ment. And I mean stay there. Don't even go near a window!"
"What if the phone rings?"
"Don't answer it."
"What if it's you?" Skip said.
Got her.
Ten thirty Donnell brought Mr. Woody his eye opener vodka and pale dry ginger ale, half and half, two of them on a silver tray. He placed one of the drinks on the night table next to the flashlight the man kept there in case of a power failure. The man, being scared to death of the dark, had flashlights all over the house.
The way Donnell usually worked it, he'd touch the man then and say,
"Rise and shine, Mr. Woody, the day is waiting on you," except if the man had wet the bed. Then Donnell would hold his breath and not say anything, just shake him, trying not to breathe in the smell coming off the man. Donnell would have to wait for the swollen face to show life mixed with pain, then for the man to get up on his elbow and take the drink. Donnell would then step out of the way. Soon as the man finished the drink he'd be sick right there if he didn't get to the bathroom in time. Starting this wake-up service, Donnell had brought the man Bloody Marys, till he found out being sick was part of waking up.
Did it one week and said, Enough of this Bloody Mary shit, cleaning up a bathroom looked like somebody'd been killing chickens in it.
Today Mr. Woody got in there okay to gag, make all kinds of sick noises while Donnell slipped on his earphones and listened to Whodini doing the rap, doing "The Good Part," rappin' "When we gonna get to the good part?" Rap.
Yeah. Donnell watching the man didn't slip and hit his head.
"Mr. Woody?" Donnell said.
"Get down to it, on your knees, "you be safer." Man would be closer to the toilet too, wouldn't get his mess all over.
Mr. Woody came out catching his breath like he'd been crying, red face redder, and Donnell handed him his second drink, the one that would settle him, let his system know the alcohol was coming and everything would be fine.
There, the man said "Boy-oh-boy," showing signs he wasn't going to die just yet. Ordinarily about now Donnell would ask him what was on for today, play that game with him, like there was all this different shit the man could be doing. But not this morning.
This morning he said, "Soon as you have your breakfast we have to tend to some business." He watched the man stumble against the bed trying to put his pants on.
"Mr. Woody, what you do, you put your underwear on first.
Then you sit down on the floor to put your trousers on, so you don't kill yourself." Asshole. The man could barely dress himself, could never pick out clothes that matched.
"Mr. Woody, the funeral people called up. They getting your brother this afternoon, from the morgue. They gonna cremate him, but then what do they put the remains in? See, they have different-price urns they use. Then is he going out to a cemetery? You understand? The funeral people want to know what to do with him."
"Tell 'em-I don't know," Woody said from the floor.
"Did you get the paper in?"
"Not yet."
"I want to know what my horoscope says."
"I'll get it for you," Donnell said.
"Read it with your breakfast. We have to talk about getting the mess cleaned up in back, have it hauled away. You want me to take care of it?"
"Call somebody."
"I know some people do that kind of work."
"That's fine."
Donnell watched him reach under the bed for his shoes.
"We have to talk about getting you a new limousine.
What kind you want, what you want in it, all that."
"I want a white one."
"That's cool. But what we have to do first, Mr. Woody, is see how you want to change your will, now your brother's gone. I thought me and you could rough it out. You understand? Put it all down on a piece of paper and you sign it, you know, just in case you don't talk to your lawyer for a while."
"I think I either want a white one or a black one."
Donnell bit on the inside of his mouth till he felt pain and said, "Mr.
Woody, you want to look up here a minute?
Never mind your shoes, I'll tie your shoes for you. Please look up here."
Multi-wealthy millionaire motherfucker sitting on the floor like a fat kid, not knowing shit.
"I believe you forget something you told me yourself last night,"
Donnell said.
"This woman name of Robin Abbott? You remember her, was here Saturday?"
The man, looking up at him dumb-eyed, said, "Robin…?"
"Use to show you her goodies."
"Yeah, Robin."
"You tell me she went to stir for doing bombs? Now your own brother got kill by one yesterday was put in your limo? Not his, yours?"
"Mark doesn't have a limo."
"Listen to me. You understand it could happen again?
Bam, you get taken out, you not even looking, don't even hear it.
That's why I'm saying you have to get a new will, man, Mr. Woody, in case anything might happen you don't even know about."
Look at the man looking fish-eyed. What's he see?
"That's what we gonna do next," Donnell said, "while you having your breakfast. Write down things for your will." Shit. Quick.
Woody said, "Will you get the paper?"
Donnell went downstairs. He'd look at the horoscope box in the paper and pick out a good one, read it to the man while he at his Sugar Pops.
This is a special day for romance Love is looking up. The man liked that kind. Or, what Donnell was thinking of doing as he crossed the front hall, make one up. Time to get your financial ass in order…
Don't put off making your will… Put in it whoever has been most loyal to you. Whoever cleans up your messes.
He opened the front door hoping to see the Free Press lying close by.
It wasn't on the stoop, it wasn't out on the grass… He'd told the fat-kid delivery boy, Man, if you don't have the arm then walk it up here on your young legs.
But the fat kid's daddy waiting out in the car, most likely hating rich people, had told the kid throw it, that's how you deliver papers, throw the motherfucker. The fat kid would obey his daddy and the paper would end up half the time in the bushes.
The ones to the left of the door. Donnell went to the stone lion on that side and leaned over its back. There was the paper folded tight with a rubber band resting in the shrubs. There was the paper and there was something else looked like a bag underneath it. Donnell stepped around the lion and down off the slate front stoop. It looked like a new bag, not one had been out in the weather. The kind of black canvas bag a workman might have left? Or one of the police yesterday looking around. Donnell saw the bag in that moment as a find, something that could be worth something. He picked up the paper and the bag and went inside, closed the front door and locked it. Put the bag on the hall table with the paper, zipped the bag open, looked inside at the clock, the battery, the five sticks of dynamite and the wires going from here to there and said, "Shit. I'm dead."
It took a minute for Donnell standing there frozen to tell himself he wasn't dead yet. That the bomb must've been put there during the night and had sat there all this time.
It took him that little while to adjust to the situation and tell himself, Be cool. Are you cool? He wasn't running off screaming, that was cool. He was looking right at the bag.
He thought, Open the door, throw it outside. But couldn't turn his back to it. It was like if he kept looking at the motherfucker it wouldn't do nothing to him. Except there was a clock in there ticking toward a certain time or there wouldn't be no need for the clock. If he looked at the clock it might tell him what time the bomb was going off. Only the clock wasn't face up. To reach in, touch it, mess with the wires, that wouldn't be cool. Look at a clock the last thing he ever did on earth?
