Freaky Deaky - читать онлайн бесплатно полную версию книги . Страница 9

RD

joined his brother, both of them now hidden beneath a brilliant socko design on the white wall, a sunburst, a bright red ball of fire, an explosion…

ICobin closed the red-covered notebook, her journal labeled MAY-AUGUST '70, and sat staring at the design on the white wall. Several minutes passed in silence before she picked up the phone and dialed Mark's office, murmured quietly to the young woman who answered, keeping her voice low, and then waited. Mark came on the line and Robin said, "Hi, you want to hear something funny?"

"Love to."

"You know the journal I kept?"

"Sure, I remember."

"I was looking through it, I came to something I wrote on August tenth, 1970." Robin paused.

"If I tell you…"

"Wait, August 1970…"

"We were at Goose Lake."

"Oh, right. Yeah, of course."

"You promise you won't laugh?"

"I thought you said it was funny."

"It is, but I don't want you to laugh."

"I promise."

"I wrote on that day, August tenth, "I think I'm in love with Mark Ricks."

" "Come on, really? Wow, listen, I don't think that's funny."

Robin said in her low voice, "You don't?" n Tuesday, four twenty in the afternoon, the young woman with short red hair entered the lobby at 1300 Beaubien and stopped, uncertain. She expected to see police officers. What she saw was a bunch of black people with small children standing by the two elevators and in front of the glass-covered directory on the wall. It could be the lobby of an old office building, all tile and marble, and seemed small with the people waiting, the women holding on to the children trying to pull free. An elevator door opened and two young black guys came off grinning, playing with shoelaces in their hands, and were all at once gathered in by these people, who must be family. The young woman with short red hair edged her way around them and through a short hall that opened into another lobby, this one dismal with deep shadows, until she came to a long wooden counter beneath fluorescent lights. The uniformed police officer behind the near end of the counter, a black woman, looked up and said, "Can I help you?"

The young woman with short red hair said, "I want to report a rape."

The policewoman said, "This's Prisoner Detention," and glanced down the length of the empty counter.

"You want to talk to somebody's with the precinct. They be right back… I'll tell you what, or you can go up to Sex Crimes on seven, save you some time. Get off the elevator and turn right and it's all the way down the end of the hall. There be somebody up there will help you."

Vhris was alone in the squad room, his desk piled with case folders he'd been going through for the past few days, learning about criminal sexual conduct in its varying degrees. At lunch he'd told Jerry Baker he didn't think he was going to like it. A guy throws a pipe bomb in somebody's house to settle a score, the guy could be wacko but at least his motive was clear. But why would any guy want to rape a defenseless woman? What was in his head? The interesting thing was that it didn't have that much to do with sex.

Jerry Baker said, "Then what do you call it a sex crime for?"

Chris told him the way he understood it, the rapist wanted to dominate or be destructive, or he gets off on somebody else's pain. So he picks on a woman he can handle. But the act didn't have that much to do with getting laid, per se.

Chris said he wasn't sure he could interrogate a suspect they knew for a fact was guilty and not pound the shit out of the guy. It would require a certain amount of self-restraint Or sit down and talk to the poor rape victim. That would be tough. He told Jerry the whole setup was different. Even the squad room. It was cleaner than other squad rooms, the desks were kept neater. There were even artificial flowers on some of the desks, if you could imagine, inside 1300. See, because it wasn't a twelve-man squad, it was a twelve-person squad, half the investigators were policewomen. Chris said he wasn't complaining, not at all, it was just different.

Yesterday he'd walked down to six and stuck his head in at Firearms and Explosives to see what was going on. It reminded him of when he was in the eighth grade his family moved from the West Side to the East Side and all that summer he rode buses back to the old neighborhood to be with his friends. Chris was going to meet Jerry at Galligan's at five, have a couple before driving out to St. Clair Shores.

Working Sex Crimes in his dad's Cadillac.

It was almost four thirty. Maureen Downey had the night duty. At the moment she was off somewhere. Maureen had spent a few years in Sex Crimes, then was in Homicide for a while and came back, she said because she didn't like all the blood you found at the scene or going to the morgue to look at bodies and get the Medical Examiner's report.

Chris heard that sharp, clean sound of high heels on the tile floor and looked up expecting to see Maureen.

It was a young woman with short red hair, very attractive, maybe late twenties. She came in, Chris couldn't help notice the way her legs moved in her skirt: a short straight tan skirt that went from above her knees into a loose tan sweater. A soft leather handbag hung from her shoulder.

She seemed calm, even as she said, "They told me downstairs to come here… I want to report a rape."

As though she were telling him she wanted to report an accident, something she had seen, but was not personally involved.

Chris said, "Oh." He stood up, looked around and nodded toward a clean desk with blue flowers in a green ceramic bowl. He said, "I'm Sergeant Mankowski. If you'd like, we'll sit over there, have more room."

