . . . . No, we get there I'll tell you what happens next.” He paused, listening. “No, she's fine, man. Fact I didn't know an old lady'd be that good. Hey, don't she moan and squirm?” Alan laughed out loud hanging up the phone.

At a quarter past eleven he poured heroin into a Holiday Inn spoon and heated it over a candle he had brought from the Mitchell house. Barbara said to him, as he came over with the syringe, “Please don't, I'm already sick.” Alan told her this would make her better, popped a vein in her arm this time and shot her high before she had time to kick, scream or say thank you. He didn't use all of the spoon on her; about half of it, good for an hour or so. He took a fresh needle and shot the rest of the scag into his own left arm. Yeeees. Man, that would help over the rough part. Reefer was sweeter, but a touch of scag would do in a pinch.

At ten to twelve Alan brought a couple of blankets and a pillow out of the room and made a nice little bed in the back of the panel, got Barbara into the truck without anyone seeing them and took off south down the highway. Barbara was making little moaning humming sounds as though she might be singing. Alan felt pretty good himself. Shit, he ought to. It was payday.

MITCHELL, CARRYING A HI-SHEEN
Tuffy-Hyde attaché case, let the fire door swing closed behind him. He reached for the wall switches, began killing every other bank of fluorescents and somewhere in the dim empty plant area a voice yelled out, “Hey! I can't see!”

Somebody was still here.

Mitchell didn't see who it was until he was walking toward the back, toward the sound, and John Koliba stepped out of a dark aisleway between rows of parts bins: Koliba, the white tight T-shirt stretched across his belly, holding a pair of rubber vacuum cups, one in each fist.

“I thought you was gone,” Koliba said. “I would have swore you walked by five minutes ago with that case in your hand. I was over in Quality Control.”

Mitchell said, “I was out here. I went back to my office for something.”

“I guess I didn't see you go back.”

“I didn't see you either,” Mitchell said. “What're you up to?”

“Well—don't laugh, okay? I got an idea for a kind of handling rig I been fooling with, seeing if I can make it work. On my own time, you understand. Maybe I got something, I don't know yet.”

“Why don't you work on it during your shift?” Mitchell said. And he was thinking, Why don't you get the hell out of here right now.

“Well, I figured I should do it on my own time. You know, you got designers, engineers. You didn't hire me for that kind of work.”

“No, but if you think you've got something, John, I'm willing to take a chance, I mean pay you for your effort,” Mitchell said. “Starting tomorrow, work on it during your shift.”

“That's great.” Koliba grinned, his eyes squinting almost closed. “You got a minute
I'll show you what I'm doing, the idea.”

“I'd like to see it,” Mitchell said, “but let's wait'll tomorrow, okay? Why don't you knock off now, go on home?”

“Yeah, well listen, then I'll show it to you tomorrow.”

“I want to lock up,” Mitchell said. “The security man's sick or something. He's not around tonight.”

“Right,” Koliba said. “I'll wash up, be out in a minute.”

“Good, I want to get out of here.”

“Why don't you go ahead? I'll see the door gets locked.”

“No, there's a couple of things I got to check,” Mitchell said. “Just hurry it up, okay?”

He was thinking, Christ, quit talking, and walked away gripping the attaché case at his side. Behind him Koliba said something about a couple minutes is all. Ahead of him, down the aisle past the turning machines and the rows of stock bins, a spot of light reflected on the glass section of the rear door. He reached the door and looked out.

The reflection was from a light pole. The parking lot was empty. Good.

No, Christ, there was one car parked in a lane over to the far right. Of course. Koliba's. He said to himself, Why did he pick tonight of all the nights? Guy showing initiative, wanting to get ahead. And it's your own fault, you talked to him, inspired him. God. He said, Come on, John, come out right now and get in your car and get the hell out of here, will you? God, get him out of here. But almost as he said it to himself, like a silent prayer, it was too late.

The headlight beams appeared, coming out of the driveway on the side of the plant, the way they had appeared, creeping along the pavement, the time before.

But not a white Thunderbird this time; a panel truck, the square shape of it, red as it reached the light pole, with something lettered on the side, circling slowly through the open parking area. Mitchell watched and he was thinking, it's not him. Somebody else to get rid of. But the truck came around, maintaining its creeping pace, and circled again, headlights sweeping the darkness beyond the cyclone fence.

