'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