Chris paused to watch the thigh movement in her skirt as she walked to the desk. He sat down again and opened and closed drawers till he found a yellow legal pad and a Preliminary Complaint Report form. Going over to the desk, where the young woman was seated now in a straight metal chair, Chris said, "This happen to someone in your family?"

She seemed surprised, the way her head raised.

"It happened to me. I was forced against my will to have sex.

If that isn't rape I don't know what is."

Chris noticed she had a slight southern accent, not much of one but it was there. She sat straight, looking up at him until he eased into the padded metal swivel chair behind the desk. Now they were looking at each other over the bowl of blue flowers. She had a long thin neck. Or it seemed long the way she was sitting upright or the way her hair ended just below her ears and stuck out on both sides, wavy red hair with a lot of body. Phyllis always had rollers in her pile of dark hair. Chris imagined this girl didn't have to fool with her hair much.

He liked the way it ended and stuck straight out. She was holding herself rigid, showing him she was indignant, but didn't look as though she'd been beat up. Chris wondered if this was what they called in Sex Crimes a date rape.

"When did this assault take place?"

"Sunday morning, about two A.M."

Chris said, "Sunday? That was two days ago. Why're you just now reporting it?"

"What's the difference when it happened? I was raped."

Chris had been told eight out often rapes weren't even reported; they hadn't said anything about the ones that were reported late.

"You know the suspect?"

She said, "Suspect? I don't suspect he raped me, I know he did. I was there. Mr. Woodrow Ricks is his name."

There was that accent, soft, unaffected. It made her seem natural but also vulnerable. A guy rapes her, she calls him "Mister." Chris pictured the guy older. Looking at the PCR form he said, "I don't have your name and address."

She said, "I guess you want my real name. It's Greta Wyatt. My stage name I go by is Ginger Jones."

"You're an actress?"

"An actor; you don't say 'actress' anymore."

"I didn't know that." She did look more like a Ginger than a Greta. He liked Greta, though, better.

"Let me have your address, too."

"I live for the time being at 1984 Junction."

Chris said, "No kidding. I used to live around there.

Right by Holy Redeemer till I was in the eighth grade and we moved all the way over to the East Side, near Cadieux.

I never wanted to leave that neighborhood."

"Well, you have a different feeling about it than I have," Greta said.

"I can't wait to find a place and move out."

He liked her dry way of speaking, looking right at him.

He asked for her phone number, wrote it down, and then her age. She told him she was twenty-nine.

"Married?"

"I was, I'm divorced."

"Children?"

"Not a one."

"You live alone?"

"I have been. It was my folks' house. They sold it when my dad retired from Ford's and they moved back home, to Lake Dick, Arkansas.

I'm staying there just till the new people move in or they turn it into a Taco Bell, I don't know which."

"Is that where the assault took place?"

"Uh-unh, it was at Mr. Ricks'. I don't know the address, but he isn't there anyway, he's at the Playhouse. You know where I mean? That theater, it's just a few blocks from here. His big ugly limo was parked in front. I tried to see him… I went there originally to see his brother. But they wouldn't let me in."

"What were you gonna say to him?"

"The rapist? Ask him if he'd like to come here with me, the son of a bitch. You want to meet him? Come on."

"We have to complete this report and have you sign a statement," Chris said.

"Then what we do, advise him a complaint has been filed that could bring him up on a charge of criminal sexual conduct."

Greta said, "I love that police way you have of saying things. You're gonna advise him of a complaint-" "I have to know his address," Chris said.

"If it isn't in the City of Detroit it belongs in some other jurisdiction."

"It's in Palmer Woods off Seven Mile, great big mansion."

"That's the Twelfth." Good, it was a Detroit Police matter, he wouldn't have to give it to some cops out in a suburb. He wanted this one.

"You were with this guy on a date and you went back to his house?"

"I was with his brother, Mark, the one owns the theater. He invited me on a cruise with him, this past Saturday, some kind of society thing to raise money, and after we got back we went to Woody's house for a party."

Chris took his time, looked up from the report form to Greta Wyatt.

"Nice crowd of people, and here's this guy eating off the buffet table with both hands."

That opened her eyes.

"With a fur coat on," Chris said.

"Is that the Woody we're talking about?"

"You know him?"

"You got off the boat and went out to Woody's…Just you and Mark?"

"No, there were some other girls too. There were four of us from the boat, and then Mark picked up another one at Brownie's, but she was older. Somebody he used to know by the name of Robin. He spent practically the whole time" with her."

"That make you mad?"

"Not a bit. I didn't know why he asked me, I just met him the day before. They were having auditions for Seesaw and I tried out because I played Gittel just a few years ago at the Dearborn Community Theater."

Chris said, "Gittel, huh?"

"Gittel Mosca. I thought I had the part, the way Mark was talking.

Then I find out I have to go to bed with Woody."

"He told you that?"

"He practically did."

"Who, Mark or Woody?"

"It was when I went upstairs to change. Well, to dry off and put my dress back on." Greta stopped.