Mitchell opened the door and walked outside, into the circle of light that came from the spots above the rear door.

As if sensing him, the panel truck, at the far end of the yard, turned and came slowly toward him until he was standing in the beam of its headlights. The truck stopped.

Mitchell raised the attaché case shoulder high and lowered it again.

There was no response from the truck. The only sound was the low rumble of the engine idling.

“You want it or not?”

There was silence again, lengthening, until finally he heard Alan's voice.

“Whose car's that?”

“Guy working late.”

“Man, you know what I told you.”

“I didn't know he was here till just now.” Mitchell waited. “Where's my wife?”

There was no answer from the truck.

Mitchell raised the case again. “Look, this is what you came for. Take it. Let my wife go and get out of here.”

“Come a little closer,” Alan's voice said.

Mitchell walked toward the headlights.
When he was about thirty feet away Alan said, “Okay, right there. Open it up, show me what you got.”

“Where's my wife?”

“You first,” Alan said. “You show me yours and I'll show you mine.”

“It's all here,” Mitchell said. “You want to come get it or you want me to bring it over.”

“Man, I told you, I want to
see
it! Now that's the last word I'm going to say.”

Mitchell hesitated. He went down to one knee then, placed the case flat on the pavement and flicked open the two clasps with his thumbs.

“Turn it around,” Alan said.

Mitchell turned the case, holding the top open toward him, so Alan could see the packets of ten-and twenty-dollar bills, banded, stacked neatly in rows that filled the inside of the case.

“Pick up some of it,” Alan said. “Walk up to the front of the truck.”

Mitchell rose with packets of bills in both hands. He approached to stand close to the headlights.

“Hold it up,” Alan said.

Mitchell's head and shoulders were above the light beams now. He could see Alan through the windshield, behind the wheel. He held up the packets of bills.

“Where's my wife?”

He watched Alan turn and say something. After a moment Barbara appeared, part of her rising out of darkness, behind the empty passenger seat.

“Let her out.”

“You bring me the case first,” Alan said.

Mitchell stared at Barbara. “What's the matter with my wife?”

“She's on something, man. Having a high.”

“Let her out!”

“When you bring the case. Hey,” Alan said then, “you see this?” He held up Bobby's .38 Special and pointed it at Mitchell. “No bullshit now, right? You twitch, I'll shoot your fucking eyes out, man. Now bring the case.”

Mitchell walked back to the open attaché case and went down to one knee again. He dropped the packets of bills inside. With his back to the truck he fished a screwdriver out of the front part of the case, beneath the bills, and wedged the tip of it between one side and the top, brought the top down, pressed his weight on it,
but it wouldn't snap closed. Mitchell fooled with it for a while.

“What's the matter?”

“I can't get the thing closed. The lock's sprung.”

He rose to his feet with the case, hooding the top and bottom together between the palms of his hands, fingers spread wide.

“I'll get something to hold it together.”

“Just bring it here.”

“Take me a minute,” Mitchell said. “I'll wire it up.”

“Man, bring it over here! I don't give a shit!”

Mitchell stopped to half-turn. “I don't want it blowing away. You'll think I cheated you.” He turned again and started for the rear door of the plant.

“Hold it there!”

Mitchell stopped and turned again. He saw that Alan was out of the truck now, behind the open door, resting the .38 on the window ledge and leveling it at him.

“I'll put a piece of wire or something around it. I come back, you let my wife out I'll give you the dough. Now think about it a minute,” Mitchell said, “and try not to wet your pants.”

He turned, ignoring Alan and the .38 pointing at him, continued on to the door of the plant and went inside.

John Koliba was coming down the aisle.

Mitchell said, “John, I think I left the light on in my office. You want to check it for me?”

Koliba waved at him. He said, “Sure thing,” turned around and headed back up the aisle past the machines.

Mitchell walked over to a section of metal shelving that stood along the back wall near the door. He placed the attaché case on a middle shelf, reached up to the top shelf above his head, and took down an identical Hi-Sheen Tuffy-Hyde black vinyl attaché case with a strand of copper wire wrapped around it once, the ends twisted several times to bind them together.

