"Naturally you don't want to pay them. Okay, but they're not going to let you off, are they? Assume that. They got some dirt on you. You're caught sticking your thing where it doesn't belong. You want to keep your secret a secret. So let's say they feel pretty sure you're going to come across. In fact, they have to feel that way. They have to believe they've made a deal you'll go through with, or else we never get close enough to them, the police don't, to find out who they are. They tell you meet us such and such a place with the money. Or they say leave the money such and such a place. The police either have to tail you or put a bug on you, get voices or whatever information they can from the bug, or stake out the place and pick the guys up when they come for the money. In other words the only way to apprehend them is if you pay or look like you're paying, offer the bait to bring them out in the open. We going to order or what?" He opened the big red menu that was bound by a red tassel around the fold.
"Or I don't pay them," Mitchell said.
"That's up to you," Paonessa said. His eyes roamed over the inside of the menu.
O'Boyle looked at Mitchell before turning to the man from the prosecutor's office. "Joe, Mitch is asking, if he doesn't pay them, and he's considered it, there isn't much they can do to him, is there? He's already told his wife about the girl."
Paonessa's eyes raised, his mild expression unchanged. "Yeah? You told her? What did she say?"
"I don't think that's got anything to do with the people blackmailing me," Mitchell said. "I've told my wife--all right, but I'd still like to see them caught."
Paonessa's eyes were on the menu again. "Then you have to pay them, or attempt to."
"That's the only way, uh?"
"Unless you can identify them," Paonessa said. "File a complaint, we see what we can do. I don't know, Jim, I think I'm going to have the New York strip sirloin. How's it here, any good?"
Before O'Boyle could answer, Mitchell said, "If they were to contact me again. I mean, let's say they get something else."
Paonessa's eyes held on the menu. O'Boyle said, "What do you mean, Mitch?"
"Like what if they threatened the girl's life unless I paid?"
"That's called extortion," Paonessa said. "Now you're into something else."
O'Boyle continued to stare at Mitchell. "Have you heard from them again?"
"I'm talking about if I did. Then what?"
Paonessa shrugged. "It's the same situation. Extortion, or kidnapping--they set up a meeting or a drop and the police handle it from there."
Mitchell waited, took a sip of beer. "What if the girl's already dead?"
"What if?" Paonessa said. "They still make arrangements with you to get the money. They're not killing the girl for nothing, are they?"
"But what if they could work it so I pay? Somehow they do it. But nobody ever sees them and they get away with it."
Paonessa looked up again with his dead expression. "I'll tell you something. I've got cases, real ones, to prosecute for the next two years, on my desk, in my files, all over the goddamn office. I don't need any what-if ones at the moment. For all I know somebody's pulling a joke on you. And that's a good possibility, with all the fucking nuts there are around these days. So unless you tell me all this is real and you can prove it, and you're willing to cooperate with the police--what are we talking about?"
"But if it is real--" Mitchell began.
"If what's real? Blackmail or extortion? What are we talking about?"
"Either," Mitchell said. "Or both."
It was a free meal, if it ever came, but Joe Paonessa was not getting paid anything more to sit here. He said, "Look, you have to prove evidence. You have to show us, the police, a crime was committed. Otherwise it's just a story, and I know some better ones if you want to hear some real true-life crime stories, okay?"
Mitchell said, "Joe--" He almost said, "Fuck you," but he didn't. He said, "Joe, I'm looking at possibilities, that's all. I want to know, if things come up, what my alternatives are, if I've got any. What I don't need is any bored-sounding bullshit. I appreciate your coming and thank you very much." Mitchell pushed his chair back and stood up.
"Jim, thank you. You get this one and I'll get the next."
They watched him walk through the restaurant toward the front of the place. Paonessa said, "Christ, what's the matter with him?"
O'Boyle didn't answer. After a few moments he said, "Yes, the New York strip sirloin, it's pretty good here."
