He had to see Leo again and talk to him. Speak to him quietly, sincerely, and watch for reactions when he offered a bait. He had read books on customer and employee relations, how to win friends, close deals, improve your personality and make a million dollars. He hadn't finished most of them. He was not a salesman or a joiner or a joke-teller. He was himself. He relied on common sense but was not afraid to gamble. He gave his word, and delivered. So he would take it a step at a time and maybe Leo--if he was one of them--would reveal himself and maybe he wouldn't.
It would be simple if he knew who they were and he had a gun. Walk in and shoot them and walk out again. There, that's done; now back to work. He could see himself doing it: pointing the gun at three men in a cramped office full of nude photographs and pulling the trigger. It was funny he pictured Leo's office. But he could also picture himself with a cannonball tennis serve and a flawless backhand, or the forty-five-year-old rookie hitting a fastball into the upper deck at Tiger Stadium. Picturing had nothing to do with doing it. Nor was killing a man in an FW-190 or a Messerschmitt at three hundred yards the same as looking in a man's face and pulling the trigger. He told himself he would never be able to kill like that, coldly, impersonally. Still, he wished he had a gun. Just in case he was wrong.
He walked out of the office that afternoon wishing he had on his old loose sagging sport coat too. He was wearing a gray knit suit that was tailored to fit snugly and he was conscious of the thick envelope against his chest in the inside coat pocket. He put his cigarettes in a side pocket, checked the other one to make sure he had his car keys, and told Janet he'd see her tomorrow.
She said good night and watched him go down the hall: three-thirty in the afternoon and ten thousand dollars in his coat pocket.
Out in the plant the shifts were changing. Mitchell nodded to employees, calling some by name, looking around, being the friendly approachable boss as he walked toward the rear door and the parking lot outside. He noticed, over in the snack-bar area, a number of employees from both shifts, by the vending machines and the big Silex coffeemaker. Second-shift men standing and sitting around the pair of long cafeteria tables drinking coffee. That was all right; they had some free time yet. But there were first-shift men hanging around who ordinarily couldn't get out fast enough to go home or stop at a bar.
There was a guy in a raincoat at one of the tables sitting with his back to Mitchell. When he turned to say something to John Koliba and a couple of others at the end of the table, Mitchell recognized him.
Christ. That's all he needed right now.
Mitchell walked over.
Ed Jazik, the Local 199 business agent, was saying, "What does he give a shit? Closes the plant, lives like a fucking king on what he's got in the bank, what he's been stuffing in the bank while all the hourly assholes are busting their balls to make car payments, washing machine payments, trying to save something for a pair of shoes for the kids, maybe a new dress for the wife once in a while."
Mitchell stood there listening a moment. He was thinking, Where has this guy been? And why do I have to get him? He hadn't heard union management people talk like that in fifteen years.
Mitchell said, "Excuse me." And when Jazik turned and looked up and John Koliba and the others saw him, showing some surprise, he said to Jazik, "I don't want to interrupt anything important, but you happen to be talking to my employees on my time, that I'm paying for. If you want to make a speech then go rent a hall somewhere and let's see how good you do."
Ed Jazik said, "You hear that? My time. His time, his plant, his profit. You think he gives a shit about the rank and file?"
Mitchell said, "Rank and file? What're you doing, reading it out of the union book? Rank and file. These guys work for me, I know them. I can't get along without them, all right? And they can't get along without me bringing in the business. So why don't you get out of here and let us get some work done."
"He's saying he don't give you any time to listen to your rights or think for yourself," Jazik said. "It's his plant. His. He owns it. You don't want to play his way, he's going to take his fucking baseball and bat and go home."
"You see that much," Mitchell said. "I own it. Good. Then you see I have the right to ask you to leave." That was better. A little calmer.
"We got a few minutes," Jazik said. "Let's talk. You listen for a change, I'll tell you how I see conditions here." He raised up enough to turn his chair sideways to the table and sat down again, crossing his legs.
