before getting out. Then--I want to ask you. You leave the garage door open?'
'Yes, we did, Richard,' Ordell said.
'The door from the garage into the house?' 'For Christ sake, get to the alleged guy,' Louis said, 'will you?'
'Let him tell it,' Ordell said. 'Go on, Richard.' 'Well, I went in--'
He went up to the bedroom like they'd told him, found the two glasses on the floor, the closet door with a big hole in it like it'd been kicked out from the inside ...
Louis felt himself begin to relax a little.
... and the closet all messed up, blood on the clothes that were on the floor, but nobody in there. So evidently the witness had left.
'And not with any help,' Louis said. 'He kicked his way out. He was strong and healthy enough to kick a hole in the door.'
Ordell sat back in his maroon chair. He was relieved, too, and could think now without a heavy unknown hanging over him, though there was still the big question.
'Why didn't the man go to the police?'
'I don't know,' Louis said, 'but I got a theory.'
Louis had his mask on this time as he eased open the bedroom door a few inches. He said, 'Mickey?' It was the first time he had used her name.
She didn't answer immediately.
'What?'
'Turn the light out and sit on the other side of the bed facing the windows.'
'There aren't any windows.'
'Yeah, well, where they used to be.' He waited. When the light went off he opened the door wide and stepped inside. She seemed small sitting there, her shoulders hunched a little. He walked around the bed, out of the light into the darkened half of the room, and nudged her shoulder to hand her the taped mask.
'Here, I fixed it for you. Put it on.'
Mickey took it from him and slipped the elastic band over her head as Louis sat down in the rocker facing her--two people sitting in a dark bedroom with masks on.
She said, 'This is unbelievable.'
'Yeah, I know. It's a little strange,' Louis said. 'If somebody walked in and saw us, huh? Well--' He sat back and began to rock. The rocker squeaked and he stopped.
'You watch the news?'
'Yes.'
'Nothing about you on the 5:30 or the 6,' Louis said. 'How come?'
'What're you asking me for?'
'You have something going with that guy?' 'What guy?'
'Come on, the big guy walked in.'
'He's a friend of the family.'
'A friend, huh? Comes in the bedroom with the martinis--'
'He's a friend.'
'Then how come he didn't call the cops?' 'How do you know he isn't dead or in a coma?'
Mickey straightened, her blind gaze facing the sound of Louis' voice. 'You hit him with something, didn't you?'
'We checked,' Louis said. 'He let himself out.' There was silence.
Mickey said, 'How do you know he didn't call the police?'
'Because the magic eye of television would've had it.'
'Not something that happened this afternoon,' Mickey said. 'There wasn't time.'
'So we'll see if it's on the 11 o'clock,' Louis said. 'But I don't think it will be. What do you think?'
There was silence again.
'You don't think so either,' Louis said. 'The guy, this good friend of the family, it doesn't look like he wants to get involved. You have a nice little thing going there, it's kind of exciting. Quiet bedroom in the afternoon, hubby's off building houses-- As long as you don't get caught, huh? What's the guy gonna say?' Louis paused.
'Are you asking me?' Mickey said.
'No, I'm saying the guy looks around, he says hey, wait a minute. What am I doing here? Something's going on, it's none of my business.'
'That's what he says?'
'I don't know him. I don't know what he's got to lose,' Louis said. 'What kind of a guy is he?' She didn't answer him. 'Okay, put yourself in his place. You know him pretty well--'
'Nothing happened,' Mickey said. 'There wasn't anything going on between us.'
'Hey, I'm not your husband,' Louis said. 'I don't care if you're screwing the guy out of his mind every Monday at twelve-thirty. But is he the kind of guy'd stick his neck out for you?'
Louis waited for her. He was sure she had tightened up inside. He felt the same way and it wasn't going to get them anywhere. He thought, Jesus Christ, and pulled his mask off. He felt a little better--watching her in silence, sitting with her hands in her lap--and wanted to help her. He didn't know how, but he did. It wasn't something to think about. He reached over, hunching forward in the rocker, hearing it squeak, and touched her face. She drew back. But he had hold of her mask and lifted it from her face as she pulled away from him.
Louis said, 'What's he willing to do for you? That's all we're talking about.'
Mickey looked at the figure hunched in the rocking chair, leaning toward her with his arms on his knees, waiting patiently.
She said, 'I'll tell you something. I honestly don't know.'
Tyra's ass looked as though it had been hit by Double-O buckshot at a distance, the shot spent so that it didn't cut or rip through her flesh, but made soft dents and pock marks.
Marshall would see his wife's ass and wonder if she knew what it looked like. If she did, why would she want to flash it at him, slipping the nighty off as she walked out of the den? Marshall was sitting in his leather chair trying to watch the eleven o'clock news. Tyra was showing him the lingerie she'd bought for the Mackinac Island convention weekend coming up. She'd leave the den, go out into the breakfast room or kitchen or somewhere, come back with another filmy outfit on--looking like a woman in a 1930s movie--and stand between Marshall and the television set with a hand on her hip and one fat leg in front of the other.
It was his own fault--before the news came on-- expressing interest in Tyra's day. What'd you do? I went shopping. You didn't go out to the club? I'll show you what I bought. Did you talk to anybody? I'll be right back. Hey, while you're up, Marshall had said, do me a favor. Call Mickey and find out when Frank's coming back. Tyra returned in a green chiffon baby-doll with green chiffon--bursting-- bikini pants, asked Marshall if he liked it and got him to say he loved it before telling him no one answered at Dawson's.
'All right, this is the peach,' Tyra said. 'Which do you like better, the peach or the green?' The 165 pound model took a step and threw her hips, swirling the sheer material and giving Marshall a glimpse of the television screen.
'Which one do you like?'
'That one.'
'Really? I thought you liked the green.'
Crime. Governor Milliken urges suburbs to rescue the cities ... whatever that meant. Marshall drew hard on his cigar, waiting.
'Do you love it or you just like it?'
'I love it,' Marshall said.
'Why do you have it on so loud?'
'Leave it alone!'
'Ohhh, is her scairt?' Tyra petted her schnauzer who had perked up her little ears. Ingrid was lying in a deep leather chair, the twin to Marshall's.
Two pose as police in freeway holdup ... commercials, the news again and Tyra was back.
'This is the Luci-Ann. You like it?'