Barbara was perspiring when she came off the court and it felt good; the soreness in her legs and right arm felt good. She had played singles for an hour with one of the assistant pros--who had not taken his sweater off--and lost two sets, 6-2 and 6-3. She had not gone out expecting to win; but she wished the long-haired good-looking son of a bitch would have taken his sweater off, at least after the first set. Today she would have beaten any girl she knew. She probably would have beaten Mitch. He was an unorthodox player who slapped at the ball instead of stroking it, but God, he hit it hard and he was all over the court. They had a doubles match coming up this weekend--arranged two weeks before--with Ross and a young girl with tight slender thighs they had played before and beaten. She wondered who would cancel the match, if Mitch would remember or if she would have to do it . . . or if Mitch would ask his girl friend to be his partner. No, the girl wouldn't play tennis. Barbara knew nothing about the girl, except that she was certain the girl did not own a tennis racket and had never played in her life. She said to herself, sitting down in a canvas chair and lighting a cigarette, You're a snob, aren't you? She sat looking down the length of the indoor courts that were five feet below the level of the lobby and saw Ross coming off number 4 with the head pro.
She stubbed out the cigarette, with time enough to reach the women's locker room before he saw her. But she waited, wondering if he knew. Coming up the steps to the lobby, seeing her then, his expression answered her question.
"Barb--" The sad, sympathetic look, coming over to her with his hand extended. He was the only person she knew who called her Barb.
Ross got two cans of Tab from the machine, steered her over to a couch--where they'd be more comfortable and out of the traffic--and they went through the preliminaries. I'm so sorry. Thank you. God, when Mitch told me I couldn't believe it. I'm really extremely sorry. Well, I guess it happens. Do you think he's serious? I mean how serious is it? I was going to ask you the same question.
"I've got an idea," Ross said. "Why don't we have dinner tonight?"
"Thank you, but I don't think so."
"Now wait. Have you talked to anyone about it?"
"No, not yet."
"I mean do you have someone you can talk to?"
She said, "A shoulder to cry on?"
Ross gave her a sad smile. "Maybe you do cry sometimes, Barb, but I'll bet not very often. You keep it inside, and that's not good."
"I cry," she said. "I can probably cry as well as anyone you know."
"Barb--I'm sorry. Really. I'd like very much to help you any way I can. I'm not a professional counselor, I'm a friend, and I know both of you very well. I've talked to Mitch and now, if you'll let me, I'd like to talk to you, or I'll keep my mouth shut and listen if you'd rather. Or we can talk about anything you want, take your mind off it. Barb--" He paused. "I think a quiet dinner would do you good. In fact, it might do us both good."
She did not need Ross: his pseudosympathy or help or whatever he had in mind. God, she knew Ross well enough. But he had obviously talked to Mitch and maybe he did know a little more than she what was on her husband's mind. It was a possibility. He might even know the girl.
Barbara waited, making up her mind, before nodding slowly, looking at him. "All right, Ross," she said. "Let's do it. See what happens."
Chapter 9
LEO FRANK WAS TIRED OF SITTING and tired of reading the article about the 130-year-old jig who lived down in Florida somewhere. It sounded like a bunch of shit, what the guy was supposed to have remembered, and was written wi
th a lot of dialect that was hard to pronounce and didn't make much sense. So he got up from his desk and went outside for some air. He stood on the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets, his back to the painted glass that said nude models. It was cool, about forty degrees out, damp and overcast with a shitty-looking sky--spring in Detroit--cars streaming up and down Woodward Avenue making hissing sounds on the wet pavement. He had one customer inside. Three in the last two hours. There was nothing to do. The guy was supposed to drop the money tonight and they'd go out to Metro. But until then there wasn't a goddamn thing to do.
When he looked over and saw Mitchell across the street--the guy, actually the guy standing there--he felt something jump inside his stomach and he knew he had to move, right now. He thought of running. But he made himself turn and go back inside. The three girls looked up at the sound of the door and glanced at Leo as he walked past them.
"I'm going out for a while," he said. "One of you can handle it, okay? Box's in the right-hand desk drawer."