Mitchell was aware of the men watching him. The boss standing there. On the spot. The union guy trying to push him around a little and get him mad. He had to ignore what the guy said and handle it smoothly--handle it somehow--but, above all, not argue with the guy in front of his employees.
Tell him you don't have time to talk. No, that wasn't handling it.
The guy was waiting, posing, sitting low in the folding chair, legs crossed and an elbow on the table. Sure of himself. Or with nothing to lose. No, Mitchell decided, he was confident. He liked people watching him.
Mitchell said, "What did I say to you the last time you were here and you wanted to talk?"
Jazik shrugged. "Some bullshit. I don't remember."
Mitchell kept his eyes on him. "I said, you want to talk, let's wait till contract time. That's what it's for and we can talk all you want. You said maybe some people don't want to wait. Well, I talked to a few people." As he spoke, Mitchell's gaze began to move over the solemn faces of the men standing around the table, stopped briefly on John Koliba, and moved back again. "I asked them, how's everything going? No complaints. I said to them well, anytime you got a problem come in and tell me about it. We'll work it out." He stared at Jazik again. "That's how we do it here, which I tried to explain to you."
Jazik listened to every word without moving. He shook his head then, slowly. "That's not what you said."
"No?" Mitchell seemed surprised. "What'd I say?"
"You refused to talk to me, first."
"Until contract time. That's right."
"Then you said, we get in an argument, you threatened me, you said, we get in an argument you're liable to try and knock me on my ass."
Mitchell shook his head. "No, I said if we got in an argument I was liable to forget who you are and I would knock you on your ass. There's a difference."
Looking at Jazik he knew he was not going to stop now to be polite or waste any more time on him, dumb hotshot son of a bitch sitting there in his raincoat with the collar up and the blank cool look on his face--seeing the guy and, for some reason, seeing the one named Leo sitting in the chair in the nude-model office, a brief glimpse of him in his mind that was there and gone.
Mitchell said, "Now I'm going to tell you again. Walk out of here right now, or I'll knock you on your ass and throw you out. Either way."
Jazik, staring at Mitchell, took his time getting up. He was bigger than Mitchell, a little taller and heavier through the shoulders.
He said, "They heard you threaten me."
"You heard it," Mitchell said. "That's the main thing."
"I could take you to court, you know that? Threatening bodily abuse and harm."
"Hey," Mitchell said, "let's knock off all the bullshit. Are you going to leave or not?"
"What I want to see," Jazik said, "is you try and throw me out."
Mitchell hit him on the word "out," his mouth still slightly open. He hit him with a hard right hand. As Jazik came up off the table, Mitchell hit him with another right, not as solid as the first one. Jazik took it and came at him again. Mitchell feinted with the right this time, threw a left as hard as he had ever thrown one, and saw the men near Jazik jumping out of the way as Jazik hit the cafeteria table and carried it back with him five or six feet before the table turned over and he went down with it to sit on the floor.
Mitchell waited, to see if Jazik was going to get up or if anyone had anything to say. The first- and second-shift men there looked at Jazik and then at him, but nobody said a
word.
"Somebody show him out," Mitchell said finally. He turned and walked away. They watched him head back through the plant toward his office.
Janet was straightening his desk. She looked up, surprised, as he came in. "I thought you'd left."
"Get me--what's his name?" Mitchell said. "The guy that's president of one-ninety-nine."
"Isn't it Donnelly?"
"Yeah, Charlie Donnelly. Get him for me, will you?"
Janet dialed the number, asked for Mr. Donnelly, said who was calling and handed the phone to Mitchell. He didn't sit down. He stood by his desk waiting, watching Janet go out of the office and close the door.
