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  But Tyra was still saying the article was darling and the picture of Bo, Bo was darling, wasn’t he darling? So Mickey didn’t have to answer Kay.

  She wrinkled her nose a little and said she didn’t think much of the way it was written, though it was probably accurate as far as it went. (She wasn’t trying to be cute with the nose wrinkle. Why was Kay looking at her like that?)

  Kay said, “The girl wrote it straight, didn’t she? The moms did the talking?”

  “I guess what I’m saying, I thought it was loaded,” Mickey said, “out of balance.”

  “What you’re saying,” Kay said, “you’re not a real tennis mom and you wish the hell you hadn’t been there.”

  Kay smiled—she was still a buddy—and Mickey was instantly relieved. Tyra could call her a celebrity and belabor the darling write-up and it wouldn’t matter so much. At least someone knew she wasn’t a tennis mom. If she had time, she wouldn’t mind joining them, she liked them.

  But sitting with the ladies—it was a strange thing—Mickey would be with them but not with them. She would be perched somewhere watching the group, herself in it—the same way she saw herself with Frank when they were arguing. Never completely involved. The ladies appeared to talk in turn, but they didn’t. There was an overlapping of voices and topics changed abruptly. Mickey wondered if there was something wrong with her, why her attention span was so short when it came to cleaning ladies, cub scouts, the PTA, clothes, golf scores, tennis strokes, historical love novels written by women with three names, dieting, what their husbands liked for dinner, how much their husbands drank, how their husbands tried to make love on Saturday night and couldn’t, face-lifts, boob-lifts, more dieting—

  She would think, What am I doing here? Then think, But if I weren’t here, where would I be?

  She would try to think of something she would like to talk about. She would think and think and finally give up. (One time she had asked, “Do you know how people communicate with each other on the planet Margo?” But no one asked how, or even seemed to be listening. Barbara or someone was telling what her kids liked for breakfast.)

  Mickey would watch and half listen, or let her mind wander, or find herself studying Tyra Taylor’s perky moves, asking herself, Do I do that? Tyra was forty pounds overweight in a size 14 tennis dress. She would sit with her back arched, her head cocked pertly and nibble celery like a little girl. She was deceiving. Tyra appeared animated, but told long, boring stories in a nasal monotone about her maid’s car trouble and her dog’s hemorrhoids. Her dog, a miniature schnauzer, was named Ingrid. (Tyra would give Ingrid doggie treats saying, “Her’s hungry, isn’t her? Yes, her is, yes, her’s a nice little girl,” over and over, mesmerizing Mickey who didn’t often speak to dogs. She was never sure what to say to them. She would think, Try it. But she couldn’t.)

  Mickey got away from the Bloody Mary ladies saying she had to see Frank and then get out there and be a tennis mom—ha, ha—but she’d have a drink with them on the porch later. She waited in the hallway a few minutes, watching the door that led to the men’s grill and locker room, then came back into the main grill and sat at one of the near tables. When Rose appeared, Mickey asked her if Mr. Dawson had been eating lunch. Rose said no, he was in there having a beer. Rose said she told him his wife was in the big room and he said fine, he’d be right out. Mickey thanked her—she felt awkward—and said she might as well have an iced tea. She lit a cigarette and continued to wait . . . hearing Tyra’s voice . . . nodding and saying hi to the members in tennis and golf clothes coming in for lunch.

  They’d stop and act surprised to see her and ask what she was doing all by herself. What’s the matter, was she anti-social or something? Didn’t she have any friends? Mickey would smile or pretend to laugh and go through the story about Bo’s match and waiting for Frank, just having a quick iced tea.

  Why did she pretend to laugh? It was all right, everyone did. But why was she tired of it? If she felt like giving them a smart-ass answer, why didn’t she?

  Because she couldn’t think of a smart-ass answer fast enough.

  No, that wasn’t it. It would be fun, though, if she had the nerve. They’d say, “How come you’re all alone?” And she’d say, “Because I break wind a lot.” Or they’d say, “How come you’re all alone?” And she’d say, “Because shithead knows I’m here and he’s making me wait.”

