Day Two
July 22, 1952
Tuesday Morning
Tuesday morning at the office, Wilde paced, chain-smoked and drowned his stomach in coffee. When Alabama walked through the door at 8:15 wearing the same dress as last night, Wilde hugged her tighter than tight and said, “You’re alive.”
Alabama knew the reason for the statement.
She left the Bokaray with Robert Mitchum last night before Wilde could intercede. She spent the night with him.
“I was going to call and let you know I was okay,” she said, “but I didn’t want to blow my cover.”
“Blow your cover? You’re not supposed to have any cover. You’re supposed to be doing one thing and one thing only, namely not doing anything stupid. Do you remember when my lips moved in that direction, when they said plain as day, don’t do anything stupid?”
Yes.
She did.
But things got out of control.
She got dressed up last night to come down to the Bokaray. She spotted Mitchum at the bar and wandered over to see if he called himself Robert.
He did.
“He liked me,” she said.
“He wasn’t supposed to know you exist,” Wilde said.
She poured a cup of coffee and took a long slurp.
“You would have done the same thing if you were me,” she said.
Wilde set a book of matches on fire and lit a cigarette.
“Look,” he said. “We’re going to have this conversation one time and one time only. When I tell you what the risk boundaries are, you have to respect them. I set the boundaries and you stay in them, that’s the way it is. I can’t have you going rogue and doing your own thing. I can’t be worrying about you when I need to be thinking about other things. When I tell you not to do something, you have to not do that something.”
She smiled ever so slightly and wrapped her arms around his neck.
“You were worried about me?”
“Alabama, I’m serious.”
She pecked a kiss on his lips.
“You’re so cute when you’re all protective,” she said. “Do you want to know what I found out?”
Wilde took a long drag and blew smoke to the side.
“Just don’t tell me you slept with him.”
She ran a finger down his chest.
“Maybe you didn’t get a good look at him,” she said. “He actually is Robert Mitchum, only better.”
She drank the last of what was in her cup and went to get another. Over her shoulder she said, “He’s not the killer.”
“How do you know?”
“I can’t tell you. You’ll get mad.”