The Switch Read online

  He walked over to the coffee table, fished Mickey’s bra out of the debris, then walked around to the La-Z-Boy where Melanie was lying in a halter top and cut-offs, long brown legs following the contour of the chair, her eyes closed. Louis lifted her hand by the wrist and removed the joint from between her fingers. It was dead. When he dropped her hand on her tummy again, Melanie half opened her eyes.

  “Fire inspector,” Louis said. “Go back to sleep.” He went out to the kitchen.

  Ordell was standing at the stove holding an iron skillet of mushrooms with a big mitten, smoke rising out of the pan.

  “Turn your fire down. It’s too hot.”

  “How long you cook these things?”

  “Few minutes,” Louis said. “You don’t cook ‘em, you get ‘em hot.”

  “Big girl say yeah, she knows how to cook. She either in the bed or the reclining chair,” Ordell said. He glanced toward Louis, his eyes going from the bra Louis was holding to Louis’ face, then looked at him again and saw Louis’ expression, the man waiting to be asked something, but not wanting to answer.

  Ordell knew. He said, “You don’t tell me. That was her called?”

  Louis nodded. “Honest to God.”

  “She coming right here?” Ordell began to grin.

  “We don’t know enough yet,” Louis said. “What do we know? The broad’s stoned since she’s been here.” He seemed edgy.

  “We know,” Ordell said. He was still grinning a little.

  Louis looked over at the stove. “You’re burning your mushrooms.”

  23

  * * *

  LOUIS WAS WAITING ON THE SIDEWALK in front of the apartment building, looking toward Woodward Avenue and the 6-o’clock traffic. The sun was still hot. He’d been sleepy most of the day, had smoked a couple of joints with Ordell and the big girl; now he felt like moving, doing something. He was excited and tried to stand still.

  When he saw Mickey’s Grand Prix turn the corner he stood at the curb and raised his hand as the car rolled by—she saw him—noticing the scraped sheetmetal and the fastener holes where the side molding belonged. He walked down and waited as she backed into a parking place, then, as she turned the engine off, opened the door for her.

  “I don’t believe it,” Louis said.

  “Who does?” Mickey said.

  He stepped back to look at her, making a little show of it. “I thought you were so anxious to change your clothes.”

  “I did. White pants look alike, but this is striped.”

  “I remember,” Louis said. “The one you had on was like a work shirt, light blue. And no bra?”

  “I’ve got a bra on. I have more than one bra,” Mickey said. “But I’ll tell you something— You hear that?”

  “What?”

  “That, ‘I’ll tell you something.’ I sound like you.”

  “I say that?” Louis’ face was composed; he seemed very happy, relaxed. But he was looking toward Woodward and holding back a little as they approached the apartment building.

  “The something I want to tell you—I really didn’t come to pick up the bra.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “I felt like talking. I feel like talking, and I don’t have anybody to talk to who really understands me, I don’t think.”

  “You got to e-nun-ci-ate your words,” Louis said.

  “They don’t see things the same way I do or something. I don’t know what it is, but I feel like talking and having a drink, one of those things you made. Is that all right, to invite myself?”

  “Sure it is, but there’s one problem.”

  “I talked to my husband—well, it was a couple of hours ago, and I got antsy, I couldn’t sit around or watch television, I had to talk to somebody . . . What problem? I know—Ordell’s back.”

  “Ordell and somebody else.”

  “No, really? They’re together?” Mickey stopped and Louis turned to stay with her.

  “The way things’ve been going,” Louis said, “how can you be surprised at anything?”

  “But why would they be together? Didn’t she come with my husband?”

  “She said your old man went home, wants to start over with you.”

  “He told her that?” Puzzled. “He wants a divorce. He hasn’t changed his mind.”

  “I don’t know, it’s what she says. Listen, this broad could tell you anything. Opens these big blue eyes—”

  “How old is she?”

  “I don’t know. Twenty-one.”

  “She have, you know, big boobs?”

  “Nice size.”

  “My husband, he even wants to marry her. I asked him and he said yes. He said, ‘I hope to.’ The asshole. I forgot to call him that.”