"Charlie? Harry Mitchell over at Ranco . . . Fine . . .Yeah, I know, in about a week, ten days. I'm looking forward to seeing you, Charlie, and I mean you, because I'll tell you right now I'm not going to negotiate with that stiff you assigned to us--Jazik. The son of a bitch walks in my plant--a sign says authorized personnel only--he walks in starts talking to my employees. A week ago he grabs me in the hall, threatens me with a slowdown . . . . I didn't think you did . . . . Right, so why should I have to take that kind of shit? Charlie, the guy's living back in the thirties. Where'd you get him anyway?" Mitchell paused for about a minute, listening. He said then, "If you got a maverick, you teach him. I'm not going to break the son of a bitch in for you, I'll break his goddamn neck first. I'm too old for that kind of bullshit. I've been there, Charlie, so have you. We don't need it. We can sit down and talk, right? Twelve years neither of us has ever raised our voice. You give me the contract, we change a few lines and sign it. What'd you send me this clown for? We could do it over a diet lunch." He waited again, listening, beginning to calm down. "Yes, that's fine. Listen, I'm sorry if I blew up. I got a few things on my mind, I don't need any--" He paused again, patient, letting the union president explain again how they liked the guy's enthusiasm, but he was new and maybe they'd have to sit on him for a while or send him to charm school. Everything was going to be all right. Mitchell would never see the guy again, or at least not for a year or so, if the guy learned anything and was still around. That was good enough. They took another minute getting to good-bye, see you soon, and Mitchell hung up the phone.
Going through the outer office he said to Janet, "I'll try it again. See if I can get out of this place."
Chapter 13
PEGGY WAS THE ONLY ONE IN THE LOBBY when Mitchell walked in. She had her coat on, ready to leave.
"You quitting already? It's only five-thirty."
"I've taken my clothes off eleven times," the girl said, "and put them back on again. That's enough for one day."
"Where is everybody?"
"You mean Doreen?"
"Well, now that you mention it."
"I don't know. I haven't seen her."
"How about the other girls?"
"Sickies. Leo lets you call in sick once a month."
"Is he here?"
"In back." She moved past him to the door. "If you see him, tell him I left."
"Yeah, maybe I'll stick my head in, say hello."
She took a moment to look at him again as she opened the door. "You don't have anything better to do?"
"Tell you the truth," Mitchell said, "not that I can think of." He felt dumb standing there waiting for her to leave.
"Well--" The girl gave a little shrug and finally walked out. The door swung closed behind her.
Leo Frank sat at his desk studying a list of job applicants trying to remember faces and match them to the names. They were mostly dogs: for some reason a lot of fat broads lately. He couldn't figure out where all the fat broads were coming from, or why they thought anybody would pay to look at them naked. Most of them would have trouble showing themselves for nothing.
He heard the front door close. Peggy leaving. Independent broad. Hire them, pay them good dough, they call in sick or leave anytime they felt like it.
He heard the footsteps in the hall, coming this way, and thought of Peggy again. But as he looked toward the doorway he knew it wasn't Peggy. It was a man. It was the guy. For some reason he was sure of it and had a moment to get ready, to prepare a pleasant expression before Mitchell walked in to stand in front of his desk.
"Well," Leo said, "our favorite customer. I hope what you're here for is to give me that picture you took. That wasn't very nice of you."
"No," Mitchell said, "I came to deliver the money." As he spoke, his hand came out of his inside pocket with the envelope.
"What money you talking about?"
"That I was supposed to leave out at the airport," Mitchell said. "I wondered if I could drop it off here."
Leo frowned and shook his head, wishing to God he wasn't alone. "Man, I don't know what you're talking about."
"Ten thousand," Mitchell said. "The down payment."
"You want to give me ten thousand?"
"It's all here." Mitchell took out the packet of hundred dollar bills and laid it on the edge of the desk.
"Wait a minute," Leo Frank said. "You want to give me ten thousand bucks? What for? I mean, man I'll take it, but what for?"
"I guess I was wrong," Mitchell said. "I thought you were in on it."
Leo was staring at the money. He had to take it a step further. "In on what?"
