The Switch

by Elmore Leonard

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, you can turn around. It doesn’t matter.”

  Mickey turned and saw him through the uncovered eye in the mask: the white one with dark curly hair and a mustache, in the shaft of light from the hall. Mickey stood on the side of the bed away from the door, in shadow.

  “Where do you want it?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “I’ll put it on the bed.”

  She watched him place the tray near the edge, draw his hands away, then move the tray with its bowl of chicken and noodles and mug of coffee toward the middle of the spread, on top of the peacock’s fanned filigree tail. He straightened and looked at her. He stared, then began to shake his head. He said, “Aw, come on—” and walked around the bed to where she was standing to touch the mask with the tips of his fingers. He pulled the mask off, up over her head, turning her around with his other hand on her shoulder.

  “I used the tape to cover the hole in the door,” Mickey said. “You’ll have to get your kicks some other way.”

  “Yeah, well, you don’t have to worry about that. We’ll cover the holes.”

  “What’s the matter with him? Why doesn’t he bathe?”

  “I’ll ask him.”

  “He smells.”

  “He’s got a few problems, but who hasn’t, right? Eat your dinner,” Louis said. “You want something else, knock on the door.”

  “What’s gonna happen to me?”

  “We’ll talk about it after.”

  Louis took the mask with him to fix the eye hole. Jesus, it was a dumb idea. What’re you doing? I’m fixing this Halloween mask. The whole thing—what’re you doing here anyway? Answer that. But there was always a time like this when you thought it was going to blow up. Then it passed. Usually it did.

  Richard had walked out nodding, rubbing his eye, not asking any questions. He walked back in exactly an hour and a half later still rubbing it. He said, “You know what that puss did to my eye?”

  “Tell us about the other, Richard,” Ordell said.

  “Well, what I did,” Richard said, shoving his policeman’s hat to the back of his head, “I made sure there was no surveillance first. I cruised the street and the street back of the residence, the residence being dark, not any light on, but which didn’t mean anything.”

  Jesus Christ, Louis thought.

  “So then I went to a pay phone in the Kroger’s, the corner of Maple and Lahser”—he pronounced it “Lasher”—“and phoned the residence, letting it ring twenty-five times.”

  “Twenty-five times,” Ordell said.

  “There being no answer I returned to the residence and pulled into the backyard and turned the car around before getting out. Then—I want to ask you. You leave the garage door open?”

  “Yes, we did, Richard,” Ordell said.

  “The door from the garage into the house?”

  “For Christ sake, get to the alleged guy,” Louis said, “will you?”

  “Let him tell it,” Ordell said. “Go on, Richard.”

  “Well, I went in—”

  He went up to the bedroom like they’d told him, found the two glasses on the floor, the closet door with a big hole in it like it’d been kicked out from the inside . . .

  Louis felt himself begin to relax a little.

  . . . and the closet all messed up, blood on the clothes that were on the floor, but nobody in there. So evidently the witness had left.

  “And not with any help,” Louis said. “He kicked his way out. He was strong and healthy enough to kick a hole in the door.”

  Ordell sat back in his maroon chair. He was relieved, too, and could think now without a heavy unknown hanging over him, though there was still the big question.

  “Why didn’t the man go to the police?”

  “I don’t know,” Louis said, “but I got a theory.”

  Louis had his mask on this time as he eased open the bedroom door a few inches. He said, “Mickey?” It was the first time he had used her name.

  She didn’t answer immediately.

  “What?”

  “Turn the light out and sit on the other side of the bed facing the windows.”

  “There aren’t any windows.”

  “Yeah, well, where they used to be.” He waited. When the light went off he opened the door wide and stepped inside. She seemed small sitting there, her shoulders hunched a little. He walked around the bed, out of the light into the darkened half of the room, and nudged her shoulder to hand her the taped mask.

  “Here, I fixed it for you. Put it on.”

  Mickey took it from him and slipped the elastic band over her head as Louis sat down in the rocker facing her—two people sitting in a dark bedroom with masks on.