  “You don’t want him to marry her?”

  “No, I don’t care. He’s an asshole whatever he does. God, you can’t imagine how good I feel, relieved. It’s like I’ve been tied to him with a heavy rope and finally I got loose.”

  “I was thinking,” Louis said, “you want to talk, we can go to a bar somewhere, have a drink.”

  She thought about it and bit at her thumbnail looking toward Woodward Avenue and hearing the traffic, feeling the heat and the air close, unmoving. She was not used to the feeling, being in a city in the summertime. She was aware of experiencing something different and caught glimpses in her mind of tenement fire-escapes and men in their undershirts and whores in satin dresses on Gene Kelly’s 10th Avenue, a way whores would never look, but the glimpses were real in her mind, stimulating. She felt there was a great deal she’d been missing and had to see.

  “I’d like to meet her,” Mickey said.

  Melanie was reaching from the La-Z-Boy to the coffee table for a can of Coke. Head down, hair hanging, she held the pose to look over as the door opened.

  Ordell was sitting across from her, hands folded in his lap, smiling a little, being pleasant.

  He said, “Hey, Mickey. How you doing? Louis told me, I said hey, I don’t believe it.”

  Mickey came in, Louis close behind, her glance picking out her bra among the rubble, the same congestion that had covered the table two days ago, before looking at Ordell, at his white teeth in the closely trimmed beard. He reminded her of a desert Arab, not as dark as she thought he’d be in clear light.

  “Ordell, right?”

  “Yeah,” very slow and easy, “sit down. Louis, get the lady something.”

  She didn’t want him to leave her yet. She hadn’t looked at the girl, but glanced over now, sinking into the easy chair next to Ordell’s, across from the girl.

  “Mickey, say hello to Melanie,” Ordell said.

  “Jesus Christ,” Melanie said, pushing up on her elbows a little and tossing her hair from her face. “Honest to God?”

  Mickey said, “I’ve heard a lot about you.” Dumb, but it was an opening. She had to forget about being graded or topped by the girlfriend. The hell with her. She was a big, awkward-looking girl with a lot of unnecessary hair. Size 10 now, but in ten years her boobs would be hanging like melons and she’d be into a fourteen easily. Big girl with broad hips—she could see Frank with Melanie, Frank standing erect, trying to appear taller. The girl’s tan legs looked as though they joined her body at her navel, a deep round one; a blond belly dancer.

  Melanie was saying she’d heard a lot about Mickey too. (See? Was that so zingy?) Those guys were too much, Melanie said, out of fucking sight.

  You can take her, Mickey thought. Why not? She smiled and said, “Well, I was in the neighborhood, I thought why not stop in and see the gang.” She looked at Ordell, acting a little dumb. “Is that what you call yourselves, the gang?”

  “No, we jes folks here,” Ordell said, “don’t put on no airs,” giving her a little poor nigger, then raised his hands lazily and slapped his palms together, once. “Tell me how yo’ hubby is.”

  “He’s jes fine,” Mickey said. “If he doesn’t get gonorrhea or go to jail, as they say.” She wanted to look at Melanie, but couldn�
��t, not yet. She saw Ordell’s eyes open a little wider, his grin holding easily.

  And heard Melanie say, “Hey, come on, what’s going on? What’re you guys doing?”

  Louis came in and handed Mickey a tall collins topped with foam and a cherry.

  “Louis,” Melanie said, “who’s your friend? Come on.”

  Louis brought a chair over from the telephone table in the alcove and sat down next to Mickey. “I thought you were introduced. Melanie, Mickey. Mickey, Melanie.”

  “Bullshit,” Melanie said. “I know what you guys are doing, you’re too fucking much, passing this broad off as the wife. You have these routines, you put more into fooling around than you do in . . . whatever you fuckoffs are supposed to do, I haven’t a clue to that yet.”

  Louis sipped his drink, sitting stoop-shouldered in the straight chair, his legs crossed at the knees. “Mickey says her old man’s divorcing her.” Louis let that hang in the air.

