The Switch (20 page)

“And you were one of them,” Mickey said.

“Well, I wasn't making all that much and my goddamn back was killing me, that stoop work, Jesus—so I thought, Well, join the union. They looked like they were having a better time than we were.”

“They sent you to prison for striking?”

“No, not for striking,” Louis said. “See, they started running the company pickup truck up and down the road past the strikers, giving us a lot of dust and kicking up gravel. Then when the girl, Helen Mendez, would start calling names over the bullhorn, the pickup truck started playing music—see, the radio was hooked up to a speaker on the roof of the truck—blaring it out so nobody'd be able to hear her yelling their names. I remember, I even remember one of the songs was
Falling Leaves
, Christ, Roger Williams playing it. And
Who Can I Turn To
. Helen Mendez'd yell at the truck, ‘Hey, you squares, get XECR Reynosa!' You want me to light another one?”

Mickey blinked. “I think I can feel it now.”

“Get up and walk you'll find out.”

“I'm too comfortable.”

“We'd sit out there on the line, this trooper with his ranger hat on'd come along make us get up and stand so many feet apart and so many feet from the edge of the field. We'd say, ‘What the fuck do you care if we sit down?' He'd give us this mean squinty no-shit look and point his stick and say something about hauling our ass in if we gave him any mouth. He didn't say nothing to the Stanzik foreman who'd come by in the pickup seeing if he could make us jump back out of the way. I remember the radio was playing
Okie from Muskogee
—you remember it?”

“Sure,” Mickey said. “Merle Haggard.”

“How come you know it?”

“I've got a radio too,” Mickey said. “I'm not bragging, but we've got about five and only one of them, the one in the kitchen, works.”

“I'll fix ‘em for you,” Louis said. “I was in the Navy. I was a Radioman Third.”

“And a melon-picker for half a day,” Mickey said.

“Not even that,” Louis said. “This truck comes along playing
Okie from Muskogee
blaring out and some of the strikers they'd hold their signs out in the road and raise them as the truck skinned by. So the foreman got pissed-off, he decided to skin us a
little closer, make us jump, and the truck hit this old man, threw him about thirty feet down the road and into the ditch. I saw it, I saw the truck swerve at the man deliberately. Everybody ran over to where he was laying there with his broken leg. The trooper came over, taking his leather book out, and you know what he did?”

“What?” Mickey said.

“He gave the old man laying there a ticket for obstructing traffic.”

Mickey thought of the security girl with acne at Saks Fifth Avenue.

“I asked one of the strikers if I could use his car to go into town,” Louis said. “I had to get out of there, go someplace maybe have a drink. He said sure, for a dollar. I got in the car, started up the road and there was the foreman standing beside his pickup truck with the door open. I think it was the way he was standing, hand on his hip watching, not giving a shit, you know? I gunned the car at him. I just wanted to make him jump, the son of a bitch, but I cut it too close, took his door off and broke both his legs.”

“God,” Mickey said. “What happened?”

“Everybody cheered,” Louis said. “I was arrested, charged with attempted murder, plea-bargained it down to felonious assault and got two to five in Huntsville. Served thirty months, same amount of
time I was in the Navy, and I'll tell you something. Even being at Norfolk, Virginia, I liked the Navy a little better.”

“I can't imagine being in prison,” Mickey said.

“Don't ever go,” Louis said.

He got up and came over to the La-Z-Boy. When he bent over her, his face almost touching hers, she said, “What're you doing?”

“I'm just seeing what you got.”

“Get out of there!” She pushed him, mad or pretending to be mad. Pretending.

“I thought we were friends,” Louis said, straightening.

“God,” Mickey said. “Do you believe it?”

“Listen, I don't have any idea what's going on,” Louis said. “I think I'm high . . . and I'm starved to death.” He picked up his cap and started for the door.

Mickey said, “Well, don't go away mad.”

“I'm not mad, I'm hungry. I'm gonna go out and get us a pizza. You hungry?”

“I guess I am,” Mickey said. “I hadn't realized it.”

“The grass,” Louis said. “Pizza all right, or you want something else?”