  She said, “This is unbelievable.”

  “Yeah, I know. It’s a little strange,” Louis said. “If somebody walked in and saw us, huh? Well—” He sat back and began to rock. The rocker squeaked and he stopped.

  “You watch the news?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nothing about you on the 5:30 or the 6,” Louis said. “How come?”

  “What’re you asking me for?”

  “You have something going with that guy?”

  “What guy?”

  “Come on, the big guy walked in.”

  “He’s a friend of the family.”

  “A friend, huh? Comes in the bedroom with the martinis—”

  “He’s a friend.”

  “Then how come he didn’t call the cops?”

  “How do you know he isn’t dead or in a coma?” Mickey straightened, her blind gaze facing the sound of Louis’ voice. “You hit him with something, didn’t you?”

  “We checked,” Louis said. “He let himself out.”

  There was silence.

  Mickey said, “How do you know he didn’t call the police?”

  “Because the magic eye of television would’ve had it.”

  “Not something that happened this afternoon,” Mickey said. “There wasn’t time.”

  “So we’ll see if it’s on the 11 o’clock,” Louis said. “But I don’t think it will be. What do you think?”

  There was silence again.

  “You don’t think so either,” Louis said. “The guy, this good friend of the family, it doesn’t look like he wants to get involved. You have a nice little thing going there, it’s kind of exciting. Quiet bedroom in the afternoon, hubby’s off building houses— As long as you don’t get caught, huh? What’s the guy gonna say?” Louis paused.

  “Are you asking me?” Mickey said.

  “No, I’m saying the guy looks around, he says hey, wait a minute. What am I doing here? Something’s going on, it’s none of my business.”

  “That’s what he says?”

  “I don’t know him. I don’t know what he’s got to lose,” Louis said. “What kind of a guy is he?” She didn’t answer him. “Okay, put yourself in his place. You know him pretty well—”

  “Nothing happened,” Mickey said. “There wasn’t anything going on between us.”

  “Hey, I’m not your husband,” Louis said. “I don’t care if you’re screwing the guy out of his mind every Monday at twelve-thirty. But is he the kind of guy’d stick his neck out for you?”

  Louis waited for her. He was sure she had tightened up inside. He felt the same way and it wasn’t going to get them anywhere. He thought, Jesus Christ, and pulled his mask off. He felt a little better—watching her in silence, sitting with her hands in her lap—and wanted to help her. He didn’t know how, but he did. It wasn’t something to think about. He reached over, hunching forward in the rocker, hearing it squeak, and touched her face. She drew back. But he had hold of her mask and lifted it from her face as she pulled away from him.

  Louis said, “What’s he willing to do for you? That’s all we’re talking about.”

  Mickey looked at the figure hunched in the rocking chair, leaning toward her with his arms on his knees, waiting patiently.

&n
bsp; She said, “I’ll tell you something. I honestly don’t know.”

  Tyra’s ass looked as though it had been hit by Double-O buckshot at a distance, the shot spent so that it didn’t cut or rip through her flesh, but made soft dents and pock marks.

  Marshall would see his wife’s ass and wonder if she knew what it looked like. If she did, why would she want to flash it at him, slipping the nighty off as she walked out of the den? Marshall was sitting in his leather chair trying to watch the eleven o’clock news. Tyra was showing him the lingerie she’d bought for the Mackinac Island convention weekend coming up. She’d leave the den, go out into the breakfast room or kitchen or somewhere, come back with another filmy outfit on—looking like a woman in a 1930s movie—and stand between Marshall and the television set with a hand on her hip and one fat leg in front of the other.

  It was his own fault—before the news came on—expressing interest in Tyra’s day. What’d you do? I went shopping. You didn’t go out to the club? I’ll show you what I bought. Did you talk to anybody? I’ll be right back. Hey, while you’re up, Marshall had said, do me a favor. Call Mickey and find out when Frank’s coming back. Tyra returned in a green chiffon baby-doll with green chiffon—bursting—bikini pants, asked Marshall if he liked it and got him to say he loved it before telling him no one answered at Dawson’s.

