The Switch

by Elmore Leonard

  “What?”

  “What’s your partner’s name?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “Come on, you big poop. Tell me.”

  “His name’s Ordell Robbie, but that’s not gonna do you any good.”

  “How does he know my husband?”

  “He doesn’t know him. He sold him a lot of building materials and things, appliances. Ordell had ripped off different places, and then’d sell to your husband cheap,” Louis said. “See, that’s another thing. You start talking and you can get your husband in all kinds of deep shit, and where does that get you? Right?”

  “There’s nobody I’d care to tell,” Mickey said. “I’m not your problem anymore, Louis.” She got up out of the recliner, remembering him referring to the seventh inning; it seemed like yesterday. She stretched and yawned and blinked her eyes and felt pretty good, considering everything.

  “Is that Woodward out there?”

  Louis nodded. “Half block down the street.”

  “Lend me about ten bucks for a cab,” Mickey said, “and I’ll go home.”

  “I’ll take you, I told you I would.”

  “No, stay where you are. I appreciate the offer though.”

  “You can’t stand over there on the corner waiting for a cab,” Louis said, “Woodward and Six Mile, it’s loaded with whores. Some guy’s liable to come along, try and pick you up.”

  “He’d better not,” Mickey the ballbuster said.

  20

  * * *

  THERE WAS A 12TH PRECINCT PATROLMAN by the name of Randy Dixson—an energetic young guy three years with the Detroit Police Department, a part-time tree-trimmer—who had been working Vice the past several months and going out of his mind: hanging around Menjoe’s watching the guys dancing with each other; hanging around toilets waiting for some poor guy to reach for a cop’s yang by mistake; sick to death of that summer-night whore beat, hassling the crazy ladies and getting his shoes scuffed and stepped on each evening by eighty-five pairs of white plastic boots; the clean-up-the-neighborhood pickets blaming, belittling him, calling him terrible names, whore-sucker on the take . . . he was beginning to think, Enough of this shit, quit and trim trees full time for a living. It was in his mind, sitting outside the Coney Island and chatting with some of the ladies when the backup call came squawking out of the radio, Officer in need of assistance, a mile-and-a-half north, hang a right to 1035 State Fair, the radio calling and calling all the way there, and the radio was right, it was an event.

  Before it was over there were TV news vans and mini-cameras on the scene, the street blocked with barricades and a good crowd over at the Fairgrounds watching through the fence.

  There was a shot-up police car in front of the residence, a patch of blood in the street, a critically wounded police officer with a sucking chest wound on his way to Detroit General; armed police officers behind blue-and-white cruisers and a heavy-duty Tactical Mobile Unit squad with flak jackets, rifles, shotguns and gas grenades.

  Randy Dixson showed up in his light poplin jacket covering a .357 Mag beneath his left arm; squinted at the scene chewing his gum; learned that some crazy fucker was in there with automatic weapons, guy used to be a rent-a-cop, first reported to be wearing a T-shirt and armed with a revolver, but now wearing, it looked like, some kind of uniform and moving from window to window firing all kinds of weapons at them. They’d glimpse him as he’d yell something and then fire his weapon and they’d return fire, blowing out his windows, all except the ones on the second floor that looked like they’d been boarded up, like the guy had been preparing for a shoot-out. He kept yelling something about “fury” or “furor.” It didn’t make sense, sounding like he was crying; but when they’d try to talk him out with a bullhorn, he’d rip at them with his machine gun. Crazy fucker, you couldn’t talk to him.

  They put Randy Dixson on the porch of the house next door to the left. He could edge his face past the corner and see the side door of 1035. A couple of TMU guys with riot guns were there pressed against the house, looking like they were about to go in. But after a few minutes, looking toward the street, nodding and giving hand-signals back, they moved away from the house. Randy Dixson kept looking at that side entrance to 1035.