What did that leave for him to do?
Donnell wiggled his toes in his hundred-dollar jogging shoes.
He said, "You got to put it somewhere, man."
Thought of outside, thought of down in the basement. He said, "You got to put it somewhere you don't stop and fool with doors." Thought another minute and picked up that bag again, the hardest thing he ever did in his life.
Donnell walked off with the bag down the hall, hurrying without running, the way those guys in a heel-and-toe walking race move their hips cute back and forth, holding the bag out to the side like it had a mess in it, went through the sunroom and out to the chlorine-smelling swimming pool, took some sidesteps turning, flung that bag away from him out over the water, ran back into the sunroom, hit the floor and covered his head.
There was no sound. Dead silence.
Then a ringing sound and Donnell felt his body jump.
The sound came again and came again, Donnell hearing it through his shoulders tight against his ears. It came again and he took his arms away, gradually raised his head. It came again and he got to his knees and reached for the phone.
"Mr. Ricks's residence…"
ICobin sat at her desk in a swivel chair, close to the red explosion on the wall. She recognized Donnell's voice and said into the phone, "Let me speak to him, please."
Donnell's voice said, "Mr. Ricks can't be disturbed.
You want to tell me who's calling?"
"Tell him it's quite important."
Robin was giving him her low, slow voice.
"You can leave a message," Donnell's voice said, "or you can call back later."
"I want to tell him I'm sorry about his brother."
"You can leave your name, your phone number."
Robin stroked her braid.
"I want to tell him it was an accident."
There was a silence on the line.
"What was?"
"His brother getting blown up. I want to tell him that.
Why don't you ask him if he can be disturbed or not?"
"Don't have to ask him, he's the one told me."
Robin moved and the swivel chair squeaked.
"I want to tell him I hope the same thing doesn't happen to him."
There was a longer silence on the line.
"I can tell him that," Donnell's voice said.
"But I want to be sure he understands it. If you tell him, you're taking on quite a responsibility, don't you think?"
There was a pause and then Donnell's voice said, "How much you looking to get?"
Now Robin paused. The chair squeaked again.
"I'd like about a million. Yeah, let's make it an even million. Can you remember to tell him that?"
"I believe so," Donnell's voice said.
"Would that be cash or you take a check?"
Robin hunched over the desk as she said, "You want to play, is that what you're doing? I'll play with you. In about two minutes, man, you'll hear the way I play. It's going to ring in your fucking ears so you won't forget."
There was a silence.
Then heard, "Hold it a minute."
Robin straightened in the chair.
"Hey, what're you doing?" Silence. She looked at her watch.
Twenty-five seconds passed.
Donnell's voice came on the line again.
"All right. Tell me how you want this million dollars given to you."
"Oh, are you back? You ready to talk?"
His voice said, "Behave, girl. I can hang up, end this business right now."
Robin got her low, quiet voice back.
"I'll let you know.
How's that?"
"When's this gonna be you talking about?"
"As soon as he has it."
"If the man doesn't want to give it to you, what?"
"Bow your head and think of Mark."
"Say you gonna kill him, blow him up?"
Before Robin could answer Donnell's voice said:
"All right, it's cool. I'll tell the man."
The line went dead.
Robin eased back in the chair and didn't move. She wanted to believe she'd handled it okay-at least considering the way Donnell was all of a sudden into it, playing it back, and it threw her timing off. The idea had been to keep him on till she heard the explosion, tell him to have a nice day and hang up.
She might have to give Skip a different version. Otherwise he'd say she blew it, misjudged the guy. Try to explain that. Well, you see him in his chauffeur suit opening doors, Jesus Christ, you assume he's now a well-behaved brand new house-nigger version of the old Donnell, right? And Skip would say, Hey, Robin? You decide this dude is born again and you haven't talked to him in like sixteen years?
Robin began to picture Donnell waiting by the limo, Donnell in his dark shades, the trim black suit… She lit a cigarette, got more comfortable in the creaky chair and began to think, Yeah, but wait.
What's wrong with the way it is? Dealing with the old Donnell. Jesus, and began to get excited about the idea. Seeing him as a Panther hiding in the chauffeur suit. Waiting for his chance to score, work some kind of game. The guy would have to be up to something.
She wondered why she hadn't realized it before. It seemed so obvious now. How could he resist? She thought about it another few moments and said, "Jesus, far out."
Because if they were both looking to score and Donnell was inside, alone, and hadn't figured out a move yet…
Robin had an urge to call him back.
"Hi, it's me. I was just wondering, you want to get in on it?"
But then looked at her watch. Shit, it was bomb time.
Any moment now, kaboom, and the lion goes flying, disappears, the door blows in, windows shatter…
And who sees it? Back when blowing up the establishment was popular, they'd set the charge on a timer, come back to park about a block away, smoke joints and at least hear it go off. She realized she was not working much of a fun factor into this deal. Thinking too much about money.
Bad. Becoming way too serious. What she needed was a release, an upper that wasn't dope. A guy who could lighten her mood. Not Skip, he was basically a downer. Someone more spontaneous-as her mind flashed that scene in the powder room-like Donnell. Perfect. Assuming that in the last thirty seconds or so he hadn't opened the front door.
It would be just her luck to lose him before they even got started. She began to wonder what Skip would think. She liked Skip, but he always had b.o. Which used to be okay, but not now. Having b.o. was no longer in. She kind of liked the idea of approaching Donnell first. That seemed like the way to go…
The phone rang.
Robin waited for two more rings before answering. It was the building manager. He said, "Well, you're finally home. There's a couple police officers here want to talk to you."
"What about?"
The manager didn't answer. Robin heard him talking to someone away from the phone. She waited. And now a woman's voice came on.
"Miss Abbott, I'm sorry to bother you. I'm Sergeant Downey, with the Detroit Police? I wonder if we could come up and talk to you for a minute."
"It doesn't sound like a lot of fun," Robin said.
"What's it about?"
"You may or may not have been a witness to a crime we're investigating.
It'll only take about two minutes."
"It's not something I did?" Robin said.
The lady cop sort of laughed.
"No, we're sure of that."
"How many are you? I only have three chairs."
"We won't even have to sit down," the lady cop's voice said.
"Just myself and Sergeant Mankowski."
Donnell made himself stand at the side of the pool.
The bag was floating still, as it was before, when he'd come off the phone to take a look. The stuff from inside the bag was at the bottom of the deep end by the diving board, in nine feet of water. Dark objects down there. The wires still seemed attached to the objects.
