''If I told you what it cost a year, would you believe six, seven thousand?''
'. . . a merry grin on his handsome face.' Frank loved to say 'would you believe.' He loved to talk about money, what things cost.
At five to nine, though, he didn't seem ready to talk about anything. Frank came into the kitchen wearing his yellow golf outfit and carrying an old pair of loafers, his eyes watery, glazed.
'You didn't call me.'
'I didn't know you were playing.'
'I never play on Sunday, uh?'
'I mean this early. You didn't say anything.' 'We've got a 9:30 starting time. Overhill and some guy that works for him.'
'Who's Overhill? Aren't you gonna have coffee?'
'No, just some juice, tomato juice. You know him; we had them out last year. Larry Overhill, the big guy with the laugh. He's got a slice and about a thirty-five handicap.'
'Why're you playing with him then?'
'You kidding? He's loan officer at Birmingham Federal. Listen, I was thinking--' He paused to drink down half the tomato juice. 'Since I'm going to Freeport the end of the week--I told you that, didn't I?'
'I don't think so, you might have.'
'We've got some investors, a group, coming all the way from Japan, if you can believe it. All the islands over there, they're looking in the Bahamas.
So--I thought why not fly down with Bo this evening, see your folks. They probably have some questions, how late he can stay out, all that.'
'I've been on the phone with my mother practically every day this week,' Mickey said.
'Also it'll give Bo and I a chance to talk,' Frank said. 'See if I can get a few things straightened out about his attitude.'
Mickey watched him pour another ten-ounce glass of juice. Was he kidding or what? He looked terrible, as though he could use another five hours of sleep; but he kept busy, putting on his shoes now, trying to act as though he felt normal. In their fifteen years together, Frank had never admitted having a hangover.
'The flight's at 6:30,' Mickey said.
'I know, I called and made a reservation.' He glanced up at her. 'Couple of days ago. I thought I told you.'
He was rushing it at her. 'Let me get it straight,' Mickey said. 'You'll drop Bo off, see my folks and what, hang around Lauderdale a few days before going to Freeport?'
'Either way. I can see your folks. Then, I can stop at the tennis camp on the way back, like Friday, and come home Saturday.'
'So you'll be gone all week.'
'Now you've got it,' Frank said.
'Well, okay. Then I'll drive you to the airport?'
'No, I'll drive, leave the car there. It's a lot easier, in case I get in late.' Frank finished his tomato juice, getting every drop. 'I drive, Bo and I can talk in the car.'
There were questions she wanted to ask; but he would tell her he didn't have time now; later. So she said, 'Bo has a match at one, the Inter-club. Are you gonna watch it?'
'I'll see. It depends on what time I get finished. So--'
She raised her face for the kiss on the cheek and felt his hand slide down the tennis dress to pat her can.
'--I'm off.'
'Your name's in the paper, Frank.'
'Hey, really? The club championship?' Turning back to her, his eyes seemed almost bright.
'No, it's about kids playing tennis. Remember we talked to the girl, the reporter? At Orchard Lake.'
'Oh.' He picked up the paper, glanced at the page a moment and dropped it on the counter. 'Good shot of Bo. What's it say, anything?'
'You can read it later.'
'Yeah, save it. Well--I'm off.' He always said, 'I'm off.'
Frank went out the door that led to the attached garage. The door closed behind him. Mickey waited. The door opened again and Frank was looking in at her, frowning, scowling.
'What in the hell you do to your car, for Christ sake?'
Chapter 3
SUNDAY, A NICE SUNNY DAY, Ordell Robbie and Louis Gara were out for a ride in Ordell's tan Ford van. It was mostly tan. What made it stylish was the blackyellow-red stripe of paint worn low around the van's boxy hips. The tan van for the tan man, Or-dell said.
He had not seen his friend Louis Gara in almost three years. Louis had been down in Huntsville, Texas, keeping fit, clearing scrub all day, having his supper at five P. M. and turning the light out at ten. Louis was back home and Ordell was showing him the latest sights of the Motor Capital. Things like the Renaissance Center on the riverfront, all that glass and steel rising up 700 feet in a five-tower complex.
Louis said, 'Wow. ' He said, 'It's big.'
Ordell squinted at him. 'That's all you can say? It's big?'
'It's really big,' Louis said. 'If it fell over you could walk across it to Canada.'
'Take you farther than that,' Ordell said. What he saw, looking up at the Plaza Hotel tower and the outside elevator tubes, the sun hitting on it hot and shiny, it looked like a gigantic spaceship could take you to the moon for about a buck seventy-five. Louis and Ordell had been smoking grass, too, lounged in the van's swivel captain's chairs, some Oliver Nelson electronic funk washing over them from four speakers as they drove around looking at the sights, working north from the river.
Six years ago Louis had been tapping a swizzle stick at Watts' Club Mozambique, messing up Groove Holmes' beat for Ordell who happened to be sitting next to Louis at the horseshoe bar. Ordell had put his hand with the jade ring on Louis' wrist and said, 'My man, we don't go to your clubs and fuck with the beat, do we?'
Louis was high that time and feeling love for mankind, so he didn't take Ordell and beat him up the side of his head. He put the swizzle stick down and let Ordell introduce him to Campari and soda and they discovered what a small world it was. Unbelievable. Both of them had been in Southern Ohio Correctional at the same time. No shit-- for true? But wait--and both of them had been in there for grand theft auto, supplying new Sevilles and Continentals to body shops and cutting plants down near Columbus.
They even looked somewhat alike, considering Ordell Robbie was a male Negro, 31, and Louis Gara was a male Caucasian, 34. Ordell was light-skinned and Louis was dark-skinned and that put them about even in shade. Ordell had a semi-full round afro, trimmed beard and bandit mustache. Louis had the mustache, and his head was working on a black curly natural, growing it out again after his time at Huntsville. Both were about six feet and stringy looking, weighing in around 160. Ordell wore gold-frame Spectra-Shades; he liked sunglasses and beads and rings. Louis wore a cap--this summer a faded tan cap--straight and low over his eyes. Louis didn't go in for jewelry; a watch was enough, a $1,200 Benrus he'd picked up at the Flamingo Motor Hotel, McAllen, Texas.
Ask ten girls which one they thought was better looking. It was close, but Louis would probably win six-to- four.
Woodward Avenue didn't look any different to Louis, the same bars, the same storefronts with grillwork over the show windows, a few more boarded up. It was a strange deserted big-city downtown with everybody staying out in their neighborhoods.
'Crime,' Ordell said. 'People afraid to come downtown; but there's no crime here. You see any crime in the streets?'
'Only the way you're driving,' Louis said. 'You're gonna get stopped for loitering.'
'Coleman's got to fix this city up,' Ordell said and sounded concerned, sitting low in his swivel seat, creeping