  He watched it until he decided fuck it, it was citation time; he’d rather fight crime than Dutch-elm disease and went over the porch rail, across the drive and in through the side door. (Why hadn’t the TMU guys just done it?) Randy Dixson stood in the short hallway looking into the living room that was all blown to shit, rubble. The cop-shooter was near the front windows, crouched behind a maroon couch, lifting his head to see out without being seen. Young Randy had him, saw in his mind the Medical Examiner’s report describing exit wounds in the guy’s chest, said, “Hey!” loud, and put three .357s into Richard Edgar Monk dead-center as the swastika arm came swinging around with a burp gun.

  Mickey opened the front door Friday morning, picked up the Free Press from the stoop and saw Richard smiling at her from the picture, Richard standing in his T-shirt by a birdbath, the statue of the Virgin Mary looking over his shoulder. The headline read

  NAZI CULTIST KILLED

  IN GUN BATTLE WITH POLICE

  Mickey stood barefoot in the kitchen with her coffee and the Free Press, as she did every morning, and read about Richard Edgar Monk, cultist, racist, anti-Communist, ex-private security guard. Cultist. She didn’t think of Richard as a cultist, she thought of him as a frightening but unsuccessful rapist. She read about his gun collection, Nazi flag, photographs, war memorabilia.

  She read about a woman’s purse (the same one she had carried to work her last week at Saks) found in the upstairs bedroom, cold cabbage on the stove, dishes in the kitchen sink, as though several people had been recently living in the house.

  She read about the siege and about Richard with interest, though quite calmly, with a feeling she identified as relief. Richard was dead. Louis wouldn’t hurt her. She wondered if Louis had seen the paper. Probably not. She bet Louis would sleep late; maybe he’d see it on the TV news later, maybe not.

  She thought of calling Louis and telling him. Nine-five-six, nine-five-four-seven. She remembered the number. She was quite sure she remembered everything they had talked about. Louis, Richard, Ordell Robbie. Melanie . . . Frank. Frank and Melanie. She saw Frank in lime-green paisley, his golf tan, his hands in tight pockets, elbows sticking out, cool-serious Frank entering the casino with his girlfriend. The big jerk. Old enough to be her father probably. Melanie thin, but with big boobs, overdressed, lots of fake jewelry, rings. Melanie looking at him worshipfully, listening to a replay of his golf round. Melanie would have to be pretty dumb and impressionable.

  Mickey had remembered to take a pack of Salems from the cluttered pizza-beer coffee table and had forgotten to take her bra. Louis could have it.

  She still didn’t have one on beneath a loose cotton top and it felt good. It was good to feel clean again. She’d decide later what to do about Frank’s closet, if anything. She lit a Salem, went to the wall phone and without hesitating or getting words ready, dialed the number in Freeport.

  A girl’s voice answered.

  Mickey said, “Melanie?” and was surprised at the quiet, even tone.

  The voice said, “Yeah?”

  “This is Mrs. Dawson,” Mickey said.

  “Oh, hi.”

  Mickey hesitated, stopped for a moment. “Is . . . Frank there?”

  “No, he’s out. I think he had to go to a meeting.”

  “With the Japanese?”

  “I don’t know who he’s with, some business guys. Hold on a minute, will you?”

  Mickey waited, feeling heat rise up into her face. She waited what seemed to be several minutes.

  “Hi, I’m back. Any message?”

  “Would you have him call me at home?”

  “Sure. Bye.”

  Mickey replaced the phone, her hand shaking. She had believed she was ready to talk to Frank�
��with an even, normal tone, on an adult level—and listen quietly, unmoved, while the son of a bitch tried to explain what he’d been doing the past four days. And she had handled herself adequately just now, considering it was the first time she had ever spoken to a known girlfriend, each aware of the other’s role. She’d handled it without preparation, without knowing it was going to happen. But she hadn’t been anywhere near as poised or offhand as the girlfriend. It scared her.

  It also made her mad. If she wasn’t ready yet to take on Frank and his girlfriend then she’d get ready. Not by memorizing things to say, faking it, but by keeping a hard straight edge on her thinking. By keeping emotions in their place. By forgetting roles she might play and simply being herself. If she could.

