Mickey said, "What?" She took another moment and said, "Oh, he's right here."
She listened to Frank say, "No, partner, I told you this morning I'm gonna be away. You remember now? ... That's right. Yeah, Bo and I are leaving eleven oh five ... You bet, partner. Shake it easy."
Coming away from the phone Frank said, "I think Marsh's getting hardening of the arteries."
Leave by ten they'd have plenty of time to make the flight, Frank said. He preferred to race to the airport rather than wait around at the gate with the amateur travelers who checked in a half hour or more ahead of time.
When they had finally gone, Mickey sat down at the breakfast table with a cup of coffee and her grocery list note pad. She wrote at the top of the page:
EXCUSES --JUSTIFICATION
She was thinking of Bo. Maybe he did get it from her.
No. She didn't make excuses. At least not out loud. She kept them to herself. What she did, when Frank annoyed her she would make harmless-sounding remarks she knew would irritate him-- not often but often enough--then innocently cover up with, "All I said was--" She would jab lightly with the needle and then duck, instead of getting mad and letting him know how she felt.
Now then--In a stab at self-analysis she wrote:
Why don't you ever speak up to Frank when he (she almost wrote "pisses you off") does something you don't like?
She began listing the reasons, adding her reactions to the reasons, her excuses, as she went along.
Because you shouldn't get mad. (Says the goody-goody)
If you raise your voice, Frank raises his louder. (An assumption, you've never raised yours)
Frank won't listen to you anyway. You're only his wife.
(Poor me. Meant to be funny (?)
Frank isn't aware enough to know there's a problem, a personality conflict.
(How could he if you keep it a secret?)
The final reason drew no reaction. There was no excuse for the excuse and it remained simply:
No guts.
Marshall called back at 11:30, the house quiet, Mickey upstairs getting ready for bed. He said, "Now is the coast clear?" The jerk.
She tried to sound a little annoyed. Don't call again, please. She had no intention of having lunch with him and that was that. Then said, "Let's not do anything dumb, okay?" Including herself in the game so he wouldn't be blamed entirely. Why couldn't she simply tell him to bag his ass?
"We'll talk about it. I mean we'll talk about us tomorrow," Marshall said. "I'll pick you up about one o'clock."
"I won't be here." Desperate. "I have to take my car in tomorrow."
"What's wrong with your car?" "Oh--somebody ran into it."
"Let Frank take care of it," Marshall said. "Listen, the only time I can make it is around one. I'll call you first, give you the exact time. See, then I'll pull up in back, you run out and jump in. Right? Right. I'll see you." He hung up.
She wondered what it would be like if she did fool around a little, had an affair. Go to bed with someone else. If somehow it was all right.
Out of all the men at the club, which one would she pick?
Mickey thought about it, putting on her long pajama top, getting into bed, and reached a conclusion before turning out the light.
None of them.
At 3:30 the phone rang again. Mickey groped for it in the dark.
Her mother said, "Mickey?" making sure. Well, Bo arrived safely but hungry. She had given him a piece of homemade lemon pie and a glass of milk and finally marched him off to bed in the guest room that would be Bo's room for the next month, with his own bathroom, his towels and washcloth laid out ... and on and on and on, so Mickey was to relax and not worry about a thing. Mickey said that's fine, Mom. She said, "Are dad and Frank still up?" Her mother said, Frank? They wanted him to come home with them and offered to drive him back, but Frank said it was too much trouble. He was on the 7 o'clock shuttle to Freeport and insisted on staying at the airport. Said we'd just get home and have to come back. After a moment, Mickey said, "Well, you know Frank--" Her mother said, Do I. Frank and your father, those two would be up all night talking business. She said well, that's all she had to report. Mickey could sleep in peace now.
Mickey said, "Thanks, mom, g'night." And lay awake for at least an hour.
Chapter 8
ORDELL BROUGHT OUT HIS BOX OF HALLOWEEN MASKS, set it on the coffee table in front of Louis and said, "Now you know how long I've been working on this deal."
They were in Ordell's apartment, Louis stretched out in a La-Z-Boy recliner with the Magic Ottoman up. He'd been sitting here four days on and off, since Ordell had met him at Detroit Metro and told Louis he was coming home with him. Louis had said home where? Some place in Niggerville? Or-dell said no, man, nice integrated neighborhood. Ofays, Arabs, Chaldeans, a few colored folks. Ethnic, man. Eyetalian grocery, Armenian party store, Lebanese restaurant, a Greek Coney Island Red Hot where the whores had their coffee, a block of Adult Entertainment, 24-hour dirty movies, a club that locked the doors and showed you some bottomless go-go and a park where you could play 18 holes of golf. Does it excite you?
"I used to live there," Louis said. "Six Mile and Woodward."
"Live there again till you rich," Ordell said.
Louis had thought he should go to his sister's in Allen Park and take his chances on whether he and her husband Chuck would be swinging at each other by the second day. But once he stepped into Ordell's big four-bedroom apartment with a den, a dining room and a lady who came in to cook and clean anytime Ordell phoned her, well, this was the place.
Ordell had leased it a year ago when he was tight with a lady named Sandy and Sandy had invited two girlfriends to live with them who gave Ordell "rent money," twenty per cent of what they made entertaining tricks, so it wasn't like Ordell was pimping. They were cute ladies and the rent money they paid was usually twice as much as the $400 a month Ordell paid.
He liked it during the day, the cute ladies sitting around playing music, laughing at things he said. But he didn't care for the white Johns any, their attitude. Mostly it was a businessman who'd bring a customer to have a party and try grass and cocaine for the first time. (The ladies usually kept a couple of grams in the refrigerator. Ordell said he would not tolerate any scag though. He told them if he saw any lady in a scag nod he'd throw her ass out the window.) So Ordell would have these businessmen stumbling around in their skivvies sneezing, spilling drinks, shit, middle-aged jitterbugs trying to dance salsa with the cute ladies who'd be giggling, having some fun with them. Ordell said he knocked that shit off after four months and Sandy left with her girlfriends.
Ordell said he saw the man right here the first time. The man had brought somebody worked for a bank and bought them a $200 evening, about four hours worth of bullshit and a half hour in the bed. Ordell had found out the man was a big condominium developer-builder in the suburbs and, Sandy said Gigi said, he was also a property owner downtown. Property owner meaning a slum landlord, Ordell had thought at first.
"But no. Property owner meaning Dynamic Realty, which is the same almost as Dynamic Improvement Company," Ordell had said to Louis Sunday evening, driving home from the tour. "Now, you understand what I'm saying?" Louis had said, "Not all the way yet, but it's coming together."
So Louis had been sitting in the La-Z-Boy and getting up to eat, sitting there and getting up to go out and pick up a lady and get laid, twice--in between listening to Ordell tell him how they were going to make a million dollars and looking at the sights Ordell showed him. Louis did not get excited or ask many questions. He let Ordell make his presentation and dribble out things the way he wanted, taking his time. As Ordell said, "Be cool, Louis. You ain't got to be anywhere but with me." (For about six years, in high school and in the Navy and a little after that, Louis had been Lou; but Ordell always called him Louis. Ordell said, "Looo. That's not a name, man, that's a sound. Some places it's a toilet.")