When he came out, with the towel around his middle, and went over to the dresser, Barbara said, "I'll wait until you come down before I put your eggs on."

He said, "Fine," and got a pair of jockey shorts out of the dresser. He never wore an undershirt top or a T-shirt.

Watching him, Barbara's expression was calm, her dark hair combed, her skin clear and clean-looking without make-up. She was forty-two; a very attractive forty-two. She had confidence in herself and in her husband, but she was worried about him and wasn't sure why.

She took off her housecoat, then timed it, waiting until he turned before she stepped into her panties, raising the short nightgown and pulling it up over her head.

"I probably got about two hours sleep," Mitchell said. "I need a bigger couch."

"Usually it's the wife who makes the excuse."

He looked at her, her body, the lines showing her tan and the white breasts. "What?"

"The wife says she has a headache as the husband reaches for her."

"I'm not making excuses. I'm not only tired, I got to get back to work."

She reached behind her to hook the bra. "I've seen you dead on your feet, but you could always move other parts of you."

"Barbara-do people argue about making love?"

"I don't know what other people do."

"Don't you think it's better when it happens naturally? You both want to do it?"

"Let me know when you feel natural again," she said and put the housecoat back on and went downstairs.

Now she was at the breakfast table with The Detroit Free Press, her coffee finished. He came into the kitchen, wearing a clean shirt but the same sport coat, one that had been his favorite at least eight years. He took the sports section of the paper and began to scan it as she served his eggs, English muffin and coffee. When this was done Barbara sat down again.

"Sally called last night."

"She did? What's the matter?"

"Nothing. She just wanted to talk."

"Still likes Cleveland? And the battery salesman?"

"She's happy, you can tell. But she misses us."

"Is she pregnant yet?" His eyes roamed over the sports page as he began to eat, passing up a report on the Tigers' spring training camp that he would have read yesterday.

"No, she's not pregnant. They're going to wait a while." Barbara paused, watching him. "Did you see the mail?"

He looked up, momentarily interested, or pretending to be.

"No. Anything good?"

"A letter from Mike."

"Another one? No, I didn't see it."

"In the front hall." She waited again as he returned to his breakfast, eating slowly, not finishing the eggs and pushing the plate away. "Don't you think it's sort of amazing? He's written on the average of once every two weeks since he's been at school."

"When he needs money."

"I think he's a good writer. He tells you what's going on. How many do that?"

"I don't know. I guess not many." Mitchell looked up at the big railroad clock on the kitchen wall.

"I got to go," he said, but took time to finish his coffee before getting up. He looked at the clock again, then leaned over to kiss his wife on the cheek.

"Mitch?"

"What?"

"If it's such a pain in the ass, why don't you sell the business? Is it worth it, being tense all the time?"

"I'm not tense."

"I don't know what you call it then. You're preoccupied, something. You don't talk anymore. All you think about is business or one of your committee things. You're so busy you don't even come home for dinner anymore."

"Come on, maybe a couple nights a week I stay at the office or have to go to a meeting or something."

"Mitch, it's almost every night, except weekends."

"Okay, I've been busy lately. What am I supposed to do. I've got machines breaking down for no reason. We're behind on orders. I got to keep customers happy, take them out to lunch. I got union contract negotiations coming up. I got to keep all these balls up in the air at once."

"Poor me," Barbara said.

"What'd you say that for?"

She shook her head. "I'm sorry, it was dumb. I guess what I'm trying to say is you're different lately. Somehow. I can't put my finger on it."

"Listen, I got to go." He kissed her again, this time lightly on the mouth, and patted her shoulder. "I'll try to get home early and we'll go out to dinner. Okay? Go to Charlie's Crab, get a good piece of fish."

He was out of the drive, turning into the street, when Barbara reached the front door and got it open. She stood there, holding the letter from their son.

O'Boyle kept staring at him. Jim O'Boyle, his lawyer and friend, sitting across the desk now in the wood-paneled office.

"I never knew you fooled around," O'Boyle said. "You really surprise me, Mitch, I never thought of you that way."

"I don't fool around." Mitchell leaned in, emphasizing his words, being open and honest. "I never fooled around in my life."

"Then what do you call it?"

"I mean before. I never did anything like this before in my life." O'Boyle kept watching him and Mitchell added, in a lower tone, "I didn't consider this fooling around. I mean I didn't honestly feel that's what I was doing."

"What did you consider it then? The girl's what, a year older than your daughter."

"I didn't consider it anything. I didn't put a label on it." He wasn't sure what to say next and the sound of the buzzer on his telephone saved him. He picked it up. "Yeah?… All right, tell him I'll be out in a couple minutes."

Mitchell hung up. "Victor wants me." He took a reel of tape from his desk drawer and held it in front of him with both hands, as though it might be fragile or of special value.

"I came back here after I talked to you on the phone last night, while it was fresh in my mind. Jim, I put it all down on the tape recorder, everything I could remember that happened. What the guy said, what he sounded like, what the film showed, everything I could remember that might mean something."

"But you never saw any of them before. You're sure of that."

"Jim, I don't know. I didn't see them last night, just a glimpse like half a second, how do I know? The machine's over there. Listen to it, Jim, I'll come back soon as I can." Moving around the desk he said, "I got a plant supervisor pulling his hair out because the fucking machines keep breaking down or the bearings freeze up. I got more down-time than production and now I got these clowns who want to sell me a movie for a hundred and five thousand bucks. You ever have one like that before?"

"Go fix your machines," O'Boyle told him.

And Mitchell said, "Yeah."

In the outer office his secretary, Janet, who was efficient and always in control, gave him a funny look, a quick, warning expression.

The man standing by her desk said, "Are you Mitchell?"

He's a cop, Mitchell thought. That was the instant impression the man gave him. But there was also something familiar about him. He had seen him before, somewhere.

Janet said, "I've tried to tell this gentleman you can't see anyone. He walked right in, said he'd wait."

"I'm sorry," Mitchell said, "I've got a full day," and walked past the man toward the hall.

"My name's Ed Jazik, business agent Local one-ninety-nine." He was a step behind Mitchell, extending a card as he followed behind him down the hall, past the glass partitions of the accounting and engineering offices.

That was it, Mitchell had seen him in the parking lot the week before, talking to some of the employees. He felt himself relax and took the card, putting it in his pocket without looking at it.

"We've never met before, have we?"

"No, I been assigned to handle negotiations this year," Jazik said.

"Well, that's not for a couple of weeks."