  Louis had gone to sleep in the recliner. He woke up at three-thirty and went to bed. He woke up again at ten, Friday morning, not feeling too red hot but passable. He had two ice-cold cans of Stroh’s and a can of hot chili and felt a world better. What he ought to have done then was clean up the place, but decided the hell with it. He wasn’t going to hang around here and think and wait for the phone to ring. Ordell would get back when he got back. Or, he wouldn’t get back. There wasn’t anything Louis could do about that; so he decided he’d call his sister in Allen Park and go visit her.

  It was his older sister, Louise. Three years older. She was glad to see him, kissed him and was very nice to him, hoping he’d stay awhile. His brother-in-law, Chuck, was a boring-mill operator at Ford Rouge, which Louis thought was perfect since Chuck was the most boring fucking guy he’d ever met in his life. He came home from work and asked Louis if he was staying out of jail and made a few other remarks, like maybe Louis could get a good job busting rocks, with all his experience. Louis was polite in return, courteous, drinking the man’s beer, and kept himself from breaking Chuck’s jaw. His brother-in-law didn’t get the morning paper; he left for work too early to read it and didn’t give a shit if anybody else might want to.

  So Louis didn’t learn about poor Richard Edgar Monk until the six o’clock TV news came on with its mini-camera coverage. He watched it while his brother-in-law told him all about their new UAW contract. Then, when it was over, his brother-in-law said, “What was that all about?”

  Ordell looked down and saw half of Richard’s face in the lobby of the King’s Inn, about four o’clock Friday afternoon.

  It was Richard’s picture on the front page of the Detroit News, the page folded once and lying on a set of rose-colored matched luggage, three pieces and golf clubs.

  Ordell had been eying the luggage and the man it belonged to with the just-arrived Detroit Dental Association group, because the man was about Ordell’s size, a dentist who was in shape and looked to be living clean. Ordell had already decided on the middle-size bag, because the big one would be full of the man’s fat wife’s outfits. But when he walked over to it, there was Richard looking at him, Richard in his rent-a-cop uniform giving the readers his serious no-shit look. Ordell walked off with the newspaper, took it into the cocktail lounge and had a big rum drink while he read the story, not seeing any mention of Louis or the woman. Ordell leaned back in the bar stool, said, “Lovely,” and meant it, feeling like he’d just stepped out of the way of a truck coming to run him down.

  No wonder nobody’d answered the phone.

  He left his big rum drink, went out to the lobby and phoned Detroit, his apartment. Still no answer. Three times he’d called last night and no answer. Something was happening he’d have to find out about. One thing for sure though, Richard had not killed the woman.

  What had he been thinking that he could call Richard up and tell Richard to kill a person like that with a gun? He’d told himself well, he wasn’t doing it, Richard was. The trick then would be to keep from thinking about it, put it out of his mind in Paris, France, with $150,000, push it way away. Except he’d seen a man killed one time, shot dead. He’d had nothing to do with it, it was a crazy insane mother-fucker name of Bobby Lear who’d stuck his piece in the man’s car window and shot the man two, three times while the man’s little boy about 3 years old sat on the seat with his big eyes wide open. Then somebody later on had shot Bobby Lear in the Montclair Hotel and that was fine, helping to make the streets safe again. But seeing somebody shot in real life was not anything like seeing them shot in the movies. That business with the .38 Smith? Saying to Louis nobody was gonna stand in his way if it meant going to Jackson? That was two kids saying how far they could spit. Back on the stool with his rum drink, Ordell said to himself, Could you see it, pulling a trigger on the woman, really for true? Then how come he’d thought it was all right for Richard to pull the trigger?

  Something had been wrong with his head after talking to the tall chick he should’ve left in the ocean. That would’ve been different and not too hard to do with the tall chick. But he wouldn’t have to’ve done that either. He just had to think of another idea. Or go back to the original million-dollar idea and not let the tall chick mess up his mind. Tell her, Hey, shit, I’m doing it. Bug the fuck off. She was something though—my. He went out to the phone in the lobby again and called her at Fairway Manor.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Just a sec.”

  She always was saying just a sec when he called and would be gone before he could stop her.

  “Wanted to see if he’s awake yet,” Melanie said. “He’s been in the bag for two days now, drinking and taking little nappies.”