  After a moment Ordell said, “You don’t tell me.”

  Mickey said, “I don’t want to stand in his way. He has his life, if you want to call it that, and I have mine.”

  “Say he’s divorcing you,” Ordell said.

  Melanie threw her hair aside. “And then she goes, ‘Yes he is.’ And then you go, ‘Oh, really? For true?’ Putting me on, but I like it, it’s a kick. So go right ahead.”

  “I say,” Mickey said, “or I go, If you don’t believe I’m real, do you want me to describe the apartment in Freeport?”

  “Ordell’s been there,” Melanie said. “He could’ve told you all about it.”

  “Then I say, Do you want me to describe Frank’s liver spot? It’s shaped like South America and located two inches west of the base of his spine. I assume you’ve been there,” Mickey said.

  “Wow,” Melanie said, smiling now. “I thought it looked more like Africa.”

  “It’s probably getting bigger,” Mickey said. “I haven’t seen it in awhile. Does he still march in with a towel over his arm?”

  “I’m trying to get him to be more spontaneous,” Melanie said, “but he’s very ritualistic, you know? Goes by the book. I tell him hey, it’s all right, but you’ve been reading the wrong book, man.” She squirmed her fanny in the La-Z-Boy. “I got to take a leak.”

  “Sit still,” Ordell said, looking at Melanie. “Man’s gonna divorce this lady. It seems he’s not going back and start over, is he?”

  “So I was wrong,” Melanie said. “Call Cedric and get the boat, what do you want me to do? I can’t help it if he tells me one thing, he tells her something else. Or she’s pissed off, she’s doing it.”

  Ordell looked at Mickey. “You mad at anybody?”

  “Not really,” Mickey said.

  “You not mad at us?”

  “No, I think it’s kinda interesting.”

  “Interesting?” Melanie said. “It’s fucking wild. Get Frank here we’ll have everybody.”

  Louis said, “It’s different, isn’t it?” He looked at Mickey. “Sitting around with friends sure beats doing time.”

  “You mind terribly?” Melanie said, pushing up out of the chair. “I got to take a leak now or never.”

  Mickey watched her stand up and pull her tight cut-offs out of her fanny. She was unstable, probably stoned, and weaved the first few steps crossing the room to the hall that led to the bathroom.

  Mickey said, “Well, there she goes, the next Mrs. Frank Dawson. Looks like a million bucks, doesn’t she?”

  Ordell said, “He tell you that? He’s gonna marry her?”

  “And live with her till he does,” Mickey said.

  “My,” Ordell said. “My my my my.”

  “How much you think he likes her?” Louis said.

  “A whole bunch,” Mickey said. “Call him up and ask him. He’s cleaning out his closet.”

  Ordell looked at Louis as Mickey leaned close to the coffee table to get her bra, picked it up, hesitated, and pulled the cardboard box toward her. She said, “All the other day I kept looking at this. What’s in it?”

  Louis looked at Ordell.

  Melanie came back into the room zipping up, then swinging her hair aside. She stopped, walked over to the hi-fi changer and rows of records and tapes on the wall shelf. She said, “You know who knocks me out? Esther Phillips . . . but I’ll settle for Roberta Flack,” and was moving her hips to You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling when she turned around and stopped and howled and shook her head and said, “Fucking wild—hey, I want to play too!”

  There were three Richard Nixons sitting by the coffee table. One Richard Nixon was holding the telephone in his lap. The second Richard Nixon was holding a Little Orphan Annie mask, placing tape over the round eyeholes. The third Richard Nixon held a notepad and pencil and was writing directions to her grandmother’s house that was off by itself on the shores of Lake Huron and had an upstairs bedroom that was just like the one Richard’s mother used to live in.

  It was hot in the mask. Mickey wished the big girl would hurry up and realize what was happening to her so she could take her bra and leave . . . go home and watch Frank get his phone call.