“No, that's fine.” He was at the door, putting his cap on. Mickey said, “I didn't finish telling you. The day I quit Saks—no, the day before—I had a
big leather purse I'd been carrying for a week at least.”

Louis waited, his hand on the doorknob. “Yeah? The snippy one catches you—”

“The snippy security snitch,” Mickey said, “she sees me and stops.” Then, in the snippy tone, “ ‘You can't carry that purse.' I said, ‘It's all right, don't get excited.' She said, ‘You're not
allowed
to carry a purse unless you're management personnel. Are you a department manager?' Knowing damn well I'm not. Very sweetly I said, ‘No, I'm not.' She said, ‘Then you can't carry that purse ever again.' And I said to her, ‘Oh, bullshit,' and walked out.”

“You said that?” Louis said.

“Yeah, ‘Oh, bullshit.' “

“Well, it's a start,” Louis said. “I'll be right back.”

 

“LOUIS?”

“What?”

“I'm drinking beer and I don't even like beer.”

Louis held a wedge of pizza almost to his mouth. He said, “Jesus Christ,” and began shaking his head. “How'd you know my name?”

“I'm drinking it because you said you had to with pizza,” Mickey said, “and you know what? It's pretty good.”

“You do whatever somebody tells you?”

They were sitting on the floor eating off the coffee table, the table congested, littered with pizza, the flat carryout box, cans of Stroh's, paper napkins, two packs of Salem 100s, three joints, matches, empty glasses, full ashtrays, the box of Halloween masks, Mickey's bra. She said, “Maybe I do, you know it? That's probably the whole trouble—anything anybody says. Yeah? Well, screw ‘em.”

“I ask you how you know my name,” Louis said, “you tell me that's the whole trouble and screw ‘em.”

Her mind was clear and alive. That was a long time ago he had asked about his name. About an hour ago. She said, “The fat guy, the fake policeman. He's not a real one, is he? God, I hope not.”

“He told you?”

“Yeah. What's his name? No, what's the colored guy's name?”

“Christ, everybody knows everybody,” Louis said. He got up and stood for a moment before carefully walking out of the room.

Mickey began to think about the fat policeman in his T-shirt, seeing him on top of her, his red face, his breathing, saying things to her. She said aloud, “Oh, my God.” When Louis came back and eased himself to the floor and popped open two cans of beer, Mickey said, “I remembered something. Were you really taking me home or someplace else?”

“You said you didn't want to go.”

“But were you really taking me home?”

“We were almost there, weren't we?”

“
Answer
me. Were you?”

“
Yes
, I was taking you home.”

“You know what the fat policeman said?” Mickey closed her eyes to see him and hear the words again. He said, ‘Don't move or holler or I'll kill you right now . . . on my mother's bed—‘ “

“His mother used to live with him.”

“
Listen
to me. He said, ‘ . . . or I'll kill you right now on my mother's bed and . . .
not wait till after
.' “

“He said that?”

“Or, ‘ . . . not wait till later.' After or later.”

“Well, the guy's a little wacko,” Louis said. “He's got a framed picture of Adolph Hitler, a swastika flag. He's got about, Christ, a hundred guns, hand grenades—”

“He was going to
kill
me,” Mickey said. “He shot at us, didn't he?”

“Well, he was a little sore,” Louis said. “I'm telling you, the guy's wacko.”

“But you were taking me home, weren't you?” Mickey said. “No place else for anything?”

“I was taking you home,” Louis said.

Mickey heard sounds, one sound over and over, a telephone ringing. She opened her eyes, lying in the reclining La-Z-Boy again. A lamp was on next to Louis' chair, the room dark beyond the yellow glow of the lampshade, the windows dark. She could hear traffic sounds outside, faintly, and the phone ringing.

“Are you going to answer it?”

“Twelve . . . thirteen . . . fourteen . . . it'll ring twenty-five times,” Louis said. “That's how long he waits. Then it'll stop.” But the phone stopped ringing as he said it. There was silence. “Must've been somebody else.”

“What time is it?”

“About eleven. No, twenty-five after.”

“I don't know what to do,” Mickey said.

“Who does.”

“I don't feel good.”

“Seventh inning,” Louis said. “Get up and stretch.”

