Mitchell nodded. He looked at his watch. It was twenty to four. He took a sip of beer and was glad it tasted good and went down easily. Maybe he'd have another one before he went home. He looked around at the skinny girl with the small breasts doing her number, eyes still closed. After a moment he turned to his beer again, finished it and left.
Alan Raimy, at the end of the bar near the door, signaled the bartender.
"You want another Fresca?" the bartender said.
Alan shook his head. "Eddie, that guy just walked out, what was he looking for, some tail?"
"I don't know what he was looking for. He asked was Doreen working today."
Alan grinned. "No shit. Goes for the black stuff. You never know, do you?" The bartender didn't answer, and Alan said, "You seen Bobby? He been in?"
"Unh-unh," the bartender said picking up the empty Fresca can, "I ain't seen him all day."
The Gray Line sightseeing bus was approaching the foot of Woodward Avenue when Bobby Shy started up the aisle in his light-gray business suit and sunglasses, past the thirty-six heads he had counted from his seat in the rear. They were mostly couples, out-of-town conventioneers and their wives, middle-aged or older, almost all of them wearing glasses and name tags.
"That beautiful structure on the left is the City-County Building," the driver was saying into the mike clipped to his lapel. "And the statue in front is the world-famous 'Spirit of Detroit.' Sitting there, that man is sixteen feet high and weighs over sixteen thousand pounds. Ahead of us now you see the Detroit River."
As the bus turned left onto Jefferson, heads raised and gazes shifted to look at the river and the dismal gray skyline beyond.
"Across the way, beautiful downtown Windsor, Ontario," the driver said. "You can get over to Canada by tunnel or bridge. There used to be a ferry, but I believe he was arrested sometime back. The amazing thing is that, at this particular point, Canada is south of the United States."
At the front of the bus now Bobby Shy ducked his head to look out. Straightening again he reached inside the jacket of his light-gray business suit, came out with a.38 Colt Special and placed the barrel gently against the driver's ear.
"Give me the mike, man," Bobby Shy said.
The driver's head turned, eyes raised, and the bus swerved abruptly into the next lane. The sound of a horn came from behind them. Bobby Shy looked back past the faces staring at him, then at the driver again. He said, "Be cool, man, everything will be lovely. Turn left at the light. Three blocks up take a right, then left again. You dig? Just nod your head."
Bobby Shy unclipped the handmike from the driver's lapel and turned to the faces again, the rows of eyeglasses and white round nametags.
He said, "Ladies and gentlemen, you all see how it is? I'm sure you all want everything to be lovely same as I do. Because if you don't, if anybody tries to be brave, I'm going to blow this motherfucker's head off.." He paused and nodded toward the back of the bus.
"As we continue this sightseeing tour of the dynamic Motor City, my assistant is going to pass up the aisle for your contributions."
Doreen was wearing sunglasses and a blond wig with a nice little flip-up where it reached her slim shoulders. She got out of her seat and started up the aisle with an A amp;P supermarket grocery bag, the top of it folded back tightly so it would stay open.
As the bus turned the corner, Bobby Shy said, "Feel free to give my assistant your wallets, billfolds, money belts, watches, jewelry. I mean don't hold back, 'cause we robbing the stagecoach, friends, taking everything you got."
Doreen offered the open bag from one side of the aisle to the other, not missing anybody, saying, "Thank you, love… thank you… God bless you, ma'am, I sure admire those earrings. They real diamonds?… Sir, we'll take your watch too, if you don't mind. Thank you, love. God bless you."
When the bus turned north, onto a main street in the black ghetto area, Bobby Shy said, "On the left coming up, past the hockshop and the poolhall, is the world-famous K.O.'s Bar-b-que y'all heard so much about. Past two a.m. you can get a drink in there with your ribs. Any kind you want, comes in a Co'Cola can." Looking down the aisle, Bobby Shy paused.
"Man, put your wallet in there, will you please? Thank you."
He ducked his head to look through the windshield again. "For you gentlemen, up over that bar on the corner? That's a whorehouse. Nice clean establishment. Those places you see boarded up? Historic remains of the riot we had a few years ago. Got me a fine hi-fi set and a 'lectric toothbrush… color TV for my mama." To the driver he said, "Right at the next corner. Go to the end of the street."
Doreen was near the front of the bus now, finishing up.
"How we doing?"
"Looks good," Doreen said. "Some junk and travelers' checks, but looks good."
At the end of the street the bus came to a stop in front of a black-and-white-striped dead-end barricade.
Bobby Shy grinned at the rows of tense, blank faces watching him. He said, "Detroit's a great big wonderful town, ain't it, gang? Enjoy yourselves. And thank you."
The driver and the sightseers watched Bobby Shy and Doreen make their way down the grassy embankment to the Chrysler Freeway, gauge the traffic, run across to the median, wait for the oncoming cars to pass and then run across to the other side and up the embankment. A car was waiting for them in the service drive. The car started off, in plain sight, moving through an area that had been razed for redevelopment, then reached a tree-lined block of old apartment buildings and was out of sight.
The John waited in the doorway. He didn't move until Doreen had turned on a lamp. He walked in then, slightly drunk, looking around the apartment living room and nodding.
"You got a nice place here," the John said. "Very sexy. You must do all right."
When he looked at Doreen again her flip-up wig was perched on a fat candle in the center of the coffee table and she was at the record player, turning it on. Her hairstyle was natural, moderately full.
"You want a drink or something first?" Doreen asked.
"You got any… pot?"
"I think so, I'll look. Sit down, take your coat off if you want." Aretha Franklin came on softly as she spoke.
The John watched her remove a book from a shelf, open it and take out a white number 10 envelope. He sat down on the couch, making himself comfortable.
"Hey, you didn't tell me your name."
She knelt at the coffee table to roll the joint. "I told you, you forgot. Doreen."
"You never told me how much, either."
"Kick your shoes off, love. Then we can talk business." She lighted the joint and handed it to him and watched him draw in. As he did his eyes opened, fixed on something, and he coughed, exhaling the smoke.
"Man," Doreen said, "you supposed to hold it in." She noticed the direction of his gaze and looked around.
Bobby Shy was standing in the doorway that led to a bedroom, standing there in his undershorts, an unlighted cigarette in his mouth.
"What time is it?" Bobby Shy said.
Doreen glanced at her watch. "Quarter to eleven. I thought you were sleeping."
He came over to the coffee table and picked up the lighter. The John didn't move. He stared at Bobby Shy, at the flat gut and sloping shoulders and the veins that stood out in his arms like cords. Lighting the cigarette Bobby Shy said, "How long you going to be?"
Doreen shrugged. "All night if he's up to it. No pun intended."
"I got to go out for a while." Going back to the bedroom he said, "Come here a minute."
The John watched Doreen get up and follow the black man to the doorway. When the black man looked at him, the John shifted his gaze quickly and studied an orange day-glo painting of Spanish galleons at sunset.
Bobby Shy said to Doreen, "He look like anything?"
"You want to hustle a shoe clerk," Doreen said. "He been saving his money and his little dick a month for this."
"I'll see you later," Bobby Shy said. Going into the bedroom, closing the door, he heard Doreen say, "He's just a friend of mine, baby. He don't mind."