  Marshall Taylor said, “What’re you thinking about?”

  He squinted across the grill and waved to Tyra, then looked down at Mickey again with a solemn expression and winked. Marshall Taylor, with a Deep Run golf cap sitting on top of his head and golf gloves on both hands, winked, leaned in over the table and seemed about to tell her something confidential.

  He said, “How are you?”

  “I’m fine,” Mickey said. “How’re you, Marshall?”

  He frowned as though in pain as he glanced over at the window. Maybe he didn’t like Marshall; the name. Most of the members called him Marsh.

  “I seem to recall saying something last night while we were dancing. You remember?”

  Mickey remembered, but looked puzzled. “What?”

  “I asked you if you’d have lunch with me.”

  “You were drinking—we all were, we say things—” showing him how pleasant and understanding she was. “Don’t worry, I didn’t take it seriously.”

  “But I was.” He stared at Mickey with a pretty straightforward, serious look too. “I meant it.”

  “Isn’t Tyra waiting for you?”

  “If she’s watching we’re talking about the piece in the paper. I haven’t read it yet—”

  “Don’t.”

  “What I’m gonna do is cut out the picture, put it in my wallet.”

  “Marshall, come on—”

  The name wasn’t right. Marshall was too formal for a guy trying to fool around. But Marsh was too soft for a six-four hulk who’d played defensive end at Michigan State and now owned a company that made steel extrusions.

  He said, “I mean it. I want you to have lunch with me.”

  “But there wouldn’t be any point. I mean, why?”

  “I like to talk to you.”

  “We talk. We’re talking now.”

  “You remember any of the things I said last night? I told you how I’ve been thinking about you—”

  He had told Mickey how different she was. He had told her, dancing—his hand moving over her back and trying to work in beneath her arm for a feel—she was like a little china doll. So much easier to dance with than Tyra. Dancing with Tyra was like driving a semi. She was putting on weight. Lived only for herself. Spent money like it was going out of style. Always buying clothes—but could never look as good as Mickey did in her simple little outfits. And—his wife didn’t understand him. The club lovers actually said that. “My wife doesn’t understand me.” Mickey wondered if she was supposed to say, “Oh, then let’s fool around. Frank doesn’t understand me either.” It was true, and maybe the club lovers didn’t get along with their wives; but why did it mean she would want to have lunch with them? What happened to those guys on Saturday night? A few drinks and respectable family men, dads, became lecherous pains in the ass. At one time she had thought maybe she should drink more at club parties, join in and quit watching. Everyone seemed to be trying to get involved with someone else. But why get involved and pretend to have fun simply to pass the time? If she was bored—

  A week ago Saturday evening, sitting in the cocktail lounge, opening up a little to Kay Lyons, Kay had said, “If the parties bore you, don’t go.”

  Mickey: I don’t mean I’m bored. It just seems like a waste of time, every weekend the same thing.

  Kay: Then do something else.

  Mickey: But if Frank likes to come—entertain customers, all that—it’s what a wife does, isn’t it?”

  Kay: What is?

  Mickey: Be with her husband. Do what he wants to do.

  Kay: Why?

  Mickey: Because i
t’s expected. He’s—

  Kay: The breadwinner: I don’t know, I usually come out alone. God knows where Charlie is most of the time.

  Mickey: Then you choose to come here. You like it.

  Kay: What else is there to do?

  Marshall Taylor, leaning on the table with his golf cap sitting on top of his head, said, “You thinking about it?”

  Mickey said, “Marshall, I have to go. Bo’s got a match and I have to find Frank—”

  “I understand he’s going to the Bahamas,” Marshall said.

  “Just for a few days. An investors’ meeting.”

  “I asked him if he wanted to play next Saturday, he said he’d be away.”

  Mickey hesitated, nodding. “Probably all week, but he isn’t sure.”

  “How about tomorrow then for lunch? I know a good place—if you’re worried about being seen.”