The three girls went back to their cigarette smoking, magazine reading and nail filing as he walked down the hall.
Leo Frank opened the back door that led to the alley where he parked his car. Looking over his shoulder, down the hall, he let the door close again and ducked quickly into the last cubicle, the one that served as his private office and interview room and was practically wallpapered with photographs of nude girls.
When he got Alan on the phone--after seven rings, the slow-moving son of a bitch--he said, "He's coming here again. Honest to Christ, crossing the street."
Alan asked him where he was and Leo told him, in his office.
That was good. Alan Raimy, in his own confined office at the Imperial Art Theater, could picture Leo surrounded by the nude shots, sweating. He could almost hear him sweating, mixing the odor of his body with the smell of the cheap cologne he practically poured all over himself.
Alan said, "Leo, stay where you are, all right? Jesus, wait a minute. What'd you tell the girls? . . . That's fine, Leo. See, you're thinking. There's nothing to get excited about . . . . No, stay right where you are. Leo, listen to me. Sit there, have a joint, play with yourself or something, but don't move. I'll be over, I'll come in the back door. Just keep in mind he doesn't know who you are. Keep telling yourself that, Leo. He doesn't . . . know . . . who . . . you . . . are." Alan hung up. He said to himself, Jesus Christ.
Mitchell remembered their names, the same three girls sitting in the same left-to-right order on the porch chairs: Peggy, Terry and Mary Lou. They looked up, stared at him and Peggy said, "You ever find her? What was her name? Cini?"
He shook his head. "I'm looking for the manager. The guy that was at the desk before."
"Leo stepped out. Said he'd be out for a while."
"How long ago was that?"
"Just a few minutes."
"His name's Leo?"
"Leo Frank," the girl said.
"Well . . ." Mitchell looked around the room, his gaze finally going to the desk and the empty chair next to it. "I might as well sit down then, huh?"
Nobody seemed to care. Peggy said, "Help yourself."
After a few moments he reached over and picked up the magazine that was open on the desk and began reading about a 130-year-old colored man who lived in Florida and sat all day on a bus-stop bench in front of his one-room house. He was reading about how the man had lived in the West and claimed to have known Jesse James and Billy the Kid, when Doreen came into the room from the hallway. She was followed by a young guy who passed her quickly without saying anything, glanced at Mitchell and went out the door. Mitchell watched Doreen drop into a chair, shaking her head.
"Those shoe clerks get spookier every day," Doreen said. "You know what he wanted me to do?"
Peggy said, "Go pee-pee on him."
"On his face," Doreen said.
"I know, I've had him," Peggy said. "How'd he like it?"
"I told him if he wanted a kick, go stick his head in the toilet and flush it."
"He probably does that at home," Peggy said. "Weird ones don't bother me anymore. After a while, what's weird?"
Mitchell looked down at the face of the 130-year-old man. He was sure. Still he waited a moment before looking up at the black girl again.
He said, "Doreen?"
Her expression brightened as she met his gaze. "Yeah, love. You want to take my picture?"
In the room she said, "You know my name, you must've been here before."
"Couple of times," Mitchell said. "And I saw you over at the go-go place. You don't work there anymore?"
"Kit Kat? Yeah, I work here and there, and around." She untied her blouse, knotted beneath her breasts, and let it fall open. "I've seen you too, but I'm having trouble placing the face exactly."
"Times I came here, I stopped over at the bar first."
"Get up your nerve?"
"No, I don't see anything wrong coming here. As long as it's legal."
"I admire your liberal attitude," Doreen said. Her hands were in the waist of her light white slacks. "Now, are you just a tit man or do you want the whole show?"
Mitchell raised the Polaroid he'd taken from the desk, aimed it at her and snapped a picture. "We can start and see what happens. Work up to it."
Doreen grinned. "Work you up. Whatever you want to do, love, long as it ain't against my religion."
"It was at the bar," Mitchell said then. "I remember, I met you there a few months ago."
"You met me?"
