"Now the bra-zeer," Richard said.
Her hands went behind her, unhooked the bra and pulled it off. My God, her nipples were sticking out.
"Now your pants and your undies," Richard said.
He was standing with his uniform trousers around his ankles, showing his round, marble-white thighs, thumbs hooked in his Jockeys, ready to push them down. The Mickey up above said, you poor little thing. I'd take my chances and kick him in the balls.
And was totally surprised when nice Mickey on the bed rolled back, came forward with momentum, eyes on Richard's crotch, and with a grunt and all the force she had drove her foot into the sagging pouch of his Jockeys.
Unbelievable, Richard saying, "Unnnngh!" doubling over, holding his groin, little Mickey rolling off the bed, grabbing her shirt, doing it almost as a reflex action--the shirt and the bra with it--running through the door and down the stairs, almost down the stairs--
Louis--she remembered his name--was near the bottom, already on the steps looking up at her.
Louis said, "Jesus Christ." Louis knew. One look at her, bare-chested, holding the shirt, Richard nowhere downstairs. He said, "Come on. Come on!" Reached up and tried to grab her arm as she held the shirt tightly against her. "Where is he?"
"In the room."
They heard Richard then, from upstairs, screaming, "Come back'n this room! You hear me!" "Jesus Christ," Louis said. "Come on."
She was into her shirt, holding it closed, ran out the front door and down to the walk, hearing Louis yell at her to get in the car, and turned and ran toward the driveway, cutting after him through the low hedge. The car was pointed toward the street. Inside, Louis fumbled with the keys. He got the right one into the ignition and started the car and she heard the fat one's voice again. "Get back in here!"
The car was moving. It shot down the driveway and Mickey held onto the seat and the door handle because the turn into the street would be abrupt, wrenching. But the car didn't turn, it kept going-- Louis pressing down on the accelerator--straight for the chainlink fence across the street, into a driveway toward closed double gates in the fence and a yellow sign that said FAIRGROUNDS PARKING USE GATE NO. 5.
The blue-and-white Detroit Police cruiser rolled past Grayling Elementary School on Bauman--a woman's voice crackling on the radio--reached the corner and came to a stop. After a pause the cruiser turned left onto State Fair.
The Detroit patrolman, looking straight ahead through his windshield, saw the black car come out of the drive halfway up the block and knew he was about to hear tires scream through a turn and if the guy didn't sideswipe some cars and pile up he'd be on him before he hit Woodward, nail him with the gumballs flashing blue and siren turned up to high yelp. Christ Almighty, but the car kept going. Smashed through the horse-trailer gate, smashed right through it, the cyclone swing-gates flying apart and the black car heading north through the empty fairgrounds. It looked good, it looked to be something different for a change.
The Detroit patrolman flipped on his Super Fireballs, took the radio mike off the hook.
Before he could say a word he heard the gunfire ... saw the fat guy on the porch, the guy holding his belly and blazing away with a revolver, shooting at the black car running away, the car nearly gone. Where in the hell was it? Up by the animal barns already.
The Detroit patrolman said to his mike, eyes staring through the windshield, "Seven four four two ... in the 1,000 block of State Fair east of Woodward. Request immediate backup. We got some kind of wild asshole here firing a revolver."
There were traces of yellow paint on the grille of the Hornet, from the sign that told about parking at Gate No. 5, the gate the car came darting out to turn right into Woodward Avenue. Seconds later they were cresting the overpass at Eight Mile Road, moving north into the suburbs. The Salem cigarette billboard against the sky, higher than the overpass, told them it was exactly 1:55.
Mickey had buttoned her shirt. She held her bra balled in both hands, her hands resting in her lap. She said, "Where're you taking me?"
"Where'm I taking you?" Louis looked at her, surprised. "I'm taking you home."
Neither of them spoke or looked at each other after that. They seemed interested in the traffic and the franchised food places, the drive-ins and car-dealer lots, moving through Ferndale, Royal Oak, Pleasant Ridge, some more of Royal Oak, out past the Mile Roads toward Birmingham and Bloomfield Hills.
In a little while Louis began to relax. He felt relieved. He didn't want to think about anything right now. He saw familiar signs and places, N & S Automotive. He began thinking of Mopars and Chevies and a '64 Barracuda with a blown Hemi in the rear end, "Hemi Under Glass," one of the first of the dragstrip showcars that did wheelies. He had seen it out at Detroit Dragway ... on the way to Toledo ... you went past on I-75 all the way to Miami. Then came back.
He said, "Right here, this stretch of North Woodward, used to be called the street-racing capital of the world. You know that?"
Mickey looked at him then. She said, "I don't want to go home."
Chapter 18
LOUIS TRIED TO IMAGINE EXPLAINING IT TO ORDELL. "What was I supposed to do, tell her get out of the car?"
Ordell would say, "Yes. She wouldn't get out, you push her out."
He'd say, "I know but, she didn't have any shoes on. She was sitting there holding her bra all bunched up. I didn't know where else to take her. She looked like she was in a daze and I couldn't think of any place."
Ordell would say to their lawyer, "This man's crazy. He's gonna get out for being mentally retarded and I'm gonna get ten to twenty-five."
Louis took Mickey to Ordell's big four-bedroom apartment overlooking Palmer Park. He sat her down in the living room in the La-Z-Boy, put her bare feet up on the Magic Ottoman that rose out of the chair and got her a vodka and tonic. She drank it down in about two minutes and he got her another one. She didn't ask where they were; she didn't ask him anything. She still seemed in a daze. Louis got himself a drink and put his feet on the coffee table where the box of Halloween masks was still sitting, now with a bunched-up bra lying next to the box. They sat there for awhile and didn't say anything.
What happened after that, during the afternoon and evening, Ordell wouldn't believe it if he told him. Mickey started talking.
She said, "I don't know what to do. I don't know what's going to happen."
Louis could have said something, a lot, but he didn't.
"I don't know what to say to my husband. I keep thinking about it. I think, after we say the first few things, like how are you and all, then there won't be anything to say and everything will be the same again." There was a long silence as she sat there holding her drink.
Louis said, "Well, you'll have enough to talk about," thinking, Jesus--"He'll want to know all about it."
"No, he won't."
"He'll ask you things. How you were treated--"
"Uh-unh. He'll ask me how I am, he'll say well, why don't you get some rest. And put it out of his mind."
"If you feel like telling him about it," Louis said--actually giving her advice; he couldn't believe it--"then tell him."
"He won't listen. He'll be moody for a day or so and then, it'll be like it never happened."
"Well, then grab him by the front of the shirt, say, Hey, listen, I got something to tell you."