Donnell walked through the house to its other end and into the kitchen, where the man was watching "Leave It to Beaver" on the TV while he had his breakfast. It looked like Post Alpha-Bits this morning. The man liked a sweet cereal to start the day, then get all the sugar he needed in his booze. The horoscope page of the paper was folded open next to his bowl. The man glanced up, anxious.
"Listen to this. It says, "You have a sense of inner and outer harmony. This would be a perfect day to start taking singing lessons; you may have talent." What do you think?"
"Yeah, well, if we have time," Donnell said.
"We got us a couple more pressing matters come up. First thing, we have to find somebody knows how to take a bomb out of the swimming pool."
That got the man's dumb eyes focused on him.
"How did a bomb get in the swimming pool?"
"Let's come back to it," Donnell said.
"We also have a matter, this lady called. Say she gonna blow you up if you don't give her some money."
Donnell waited for the man's mind to work and put this and that together. Like he fooled with the Alpha-Bits floating in his milk sometimes, trying to make a word out of the letters.
"The lady that called put the bomb in the swimming pool?"
"Imagine she's the one."
"Is it gonna go off?"
"I don't know. That's why I say we have to get us a bomb man."
"Call the police, they'll take care of it."
"I'm afraid of what she'd do. You know, like she might be a crazy woman and it would set her off."
Right then Beaver's mama on the TV, a cute woman, began fussing at Mr.
Beaver, giving him some shit. Doing it just at the right time.
The man shook his head, didn't know what to think.
Had an idea then and said, "Was it Robin that called?"
"I suspect, but I don't know her voice."
"How much does she want?"
Here we go.
"Say she like two million, cash money, no checks. Get it from the bank and have it ready."
Look at the man blink his eyes.
"Yeah, she say to have it ready. You know, like in a box? See, then when she phones again, to tell us the time and place she wants it? You suppose to give it to me and I deliver it."
What happened: when Wendell didn't show up, Maureen called Homicide from the manager's ground floor apartment. The manager, a sour old man, stood at a window watching for Robin, bifocals gleaming when he turned his head, more interested in Maureen. Chris was reading the Bureau report on Robin Abbott, times and places in it familiar. He heard Maureen say, irritated, "Thanks for telling me. You know how long I've been waiting here?" She hung up, saying to Chris, "Wendell's got a body in an alley: female, black." Chris said, "And you have me."
Maureen said, "Oh, no. You're staying here."
Chris said to the manager, "Try Miss Abbott again, okay?"
The manager said, "She isn't back yet. I'd have seen her."
Chris said, "But will you try?" And said to Maureen, the manager busy now, "You talk to her, I look around. You need me."
Maureen said, "You don't have your badge or I.D. What do you show her?"
As the manager was saying, "Well, you're finally home…"
Voing up the stairs behind Maureen's nice firm athletic calves he said,
"Robin I see was at U of M the same time I was, before I went in the army. Right up from where I lived on State Street, by the Michigan Union, there was always something going on, some kind of demonstration.
Nice little girls screaming at the cops, calling 'em pigs." He shut up as they reached the second floor.
Robin Abbott stood waiting for them, the door to her apartment open.
She wore tinted glasses, her hair in a fat braid, shirt hanging out over jeans, barefoot, trying to look young and girlish and not doing a bad job. Chris checked her out over Maureen's shoulder, letting Maureen lead the way and introduce them.
"Hi, I'm Sergeant Downey'showing her I.D.-"and this is Sergeant Mankowski." Chris had his wallet out. He flipped it open and closed, staying pretty much behind Maureen.
Miss Abbott brought them in, saying, "Well, what can I do for you?" in a quiet, low voice, then lightened the tone as she said, "I don't recall witnessing any crimes lately."
Chris thought of saying he was glad she qualified that.
Miss Abbott had been arrested in '78 after jumping a bond set years before, convicted and sent away in '79. Maureen had the Bureau printout in her bag; he'd get a copy of it to go over in detail. He wondered what the round red design was supposed to be, painted on the wall. The rest of the room was a mess. Miss Abbott sure had a lot of books and magazines, and what looked like old newspapers, piles of them on a bookshelf. Chris wandered over there as Miss Abbott asked if they'd like coffee or a soft drink, Miss Abbott showing what a nice person she was. Maureen said thanks, but they didn't want to take up too much of her time. Just a few questions, if Miss Abbott wouldn't mind.
Miss Abbott said, Of course; what would they like to know?
See? Cooperative as well as nice. Maureen became official then, saying, "We understand you were at a party at the home of Mr. Woodrow Ricks last Saturday evening?"
Chris, looking at books, heard Miss Abbott trying hard to be of help, saying, "Was it Saturday? Yeah, I think so."
As Maureen said, "You think it was Saturday or you think you were there?" and Miss Abbott laughed and said, "Both," Chris let his gaze move to the desk close by, the surface nearly covered with typed pages, file folders, mail, magazines, notebooks…
He saw a notebook with a red cover lying on top. It had MAY-AUGUST '70 written on it big in black Magic Marker.
Miss Abbott came over to the desk for a cigarette and Chris looked at the books again. She had an assortment of paperback novels, several of each title-Gold Fire, Diamond Fire, Silver Fire, Emerald Fire-all by the same author, Nicole Robinette. Maureen was asking about the people who were at the party. Miss Abbott said she didn't think she could be of much help there; she wasn't introduced to anyone.
She had Bukowski on the shelf. She had Genet, Ginsberg. She had Abbie Hoffman's Woodstock Nation and Revolution for the Hell of It. Maureen was asking Miss Abbott if she went swimming with the others. She had Soledad Brother.
She had Sisterhood Is Powerful, The Politics of Protest.
Miss Abbott said she just sort of got her toes wet.
Did she recall Greta Wyatt going in the pool?
She had old copies of underground newspapers Chris hadn't seen or heard of since he got out of school: East Village Other, Rat Subterranean News, Fifth Estate, South End, the Wayne University paper. A copy of the Berkeley Barb dated May 16-22, 1969, with a headline that said PIGS SHOOT TO KILL… Hearing Miss Abbott tell Maureen she wasn't sure who went in the pool and who didn't. He waited for her to mention Mark Ricks. He picked up a book called Is the Library Burning?" still waiting as he put the book back on the shelf.
He glanced at the desk as she tapped her cigarette toward the ashtray sitting there.
The notebook with the red cover was no longer in sight.
He heard Maureen asking Miss Abbott if she recalled Greta Wyatt going upstairs and Miss Abbott saying she wasn't sure which one Greta Wyatt was.