"I was introduced to you. There was a girl used to work here, I think her name was Cini. She introduced us."
Doreen hesitated, though her expression remained calm and told him nothing. She said, "Yeah, Cini used to work here some time ago. Very nice person. You used to see her?"
"A few times, that's all."
"I think maybe she quit to go back to school."
"Probably," Mitchell said. He pulled the print out of the camera and peeled off the negative. "I understand a lot of the girls doing this are working their way through college."
"That's as good a story as any," Doreen said. "How'd it turn out?"
Mitchell studied the print. "Not bad. A little dark."
"That's me, baby."
"I mean the light. It's a little underexposed."
"Then I say, 'Wait till I take my pants off, you want some more exposure.' "
Mitchell gave her a big friendly grin. "That's pretty good."
"Or the dude says, 'Hey, honey, what size is your aperture?' "
"There must be something you do with focus," Mitchell said.
Doreen nodded. "Dude's taking a picture of two of us? Paid double for the treat. I say, 'Hey, are you trying to focus or what?' "
"Lots of laughs in your work, uh?" Mitchell snapped another picture of her and grinned. "Gotcha."
"You really do take pictures, don't you?"
"Doesn't everybody?" He sounded honest, sincere.
Doreen's calm brown eyes lingered on Mitchell. "You ever go up to Cini's place?"
"You asked me if I used to see her. That's where it was."
"Where exactly?"
"Apartment over on Merrill. You've got one in the same building," Mitchell said. "Once in a while Cini used to drive you home."
Doreen raised her nice soft eyes. "You did know her, didn't you?"
"Pretty well, I guess."
"How much she used to charge you?"
Mitchell was pulling the print out of the camera. He looked up abruptly to meet Doreen's calm gaze watching him. He said, "She didn't charge me anything." And looked down again to peel open the photograph and study it.
"Not even the first time?"
"Not any time," Mitchell said.
"Well, I guess that's her business," Doreen said. "Or I guess I should say that was not her business." Doreen grinned then. "Unless you're bragging, telling me a story."
"What difference does it make," Mitchell said, "if you believe it or not?"
"Well, l
ove. I was entertaining the thought, maybe we ought to leave this store to the shoe clerks and head for my place. The only thing is, the management over there don't hand out any freebies, not to anybody." She waited and said, "Well?"
He could see Cini in this room. He could see her in the apartment and he could see her on the beach in the Bahamas, the natural, nice-looking girl who smiled easily and made him feel good.
He said to Doreen, "How much?"
"A hundred dollars. With that you get tea, a smoke and a chance to try for seconds."
Mitchell nodded. "All right, let's do it."
Doreen worked her eyes again. "Hey, I like you. Whether it's my charm or you're just in heat I still like you. But there's one thing, love, you're going to have to pay for this little session first, twenty with the camera or else the boss'll cut off my business." When Mitchell opened his wallet and handed her a fifty-dollar bill, Doreen smiled and said, "You come ready, don't you?"
He was ready to go with her to her apartment or anywhere, to try to find out everything he could about a girl named Cynthia Fisher and how she lived and the people she knew. But there was a delay.
Doreen opened the cash box in the desk drawer. There wasn't enough change inside for Mitchell's fifty.
Doreen said, "Goddamnit, where's Leo, in the office?"
Peggy looked up from her magazine. "I think he went out."
Doreen turned to Mitchell. "I'll go look. You can come along if you want, love, or wait here."
Mitchell followed her down the hall past the studios. He was still holding the Polaroid, but did not realize it or think about it at the time. He wanted to look at this man again whose name was Leo and ask him something about Cini. He wasn't sure what he would ask; but that was the reason he followed Doreen down the hall to the last door and was standing behind her when she opened it and he saw Leo behind the desk, the heavyset man straightening and seeing him at the same time. Doreen was saying, "Leo, give me thirty dollars for this, will you please?" But Leo was not looking at Doreen. His expression was fixed, frozen for a short moment, and Mitchell would remember the look on his face.
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