  “Tomorrow—no, I really can’t.”

  “How about Tuesday then?”

  “Really, it’s not a good idea, Marshall.” Her gaze moved past him, through the entrance to the hallway and the all-yellow outfit approaching. “Frank’s coming.” She didn’t mean it that way, as a warning.

  But Marshall winked at her and said, “I’ll call you later.” He turned to Dawson with a grin. “You leave your wife sitting alone, Frank, somebody’s liable to steal her.” He started away.

  Frank turned on his grin, swiping at Marshall’s shoulder. “See you out there, partner.” Then turned off the grin, pulled a chair out and sat down.

  “Well?”

  “I saw you as we drove in,” Mickey said, a nice even tone. “I thought you were starting at 9:30.”

  “Is that why you brought me out here?”

  “If you weren’t playing right away—I wanted to tell you Bo’s match was changed to 2 o’clock.”

  “You send a waitress in to get me—”

  “I asked Rose if she’d seen you.”

  “You send a waitress in to get me. She says, ‘Your wife wants you.’ Like that, like, ‘So you better get out there.’ “

  “I didn’t say it that way.”

  “Let me finish, okay?” He waited, in control. “You send her in to get me, I’m supposed to jump up and come running out, huh?”

  “Frank, I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

  “I told you at home I’d watch Bo’s match if we finished in time. You remember my saying that?”

  “Yes, but then the time was changed and I was wondering about your flight.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Well, if the flight’s at 6:30 and you haven’t gone out yet—”

  “Don’t worry about it, okay? We’re going out at 1:30. Larry didn’t get here, he was late. But I’ll keep you posted, every move,” Frank said. “Let’s see, so far I’ve had two shells and I just ordered a cheeseburger and french fries. If I have another shell with lunch that’ll be three, right? What do you think, you want to write it down or can you remember?”

  “Frank, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt you. Why don’t you go back in?”

  “When we get through playing I’ll probably have a couple more beers,” Frank said. “Let’s see, that’ll be five. Six if we have one at the turnstand. Then a couple of drinks at home, a couple on the plane. That’s, let’s see, ten.”

  Mickey got up, taking her pack of cigarettes.

  “A couple more with your folks,” Frank said, “that’ll be twelve—”

  5

  * * *

  RICHARD EDGAR MONK lived at 1035 State Fair, the street that ran east of Woodward Avenue along the south edge of the Michigan State Fairgrounds. The house faced a chain-link fence and was directly across from one of the gates where they used to bring in the horse-trailers during the racing season and Richard made eight dollars a day parking cars in his drive. But now they played softball over there.

  The house was a frame crackerbox with a pair of dormer windows sticking out of the roof and no style at all until Richard fixed up the front with imitation ledgerock, a grillwork porch and striped aluminum awnings over the porch and windows. There was a hedge around the little square of grass to keep in the pair of flamingos, a bird-feeder on a pole in the backyard and a statue of the Blessed Virgin standing in a birdbath that Richard’s mother had bought. Before she had died, Richard’s mother used to go out there by the birdbath and say her rosary for the conversion of Russia. She and Richard had both hated atheistic communism.

  What had happened in the last eight months: First, Richard’s wife, Dot had left him, taking four-year-old Richard Jr. with her. She had never complained or said a word about Richard’s mother living with them; but according to the note that had been the reason she left. She couldn’t stand it any longer, the woman telling her how to cook, where to put the dishes in the cupboard, how to toilet train Richard Jr. The note had not said much more than that. Then his mother had died of a heart attack a few months later at the age of sixty-seven. But there was no way of locating Dot to tell her. All he knew was Dot and Richard Jr. were somewhere in California, because he received postcards of Disneyland and orange groves about once a month, saying they were fine and the weather was hot but cool in the evening.

