Elmore Leonard: 52 pickup

"Why didn't you tell me this earlier?" O'Boyle said.

"Earlier than what? He called this afternoon. I'm waiting for him to call back."

"Before he does-" O'Boyle paused, as if anticipating Mitchell's reaction and wanting to put it off. "We've got to bring in the police."

"No," Mitchell said. A flat statement, that was it. "I told you what he said on the phone and I believe him. No police. He kills people, Jim. As you said, he doesn't just show dirty movies anymore. What he does, he kills people."

"That's right, and he can kill you too."

"Or Barbara, if I don't handle it right."

"What do you mean, handle it?"

"I have a choice. I can pay him or not pay him. But the first thing I have to do is get Barbara away from him."

"We agree on something," O'Boyle said. "But we still have to call the police."

"No." The flat statement again. "At first, up until a few days ago, I had a vague idea of setting him up. I hand him the money and, somehow, flatten him, break his arm if I have to and then hand him over to the police. But I've got another idea now and it may be the only way."

"Mitch, the police have experience in this kind of situation, a procedure-"

He shook his head. "Jim, remember when this started you came here and I told you about it? I put down on tape everything I remembered from the first meeting with them. This afternoon I put some more stuff on tape. Everything that's happened since and what I may have to do. I'm going to give it to you, Jim, and if anything happens to me you'll know who the guys are, what they did, everything. But I'm not going to discuss it with you now and I'm not going to bring the police in, because this son of a bitch, Alan Raimy, I know would walk out of court. How do they get him for murder? How do they prove it? The girl's gone, so is the movie. He says, 'What girl?' Arrest him for kidnapping? Maybe. But also maybe he feels he's come too far to give up. Jim, this guy kills people. He could kill again, Barbara or me, and get away with it." Mitchell paused. "So I'm going to handle it. One way or the other."

O'Boyle stared at him, as if trying to read his mind. "All right, what're you going to do?"

"I'm going to pay him off."

"I don't believe you."

"Then don't. I appreciate your help, Jim, your concern, but I'm not going to argue with you."

"Mitch, I've got an awful feeling you're going to do something-God, I don't know what-that you've got no business even considering."

"But I do know my business," Mitchell said. "Keep that in mind."

"Now I don't even know what you're talking about."

And Mitchell said, "Good."

Bobby Shy was sitting low, looking straight ahead through the windshield at the tree-lined parkway that led into Metropolitan Beach.

"What time is it?"

Doreen turned her hand, holding the top arc of the steering wheel, to look at her watch.

"Just ten after. Staying light longer, isn't it?"

Bobby didn't say anything.

"Now where?"

They were entering the parking area that covered a good forty acres: open empty pavement that reached to a low line of tan-brick structures-the bathhouse, pavilion and maintenance buildings, empty, deserted this time of the year-and a glimpse of Lake St. Clair beyond, flat gray water that extended to the horizon.

"Over to the right," Bobby said. "See the truck?"

"That's Alan?"

Bobby didn't answer. Doreen glanced over at him but didn't ask him again. She saw him reach inside his jacket, draw his.38 Special out of the waistband of his trouser and put it on the seat, tucking it in tight against his left thigh. Mitchell's Smith amp; Wesson was in the right-hand pocket of his jacket.

"Pull up on the left side of the truck," Bobby said, "two, three spaces over."

Doreen was frowning. "How you know it's him?"

"It's him," Bobby said. "Watch me, don't say nothing. I say get out of here, that's when we get. You dig? Not before I say it."

As they eased to a stop, facing the fenced-off playground area and the sign that said tot lot, Alan got out of the panel and came over, relaxed, friendly-looking, with a nice smile.

Bobby smiled back at him. "You in the drugstore business now?"

"How do you like it?"

"Richard call, he ask if I seen you anywhere. Said you was buying some shit for me."

"I needed it for something," Alan said. "Also I needed wheels and there he was. I figure this is not the day to grab a car and get picked up for joyriding."

"Richard going to climb up your ass."

"Let's not worry about Richard right now," Alan said. "Did you bring the man's piece?"

"I got it."

"Let me see it."

Bobby's hand came out of his side pocket with Mitchell's Smith amp; Wesson. He looked up at Alan with a mild expression, the trace of a smile, as he took the revolver in his left hand by the barrel and extended it through the open window to Alan.

Alan took it by the grip, his finger curling around the trigger.

"Is it loaded?"

Bobby grinned. "No, baby, it ain't."

"This one is," Alan said.

He pulled Richard's Saturday night gun out of his hip pocket, stepped back with his left foot and shot Bobby Shy three times-in the face, in the neck, and in the chest. Doreen was screaming, banging against the door to get it open, then twisting to reach the lock button and pull it up. Alan shot her twice in the back of the head as the door swung open and she went out.

He looked closely at Bobby slumped in the seat, reached over, and got the.38 Special without touching him. He walked around the car to Doreen, his gaze moving over the empty parking lot, then looked at her lying twisted on the pavement and prodded her in the ribs with the toe of his boot.

Barbara, frowning, looked at him as he got back in the panel. "I heard an awful noise. Loud noise somewhere."

"Fireworks," Alan said. "Somebody celebrating."

He checked them into a Holiday Inn on the south end of Mt. Clemens. Barbara was a little slow-moving, beginning to drag after her high; but he got her out of the panel without any trouble and into the nice twenty-buck room with a telephone. She said she had a headache. He told her to lie down on the bed, the one away from the door, and he'd take care of her head after a while. First thing, he called room service for hamburgers, fries and a bottle of rose, mentioning to Barbara as he hung up he always liked wine when he was in a motel with a lady. It was romantic. Alan figured they had at least a half-hour before the food came, so he picked up the phone again and dialed Ranco Manufacturing.

He said, "How you doing, sport? You got it?… That's very good. It fits in the case all right?… Good. Now listen. Eleven o'clock I want you to leave your place and go north on Ninety-four toward Port Huron. You go past the turnoff to Selfridge Aim Force Base, you'll see the sign. Go past about two miles… Wait a minute…Wait… wait, hey wait, will you! What do you mean you don't have a car?" He listened for a moment. "Hold on." Alan put his hand over the mouthpiece and looked at Barbara lying on the bed with her eyes open.

"Yesterday your husband said something about he didn't have a car."

"What?"

"When he called, saying he wasn't coming home. He said something about his car. What was it?"

Barbara shook her head. "I don't remember."

"He just said he's leasing another one. He was supposed to get it today, but it didn't come, it's not ready yet."

Barbara shook her head again. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Alan waited.

Son of a bitch. He had to think about it, but he had to tell Mitchell something. He said into the phone then, "Borrow one, I'll call you back." And hung up.

He let her out of the bathroom after the young kid from room service was gone. The tray, with its metal-covered plates and wine bottle in a plastic bucket, sat on the low sectional dresser in front of the mirror and at first she thought there were two trays.