She stubbed out the cigarette, with time enough to reach the women's locker room before he saw her. But she waited, wondering if he knew. Coming up the steps to the lobby, seeing her then, his expression answered her question.

"Barb-" The sad, sympathetic look, coming over to her with his hand extended. He was the only person she knew who called her Barb.

Ross got two cans of Tab from the machine, steered her over to a couch-where they'd be more comfortable and out of the traffic-and they went through the preliminaries. I'm so sorry. Thank you. God, when Mitch told me I couldn't believe it. I'm really extremely sorry. Well, I guess it happens. Do you think he's serious? I mean how serious is it? I was going to ask you the same question.

"I've got an idea," Ross said. "Why don't we have dinner tonight?"

"Thank you, but I don't think so."

"Now wait. Have you talked to anyone about it?"

"No, not yet."

"I mean do you have someone you can talk to?"

She said, "A shoulder to cry on?"

Ross gave her a sad smile. "Maybe you do cry sometimes, Barb, but I'll bet not very often. You keep it inside, and that's not good."

"I cry," she said. "I can probably cry as well as anyone you know."

"Barb-I'm sorry. Really. I'd like very much to help you any way I can. I'm not a professional counselor, I'm a friend, and I know both of you very well. I've talked to Mitch and now, if you'll let me, I'd like to talk to you, or I'll keep my mouth shut and listen if you'd rather. Or we can talk about anything you want, take your mind off it. Barb-" He paused. "I think a quiet dinner would do you good. In fact, it might do us both good."

She did not need Ross: his pseudosympathy or help or whatever he had in mind. God, she knew Ross well enough. But he had obviously talked to Mitch and maybe he did know a little more than she what was on her husband's mind. It was a possibility. He might even know the girl.

Barbara waited, making up her mind, before nodding slowly, looking at him. "All right, Ross," she said. "Let's do it. See what happens."

9

Leo Frank was tired of sitting and tired of reading the article about the 130-year-old jig who lived down in Florida somewhere. It sounded like a bunch of shit, what the guy was supposed to have remembered, and was written with a lot of dialect that was hard to pronounce and didn't make much sense. So he got up from his desk and went outside for some air. He stood on the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets, his back to the painted glass that said nude models. It was cool, about forty degrees out, damp and overcast with a shitty-looking sky-spring in Detroit-cars streaming up and down Woodward Avenue making hissing sounds on the wet pavement. He had one customer inside. Three in the last two hours. There was nothing to do. The guy was supposed to drop the money tonight and they'd go out to Metro. But until then there wasn't a goddamn thing to do.

When he looked over and saw Mitchell across the street-the guy, actually the guy standing there-he felt something jump inside his stomach and he knew he had to move, right now. He thought of running. But he made himself turn and go back inside. The three girls looked up at the sound of the door and glanced at Leo as he walked past them.

"I'm going out for a while," he said. "One of you can handle it, okay? Box's in the right-hand desk drawer."

The three girls went back to their cigarette smoking, magazine reading and nail filing as he walked down the hall.

Leo Frank opened the back door that led to the alley where he parked his car. Looking over his shoulder, down the hall, he let the door close again and ducked quickly into the last cubicle, the one that served as his private office and interview room and was practically wallpapered with photographs of nude girls.

When he got Alan on the phone-after seven rings, the slow-moving son of a bitch-he said, "He's coming here again. Honest to Christ, crossing the street."

Alan asked him where he was and Leo told him, in his office.

That was good. Alan Raimy, in his own confined office at the Imperial Art Theater, could picture Leo surrounded by the nude shots, sweating. He could almost hear him sweating, mixing the odor of his body with the smell of the cheap cologne he practically poured all over himself.

Alan said, "Leo, stay where you are, all right? Jesus, wait a minute. What'd you tell the girls?… That's fine, Leo. See, you're thinking. There's nothing to get excited about… No, stay right where you are. Leo, listen to me. Sit there, have a joint, play with yourself or something, but don't move. I'll be over, I'll come in the back door. Just keep in mind he doesn't know who you are. Keep telling yourself that, Leo. He doesn't… know… who… you… are." Alan hung up. He said to himself, Jesus Christ.

Mitchell remembered their names, the same three girls sitting in the same left-to-right order on the porch chairs: Peggy, Terry and Mary Lou. They looked up, stared at him and Peggy said, "You ever find her? What was her name? Cini?"

He shook his head. "I'm looking for the manager. The guy that was at the desk before."

"Leo stepped out. Said he'd be out for a while."

"How long ago was that?"

"Just a few minutes."

"His name's Leo?"

"Leo Frank," the girl said.

"Well…" Mitchell looked around the room, his gaze finally going to the desk and the empty chair next to it. "I might as well sit down then, huh?"

Nobody seemed to care. Peggy said, "Help yourself."

After a few moments he reached over and picked up the magazine that was open on the desk and began reading about a 130-year-old colored man who lived in Florida and sat all day on a bus-stop bench in front of his one-room house. He was reading about how the man had lived in the West and claimed to have known Jesse James and Billy the Kid, when Doreen came into the room from the hallway. She was followed by a young guy who passed her quickly without saying anything, glanced at Mitchell and went out the door. Mitchell watched Doreen drop into a chair, shaking her head.

"Those shoe clerks get spookier every day," Doreen said. "You know what he wanted me to do?"

Peggy said, "Go pee-pee on him."

"On his face," Doreen said.

"I know, I've had him," Peggy said. "How'd he like it?"

"I told him if he wanted a kick, go stick his head in the toilet and flush it."

"He probably does that at home," Peggy said. "Weird ones don't bother me anymore. After a while, what's weird?"

Mitchell looked down at the face of the 130-year-old man. He was sure. Still he waited a moment before looking up at the black girl again.

He said, "Doreen?"

Her expression brightened as she met his gaze. "Yeah, love. You want to take my picture?"

In the room she said, "You know my name, you must've been here before."

"Couple of times," Mitchell said. "And I saw you over at the go-go place. You don't work there anymore?"

"Kit Kat? Yeah, I work here and there, and around." She untied her blouse, knotted beneath her breasts, and let it fall open. "I've seen you too, but I'm having trouble placing the face exactly."

"Times I came here, I stopped over at the bar first."

"Get up your nerve?"

"No, I don't see anything wrong coming here. As long as it's legal."

"I admire your liberal attitude," Doreen said. Her hands were in the waist of her light white slacks. "Now, are you just a tit man or do you want the whole show?"

Mitchell raised the Polaroid he'd taken from the desk, aimed it at her and snapped a picture. "We can start and see what happens. Work up to it."

Doreen grinned. "Work you up. Whatever you want to do, love, long as it ain't against my religion."

"It was at the bar," Mitchell said then. "I remember, I met you there a few months ago."