"So, as I mentioned," Alan said, "the guy tells me he wants to talk about his financial situation. That's all he says. Except I got to come alone. Why?"

"That's the question," Bobby Shy said. "Now what's the answer?"

"Right away, I think he's pulling some kind of shit. Like the cops are there, waiting in the bushes. I walk in, he makes a payoff and they hit me. But then I think, why just me? If the cops are on it they'd want all of us. Right?"

"Or," Bobby said, "they take you, figure you'll tell them about the rest."

"Come on," Alan said. "It's easier to hit all three. It's done. We're standing there holding the fucking money."

"Doesn't answer the question, does it?" Bobby Shy said. "Why he wants you to come alone."

"I think we only got one way to find out," Alan said. "I go see the guy."

Bobby Shy's gaze stayed on him. "You and him don't happen to have something going, do you?"

"You want to go instead of me?" Alan stared back at him. "I don't care, man. You go, find out what he wants. Then it's your ass if he's pulling shit, man, not mine." Alan waited. That ought to be enough. He didn't want to overdo it.

Bobby Shy grinned out of the deep flowery cushion of the couch. It was a lovely high he could feel all over him with everything clear and cool and not to be wasted hassling this skinny puff-mouth little dude with the hair. He said, "Hey, be nice. You go see the man, tell me what he says. I believe you. Why shouldn't I believe you? We all in this."

Leo Frank said, "Ask him who told you. Ask him if it was me. You'll find out."

Alan gave them each a little more time. No hurry. No need to talk anymore. Okay, wrap it up. "All right," he said. "Meet at my place tomorrow. Same time." He started for the door, then turned and looked at Bobby again.

"That tour bus stick-up. I finally figured who the cat was."

Bobby Shy's eyes were half-closed. "Is that right?"

"Paper said you got over four thousand."

"Shit."

"You're a regular fucking cowboy, aren't you?"

"I thought you'd like it."

"I don't know," Alan said. "Kind of dumb, but stylish."

"You trying to tell me something?"

Alan winked at him. "I'm saying I know you did it, man, that's all."

Bobby Shy sat on the edge of the double bed looking down at Doreen: soft brown face a little puffy with sleep, the long black eyelashes she stuck on one at a time closed over her eyes. Sweet girl breathing quietly, her face raised, her naked body forming a half-twist beneath the sheet, giving him the firm curve of her hip against the thigh.

He said quietly, "Doreen?"

He said her name again and this time gently squeezed her bare shoulder. "Hey, baby, come on. Time to get up, cook me something." His hand moved from her shoulder to the pillow next to her, pulled it across her body and laid it on his lap. The movement opened her eyes. They stared at him calmly, moved to look at the square of daylight on the window shade and came back to his face again.

"What time is it?"

"About three."

"Seven o'clock this morning, man wants to start all over. I say hey, get your ass out, baby, go to work. He say, real surprised, 'I'll pay you.' "

"What man was that?"

"Seven in the morning. I tell him, baby, I don't even do it for fun seven in the morning."

"His name Mitchell? Was a friend of Cini's?"

Doreen didn't move; she kept her eyes on Bobby Shy's face and after a moment, said, "No, it wasn't him. Somebody else."

"Was he here yesterday?"

"Who?"

"Man name Mitchell."

"Yesterday. Yeah-about four. I told him I was expecting somebody."

"What else you tell him?"

"I told him to come back sometime."

"What else?"

"What do I know I can tell him? I don't know anything."

Bobby Shy raised the pillow. He saw her eyes briefly before he dropped the pillow over her face and pressed down on it with his hands spread open, his arms rigid. He turned his head to the side as she clawed at him and kicked and her body thrashed beneath the sheet.

When he lifted the pillow he saw her eyes again, like they'd been open all the time. She gasped and said almost immediately, "I don't know anything to tell him!"

"You know me," Bobby Shy said. "You know people I know."

She was rigid, afraid to move; afraid to say the wrong thing.

"He ask you any questions?"

"He was only here five minutes. I ask him he want a drink, he say yes, I give him one."

"He come to buy or talk?"

"I told him I was busy, he finish the drink and left."

"You don't answer none of my questions," Bobby Shy said. He raised the pillow again and had to force it down over her face, fight through her hands trying to push it away. He saw her eyes again and could put himself in her place and know what she was seeing. Then he was looking down at the pillow, feeling her body twisting against him, her legs coming up and straightening and coming up again. He saw, close to him, her underarm and a trace of powder and fine little black dots in the deep hollow. She was thin and wiry, tough little hundred-pound chick would fight as long as she could stay alive and probably keep moving after she was past it. Her legs straightened again and stiffened. Her arm, raised, close to his face, seemed to go limp and come down slowly, outstretched.

Bobby Shy lifted the pillow to see her eyes still open. They looked dreamy. She breathed in air and let it out and began to take short little quick breaths like she'd been running. Her eyes stared at him with the dull dreamy look, something gone out of them. Sweet girl going to sleep, too tired to speak.

Bobby Shy said, "One more time. You tell him where I or anybody I know works or lives?"

Doreen's head moved on the pillow, just a little, from side to side. "I didn't. Please-"

"Hey, you feel all right?"

"Believe me? Please, I didn't tell him nothing."

"I believe you," Bobby Shy said. "I believe everybody."

"I told him I was busy. That's all I said to him."

Bobby Shy leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. "Baby, why don't you sleep some more? You going to sleep, hey, keep telling yourself, I ain't ever going to talk to that man again. I ain't ever going to look at him. He come here, shit, I slam the door in his face. Hey, Doreen?" Bobby Shy said. "Do that, everything will be lovely."

Alan drove Leo's white T-bird out to Ranco Manufacturing. His own car, a yellow Datsun 240Z, had been gone almost two months. Stolen. Parked in front of the movie theater not ten minutes in the no-parking zone while he ran in to check receipts on his day off and the car was gone when he came out. He called the police every day for three or four weeks, reminding them it was a yellow Datsun 240Z, for Christ sake, with an eight-track Panasonic outfit, wire wheels and Michelin X radials-asking them how many yellow Datsun 240Z's did they think there were in Detroit or northern Ohio or Indiana or wherever cars went to get sold or dumped. They told him, each time, don't worry, it would turn up. Of course it would probably be stripped of the eight-track Panasonic outfit, the wire wheels and the Michelin X radials, and would probably need some bodywork, but it would turn up. The pricks. Alan stopped calling the police right after he found out about Harry Mitchell of Ranco Manufacturing and looked him up, checked him out, got his D and B and everything but a urine specimen and knew he was the guy to hit. The one he and Leo had been waiting for.

Alan parked the T-bird across the street from the plant, a half-block away, and watched as the line of headlights, the second-shift employees, came out the drive from the parking lot behind the place and turned into the street. Some of the cars came out and made a little jog over to the Pine Top Bar. Alan could see the green neon sign in his rearview mirror, a couple hundred feet behind him. He waited until the driveway cleared, then waited another fifteen minutes to be sure. He didn't like it at all. Would have to watch what he said, in case Mitchell's office was bugged. He would accept no money tonight, even if he was offered the whole load, in case the cops were waiting in the next room or in the goddamn closet. What could they get him for?