Chris picked up a book from the shelf with the dustjacket flap folded into the pages and turned to Miss Abbott.
"You still reading William Burroughs?"
Miss Abbott looked over and seemed to notice him for the first time.
She stared with no expression before gradually beginning to smile.
"You want to make something of it?"
"I was looking at your books," Chris said.
"I've read some of them. Abbie Hoffman, I've probably read all of his."
"You like Abbie?"
"I don't know why he wasn't a stand-up comic. Yeah, I liked him,"
Chris said.
"I felt sorry for him too. The poor guy hiding out all those years and nobody was even looking for him."
She didn't seem to care for that. Miss Abbott said, "He was wanted by the FBI, wasn't he?"
"Yeah, but how bad did they want him? It was like he finally pops up:
Here I am. And they go, "Oh, shit. Now we have to arrest him."
" Chris saw her start to frown and said, "Yeah all this takes me back," looking at the bookshelves again.
"I went to Washington for the biggest peace march in history, the Vietnam Moratorium, one of a million protesters. I was at Woodstock … I think it was that summer, yeah, I was still going to U of M, I lived in a house on State Street right next to Pizza Bob's. It was that summer the ROTC building got trashed. I remember typewriters flying out the window." He was grinning.
It seemed to encourage Miss Abbott.
"More than just typewriters, all the records… Did you take part in that?"
"I watched," Chris said.
"No, the only time I saw any action was when George Wallace was here.
That time he was running for President and had a rally at Cobo Hall.
He's trying to make his speech, we're in the balcony, we stand up and give him that Hitler salute and yell, "Sieg Heil, you-all!" His fans didn't like it. There was a scuffle, pushing and throwing chairs."
Chris grinned.
"I remember Wallace yelling at us, "Get a haircut and take a load off your mind."
I don't know why hair bothered people so much."
"Really," Miss Abbott said.
"Or the way we dressed."
"And spoke rather freely," Chris said.
"You were at U of M at that time?"
Miss Abbott drew on her cigarette.
"I lived on Packard."
Chris said, "Packard, you could throw a rock from my front steps and hit Packard." He gave her another grin.
"And some people did. You miss those days?"
"I have them." Miss Abbott said.
"I can look at them any time I want."
That was a little weird. She seemed to want to get into it with him but was holding back.
Maureen, seated now in a plastic chair that looked like it was coming apart, was watching. She met Chris's gaze for a moment, not saying a word.
Miss Abbott said, "You were at Woodstock?"
"In the rain and the mud, all three days."
"I really wanted to go, but I had something on."
"You had to be there to believe it," Chris said.
"Half a million people sitting there all wet and nobody cared.
Saturday I got to see my all-time favorite, Grace Slick. I saw Janis, the Who, Santana. On Sunday, Joe Cocker. He had stars on his boots.
You remember Ten Years After? Alvin Lee?"
"They were at Goose Lake, the next summer," Miss Abbott said.
"You remind me of a guy, a friend of mine.
He'll go, "You remember Licorice? Who was she with?"
" "The Incredible String Band," Chris said.
They were grinning at each other.
"You aren't Nicole Robinette by any chance?"
"I'm afraid so."
"I haven't read any of your books, but I'd like to."
"No, you wouldn't."
Again, both grinned and Chris glanced at the bookshelves.
"How'd you manage to hang onto all this? You've got Rising Up Angry.
You've got the Rat, Barb, ones I've heard of but don't think I ever read."
"You never know," Miss Abbott said, "they could be collector's items someday. I stored everything at Mother's while I was in New York, working for a publishing house."
Chris said, "How about when you were at Huron Valley, working in the laundry?"
That took care of Miss Abbott's pleasant expression, left over from the grin.
She said, "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
"You don't want to talk about old times?" Chris said.
"Tell us how you got busted, any of that?"
"I don't care to talk to you about anything," Miss Abbott said.
"Okay? So leave. That means don't say another word, just get the fuck out."
Going down the stairs Maureen paused on the landing to look back at Chris.
"I thought she might try to finesse around it, at least act dumb. No, sir. " "She comes right at you," Chris said.
"You notice she didn't say anything about Mark? Didn't want to go near that, get on the subject of bombs. Did you learn anything?"
Maureen said, "You mean outside of what she doesn't want to talk about?
No. She won't be any help to us on the assault-yeah, I did learn that much."
"I wouldn't worry about that one," Chris said. In the front hall by the manager's apartment he said, "Can I make a suggestion?"
"Give it to Wendell."
"Yeah, but call him, from here. Tell him to get a judge to sign a warrant, so he can come right over and search her apartment. You could stick around, make sure she doesn't leave."
"What're we looking for, bombs?"
"Any kind of explosives, copper wire, blasting caps, timers, maybe some kind of remote control switch. Clothespins, the snap kind. Be sure to check the refrigerator."
"Clothespins?"
"Have Wendell put on the warrant you're looking for explosive materials and literature."
"What kind of literature?"
"A notebook with a red cover that's marked "May to August 1970." If you don't find anything else, at least get hold of the notebook.
There's something in it, 'cause she hid it while you were talking to her. Covered it with some papers. Maybe she's got instructions in it, how to make a bomb. But even if it doesn't look like anything," Chris said, "hold on to it and let me see it, okay?"
Maureen didn't answer. She squinted, making a show of studying him.
"I don't get it. You want to work so bad, why don't you straighten out your residence problem, get your shield back?"
"I don't think I like Sex Crimes."
"Okay, but why this? What're you trying to prove?"
"Nothing, I'm just going along."
"That's what I'm asking you. Why?"
He had to think of words to describe something he knew without words, something that came to him as he stood at Robin Abbott's bookshelf and looked at her past and realized her past was her present.
"One thing leads to another," Chris said.
"Greta takes us to Robin. You find out she was a hard-core revolutionary at U of M and I pick up on it because I was there, I saw what was going on. I was even into it, not much but enough that I could feel it again. She did too, when I was talking about it. You see her face? She was dying to tell stories, top anything I said easy, but she held back. She was afraid if she got started she might say too much, give away what she's into now."
"If she's into anything."
"Maureen, come on. Why'd she hold back? What's wrong with talking about old times?"
Maureen said, "It looked like she's living in those times." Chris smiled at Maureen coming around.
"Or she'd like to relive them, huh? But if she can't, then maybe she gets into it in a different way or for a different reason. You know what I mean?"
"Maybe she's mad at somebody," Maureen said.
It raised Chris's eyebrows.
"Maybe somebody, when she was busted," Maureen said, "turned her in."
