52 pickup

"Like they're taking you out of the picture," Mitchell said, "splitting two ways."

"I don't know. Christ, you never know what he's thinking, Alan, he's got a weird fucking mind."

"I don't know either," Mitchell said. "But I have to take his word and pay, or else I face a murder charge with a good case against me."

Leo was staring at him, thinking. After a moment he leaned in close to the table. "What if you went to the cops on your own? Told them the whole story."

"I think the odds are I'd go to jail."

"No. I back you up. We make a deal with the cops. I testify against Alan and Bobby. I go on the stand, say they killed the girl-if the cops'll let me plead, I don't know, say just to the blackmail part. And that's the truth, I was never for killing the girl."

"I don't know," Mitchell said. "It'd be only your word. They'd still have a case against me."

"What case?"

"The girl's body. My gun, the film-"

"You want to know something?" Leo said. "There is no girl's body."

"What do you mean?"

"It's at the bottom of Lake Erie, in all the pollution and shit."

"Since when?"

"Since they did it. You believe she's on ice somewhere because you can't take a chance she isn't. Right? Alan figured that. You see her killed and that's what you remember. It sticks in your mind. It scares the shit out of you and you agree to pay. Only now you know Alan and Bobby did it. They can't take a chance. You pay or you don't, either way they kill you."

"Or us," Mitchell said. He was silent a moment. "What about the films?"

"In the lake with the girl."

"And my gun?"

Leo hesitated. "It's somewhere else. Case they need it again."

"If nothing can be proved against me," Mitchell said, "then I'm out of it, huh?"

"You can think so," Leo said, "but they're still going to kill you, whether you pay or not. Listen, they do it easy."

Mitchell watched Leo finish his drink. He picked up his own glass, untouched, and placed it in front of Leo.

"For the road."

"You going?"

"Why, we have anything else to talk about?"

"I'm telling you they're going to kill you." Leo was tense, staring at him again. "You haven't said anything about what you're going to do."

"I don't know yet," Mitchell said. "Think about it, I guess. Or wait and see what happens to you. Then I'll know if they're serious or not."

The way Ed Jazik's car was facing, away from the bar, into a vacant lot, he could watch Mitchell's Grand Prix through his rearview mirror. Coming out a few minutes ago he had looked at Mitchell's car and had come very close to smashing a window and doing the job right then. But Mitchell probably had seen him inside. Or he might come out too soon. When Mitchell did come out, and Jazik watched him drive the short distance up the road and turn into his plant, he was glad he waited. It would've been easier to smash the window and do it here, but doing it over in the plant parking lot would be better, because his employees would come ru

Jazik went back inside the Pine Top and ordered a Strohs at the bar. His fourth one this afternoon. He looked over at the guy Mitchell had been talking to: fat clown in a striped suitcoat tight across his shoulders, hunched over the table with two drinks at once. Slob was probably a customer of Mitchell's, owned some manufacturing plant. Fat son of a bitch sitting there, nothing to do, nothing to worry about. The guys that had it all looked alike.

The package for Mr. Harry Mitchell arrived by United Parcel while Janet was clearing her desk, ready to leave for the day. The label imprint bore the name of a Detroit luggage shop, and by the compact size of the carton Janet was fairly sure it was a case of some kind. She opened the carton to find the case, or whatever it was, gift-wrapped in silver-and-white-striped paper with a ribbon and bow. There was no card on the outside.

Mitchell looked up as Janet came into his office and placed it on his desk.

"What's that?"

"I don't know. It's not your birthday, is it?"

"Who's it from?"

"The card must be inside. Do you want to open it or should I?"

"You do it."

He watched Janet slit the taped ends with a letter opener and slide the case out without tearing the paper: a black attache case with chrome clasps and lock. It was shiny, inexpensive-looking, like plastic passing for patent leather. Janet turned the case to face Mitchell, picked up the ribbon and began winding it around her hand, watching as he snapped open the clasps and raised the top half. She couldn't see inside.

"Isn't there a card?"

Mitchell picked up a small folded piece of product literature. "It's a Porta-Sec," he read. "Your portable executive secretary from Travel-Rama… made of genuine Hi-Sheen Tuffy-Hyde."

Janet wasn't sure what to say. She tried, "Do you like it?"

"What I've always wanted," Mitchell said.

She hesitated another moment. "There isn't a card?"

"I don't see any."

"Do you know who it's from?"

"Not offhand. Maybe they forgot to put it in."

"I'll call the store if you want."

"No, that's all right."

"Well, if you don't have anything else for me…"

"Not that I can think of," Mitchell said and looked up at her pleasantly. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He waited until Janet was out of the office and the door closed before he picked up the little envelope from the empty case and took out the card. Printed in pencil it said, HAPPY 52 SPORT! HOPE TO SEE THOUSANDS MORE!

John Koliba, second-shift leader, came out of the Quality Control room and walked down the aisle toward the last Warner-Swasey in the row of turning machines. It was a quarter of six, he would recall later. He was going over to tell the operator to shut the machine down and change the turret adjustment for a run of bushing plate stops. He wasn't sure if he happened to look over at the rear door first or if he heard the explosion outside and then looked over, because it all happened like at the same time. He heard it and, through the glass part of the door, saw the flames shoot up inside the car that was parked about thirty feet away. It wasn't a very loud explosion, a dull, sort of muffled sound, but heavy. Most of the other employees working toward this end of the shop heard it too and were right behind Koliba by the time he was outside and saw that it was Mr. Mitchell's car on fire. Koliba yelled at a couple of guys to get fire extinguishers. Then he ran back inside and through the plant to get Mitchell. But when he got to Mitchell's office the door was closed and for a moment he didn't know what to do, if he'd be interrupting him or what. He said to himself, For Christ sake, and banged on the door. The voice inside said, "Come in." Koliba pushed the door open, stood there looking at Mitchell behind his desk and said, "I don't mean to bother you, but somebody just fire-bombed your car."

By the time Mitchell and Koliba got there all the second-shift men who could shut down and get away from their machines were outside in the parking lot. The two men with the fire extinguishers were covering the car with blasts of white foam but not doing much good. The flames filled the interior of the car and smoke billowed out of a partly open window. Finally one of them edged in close enough to get a door open and shove the megaphone nozzle of the extinguisher inside and let go. The car filled with foam and the flames seemed to be smothered. Cars were being moved out of the near vicinity of the fire. A man would be watching with concentrated interest, then realize his own car was parked close to the Grand Prix and wake up and run to get it the hell out of there. Beyond the fire and thick smoke, for several minutes cars were pulling out and making turns all over the parking lot.