52 pickup

At ten to twelve Alan brought a couple of blankets and a pillow out of the room and made a nice little bed in the back of the panel, got Barbara into the truck without anyone seeing them and took off south down the highway. Barbara was making little moaning humming sounds as though she might be singing. Alan felt pretty good himself. Shit, he ought to. It was payday.

18

Mitchell, carrying a hi-sheen Tuffy-Hyde attache case, let the fire door swing closed behind him. He reached for the wall switches, began killing every other bank of fluorescents and somewhere in the dim empty plant area a voice yelled out, "Hey! I can't see!"

Somebody was still here.

Mitchell didn't see who it was until he was walking toward the back, toward the sound, and John Koliba stepped out of a dark aisleway between rows of parts bins: Koliba, the white tight T-shirt stretched across his belly, holding a pair of rubber vacuum cups, one in each fist.

"I thought you was gone," Koliba said. "I would have swore you walked by five minutes ago with that case in your hand. I was over in Quality Control."

Mitchell said, "I was out here. I went back to my office for something."

"I guess I didn't see you go back."

"I didn't see you either," Mitchell said. "What're you up to?"

"Well-don't laugh, okay? I got an idea for a kind of handling rig I been fooling with, seeing if I can make it work. On my own time, you understand. Maybe I got something, I don't know yet."

"Why don't you work on it during your shift?" Mitchell said. And he was thinking, Why don't you get the hell out of here right now.

"Well, I figured I should do it on my own time. You know, you got designers, engineers. You didn't hire me for that kind of work."

"No, but if you think you've got something, John, I'm willing to take a chance, I mean pay you for your effort," Mitchell said. "Starting tomorrow, work on it during your shift."

"That's great." Koliba gri

"I'd like to see it," Mitchell said, "but let's wait'll tomorrow, okay? Why don't you knock off now, go on home?"

"Yeah, well listen, then I'll show it to you tomorrow."

"I want to lock up," Mitchell said. "The security man's sick or something. He's not around tonight."

"Right," Koliba said. "I'll wash up, be out in a minute."

"Good, I want to get out of here."

"Why don't you go ahead? I'll see the door gets locked."

"No, there's a couple of things I got to check," Mitchell said. "Just hurry it up, okay?"

He was thinking, Christ, quit talking, and walked away gripping the attache case at his side. Behind him Koliba said something about a couple minutes is all. Ahead of him, down the aisle past the turning machines and the rows of stock bins, a spot of light reflected on the glass section of the rear door. He reached the door and looked out.

The reflection was from a light pole. The parking lot was empty. Good.

No, Christ, there was one car parked in a lane over to the far right. Of course. Koliba's. He said to himself, Why did he pick tonight of all the nights? Guy showing initiative, wanting to get ahead. And it's your own fault, you talked to him, inspired him. God. He said, Come on, John, come out right now and get in your car and get the hell out of here, will you? God, get him out of here. But almost as he said it to himself, like a silent prayer, it was too late.

The headlight beams appeared, coming out of the driveway on the side of the plant, the way they had appeared, creeping along the pavement, the time before.

But not a white Thunderbird this time; a panel truck, the square shape of it, red as it reached the light pole, with something lettered on the side, circling slowly through the open parking area. Mitchell watched and he was thinking, it's not him. Somebody else to get rid of. But the truck came around, maintaining its creeping pace, and circled again, headlights sweeping the darkness beyond the cyclone fence.

Mitchell opened the door and walked outside, into the circle of light that came from the spots above the rear door.

As if sensing him, the panel truck, at the far end of the yard, turned and came slowly toward him until he was standing in the beam of its headlights. The truck stopped.

Mitchell raised the attache case shoulder high and lowered it again.

There was no response from the truck. The only sound was the low rumble of the engine idling.

"You want it or not?"

There was silence again, lengthening, until finally he heard Alan's voice.

"Whose car's that?"

"Guy working late."

"Man, you know what I told you."

"I didn't know he was here till just now." Mitchell waited. "Where's my wife?"

There was no answer from the truck.

Mitchell raised the case again. "Look, this is what you came for. Take it. Let my wife go and get out of here."

"Come a little closer," Alan's voice said.

Mitchell walked toward the headlights. When he was about thirty feet away Alan said, "Okay, right there. Open it up, show me what you got."

"Where's my wife?"

"You first," Alan said. "You show me yours and I'll show you mine."

"It's all here," Mitchell said. "You want to come get it or you want me to bring it over."

"Man, I told you, I want to see it! Now that's the last word I'm going to say."

Mitchell hesitated. He went down to one knee then, placed the case flat on the pavement and flicked open the two clasps with his thumbs.

"Turn it around," Alan said.

Mitchell turned the case, holding the top open toward him, so Alan could see the packets of ten-and twenty-dollar bills, banded, stacked neatly in rows that filled the inside of the case.

"Pick up some of it," Alan said. "Walk up to the front of the truck."

Mitchell rose with packets of bills in both hands. He approached to stand close to the headlights.

"Hold it up," Alan said.

Mitchell's head and shoulders were above the light beams now. He could see Alan through the windshield, behind the wheel. He held up the packets of bills.

"Where's my wife?"

He watched Alan turn and say something. After a moment Barbara appeared, part of her rising out of darkness, behind the empty passenger seat.

"Let her out."

"You bring me the case first," Alan said.

Mitchell stared at Barbara. "What's the matter with my wife?"

"She's on something, man. Having a high."

"Let her out!"

"When you bring the case. Hey," Alan said then, "you see this?" He held up Bobby's.38 Special and pointed it at Mitchell. "No bullshit now, right? You twitch, I'll shoot your fucking eyes out, man. Now bring the case."

Mitchell walked back to the open attache case and went down to one knee again. He dropped the packets of bills inside. With his back to the truck he fished a screwdriver out of the front part of the case, beneath the bills, and wedged the tip of it between one side and the top, brought the top down, pressed his weight on it, but it wouldn't snap closed. Mitchell fooled with it for a while.

"What's the matter?"

"I can't get the thing closed. The lock's sprung."

He rose to his feet with the case, hooding the top and bottom together between the palms of his hands, fingers spread wide.

"I'll get something to hold it together."

"Just bring it here."

"Take me a minute," Mitchell said. "I'll wire it up."

"Man, bring it over here! I don't give a shit!"

Mitchell stopped to half-turn. "I don't want it blowing away. You'll think I cheated you." He turned again and started for the rear door of the plant.

"Hold it there!"

Mitchell stopped and turned again. He saw that Alan was out of the truck now, behind the open door, resting the.38 on the window ledge and leveling it at him.