deposit it at the same bank ... you listening? To account number eight nine five double-oh thirty-nine.' Louis waited. Ordell could hear the man's voice saying, 'Hello? Hello?' Louis said into the phone, 'You write it down? ... Then get one.' He waited again and repeated the number. 'Now then, if the money's not deposited by noon tomorrow, you'll never see your wife again. If you go to the police ... listen to me. You'll never see her again. You do anything but put the money in that account, your wife's gone, man. Gone.' Louis hung up.
He said to Ordell, 'How'd it sound?'
'No shit,' Ordell said, 'I was him, I be waiting for the bank to open.'
'The only thing,' Louis said, 'what's he tell this Melanie? How tight you think he is with her?'
'She's ass, what she is,' Ordell said. 'He got her along for ass.'
'I hope that's all,' Louis said.
Louis sat in the dark with Mickey, without masks. He said, 'Tomorrow afternoon'll be all over. You'll be home. It's not so bad, huh?'
She didn't answer him.
'Your son, he didn't go with him, did he?' 'He's in Florida, with my mother and dad.' 'You know your husband had a girl with him down there?'
'No.'
'You never suspected it?'
'No.'
'You get along? You and your husband?' 'Why?'
'I'm just asking. Most men they go away, they pick up something. It isn't anything unusual.' 'How did you know about her?'
'I can't tell you that,' Louis said. 'Your husband, he never mentioned her, uh? Like as a friend, or somebody that worked for him?'
'What's her name?'
'Melanie.'
'That's cute,' Mickey said. 'No, I've never heard of her.'
'You know about his bank account in Freeport?'
'He does business there. I assume he'd have an account.'
'With over a million in it?'
'How do you know that?' Mickey said.
'We know,' Louis said. 'He knows we know. But you didn't, huh?'
'I don't know everything about his business. It's some kind of an investment corporation.'
'Not this one,' Louis said. 'It's a private account. He's the only one in it.'
'Maybe your information's wrong.'
'It's the fifty grand a month he's been taking out of the apartments in Detroit,' Louis said. 'He's been going down there what, about two years?'
Mickey didn't answer. It was two and a half years, at least. Frank going to Freeport every month for a day or two while the Fairway Manor project was under way. Then, more recently, going for several days each month, working on land development with foreign investors, Frank had told her. This time the Japanese. He could have told her anything. But he hadn't said a word about apartment buildings in Detroit. She wondered if the man sitting in the rocker thought she was dumb. The poor dumb wife who didn't know anything. God, still worried about keeping up appearances. What difference did it make what he thought?
She said, 'Tell me about the apartments in Detroit,' and listened to the man sitting in the rocker, hearing his words ... her husband renovating apartment buildings with stolen materials and appliances ... grossing at least a $100,000 a month, renting to pimps and prostitutes ... taking out about half without reporting it as income, putting it away in a numbered bank account ...
And the girl, Melanie (wondering what she looked like) ...
Listening and realizing she had lived with a man fifteen years without knowing him. For the time being, Mickey was in her stunned period.
At seven-thirty Tuesday morning, Frank had a gin and grapefruit juice. Melanie made it for him--a weak one, he told her--and brought it to him on the balcony where he sat in a terry-cloth robe, a convalescent, staring at the deserted 18th fairway. He'd slept about an hour. He needed the drink in order to come down, relax, get his thinking in order. Melanie told him yes, it would be good for him. She knew enough to keep quiet but to be there, in a bleached-cotton caftan, watching him and willing to sympathize, encourage, as he began to rationalize.
He had told her about it because he had to tell someone, feel some kind of support, hear his thinking affirmed. He told himself she was intelligent, understanding--Then told her--this was incredible-- his wife had been kidnapped, honest to God, and was being held for ransom. Melanie said, For how much?
She brought him another drink and said, Do you have any idea who they are? He said no. Could they be Bahamian? No. Could they have called from the island? No, he could tell by the connection it was long distance. Melanie waited a bit. She said, You can't risk going to the police, can you? He said no. She said, Even if you pay them, there's no assurance they would release her, is there? He said no. She said, You can't deal reasonably with people like that, take their word. You don't know what they might do. Weirdos, they could panic, they could be spaced out of their minds on something. She said, Frank, your wife might even be dead already. Do you realize that? He said it was possible. She said, You didn't tell me how much they want. He said, A million dollars. She said, to herself, Un-fuckingreal, went inside to the bar and made him another drink and one for herself. For ten months she had been selling Frank short.
She kissed him on the cheek and sat down with him. The first of the early morning golfers were going by now, teeing off on 18.
Frank watched them. He said, 'Keep your elbow in.'
Melanie said, 'You're cute, you know it?' Frank said, 'See, he hooked it.'
She said wasn't it strange, filing for divorce and then this happening? Not wanting to be married to her but, gosh, not wanting anything awful to happen to her either. At least if you could help it. The trouble was, they could do anything they wanted, couldn't they? They were in control. He supposed so. She said, You could pay them the million and they still might--rephrase that--you still might never see her again.
'Or what if I couldn't get to the bank for some reason?' Frank said. 'I didn't make the payment in time?'
'Right. What would happen?'
'We don't know,' Frank said. 'We don't know if they mean it, do we?'
'We sure don't,' Melanie said. She liked the sound of that 'we' and said, 'Well, we could call their bluff, see what happens.'
'Can we risk it?' Frank said, thoughtful, staring down the fairway at the golf carts moving off.
'Turn it around,' Melanie said. 'I mean put yourself in their place. Where would you be if she was dead?'
Tuesday evening they let Mickey take a shower-- she had to put on the same white slacks and blue cotton shirt--and gave her pot roast and noodles for supper. The one who had talked to her before, with the dark curly hair, came in to take the tray.
'If you're finished--' His voice was somewhat familiar--his quiet tone, his manner--but she couldn't be sure.
'Do you have today's paper? I wouldn't mind something to read.'
'You aren't in it,' Louis said. 'You weren't on TV again either. I think your friend forgot about you.'
Mickey said, 'I thought I was going home this afternoon.'
Louis didn't say anything right away. He put the tray down and came around to where she was sitting in the rocker and sat on the side of the bed, their positions reversed. He could see part of her face very faintly. She had seen his then, after the business with the masks. He didn't care. It was strange, downstairs with Ordell--even today, waiting all day, nothing--he felt pretty good. Upstairs, he felt depressed.
Louis said, 'He hasn't paid yet.'
'How is he supposed to do it? It might take time.'
'No, that's not a problem.'
'Can I ask how much you want?'
