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Mitchell nodded. “Listen—you want to talk public relations, then I think count me out.” He went over to the table and poured a cup of coffee. “Just continue,” he said. “Ignore me. Go on.” He was pacing to the window. His leg was in a spasm and he needed to walk it, or soak it in a tub, or take a couple of capsules that would knock him for a loop. So he kept on walking it, listening to voices: Losses for the quarter could be X million dollars. The stock would very likely drop X more points. If the killer wasn’t captured, the brand could go under. If the factory was negligent, there went the game.
    Zef said he’d have to call the expert in his office on product liability.
    The voices went on.
    He paced down the carpeted hall to his office. Telephones were ringing. Secretaries in, wearing bright-eyed expressions. Murder. Adventure. Their week was being made.
    He went into his office and over to the cupboard where he kept a few bottles, and poured himself a Scotch. He was missing nothing in the ongoing talk. The futile discussions would rage around the clock, new voices would be added, but for all that got decided, postulated, feared, the facts would be the facts—impervious to argument, oblivious to hope.
    There were seven people dead.
    He drank and went over to the balcony again. The 7:30 sun had been burning through the smog and he looked at the boulevard, cars on the street, somewhere the ricocheting sound of a bullhorn, “This is the police,” warning the citizens not to use the product he’d hustled and angled and hurried to produce.
    Billy McAllister was probably laughing like a fucking hyena.
    Leo, from the door, said, “Well. Here you are.”
    Mitchell turned slowly, “If you want to stick around, you have to keep very quiet.”
    â€œWho me?” Leo settled in a wrought-iron chair. “I’m as quiet as a mouse.”
    Mitchell glanced over.
    â€œI only have one single question,” Leo said.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œJust one.”
    â€œAnd you already asked it. You asked me if I’d have a press conference and I said no.”
    â€œThen I quit,” Leo said.
    Mitchell turned around and then peered into Leo’s unblinking blue eyes. “You wouldn’t do that.”
    â€œOh no? Now hear,” Leo said. “You want to keep going as a press-shy eccentric—for reasons I have yet to begin to comprehend—you can go with someone else. Right now, you’re the only way to salvage this company. You’re all that we’ve got and you’re smart enough to know it. The head of a company ducks and he’s dead.—You want to save the company?” Leo stood up.
    Mitchell didn’t answer.
    â€œDo you?” Leo pressed. “Your plant in Guatemala. Your sacrosanct research—you want to save that?”
    Mitchell had to nod.
    â€œGood. Change your clothes. You got matters of moment and state to attend to? Fine. But you’ll put on a nice blue suit, take a nice close shave and be ready for the media at—” Leo checked his watch. “I can write you one hell of a statement by—why don’t we call it High Noon.” He turned in the doorway. “I’ll see if I can get Grace Kelly for the girl.”
    Leo went off.
    Mitchell just stood there, smoking for a while, trying to decide if the analogy was apt: Gary Cooper going off to face guns.
    He decided it wasn’t. Cooper’d been defending his honor and his town but he’d also been facing down the threat to his future. Mitchell would be gambling with the threat from his past. That old smoking gun.
    He rubbed at his leg. He finished his whisky in one hard swallow and tossed his cigarette, watching it dive like a plucky little bomber; living in fame, going down in flame.
    Then he took his car keys and headed for the door.

5
    Joanna woke to Richard’s mumbling at the telephone. She heard him say,