Chris said, "That's not bad, Maureen." He thought about it and said,
"Yeah, I like it. I might be able to look into that."
Me remembered one night in the Athens Bar, a guy he'd see in there, an artist by the name of Dizsi, telling how they had planned to blow up a submarine, the one that used to be parked in the Detroit River behind the Naval Armory.
It was for sightseeing, Dizsi said, but it was also a symbol of war. He believed someone informed on them, because the submarine disappeared before they could destroy it and later turned up in the Israeli navy.
Chris liked to listen to Dizsi. He was Hungarian and spoke through his gray beard with an accent that was perfect for telling about anarchist plots. Dizsi had escaped the Russians, traded Budapest for Detroit, taught fine art at Wayne State and supported student demonstrations until he was fired. Now he lived in a loft studio in Greektown where he painted wall-size canvases and was waited on by his mistress, Amelia.
"You remember Robin Abbott?"
"Yes, of course, and I'll tell you why."
Chris liked to watch him eat, too. Dizsi could make things Chris wouldn't dare even to smell look good. Today, having his lunch in the studio when Chris walked in, he was eating marinated squid and hummus, wiping Greek bread in the colorless paste. A bottle of Greek wine stood on the table where tubes of paint had been pushed aside. Chris didn't especially like retsina, either, but had some when Amelia appeared in a long white shirtdress and filled Dizsi's glass, Dizsi saying, "We tried to get Robin to join the Socialist Labor Party. Or it was the Young Socialist Alliance."
Chris watching Amelia, her face clean and pale as a nun's within the soft curve of her dark hair parted in the middle, eyes cast down; Dizsi saying, "It was a fantastic opportunity, here in a blue-collar city, for a mass orientation program…" Chris watching Amelia's eyes raise and lower again, Amelia leaving them now, Chris wondering what a mistress did all day, Dizsi saying, "But Robin was only words, pretentious rhetoric, writing about the proletariat without even knowing one person who worked on the line."
He pushed the plate of hummus toward Chris.
"Please, help yourself."
"Mashed-up chickpeas doesn't make it with me."
"Then why do I think you want some?"
"Go ahead and eat," Chris said. He took an olive.
"You know what organizations she belonged to? Was she in the Weathermen?"
"Yes, but in and out," Dizsi said.
"She was in the White Panthers at one time helping the Black ones. I know that because I went to a cocktail party for them to raise bail money. There were so many different groups. The Yippies, the Revolutionary Youth Movement, the Action Faction, the Crazies, the Progressive Labor Party, strict Maoists.
The Black Panthers were known here as the National Committee to Combat Fascism, and the White Panthers became the Rainbow People's Party. I was younger then, I knew what I believed. I ask these people, what's the matter with the friendly Socialist Labor Party, uh? I don't know, I think it was because we didn't drop acid and practice kundalini yoga.
It turned them off."
"Was Robin involved in that submarine thing?"
"Oh, no, that was in 'sixty-seven, before her time."
"But she did set a few bombs."
"I don't know if Robin actually did or if it was her friend Skip."
"Who's Skip?"
"You don't know that name? Skip Gibbs?"
"I've heard of Emerson Gibbs."
"Yes, that's Skip. He came out of prison and went to Hollywood, someone told me, to work in the movies. In Special Effects."
"You're kidding."
"Sure, he knows how to blow up things."
"They were making a movie here," Chris said, "blowing up things." His gaze moved to the painting Dizsi was working on: a giant canvas that was solid black except for a diagonal streak of white that had some yellow in it, near the base of the painting. He said, "You don't suppose Skip was here, working on that movie." The streak of white could be headlights, the way it started narrow and widened out.
"If he was…"
Dizsi said, "And if Robin knew he was here or happened to see him, and if they're still friends… and if I sell that painting I want twenty thousand for it. No, make it twenty-five."
Chris studied the painting, about seven feet high and fifteen feet wide. A door opened at the far end of the loft and Amelia appeared, daylight showing her body in the white dress. She stood there.
He looked at the painting again.
"What is it?"
"Tell me what you see," Dizsi said.
"Car headlights coming out of woods at night."
"You're absolutely right. It means you can buy it."
"I don't have a wall for it," Chris said.
"I don't even have a house." He watched Amelia close the door.
Dizsi was staring at his painting.
"Those two could live in there, in the woods, Robin and Skip. They were lone wolves. I think half by choice and half of it because people didn't like to associate with them."
"Why not?"
"They were unpredictable, they scared the hell out of people."
"Did you know Woody and Mark Ricks?"
Dizsi grinned, eating his squid.
"Ah, now we're getting to it. I didn't want to be rude, ask you what's this about. I met them, yes, and their mother. They're the ones had the party for the Black Panthers. I don't know what I was doing there, I left. But I did see the mother another time, when I was subpoenaed and had to go to the Federal Building."
"For what?"
"They were always inviting me to sit down and discuss subversive activities with them. Listen, I'll show you something. I have complete records of FBI and CIA investigations that concerned me directly or even where my name appeared. Like investigations of some of my friends or associates. All of this I got through the Freedom of Information Act, three entire file drawers full of stuff."
"Were Woody and Mark ever arrested?"
"Mark was picked up once,"Dizsi said.
"You know when those students at Kent State were shot and killed?
After that, there was a demonstration in Kennedy Square.
May ninth, 1970. I know, I was there. Mark was one of those taken in and then released, no charge filed."
"That's why his mother was at the Federal Building?"
"Oh, no," Dizsi said.
"No, what I started to tell you I have in my records? It shows that Mrs. Ricks, following the Black Panther fund-raising party, became an FBI informant. Told them things she learned right in her house."
"She snitched on her own kids?"
Dizsi was shaking his head.
"To save her kids. She gave information about the Black Panthers, nothing important.
No, but her biggest coup, she told the FBI where to find Robin and Skip."
"Jesus Christ," Chris said.
Now Dizsi was smiling a little.
"Why does that make you happy?"
The notebook with the red cover marked MAY AUGUST '70 was on Wendell Robinson's desk, the metal desk in the far corner of the squad room by the window with the air-conditioning unit that didn't work. Wendell, sitting behind the desk in a neat gray suit and rose-tinted necktie, watched Chris taking his time: looking around as if he'd never been here before, appraising the office full of old desks and file cabinets that made Barney Miller's TV squad room look swank. Mankowski taking his time 'cause he'd seen the notebook lying there and knew a search had been done. Wendell picked up his coffee mug with a "?" on it and took a sip. There-Chris finally turning this way, about to get to it.