He said to himself, You don't have a choice. He couldn't walk back out there and pull Alan out of the truck and hit him in the mouth and call the police. That would be good, but how could he do it? Alan had a gun and he was going to kill them. He was certain of it. Maybe he was afraid. He said to himself, Of course you're afraid. You didn't want to do it this way. And he said to himself, But if you don't you'll be dead, and so will Barbara. So do it.

Mitchell looked at his watch. He waited thirty seconds before he turned to the door.

Alan slid behind the wheel again and got Barbara into the seat next to him, within reach.
She was awake, groggy but out of her buzz and he didn't want her behind him.

Sitting there, holding the .38 on the window ledge, he told himself to get out, right now. Flip it in gear, floor the gas pedal and get the hell out.

But he had seen the money. Jesus, all those tens and twenties filling up the case. It was there. The guy had it.

But if the guy was pulling something  . . .

Get out of here and call him.

No, there wasn't time for any more screwing around. It was right there in the case.

If it's still in the case.

If the guy wasn't out in ten seconds  . . .

The door opened. Mitchell, with the attaché case at his side, was walking out into the light.

Alan put the gun on him, after a moment shifting it from the ledge to the windshield as Mitchell walked into the beam of the headlights and came directly toward the front of the truck. He stopped where he had stood before and raised the attaché case to the front of the hood.

“Your money,” Mitchell said. “Now let my wife go.”

Alan shifted the .38 to his right hand and rested it on the dashboard, the barrel almost touching the windshield.

“Open it.”

Mitchell hesitated. “You saw the money.”

“I want to see it again.”

“I'm tired,” Mitchell said. “I don't want to play anymore.”

He took the case off the hood and started around to the passenger side of the truck.

“Hold it there!” Alan turned the gun on him.

But Mitchell kept moving, reached the door and pulled it open. “I said I'd pay you.” He took Barbara by the arm and helped her out, swung the attaché case up, his eyes holding on Alan, and dropped it on the seat. “Here. I'm paying you.”

“Open it!” Alan screamed it at him. Mitchell slammed the door. “You open it.” He walked off, still holding Barbara's arm, keeping her close to him, around the front of the truck and through the beam of the headlights.

“Hold it there! Man, I'll bust you—
both
of you!”

Mitchell stopped, thirty feet from the truck now, and looked around.

“You got it. What do you want me to do, count it for you?” He turned, holding Barbara, and kept going.

Alan had the .38 on him, dead center on his back moving away, halfway to the door of the plant.

But the black attaché case with the wire around it was next to him, right there, two feet away. He glanced at it.

Open it. Do it quick.

His hand reached over and felt the twisted ends of the wire, wrapped around each other two or three times, as stiff as a coat hanger.

They were almost to the building, in the arc of the high spotlights that spread down over the pavement.

“I count to three—you're dead!”

Mitchell stopped. He didn't turn around. He moved Barbara in front of him and pushed her gently, so that if she reached out now she could touch the door.

Alan held the gun on Mitchell's back and kept his eyes on him as his free hand untwisted the wire. He felt it come loose and bent the top strand back, out of the way. He glanced at the case then, turning it so the front of it faced toward him.

He looked toward Mitchell again and began to bring in his hand holding the gun.

“You move, man, you're dead!”

He laid the .38 on his lap and turned to the attaché case with both hands.

Mitchell said to his wife, “Barbara, how're you doing?”

He saw her nod. “I'm all right. A little sick.”

“When I touch your back, go through the
door fast. Don't hesitate. I'll reach in front of you and open it.”

“Mitch—”

“Right now,” Mitchell said, and moved with her, his hand flat against her back.

Alan saw them. He caught a glimpse of them over his shoulder. He wanted to pick up the gun and blast away, catch the guy before he got inside. But even as he saw them he knew it was too late, the way he was twisted around, his thumbs on the metal clasps of the attaché case.

This was what he had come for and he had to open it. Right now.

It was in his mind, for part of a moment, that the case wasn't broken. The lock wasn't sprung. It was closed now. It didn't need the wire to hold it. But again he was too late. His thumbs were already pressing open the clasps.

The panel truck, with super-rite drugs lettered on the body and Alan Sheldon Raimy inside, exploded, blew apart in a burst of fire and scattered pieces of itself all over the Ranco Manufacturing parking lot.

Koliba turned from the shattered window in the door to look over at Mitchell standing with his arm around the lady in the raincoat.