  The Extras

  I. ALL BY ELMORE: THE CRIME NOVELS; THE WESTERNS

  II. SELECTED FILMOGRAPHY

  III. IF IT SOUNDS LIKE WRITING, REWRITE IT

  V. MARTIN AMIS INTERVIEWS “THE DICKENS OF DETROIT”

  This section was prepared by the editorial staff of HarperCollins e-books, who thank Mr. Gregg Sutter, Elmore Leonard’s longtime researcher and aide-de-camp, for his unstinting support and help in the assembling of this material.

  Further riches await the reader at the website that Mr. Sutter maintains, www.elmoreleonard.com, and in “The Extras” sections of other HarperCollins editions of Elmore Leonard’s novels (“All by Elmore” and “Selected Filmography” come standard in each e-book).

  About the Author

  * * *

  Elmore Leonard has written more than three dozen books during his highly successful writing career, including the national bestsellers Tishomingo Blues, Pagan Babies, and Be Cool. Many of his novels have been made into movies, including Get Shorty, Out of Sight, Valdez Is Coming, and Rum Punch (as Quentin Tarantino’s Jackie Brown). He has been named Grand Master by Mystery Writers of America and lives in Bloomfield Village, Michigan, with his wife.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  * * *

  ELMORE LEONARD

  THE SWITCH

  “The King Daddy of crime novelists.”

  Seattle Times

  “Elmore Leonard is the real thing. . . . He raises the hard-boiled suspense novel beyond the limits of the genre. . . . He paints an acute picture of the world that is all too real and recognizable.”

  Washington Post

  “Nobody but nobody on the current scene can match his ability to serve up violence so light-handedly, with so supremely deadpan a flourish.”

  Detroit News

  “No one is Leonard’s equal. . . . The great ones never seem to sweat, even when they’re working hard. Ali, boxing; Astaire, dancing; Streisand, singing; Secretariat, at full gallop. And Elmore Leonard, writing.”

  Chicago Tribune

  “The finest thriller writer alive.”

  The Village Voice

  “The hottest thriller writer in the U.S.”

  Time

  “Mr. Leonard dazzles as he sprinkles his work continually with unexpected convolutions. . . . His people are real, with nary a stereotype in the pack.”

  New York Times Book Review

  “Leonard is the best in the business: His dialogue snaps, his characters are more alive than most of the people you meet on the street, and his twisting plots always resolve themselves with a no-nonsense plausibility.”

  Newsday

  “The reigning master of hard-action crime fiction . . . Few fiction writers match the artful ability of Elmore Leonard, first to persuade you to read his
next sentence, then to draw you into reading his next chapter, and finally to seduce you into reading his entire book.”

  Cincinnati Enquirer

  “Leonard is so scary he makes you want to leave the light on all night.”

  Boston Globe

  “Leonard gets better and better and better. He makes the rest of us mystery writers green with envy.”

  Tony Hillerman

  “No one can beat Elmore Leonard when it comes to mordant humor and shockingly bizarre situations.”

  Orlando Sentinel

  “Leonard does crime fiction better than anyone since Raymond Chandler.”

  Cleveland Plain Dealer

  “His books defy classification. . . . What Leonard does is write fully realized novels, using elements of the classic American crime novel and populating them with characters so true and believable you want to read their lines aloud to someone you really like.”

  Dallas Morning News

  “Leonard lets his characters reveal themselves in talk (torrents of it, all wonderful) and action, describing in terse narrative that echoes the mind-set and vocabulary of the players. . . . And the results are irresistible. . . . He continually invents characters who lie, cheat, steal, rob, deceive, betray, maim, kill, and stomp on any remaining niceties of civilized behavior that get in their way. The wonder is that he makes these figures comprehensible and occasionally even sympathetic.”

  Los Angeles Times Book Review

  “Leonard is tops in his field. . . . In Leonard’s sleazy world you always meet interesting characters. . . . I’m an Elmore Leonard groupie.”

  New Orleans Times-Picayune

  Books by Elmore Leonard

  The Bounty Hunters

  The Law at Randado

  Escape from Five Shadows

  Last Stand at Saber River

  Hombre

  The Big Bounce

  The Moonshine War