"Where is everybody?"
"Out on the street, where they supposed to be."
"That's a good-looking suit. You don't seem to go with the decor around here."
"I have to say you do," Wendell said.
"Is that what you're trying to tell me, you want a job?"
"You're gonna want to give me one."
"Why's that?"
"First, tell me what you know."
"I don't know shit. We didn't find nothing."
"You got the notebook."
"I still don't know shit. It's full of how smart she is and how dumb everybody else is."
"You talked to her…"
"Yeah, I talked. That girl knows how to act with police.
Kept her mouth closed tight."
"Gave you dirty looks?"
"Gave me nothing. " "You want a motive?"
Wendell didn't answer, looking at this old-limey young cop comes in here in his worn-out sportcoat and some kind of angle, with that instinct of an old-limey cop, too.
"Mark and Woody's mom, now deceased, turned her in," Chris said.
"Told the shoes where to find Robin and her buddy Skip Gibbs. They picked them up in Los Angeles and brought them back for trial."
Wendell got comfortable in his chair, sat back with his coffee, raised his tasseled loafers to the desk, next to the notebook.
"So the mama's dead, Robin takes it out on the two boys?"
"Why not?"
"I'm not arguing with you, I like it. I'll take anything given to me free. But how good is it?"
"It's good," Chris said.
"It could even get better." He picked up Wendell's phone and dialed four numbers.
"Jerry?… Fine, I'm in the building, up at Seven…
No, I'm not talking to anybody higher than lieutenant," Chris said and looked at Wendell.
"I want to ask you something. When you were with that movie crew and they blew up the cars, you met all the special-effects guys, didn't you?… Was there a guy named Skip Gibbs?"
Chris listened for a moment.
"Well, it must be. How many Skips are there?… Can you check?..
. Call up the company and ask them… Out in Hollywood, the one that made the movie. Would you do that? I'm sure it's the guy, but let's nail it down… No, it only sounds like I'm working. Jerry, I'll talk to you. Thanks." Chris hung up and looked at Wendell again.
"Skip was here with the movie crew."
"Some Skip was."
"It's the guy. He's a dynamite man."
"Say he was here. We don't know he still is."
"I could find that out," Chris said, "and I'm not even an ace homicide dick."
"But you like to be one, huh? Win my respect," Wendell said, "and have me beg to get you. It could be done, Mankowski, you ever move back to town. But this motive now you telling me, is it good? Or you giving me some more theorizing shit like with the peanuts?"
"It's solid," Chris said.
"You want to know where to look it up quick, without going to the feds?
Save you valuable time, you can sit around drinking coffee?"
"Here comes the deal."
"I'll trade you the source for a Xerox of the notebook."
"There's nothing in it. Take it, long as you bring it back."
"And Donnell Lewis's file, just for fun. Something to read in bed."
Wendell said, "Now we coming to something. Slip that in about Donnell.
You been talking to him?"
"Once. Yesterday."
"How come he called here? Wants to know how to get in touch with you?"
"Donnell?"
"Was just before Maureen called me, about eleven thirty. He wouldn't tell me what he wanted. And you're acting surprised as hell, like you not gonna be any help."
"You give him my number?"
"How could I do that? I don't even know it."
Wendell watched Chris look up at the dirty window, getting a thoughtful squint in the afternoon glare.
"He know you're suspended?"
"He was the witness for the lawyer's complaint, I roughed up his boss."
"Maybe he wants to tell you he's sorry."
"The only thing I can think of, what it might be," Chris said, "Donnell has an idea I've been on the take now and then. Maybe he knows cops that were, back during his life of crime, and he thinks I can be had."
"Couldn't be you let him think it," Wendell said, "driving around in your maroon Cadillac."
"You never know what somebody might tell you," Chris said, "when they think you're somebody else."
"You're having fun being suspended, aren't you?"
"Except for the pay."
"Do one thing for me," Wendell said, "don't impersonate a cop. Make that two things, and don't tell me what you're doing."
"Unless I get something good."
"Well, that goes without saying."
Foody said, "I guess the place to start, put down I want to cross out Mark's name and anything in it that has to do with him. Say, "As he is no longer a successor co trustee of the estate." I'm pretty sure that's what he was. Put that down under his name, successor co-trustee. But you know something. It must say in there what happens if he dies. I mean before I do."
Donnell, sitting at the library desk with the green lamp on, said,
"Cross out Mark," as he wrote it on a legal pad, underlined it and stopped there.
"I got it, Mr. Woody. You understand the lawyer knows who comes out of the will. What we have to tell him is who you want to go in. Hmmm, let's think about that."
The man was pacing in his bathrobe, way over on the other side of the room now, looking at the TV set like he wanted to turn it on. He'd been on his way to the swimming pool for his late-afternoon dog-paddle when Donnell caught him in the sunroom, told him not to go in there. The man asked why not. Donnell said to him, Mr. Woody, the bomb. The man said, Oh yeah, he forgot. He looked in at the pool like a kid looking out the window at rain. What was he going to do now? Didn't know whether to cry or have a drink. So Donnell had lit his face up and said, Hey, I got an idea…
"You thinking, Mr. Woody?"
"The lawyer's also a co-trustee. But that doesn't mean he gets anything. I don't think he does."
"You have to watch those people, Mr. Woody. Who you want in there wasn't in there before?"
"Mark was my only brother."
"Doesn't have to be kin."
"Did I tell you? I decided I'm not gonna take singing lessons."
"I wouldn't."
"You notice I never sing in the morning? I like to sing in the pool, your voice carries. But I never sing in the morning."?
"I notice that."
"You know what I used to think?"
"No, sir."
"That red things were best for hangovers, in the morning. A really bad one, I'd drink a bottle of ketchup."
Man was cuckoo.
"You know what I think I might do?"
"What's that?"
"Get married."
"You have to be in love, Mr. Woody. It's the law."
"I mean it. Not right away but pretty soon. There's one I like, too.
The redhead."
"You mean the one say you raped her, wants to take you to court and have you thrown in jail?"
"The one that was here-when was it?"
"You had all kind of ladies here, Mr. Woody."
Donnell'd had some, too. Some of the man's, brought here by Mark, and some of his own. Ladies who'd stop by for a late supper and Donnell would take off Ezio Pinza for his own kind of enchanted evening: put on the Whodinis, put on Run-DMC, put on some oldies like the Funkadelics, like the Last Poets, the original rappers rapping to "Wakeup Niggers" and get some live sound in the house. The ladies would be gone in the early morning, before the man had his drinks on the silver tray.