  “All right, this is the peach,” Tyra said. “Which do you like better, the peach or the green?” The 165 pound model took a step and threw her hips, swirling the sheer material and giving Marshall a glimpse of the television screen.

  “Which one do you like?”

  “That one.”

  “Really? I thought you liked the green.”

  Crime. Governor Milliken urges suburbs to rescue the cities . . . whatever that meant. Marshall drew hard on his cigar, waiting.

  “Do you love it or you just like it?”

  “I love it,” Marshall said.

  “Why do you have it on so loud?”

  “Leave it alone!”

  “Ohhh, is her scairt?” Tyra petted her schnauzer who had perked up her little ears. Ingrid was lying in a deep leather chair, the twin to Marshall’s.

  Two pose as police in freeway holdup . . . commercials, the news again and Tyra was back.

  “This is the Luci-Ann. You like it?”

  “Fine.”

  “Don’t ask what it cost, please.” Tyra whirled and posed and fluffed the white marabou trimming that hung to the floor. “I’ll tell you if you promise you won’t be mad. Two hundred and seventy-five. But it’s a Luci-Ann.”

  Three held in stabbing of woman on Belle Isle.

  “Do you love it? . . . Marsh-ull! . . . Ohhh, I’m sorry, baby. I scairt her, din I? Does her like mommy’s Luci-Ann?”

  The schnauzer probably didn’t give a shit one way or the other, but recognized a tone that could mean a doggie treat, sat up in the chair, pointed her little ears and yipped once.

  A woman stabbed on Belle Isle and the suburbs asked to rescue the cities, in the recap. But no word about a woman in the suburbs missing, assaulted . . . or anything.

  Marshall drew on the cigar until he could feel it in his jaw. The cigar was out. Frank and Bo were both out of town. Mickey . . . well, all he really knew, she wasn’t home. Say she went to Beaumont. They fixed her up. Then, on the way home she stopped by a friend’s. Or a friend took her to the hospital; that was it. Who was a close friend of Mickey’s? He couldn’t think of anyone immediately. Maybe Kay Lyons. He’d seen them sitting together talking. Charlie Lyons had said he’d be in Grand Rapids this week—

  Tyra was out changing again.

  Marshall raised his head. “Honey . . . call the Lyons for me, will you? Find out if Charlie’s in town or when he’s coming back. Will you do that, sweetheart?”

  13

  * * *

  MELANIE WORE A LONG STRIPED ARAB DRESS, A HEAD- band and one of Frank’s $30 ties for a belt. She seldom wore underwear or shoes. She was right there ready—practically at all times—lying on the sofa reading about people with style in W, a list of those who had it.

  “Diana Vreeland.”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “Betty Bacall.”

  “You mean Lauren Bacall?” Frank said.

  “Same one,” Melanie said. “Yves St. Laurent.”

  “He’s the guy that makes clothes, women’s clothes.”

  “Georgia O’Keefe.”

  “Sounds like a stripper.”

  “Wrong. Giancarlo Giannini.”

  “Opera singer.”

  “Wrong. Jeanne Moreau.”

  “He’s a . . . writer.”

  “She’s an actress. Jerome Robbins.”

  “Who knows?”

  “I’m giving you just the easy ones. Okay, Pat Buckley.”

  “He’s the one, he was gonna punch that fag, what’s his name, on TV.”

  “Pat’s his wife . . . I think. Loulou de la Falaise.”

  “For Christ sake,” Frank said.