She watched him push up from the chair and wondered if that's what he was going to do, raise his arms and stretch. No, he was going somewhere, probably to the bathroom. She said to herself, You have to go home. She heard the blender working in the kitchen. Louis came back in with two foamy looking drinks. Mickey shook her head.

“Vodka collins,” Louis said. “Look good to you?”

Mickey took one. “But I can't stay high forever. I have to go home.”

“You get way down, you have to come all the way back,” Louis said. “What happened to the party girl?”

“She's all partied out.”

“Get her back up,” Louis said. He went over to the hi-fi on a shelf, pushed in a casette and brought music out of hidden speakers. Mickey looked around, but couldn't see them.

“Groove Holmes, help you get straightened out.”

“I really should go.”

“You already said that.”

“Did I?” She was drinking the vodka collins and, yes, beginning to feel better already. She reached, got a pack of Salems from the table and lit a cigarette.

“You want a hand-rolled?”

“I'd better not.”

“I should go home,” Louis said, “I better not. What do you
want
to do? Your old man's not home—”

“He might be, now.”

“Bet,” Louis said. “How much? He won't be home cause he's got to have time to think what to tell you, decide how to act. He's wondering if he should lie about the whole thing or what.”

“
Lie
about it?”

“Tell you the girl was only working for him, something like that. See, he can bullshit you about the money thing, how he put all that away—have you believing it was for you and him. But the part about the girl he's got to get straight in his mind what he's gonna tell you, so you can't shoot any holes in it.”

“I don't care if he's with a girl,” Mickey said. She didn't, and it surprised her as she realized it.

“Well, he still isn't gonna be home.”

She could think of Frank as “that son of a bitch,” picturing him with a girl named Melanie. That was one way the offended wife might react.
Or she could feel sorry for herself. But what she genuinely felt was, what? Nothing. Indifference. Did she love him? No. She didn't even particularly like him, with or without the girlfriend. And, God, that was a big one to finally admit.

But something bothered her about the time element and what Frank had been doing the last few days. Not with the girl, that didn't matter. But what had he been doing about paying the ransom?

“You like Groove? A little
Green Dolphin Street
,” Louis said. “Here, gimme that.” He took their empty glasses out to the kitchen.

Mickey raised the recliner and stood up, walked over to the phone in the bay of windows and looked down at it. 956-9547. She was a bit wobbly but her head was clear; she felt eighty-five per cent better than when she had awakened. Now—if Frank wasn't home, the logical thing would be to call him in Freeport, let him know she was all right. Which had nothing to do with being indifferent to him; she was being considerate. Nice.
No
—not nice. She was simply being . . . something like courteous. Because once he paid them he'd want to know if they'd released her . . . and if she wasn't home and he was calling every ten minutes to find out . . .

Louis came in with new drinks as she picked up the phone. “You calling him?”

“His answering service.” Mickey dialed and
waited. “Hi, this is Mrs. Dawson. Have there been any calls today? . . . I mean from Mr. Dawson . . . Oh, okay. Thank you.”

Louis was still holding the drinks, looking at her. “No calls, huh?”

Mickey shook her head. She came over to Louis and took her vodka collins in both hands.

Louis stood by the TV set, holding a joint, looking at the black-and-white picture, a lab scene in a 1950s monster movie. He said, “It's got to be the right one. I'll tell you, like that
Two Thousand and One
? When the spaceship's going through all those shapes and colors and shit? Say that fast as you can three times. The spaceship goes through shapes and shit. Go ahead.”

Mickey was staring at the TV picture.

“The spaceship . . . no, the apeshit goes through space and ships,” Louis said. He was grinning, weaving, as he turned off the TV—“This one isn't any good”—came over and offered Mickey the joint, stumbling against the arm of the La-Z-Boy. “Move over.”

“Get away,” Mickey said, “get out of here.” Playing with him again? No, this time serious, annoyed. Louis went over to his chair and rolled into it, spilling some of his drink.

“Why did it take him so long?” Mickey said.

“Who?”

“You called Monday night. Three days later you say my husband's paid you. Why did it take him three days?”

“Why don't you ask him?”