"The redhead, with the red bush."
"Has, huh? You don't tell me."
"Ginger," the man said.
The man remembered her name.
"She the one, huh?"
"I'm in love with her."
"Before you get married, how 'bout we get this new will done?"
"I could put her in it."
"You could. Let's see you have anybody closer to you."
"I can't think of any."
"Go through the alphabet. A… B… C… D. Anybody you like start with D, Mr. Woody?"
"Did you know I was suppose to wear glasses?"
"We thinking of Ds, Mr. Woody. Come on, let's think of somebody."
Donnell waited. If the man was any dumber you'd have to water him twice a week.
"What do I need glasses for, I can see all right. That's why I'm not gonna take singing lessons."
Man had chicken lo mein for brains. The trouble was, Donnell hadn't slipped him a 'hide at lunchtime, hoping to keep him more awake and get this fucking will taken care of. But the man was too awake, talking with his head wandering all over the place.
"I've been thinking of writing a book. I could dictate it, like we're doing now."
Donnell got up from the desk, went over to the man and eased him into his TV chair, staying over him, Donnell placing his hands on the fat arms of the chair. He was going to get it done and would sit on the motherfucker if he had to.
"I thought of somebody, Mr. Woody."
"Who?"
"Myself. I'd be proud to be in your will."
Donnell had to grin then to get the man to grin, but kept looking at the man's wet eyes to show he meant it.
"Well, yeah, you're gonna be in it."
"I said, who's name start with D? You didn't say nothing."
"I was waiting for you to get to L." The man still grinning.
"Damn. You way ahead of me, huh?" Donnell grinned with the man, wishing to Jesus he could make himself cry at this moment like movie stars. He rubbed one of his eyes anyway, put his hand back on the chair arm and said, "Mr.
Woody, how much you have in mind to leave me when you go?"
The man tried to look away to think, but Donnell stayed over him.
"I don't know…"
"About. Gimme a round number."
"How long have you been with me?"
Oh, man… "Mr. Woody, how long doesn't have nothing to do with it.
All by myself, who takes care of you?
Feeds you, cleans your mess, keeps people from running games on you?"
Keep going, the man was nodding.
"Who protects your life from people that send you bombs?"
"You do."
"What is a man does all that worth to you after you gone and you don't need the money anyway?"
"I don't know."
"Or have anybody else to give it to."
"Twenty-five thousand?"
Shit.
"Mr. Woody, you giving that to a woman you don't even know."
"A hundred thousand?"
"Your lawyer gets that for taking you to lunch and you pay for it, at your club." Donnell paused but stayed over him.
"Think a minute. Would you pay this woman two million dollars so she won't send you a bomb, blow you up?"
"If I have to."
"Then wouldn't you want to give the same amount, at least, to the person that's gonna keep it from happening?
You understand what I'm saying, the person being me?"
Look at the man's glassy wet eyes, all the busted blood vessels in his nose, his face; the man was a mess. Yeah, but he was nodding, agreeing.
"I guess that's fair."
Donnell hurried back to the desk and sat down.
"Okay, I'm putting in-how's this? You being of sound ilgB, mind…"-pausing to write-"you want to leave Donnell Lewis… at least two million dollars… if and when you ever die." Donnell finished, read it over-man, look at it-was about to say, Ready for you to sign, Mr. Woody.
The doorbell rang.
And what he said was, "Shit."
Got up and went out to the front hall hoping it was the paperboy come to collect, Donnell in a mood to kick the kid's ass across the street.
He peeked through the peephole as he always did, cautious, and the dark cloud parted and the sun came out to shine on-loo kit who's here-Sergeant Mankowski and the redhead name Ginger.
Chris said, "I hope we're not interrupting anything. If Mr. Woody's floating in the pool we'll come back."
"No, he's not floating today. Come in, come in."
"Miss Wyatt would like to have a word with him."
"Yeah, that's fine. He be glad to see you." Donnell full of life in his silky yellow shirt and pants, smiling white teeth at them, saying hi, Ginger, saying to Chris he'd been trying to get hold of him but nobody seemed to have his number; was he hiding or what? Giving them all this chatter crossing the hall to the library, saying yeah, this was nice they dropped by, saying,
"Mr. Woody, look who come to see you. Ginger, Mr. Woody, and her friend." All talk and motion all at once.
Greta was giving Chris a look. He shrugged, no help.
Donnell was going over to the desk, Woody was pulling himself out of his chair, straightening his bathrobe, making himself presentable, Donnell shoving papers into a desk drawer and opening another one. Now he was holding what looked like a leather-bound commercial checkbook.
Greta's voice, kept low, said, "What's going on?" Chris said, "Beats me." Woody was creeping toward Greta on his swollen legs, arms bent but outstretched.
"Boy-oh-boy… Ginger, is that you? Sit down and we'll have a drink.
Donnell?"
Chris watched Donnell move close to the man to say something to him and the man said, "Oh, yeah, that's right."
Donnell came over with the checkbook and said to Chris, "Mr. Woody will fix Ginger up. He's got the bar there has a fridge in it"-looking at Greta-"if you like some wine.
Or he'll make you a nice drink."
Chris said, "You have any peanuts?"
"Yeah, those peanuts, we fresh out. Listen, she be fine with Mr.
Woody. Can watch some TV."
Chris liked the way Greta said, "I wasn't fine with Mr.
Woody the last time I was here." Turned to the man creeping up in his bathrobe and said, "Are you gonna behave yourself?"
"Boy-oh-boy," Woody said.
Donnell touched the man's shoulder.
"Yeah, that means he's mellow, feeling good. He'll be nice. Huh, Mr.
Woody? Sure." Donnell looked at Chris again.
"Come with me, I'll show you something will interest you."
Greta motioned to Chris, Go on, and that took care of that.
Once they were in the hall Donnell stopped and opened the checkbook.
"See?" There were three green tinted checks to the sheet, issued by Manufacturers National Bank, each imprinted with Ricks Enterprises, Inc. and bearing Woody's signature at the bottom.
"I have him sign three at a time when he's able to," Donnell said, "for whatever needs might come up. You being a need. You understand? This is opportunity looking at you." He closed the checkbook. They walked down the hall and through the sunroom to the shallow end of the swimming pool.
"Go look on the bottom by the diving board."
Chris saw the black athletic bag floating in the clear water. He walked along the edge to the deep end, looked down and studied the dark shapes on the bottom, Donnell's voice filling the room now, telling him from a distance how he'd found the bag, brought it in here and thrown it, and the bag must've hit the board and those things came out of it.
