52 pickup

Mitchell stood watching, his hand on the rim of a metal waste bin of scrapped parts. He said to Koliba, next to him, "Why'd you say it was a fire-bomb?"

Koliba's little eyes, squinting, held on the car. "I seen it before." Mitchell didn't say anything and Koliba looked at him. "What else could it be? You leave a cigarette on the carpeting?"

Mitchell still didn't say anything.

"You ever seen wiring catch fire inside a car? Under the hood, yeah, but not inside."

"Maybe it was the gas tank."

"The tank didn't go. Not yet it didn't," Koliba said. "It started inside, gasoline or something. But it wasn't poured in, you know, sloshed around the upholstery and the guy throws a match in. No, because I heard it. I was going over to Number Six and I seen it blow up, like the guy lit a wick or a rope soaked in gas or something and got the hell out before it went. Otherwise he'd thrown a match, I'd have seen him."

Mitchell was staring at the car, at the interior filled with foam that was like soapsuds.

"No chance of it being an accident?"

Koliba looked at him again. He said, "Shit, you know as well as I do who done it."

A machinist, coming out from the plant, spotted Mitchell and hurried over. "I called the fire department. They're on their way."

"Fire department, the fire's out," Koliba said.

"You think it's out," the machinist said. "They make sure."

"Tear the car apart doing it," Koliba said.

"Yeah, well you think it's out," the machinist said, "all of a sudden the son of a bitch blows up on you."

Mitchell wasn't listening to them. He had thought of Alan Raimy first-coming out and seeing the car burning-the hip creepy guy Alan, wondering why he would do something like this. He didn't think of Ed Jazik or remember Jazik at the bar across the street until Koliba said you know as well as I who did it. Koliba knew; there wasn't any question in his mind. It was as though everything lately had to do with Alan Raimy and the fat guy and the colored guy and dealing with them had become his primary business. But he was still operating a plant and had a maverick union management guy on his back. Jazik seemed a long time ago. Except that he was here and now, as real as the burned-out car. Something else to be handled. All right, call the local and yell at the president again. Or let it go. Maybe Jazik felt better now. He couldn't concentrate on both Jazik and Alan Raimy. One of them had to be set aside. Jazik. Though he should keep his eyes open. Maybe for another slowdown. Jazik shows off and maybe wins a couple of new friends in the shop. So maybe there would be more breakdowns to watch for. Christ.

He looked at the metal bin he was leaning against, at the hundreds of machined parts that had been scrapped during the past two weeks. He reached in and picked out of the bin a switch actuator housing and held it in the palm of his hand. It looked fine, except the inside diameter was off tolerance maybe a thousandth of an inch. Mitchell held the part in his hand as he walked over to the wet, smoking car and looked inside at the gutted scorched interior that was steaming glistening charred black and smelled of burned vinyl and rubber.

Somebody said, "Mr. Mitchell, you better get back. That gas tank's liable to go."

Next to him, John Koliba said, "It'd gone by now. Look, see the pieces of glass on the seat? Down in the springs. I bet you anything it was a bottle of gasoline exploded," Koliba gri

Right away he thought maybe he shouldn't have said it. Mitchell didn't smile or seem to think it was fu

"What's 'at?" Koliba said. "Something you found?"

Mitchell opened his hand to show him the metal part, the switch actuator housing. "Nothing. Piece of scrap."

"I thought maybe it was something you found in the car." Koliba watched Mitchell turn to walk away. "You go

"I don't know, I'll think about it," Mitchell said.

He walked back toward the plant. Koliba watched him toss the scrapped part in the air about a foot or so and catch it in one hand, then toss it up again and catch it, playing with it. His car was burned up and he didn't seem to think anything about it. Christ, I'd have the cops here, Koliba was thinking. Not the local cops, the goddamn FB fucking I, they'd take the broken glass or prints or something and pin the son of a bitch. Koliba heard the sirens then, out on the road coming this way. He looked over toward the drive with renewed interest to watch the fire engines arrive.

At six o'clock, sitting in his office with the Hi-Sheen Tuffy-Hyde attache case on the desk in front of him, Mitchell called his home.

The phone rang seven, eight, nine times. He was about to hang up when he heard his wife's voice say hello.

"Hi. You sound like you've been sleeping."

There was a long pause before she said yes, she'd taken a nap and just woke up.

"No te

There was a pause again. "I didn't feel like it," her voice said. "I guess I was tired."

"From what?"

"I don't know. Working around the house. I guess."

He said, "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

Maybe she was, but she sounded fu

There was a silence on the other end of the line.

"Barbara?"

"Yes. I'm here."

"What's the matter? Don't you feel good?"

"I'm fine really. Just a second."

He waited several moments before she came on again.

"What time will you be home tomorrow?"

"I guess the usual. If the car isn't delivered, I'll get a ride with somebody. So I'll see you then." He paused before saying, "Barbara, I miss you."

The lifeless voice said, "I miss you too. God, I miss you." And hung up.

Mitchell replaced the receiver and sat with his hand still holding it, hearing her words and the voice he barely recognized. She hadn't said goodbye or given him a chance to say it. He thought about her, picturing her by the telephone in the kitchen, though she was probably in the bedroom if she had been taking a nap. He couldn't imagine her sleeping this late in the afternoon.

Well, he'd see her tomorrow. Or he could call later. Right now he'd better put his design hat on and get to it. He took the new attache case and the switch actuator he'd fished out of the trash bin, went into the drafting room of the Engineering Department and turned on the fluorescent lights that always seemed brighter and colder at night, with no one else in the room.

Leo got stopped by the Royal Oak Police coming across Ten Mile Road. He was sure the cop was going to make him get out and walk a line and stand on one foot and try and pick up a quarter-that's it, in for a breath test; he'd blow a twenty, the shape he was in, and spend the night in the tank. But the cop didn't make him get out. Maybe his luck was turning. The cop asked him for his operator's license and registration and asked him where he was going. Leo said he was going home. He said he had to go to the bathroom something awful and maybe that's why he was hurrying a little. He probably looked like he was in pain. He had used the bathroom excuse he'd learned from somebody a few times and sometimes it worked. Even cops had to go to the bathroom and unless the cop was sadistic he'd understand. This cop didn't waste a lot of time giving him the speech on safety and how they were just trying to keep people alive or any of that shit. He gave Leo a ticket for thirteen miles over the limit and told him to stop at the next gas station.