  “His wife—” Ordell said, “Nothing happened to her.”

  “I know. She called this morning,” Melanie said. “How come?”

  “You talk to her—she’s home?”

  “If you don’t know that,” Melanie said, “I think I’ve got the wrong party. What happened?”

  “The man was supposed to do it’s no longer with us,” Ordell said. “But listen to me. I want to talk to you, get a few things straightened out.”

  “What I don’t understand,” Melanie said, “if she’s home, how come you’re still here?”

  “I’m saying to you I want to talk.”

  “Okay, we will.” Very laid-back, no problem. “But not right now, okay? This guy’s like a fucking yoyo. Up, he keeps telling me what a dynamite success he is, how much money he’s making all the time. Then he dives and takes a guilt trip for awhile. I’ve got to get his head on straight and then I’ll be in touch. Okay?”

  “You want him straightened,” Ordell said, “I’ll hold him over the balcony by his feet, straighten him some. I can hold you off it too, girl, or we can go out in the boat. Call Cedric to come in from the airport where he’s sitting. You understand what I’m saying?”

  “Hey, Ordell?” Melanie said. “I love you when you’re pissed off, but don’t get so hot-blooded, okay? Let me work something out and I’ll come over and see you later.” Melanie paused and said quietly, “Ordell?”

  “What?”

  “You ever do it Florentine style?”

  Frank lay in bed as though wounded, staring, the sheet twisted about his lower body, a leg exposed, arms lifeless at his sides. He was thinking that if there were Japanese investors would they bring their clubs or would he have to get clubs for them. Little short ones. But where? No, first, the question was, did they play golf? And Frank decided they must, if they had money. He’d speak to what’s his name at the New Providence Bank about potential investors in a big condominium project. Maybe Canadians. He really would, he’d talk to the guy this afternoon. Except it was too late. And tomorrow was Saturday. He began to stir, moving his hands to his chest, raising the knee of the exposed leg. He wanted to be doing something. And began thinking about his Grandview condominium project in Detroit, in Sterling Heights, really. He’d better get back. He could stay here until Sunday, but he couldn’t remain in this goddamn apartment any longer or in the house where he’d stayed yesterday, alone, pacing the floor, looking out at the scrub and imported palm trees. He had to get back, go to work. Settle something. Face it. Do it. Y
ou’re goddamn right. He sucked his stomach in, running one hand through his chest hair. He didn’t get where he was putting off making decisions. Fucking-A right. He kicked at the sheet, hard, to straighten it. Mickey was home, so they must’ve let her go; she obviously hadn’t escaped. She was home. He’d see her, he’d tell her exactly what he wanted to tell her and no more. He’d handle it.

  The other problem, the extortionists—he’d talk to Ray Shelby, see who could possibly have known anything, like some guy who might’ve worked for him and was fired. A colored guy. Christ, there were all kinds of colored guys working for him.

  Melanie was peeking in at him. “You awake?”

  “I’m going home,” Frank said.

  “You mean home home?” She came over and sat on the edge of the bed, getting a warm expression in her eyes, ready to smile or look sad.

  “I’ve got to go back, I’ve got a business to run.”

  “Did the phone wake you?”

  “No”—eyes opening with alarm, ruining his determined look—“who was it, Mickey?”

  “It was the black guy again. You sure you don’t know him?”

  “What’d he say?”

  “I don’t think his heart’s in it anymore. He tried another sort of half-assed threat and I said hey, hold it there, sport. You’d call the feds on Mr. Dawson with a kidnapping charge hanging over you? Bullshit.”

  “How much does he want?”

  “He’s down to $150,000. I asked him how he’d arrived at that, a hundred and fifty. You know, why not a hundred and sixty, that’s ten grand more. He mumbled something.”

  “If I knew who it was—” Frank said.

  “Well, it’s up to you, but I know what I’d tell him. I mean after all, you know it’s a bluff. They’ve already let your wife go, I think because they’re scared shitless. They got into something over their head. This guy probably got high on something and decided to come in with a discount offer, you know? Like one last try.”