Marshall went through to the kitchen. There wasn't a sound in the house and he tried not to make any himself as he got the Beefeater and vermouth out of the cupboard below the counter ... the ice, the lowball glasses ... no olives; and he wasn't going to cut lemon twists. She was liable to come down any time and if he was going to surprise her--do something kooky--he might as well do it right. Marshall drank down half of a martini, refilled the glass with gin and gave it a swirl. There. He walked into the front hall and up the carpeted stairs with the drinks.
The next part would be tricky: surprise her without frightening her too much. He didn't want to catch her on the toilet either. His appearance was bound to give her a start. Then she'd be nervous, or pretend to be mad. He'd get her over that. He felt he knew how to handle Mickey. Gently. She didn't seem the type who liked rough stuff. She was giving, agreeable. He'd had the feeling for some time that Mickey was more than likely the type who couldn't say no. Whether because she liked it so much or because she didn't want to hurt your feelings, Marshall wasn't sure. But he was going to find out.
The open doorway at the end of the hall looked as though it led into the master bedroom. How about just, 'Surprise!' But not too loud. Or-- yeah--'Did someone say they wanted an ice-cold martini?' Deadpan. Let her laugh first. Approaching the door he could see her sitting on the foot of the bed: her head lowered, as though she was looking down at her hands.
Entering the bedroom, getting his expression just right, Marshall said, 'Did someone say they wanted--'
Her face raised as he spoke, something black covering her eyes. And something hard then nudging the side of his head. Wait a second--what's going on? He stepped back with one foot, careful of the drinks he was holding, turning to see what touched him. He caught a glimpse. He saw the revolver in his face and two figures, two masks, but not like Mickey's, there were eyes looking at him, one pair of eyes close, coming at him--
Ordell chopped Marshall across the head with the .38, grunting unnnh as he hit hard and pushed in against the man, inside the arms going out with the drinks, like a standup body block, jolting the man into the closet among the ten feet of hanging suits and cut him again, hard, across the head with the stub barrel, putting the man on the floor to sit wedged against the wall. Ordell shut the closet door and turned the key to lock it.
Louis was watching him.
Ordell shrugged. 'I couldn't make up my mind.'
'You did a pretty good job. Jesus, he's big.'
'He's gonna have some blood on him, that's all.'
Louis looked at the woman sitting rigid with her face raised like a blind person. He motioned Ordell into the hall and kept his voice low. 'He's gonna wipe it off and call the cops. Soon as he gets out.'
'It's what I'm saying,' Ordell said. 'We got to decide something.'
Louis was trying to think. 'He didn't see us.' 'No, he didn't see much.'
'We call Dawson tonight,' Louis said, 'tell him not to call the cops, this guy's already been there.' 'I know all that,' Ordell said.
'But we leave him dead,' Louis said, 'Dawson comes home and finds him, then Dawson--what's he gonna do with the guy?--He's got to call the cops then. I don't know, but I think we should quit talking and get out of here.'
'Leave her?' Ordell said.
'No, take her,' Louis said. 'We're this far.'
Not long ago in the men's grill they had been talking about clothes and one of the guys said, 'Jesus Christ, Frank, how many suits've you got?' And Frank said, 'I don't know. Couple dozen, I guess.' Marshall Taylor remembered that.
Some of those suits were on the floor of the closet now, under him. Some had blood all over them. Marshall held soft cool silk to his head in the darkness, a sleeve. He didn't know what color it was. He wasn't sure what had happened. He was bleeding in darkness, his head throbbed like hell and he knew he was badly cut. His hair was sticking together in a hard crust.
There were no sounds; but that didn't mean anything. He lay quietly against the back wall of the closet to give his head a chance to stop bleeding and begin thinking.
Somebody had broken in. At least two guys. Mickey came home and surprised them. They tied her up--no, he wasn't sure about her hands. She was blindfolded though.
Did they actually have masks on? He wasn't sure now. They wouldn't hang around. They probably took some things and ran. Mickey would call the police--
They'd come up looking around and find him. Take his name and address, see the martini glasses on the floor--('We'd like to ask you a few questions, sir.') He had to get out of here.
If Mickey had heard his voice and if they were gone, she'd let him out before calling the police. Unless she was too frightened at the time and wasn't listening. He had only said a few words. Something about martinis. All right, if she didn't know he was here, where the hell was she?
Marshall looked at the luminous dial of his watch. He had been here a good fifteen minutes, not moving, his body cramped, stiffening. He had to do something. He could have stayed at Diesel. He could be at the Squire's Table right now talking about golf and cold-form extrusions, ordering the New York strip. Tyra would be out at the club.
Marshall kicked at the door with his heel, jarring his head and was afraid it would begin bleeding again. He lay still, waiting, telling himself he had to get out of here. Mickey wasn't home. He kicked at the forty-year-old door panel again and kept kicking, holding the raw silk to his head, his long leg pumping, smashing the wood, until the panel splintered and he was able to reach through and up and unlock the door. The martini glasses were on the floor. He went into the bathroom, looked at himself in the mirror, at the blood all over him, and felt panic again, hard, rigid fear. He washed some of the blood from his face. There was nothing he could do about his suit. Or about Frank's suits. He had to get out, but he didn't want to go downstairs. In the hall he stood listening for several minutes. He thought, A drink. God, that's what he needed, and that's what got him downstairs to the kitchen.
Mickey's purse was gone. The wallet and car keys were still on the table. The door to the garage was open. He could see Mickey's Grand Prix. Marshall pulled a bottle of J&B from the cabinet and had half a lowball glass of it, straight.
Okay. Say they had hit Mickey too. She hadn't heard his voice. She was dazed. She called a friend, somebody, a neighbor, to take her to the hospital. That's why she hadn't called the police right away. Go to Beaumont Emergency, that's where she'd be.
A head laceration could leave a lot of blood. All the blood in the closet--she'd tell the police yes, it must be hers. She was dazed, knocked out for awhile. They would assume it was her blood. No reason to check the type.
Marshall had another Scotch. That would be it; he'd have to be careful in case he was in some sort of mild shock. But he felt pretty good in spite of everything. Mickey'd go to Beaumont. He'd go to St. Joe's in Pontiac.
Questions then. How did it happen? He hit a tree. Or a light pole. His brakes didn't work. Where?
No. Some guy sideswiped him. Where? On Deep Run, right off Telegraph. He was on his way to the club; had a golf date with a customer. The guy sideswiped him, put him in the ditch and kept going.
Did he report the accident? Report it? He couldn't see. Christ, he had blood all over him, didn't he?
Marshall took a shovel from the Dawson garage. On the way to Pontiac he turned off Woodward into a deserted side road, got out with the shovel and, swinging it like a baseball bat, smashed in the left-front headlights and fender of his Cadillac DeVille, threw the shovel into the high brush and continued on to St. Joseph Mercy Hospital.
'Did somebody say they wanted--'
Wanted what?
She remembered the words and the sound of Marshall's voice because she had been waiting in silence, knowing it was coming, something, though expecting to hear him call out from downstairs first.
She remembered the awful sounds then. Grunts, hitting, the sound of Marshall's voice again choked off. She remembered one of them saying, 'I couldn't make up my mind,' and something else. The voices were fainter then, away from her.
Then close again, another voice, the white voice, saying, 'Bring that.' And the other voice saying, 'You kidding?' A white voice and a black voice. A glimpse, in the kitchen, of a white man and a black man, though there was not that much difference in their color. Masks. A cap. The other one with a beard.