  Richard wanted to go to California to look for his wife and boy and believed he could do it himself because of his interest in police work and procedures. He read books on it, watched police shows on TV and, until recently, had had a job with Alert Security Services—patrolling shopping centers, rich neighborhoods and construction projects—which Richard felt was good training. The trouble with the job, he’d only made three-sixty-five an hour, one-ten a week take-home, had to buy his own uniform and wasn’t able to save anything. So he had begun drawing fifty bucks on the side to disappear or look the other way whenever the coon came at night in the truck to pick up building materials. That was fine until he got questioned, read-out and fired without notice.

  Now he had a two-tone blue police uniform and no job. He was patiently waiting for the big one the coon, Ordell Robbie, told him was going to come any time now.

  Ordell had said to Louis, “You ain’t ever in your life seen anything like Richard Edgar Monk. Wait till he shows you his war room.”

  Louis wanted to say to Ordell, man, I don’t believe it. The van was parked outside the cute house on State Fair that Sunday afternoon. They were inside visiting with Richard, upstairs now, letting Richard show them his gun collection and World War II memorabilia. Louis was a little confused at first.

  He said, “Your dad was in the war, right?”

  “Tank gunner,” Richard said.

  “Well, let me ask you,” Louis said. “What side was he on?”

  Richard looked at him straight, 240 pounds of Richard in his T-shirt and police pants with the light-blue stripe down the side, crew-cut head looking at Louis—no screwing around with Richard—not a glimmer of anything in his blue eyes.

  “My dad was with the 9th Armored. KIA at Remagen, March 12, 1945. I was two years old.”

  Louis said, “Oh.”

  The reason he was confused, there were photographs of American soldiers sitting on tanks; but there was also a red, white and black swastika on the wall; pictures of German soldiers cut out of magazines; a photograph of Adolf Hitler, and a nice shot of Heinrich Himmler in his black SS uniform.

  Ordell was watching Louis taking his time to look at all the stuff on the wall before he got to the gun display. Ordell said, “See, Richard says the Germans the best soldiers in the world and it don’t matter about sides now. That right, Richard?”

  Richard must have nodded. Louis didn’t hear him say anything. Louis said, “How come they lost then?”

  “Logistics,” Richard said, “their troops divided up on two fronts. The way it should’ve been, we should’ve been over there helping them fight the Communists.”

  Jesus Christ, Louis thought. Again he said, “Oh,” and picked up a copy of a tabloid newspaper with the name THUNDERBOLT on the masthead. Published
, he noticed, by the National States Rights Party. Louis came to a poster and glanced over at Ordell. Ordell was grinning. The lettering on the poster said, Nothing is lower than Niggers and Jews, except the Police who protect them.

  Ordell said, “Richard believes some niggers are all right though. Hey, Richard?”

  “Some,” Richard said.

  “The rest he want to send back to Africa—”

  “The ones on welfare,” Richard said.

  “Yeah, the ones on welfare he want to send back. I say, Richard, but Ah’s from Cleveland. He says it’s all right for me to stay. Least till we get this job done.”

  Louis reached the conference table that displayed Richard’s arsenal, an assortment of rifles, revolvers, a musket, shotguns—one sawed off—several grenades, bayonets, trench knives, a gas mask, a German helmet, an Afrika Korps soft hat, Nazi armbands, belt buckles, an SS death’s head insignia, boxes of cartridges and shotgun shells.

  “Show him some,” Ordell said.

  Richard picked up the musket first. “Well, this here is your Kentucky rifle, black powder musket. That little sawed-off’s a Mercury 12-gauge double barrel. Let’s see, you got your Mauser, German K-43 semi-automatic . . . Beretta M-59 Assault Rifle, holds twenty rounds. Here’s your famous Walther P.38, some people think is a Luger . . . your Colt .45 . . . your Smith and Wesson Combat Masterpiece . . . Iver Johnson Sidewinder, some Saturday night specials that ain’t worth a shit for killing anybody, I mean stopping them, but they’re sort of interesting, you know? Here’s my favorite weapon, Colt Python .357 Mag. Son of a bitch weighs almost four pounds. It’ll knock a man down and tear a hole in him big as a fist coming out.”

  Ordell said, “That the one you carry?”

  “When I’m on duty,” Richard said.