"Well, if you're not involved, there's not much sense talking about it, is there?"
"You see ten grand laid out," Leo said, "you can't help but be a little curious."
"I owe it to these three guys, but I don't know where to find them."
"That's a strange situation," Leo said. "I never heard of anything like that before."
"One's a skinny guy with long hair, one's a colored guy. I thought maybe the third guy was you."
Leo laughed, made a sound that resembled a laugh.
"Why'd you think that? I mean why'd you think I was one of them?"
"I don't know, I guess it's just a feeling. The fact you run this place. You see all types of guys come in and out."
"What's that got to do with it?"
"Well, there was a girl involved in this. She used to work here."
"Man, there're fifty girls used to work here. Turnover, man, I guess you have it in your business--guys quitting, absenteeism, that kind of situation--but, man, nothing like I got to put up with."
"You're right there," Mitchell said. "I guess every business's got its problems like that."
Leo couldn't take his eyes off the stack of hundred-dollar bills. "That's ten thousand bucks, uh? Doesn't look like what I'd picture ten thousand."
"All hundreds," Mitchell said.
"I'm trying to think of a way I might be able to help you," Leo said, "but I'm stuck. Three guys, man, they could be anybody."
"No, they're somebody," Mitchell said. "The trouble is I got to find them to pay them the dough."
"You want to pay them personally, is that it?"
"See, I was supposed to leave it in a locker out at the airport, but I forgot which one."
"That's a problem." Leo shook his head. "What I mean to say, I wouldn't want to see anybody not get that money if they got it coming."
"They got it coming all right," Mitchell said, "but it's up to them to collect it."
"I sure wish I could help you," Leo said.
"I wish you could too." Mitchell paused. "Well, I might as well be going."
As he started for the door, Leo stood up. "Say, you wouldn't happen to have that picture on you, would you? The one you took?"
Mitchell paused to look at him. "Why?"
"I was just curious how it came out."
"You're in it," Mitchell said. He turned again and walked out.
Leo waited, listening to the footsteps in the hall. There was a silence before he heard the front door close, and again silence. He was still tense and anxious, but he was also proud of himself at the way he'd handled Mitchell, and he wasn't sweating too much. He picked up the phone and dialed Alan's home number. No answer. He tried the theater and was told Alan was ou
t. The son of a bitch, he was never around when you wanted him. Leo decided to go across the Street. Christ, have a couple of drinks.
Leo lived in a duplex on an old tree-shaded Street of two- and four-family flats. Mitchell stood on the porch by the pair of front doors and rang the bell for the lower flat. He waited. The door opened partway and Mitchell saw the stunned, wide-eyed look on Leo's face before he noticed his silky, wrinkled black-and-red pajamas and bare feet.
"How you doing?" Mitchell said.
Leo backed up as Mitchell came in. His stringy hair was uncombed, matted flat against his head; his eyes had a glazed watery look. He said, "How'd you know where I live?"
"I looked it up in the book," Mitchell said. "Mrs. Leo Frank, Jr. That your wife?"
"My mother. She used to live here. I mean we did, we lived here together before she died."
Mitchell looked around, at the dark woodwork and pale-green rough-plaster walls, heavy, velvety-looking draperies, closed, heavy stuffed chairs with doilies on the arms and headrests. Everything was dark and old and reminded him of other living rooms, some in places where he had lived, some in the homes of friends; dark, solemn, never changing.
"I was just putting the water on for coffee," Leo said. "You want some? Or a beer, or a drink?"
"No thanks, but go ahead," Mitchell said. He followed Leo through the dark dining room to the kitchen. There was an old smell to the place. The wallpaper was stained. The linoleum in the kitchen was worn, coming apart at the seams. He watched Leo, at the stove, place the kettle on a burner and turn up the gas.
"You probably wonder what I'm doing here."
"It crossed my mind." Leo opened a cupboard and looked in.
"It was something you said last night."
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