  They were in Frank Dawson’s apartment, back from the casino. Melanie had won four-hundred-and-something playing roulette. Frank had dropped $3,200 at craps, not even shooting, betting against the shooter. He’d forgotten to call home and decided the hell with it, it was too late now, bedtime. Frank had his white loafers off, his shirt unbuttoned, relaxing, having one final Scotch. Melanie let her Coke sit on the coffee table. She lay curled up in a corner of the sectional sofa, holding W against her raised knees and taking his picture. He could see the underside of her long young thighs all the way to her exposed can. Or he could turn his head and look through the open sliding doors to the balcony and see imported palm trees in moonlight. They had brought them over from Florida to line the fairways, coconut palms that were slowly being overgrown with local scrub pine. The groundskeepers would take a couple of hacks at the growth with machetes and stand around smoking cigarettes. It was getting harder to hire good people. The government in Nassau was crazy. He had to get out of here pretty soon. Move the account to Switzerland before the government took over everything and turned Fairway Manor into a post office or something.

  “Jack Nicholson you know. Alain Resnais.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Here’s one. Nicky Lauda.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He’s a race-car driver. Jean Renoir.”

  “I don’t want to play anymore.”

  There were things he didn’t like about Melanie. She ought to comb her hair. She ought to clean up her language when they were out—sitting in the King’s Inn cocktail lounge and seeing everybody turn around and look when she said, “Those fuckers, what do they know?” Things like that. She ought to bring her own toothbrush when she came here and quit using all his tranquilizers.

  “One more. Yasmin Khan.”

  Still, Frank believed Melanie was one in a million. Maybe she was. At any given time there could be ten thousand or more healthy young Melanies lying on the beaches of the world, sitting at chic sidewalk tables with their backpacks stowed away, and each would be one in a million; though Frank would never realize there were so many. Melanie was from Santa Barbara, a California girl. She had been all over the Mediterranean, from Marbella to the Middle East. She had lived with a Hollywood director Frank had never heard of while the director was shooting a western in Spain. She had bunked with Italian film people at a Cannes Festival, moved onto Rome and Cinecittà with a second-assistant cameraman—bad for the image, moving down in the ranks—escaped to Piraeus and did the Greek islands on the motor-sailer of a dark little man who imported John Deere tractors, skipped down to Eilat—Israel’s Miami Beach on the Gulf of Aqaba—with another film crew, no one in particular. Then, from Eilat to Copenhagen to London to Barbados to Freeport, Grand Bahama, where she’d finally had enough of her British photo-journalist friend, his quaaludes and rum, his cold sweats and crazy-talk in the middle of the night, and connected with Frank at Tano Beach over a bowl of conch chowder and a pint of dar
k, ten months ago. Mr. Frank A. Dawson from Detroit, with a bank account and development interests in the Bahamas. Melanie could read Frank’s mind, anticipate his moods and keep him turned on without shifting into third gear. After some of the others, Frank was like a rest stop.

  “George Balanchine.”

  “I’m gonna take that goddamn paper, whatever it is, and burn it.”

  “Meany. What do you want to do, fuck?”

  “Well, since we’re going to bed—” He couldn’t get over the way she talked, but tried to react casually.

  “You want to do the Florentine thing again?”

  “What one was that?”

  “You know, where we sit facing each other, my legs are over yours—”

  “Yeah, that’s a good one,” Frank said. She was so offhand about it. Then in bed she’d talk real dirty, telling him what to do to her. Mickey never said a word. She’d lie there, get a little movement going, but not much. He’d roll over and she’d go in the bathroom for awhile, come back and ask him what he wanted for breakfast in the morning.

  He said to Melanie, “I’ve filed.”

  She lowered the newspaper with her knees. “You have? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I talked to my lawyer Friday. He said it’ll go out, she’ll be served with the papers probably by Tuesday. Tomorrow.”

  “That’s why you came early.”

  “Give her some time alone to think about it.”

  “What’s she gonna do?”

  “What do you mean, what’s she gonna do? It’s no-fault. She doesn’t have anything to say about it.”

  “I mean how’s she gonna take it?” Melanie said.

  “I don’t know. I don’t really care.” Frank got up. He went into the kitchen and came back with a fresh drink.

  Melanie was waiting. “Will she be surprised?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Will she cry . . . ask you not to do it?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I think she’ll go along with it. Oh, she’ll say things to her friends, suck around for a little sympathy. Poor little thing—that prick, how could he? After she’s been so good to him.”