“If he believes you've let me go—or else he wouldn't have paid you—why hasn't he called home to find out?”

“He's
your
husband,” Louis said. “I told you before what I thought.”

“It's the three days he waited,” Mickey said. “Why?” She thought, To see what would happen if he
didn't
pay?

Louis said, “Listen, if he doesn't love you anymore I'll take care of you.”

“You called him again Wednesday—I was
sitting
there—but you didn't talk to him. Someone else answered. The girl? Melanie?” The name sounded funny to her, strange, saying it. Her husband's girlfriend. “But she wouldn't let you talk to him. So the other one, the black guy, went down to Freeport, didn't he? Because I didn't hear him for two days.” Mickey stopped, realizing something. “You two are the ones who thought it up, right? Because you're the ones who did it. You were using the fat policeman to help out. Isn't that right? But you and the black guy are the main
ones, you're partners. The way you spoke to each other in my house—”

She thought about it some more while Louis smoked the joint. It was interesting watching her. She was a cute looking lady sitting there, riled up but calm, different than the lady who'd been in Richard's mother's room.

“The black guy went to Freeport and supposedly contacted my husband and got the money. Where is he?”

“He just called this afternoon,” Louis said. “He hasn't had time to be
anywhere
.”

“He called,” Mickey said, “but you didn't talk to him, did you? I asked you if my husband had paid and you said, ‘I guess so.' Something like that. I could tell you weren't sure, and you were a little upset, mad. Were you there when he called?”

“I was there as long as you were.”

“Then why didn't he talk to
you?
If you and he are partners.”

“That's a good question,” Louis said. He sat up a little, wondering if maybe he could learn something if he paid attention. Give her a little bit and let her chew on it, but not too much.

She said, “You're not absolutely sure your partner was paid, are you? God, a million dollars.”

“Nobody's abso
lute
ly sure of anything,” Louis said.

“But you have a feeling, don't you? Something's going on and you don't know what.”

“I'll tell you,” Louis said, “the whole thing's getting pretty weird, you want to stop and think about it.”

“For all you know, he didn't even see my husband,” Mickey said. “What did he say on the phone?”

“He said it was all set and to take you home.”

“That's what the fat policeman told you he said. It's all set. What else?”

“It's all set . . . he's got the money and take you home.”

“He said he had
all
the money? A million dollars?”

“He said he had the money, yeah.”

“You mean the fat policeman said it.”

“Yeah, Richard said it. I told you I didn't talk to him.”

She hesitated and said the name to herself, Richard. Then to Louis, “You were in the house, but your buddy spoke to Richard instead of you. The fat policeman's name is Richard?”

Louis shook his head, tired. “That's right.”

“Why didn't he call you to the phone?”

“Maybe I was in the bathroom.”

“Were you?”

“No, I was upstairs. I was looking at his gun collection.
Matter of fact I was looking at a book of his,
Death Investigation
. The son of a bitch is really weird.”

“I'm only asking,” Mickey said, “but isn't it strange he'd tell Richard and not you? After you planned the whole thing together?”

“We didn't plan it together. It was his idea.”

“But you're equal partners?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe you're not, Louis.” Mickey sipped her drink, reached over to place it on the coffee table and got a cigarette. “Maybe you only think you are.”

“It entered my head,” Louis said. “You look around, I'll tell you, you're not sure who's side anybody's on.”

“Louis?”

He wasn't looking at her; he was thinking.

“Louis, tell me something.”

“What?”

“What's your partner's name?”

“What difference does it make?”

“Come on, you big poop. Tell me.”

“His name's Ordell Robbie, but that's not gonna do you any good.”

“How does he know my husband?”

“He doesn't
know
him. He sold him a lot of building materials and things, appliances. Ordell had ripped off different places, and then'd sell to your husband cheap,” Louis said. “See, that's another
thing. You start talking and you can get your husband in all kinds of deep shit, and where does that get you? Right?”

“There's nobody I'd care to tell,” Mickey said. “
I'm
not your problem anymore, Louis.” She got up out of the recliner, remembering him referring to the seventh inning; it seemed like yesterday. She stretched and yawned and blinked her eyes and felt pretty good, considering everything.