Chris looked at his watch.
"What time was that?"
"Was about quarter of eleven."
"You thought if you dropped dynamite in water it wouldn't go off?"
"I was hoping."
"You were wrong."
"Then why didn't it?"
"It still might. Or it could've shorted when it hit the water, blown you through the window. Why don't you come here, so I don't have to yell."
"I been as close to it as I want."
Chris walked back to the shallow end.
"We don't know what time it's set for, do we? If it was put there early this morning, within the past twelve hours…" He reached Donnell and said, "You know you could be arrested, withholding evidence of a crime."
"Man, I didn't make the bomb."
"Doesn't matter. Why didn't you call Nine-eleven?"
"Have the police come, the fire trucks? Pretty soon we have the TV news. Mr. Woody don't want none of that.
Man likes his privacy and is willing to pay for it." Donnell brought a ballpoint pen out of his pants pocket and opened the checkbook.
"Tell me what your shakedown price is these days."
Chris said, "Anything I want?"
"Long as it seems to be right."
"I say ten thousand?"
"I write it in."
"What if I say twenty?"
"I write it in. But now twenty you getting up there. I'd have to sell that figure to the man, convince him."
"He's already signed the check."
"Yeah, but that don't mean the money's in the bank.
See, he keeps only so much in there. It gets low, the man calls a certain number and they transfer money from his trust account to his regular business account. I think I could talk the man into paying twenty, but I'd have to have a cut, like ten percent. Two grand for the service, understand?"
"I don't know," Chris said, looking out at the pool.
"I'd have to take my clothes off, dive in there… the bomb could go off any time. I'm fooling with a fast high explosive under water, can barely see what I'm doing-" "You cut the wire," Donnell said.
"Is that all?" Chris brought out the Spyder-Co knife that was always in his right-hand coat pocket.
"Here, you do it."
"The shakedown pro. I should've known," Donnell said.
"Drive up in your Cadillac, twenty don't meet your greed. Gonna go for what you can get."
"The way I have to look at it," Chris said, "I make a mistake, I'm floating face down in a fucking swimming pool, something I never thought of before." He paused.
"You'd have to look in the Yellow Pages, see if you can find another bomb disposal man."
"For what, if the bomb's gone?"
"The next one. They'd have to try again."
Donnell stared at him.
"You think so, huh?"
"You don't seem to understand what this is about. It's a payback,"
Chris said, "get even for getting snitched on and doing time. Mark and Woody's mom told the feds where to find Robin and her boyfriend, Skip.
The mom's dead, so they go after the boys, thinking, Well, they probably told the mom anyway."
Donnell said, "Robin, huh?" and started to smile.
"First time we met I said you must be dumb as shit, didn't I? I'll tell you something now that we talked again. You still dumb as shit.
You live in your little get-even bomb world, down there bent over taking wires apart. See, that's why people like you get hired by people like me. I write down "Mr. Mankowski' and 'twenty-oh-oh-oh' on one of these checks, man, you'll dive in with your clothes on. It don't matter who's doing what or why and don't tell me different.
"Cause once you on the take, man, you on it, for good."
Chris said, "Let's go sit down."
He walked off, going to the lounge area halfway up the length of the pool-the arrangement of chairs and low tables by the bar and stereo system-and poured himself a scotch. There was water in the ice bucket.
A buzzing sound came from the phone sitting on the bar and a light went on.
Chris took his drink to a table and sat down.
Donnell said, from the shallow end of the pool, "That's Mr. Woody.
Wait half a minute, he'll forget what he wants."
Chris sipped his whiskey. The phone buzzed a few more times. Donnell was staring at the clear water.
"Say that thing could still go off?"
"You never know," Chris said. The phone had stopped buzzing.
"Come on, sit down. Tell me what Robin said when she called."
That got his attention. Donnell looked over but didn't say anything.
"I'm dumb as shit," Chris said, "you have to straighten me out. So it's not a payback, it's a pay up or get blown up.
The anarchist turned capitalist. It used to be political, now it's for money." He thought about it a moment, nodding.
"It makes sense. Get out of that dump she's living in. Or she's bored, uh? Tired of writing those books…" Chris sipped his drink.
Donnell was still watching him.
"So why didn't you call Nine-eleven? You find a bomb, you call the police, fire, anybody you can get. The only reason I can see why you didn't," Chris said, "you must be in on it. You're working it with her."
Donnell came away from the shallow end now.
"I let somebody send me a bomb? Am I crazy? Then get you to get rid of the motherfucker? Explain that to me."
Chris said, "Maybe you got involved after the bomb was delivered… when she called. It was Robin, wasn't it?"
Donnell didn't answer that one but kept coming, not taking his eyes off Chris.
"I think what happened," Chris said, "she thinks the bomb's already gone off, outside. That's the warning shot.
Now she tells you on the phone how much she wants and you're thinking, Man, why don't I get in on this? Or you don't think she's asking enough, so you tell her you'll be her agent, get her a better deal.
Extortion, though, I imagine you'd want more than ten percent."
"What I want," Donnell said, laying the checkbook on the table, "is to know how much you want. That's the only business we have, understand?"
Chris sipped his drink, in no hurry.
"I'll tell you what I have a problem with, and I'll bet you do too. The first bomb, the one that took out Mark. That wasn't a warning shot, was it? That one had Woody's name on it. Yours, too, if you open doors for him. But how do they make any money if Woody's dead?"
Donnell didn't move or say a word.
"Unless their original idea," Chris said, "was to get Woody out of the way and go after Mark. Only Mark went after the peanuts. That can happen, something unforeseen.
But you get down and look at it, I don't think Robin knows what she's doing. It seems to me she and Skip are as fucked up as they ever were.
Back when they were crazies. I think about it some more and it doesn't surprise me. You know why?"
Donnell kept looking at him, but didn't answer.
"Because people don't get into crime unless they're fucked up to begin with."
Donnell said, "The policeman talking now."
"You know what I'm saying. Think of all the guys you used to hang out with are in the joint. You've been trying to think of ways yourself to fuck up, haven't you?"
Chris reached over to open the leather-bound book on the table and look at the three checks signed by Woodrow Ricks, the name written big, all curves and circles.
"You could write "Donnell Lewis' and some big numbers on one of these, you must've thought of that. But first you have to get him to transfer enough money into the account to make it worthwhile, huh? And you haven't figured out how to work that."
Donnell said, "How much you want?"
"Twenty-five," Chris said, "nothing for you, no commission on this one.
And if Woody stops payment, I put the bomb back in the pool."