"I forgot to mention, everybody had to go in swimming. If you didn't, Woody said his chauffeur would throw you in with your clothes on."

"Wasn't it cold?"

"The pool's inside the house, in a big room with a ceiling that goes up-like in a church."

"You have a bathing suit with you?"

Greta hesitated, but kept looking right at him.

"I went in in my bra and panties."

Chris said, "Oh."

"The other girls didn't have bras. They looked at me like I was some kind of strange creature. It was like when we were little and we'd go swimming in the lake, this one girl's mama always made her wear a rubber inner tube. I felt like that little girl."

"The others didn't wear anything?"

"Couple of them didn't."

"So you were upstairs…"

"Uh-huh, and Woody came in the bedroom. I asked him to please leave, in a nice way, but he wouldn't."

"You have your clothes on?"

"I didn't have anything on. He comes right in, goes "Ooops," but he knew I was there. He had two glasses of champagne with him."

"He make the moves on you earlier?"

"Uh-unh, not till then. He offered me a glass of champagne, I said no thanks, so he drank them both like in two gulps, dropped the glasses and came at me. That's when he said, "Yes, you're Gittel." See, what I mean? It was fairly obvious what the deal was. I told him no thank you, I didn't need the part that bad. But I could've been talking to the wall."

"What did Woody have on?"

"These tiny trunks you could barely see under his big stomach."

"Did he hit you?"

"Worse, he started kissing me, his mouth all wet and he had this awful breath from drinking so much."

"You scream?"

"For what? Who's gonna do anything? They're all downstairs getting stoned. Woody just threw me down on the bed and got on top of me. You know what he kept saying?

"Boy-oh-boy."

" "You tried to resist?"

"He turned me over so I couldn't, got my heinie up in the air and my face pressed down in the bedspread. I never felt so humiliated in my life."

Chris didn't want to ask her the next question, but had to.

"He sodomized you?"

"No, he turned me over so I couldn't hit him. It wasn't long after that he got off me, rolled over on the bed and went to sleep."

Chris said, "Did he, you know, perform the act?"

"I guess as far as he was concerned. He's laying there, this big tub, he starts snoring with his mouth open. That's a sight's gonna stay with me, if you can picture it."

"What'd you do then?"

"I got up and looked for something to hit him with."

"You didn't, did you?"

"I left."

Chris wasn't sure if that was an answer to his question.

"You didn't tell anybody what happened?"

"I came downstairs, Mark and his friend Robin were gone."

"You know Robin's last name?"

"I wasn't introduced to any of them. The other girls had cute names like Suzie and Duzie. The chauffeur opened the front door for me, gives me a little smile and goes, "You come back and see us, you hear?"

If I had thought of it at the time I would've said, "Yeah, with cops."

I walked all the way over to Seven Mile and Woodward, went in a place to call a taxi and you know what it was? A motorcycle gay bar.

I'll tell you something-what's your name again?"

"Chris."

"Chris, you live half your life in a house the refrigerator's on the front porch and come up here a teenager, I'll tell you, it's a shock to your system."

Chris said, "You're really from a place called Lake Dick?"

"Don't ask me who Dick was," Greta said.

"I left there innocent and grew up as fast as I could. I got into acting and have worked for scale or below all my life, waiting for the big break. I was in that movie they were shooting here.

I read for a part, it was a scene in a bar where I've just met this cop and I try to guess what he does for a living. The director said, "Do it again, just like that." I took the part not knowing anything about the movie or how much I'd get paid. But I had a choice. They tell me I have to go to bed with a fat drunk if I want a part, that's a choice too. I'll do it or I won't, it's up to me. But when I get raped against my will, then I'm gonna make some noise and tell in a court of law what the son of a bitch did to me. I don't care who he is."

Chris said, "Well"-taking his time-"what's gonna make it difficult, you report a one-on-one type of situation two days later, there's no evidence, nothing to use against him outside of your testimony."

Greta was frowning.

"What do you mean, evidence?"

"See, ordinarily, if the complainant calls us right away a radio car goes to the scene, the woman is brought to Detroit General for a physical exam and usually her panties are taken as evidence."

"Her panties?"

"They might be torn, they might have traces of semen.

Or they find semen, you know, inside the complainant. It's checked for blood type to match against the suspect's. But we don't have any evidence like that, nothing."

"So you aren't gonna do anything."

"I'll call him, have him come in…"

"When, next week sometime? I just saw his limousine over at the theater, but you're gonna call him when you feel like it."

"I'll call him as soon as we finish," Chris said, willing to be patient with Greta Wyatt, have a reason to look at her, listen to her talk.

"I'll have him come in, ask him if he wants to bring a lawyer… You understand, we can know beyond a reasonable doubt the man's guilty, but if we violate his rights in any way he's gonna walk."

Greta said, "Well, thank you very much," getting up, pulling at her short skirt.

"I already tried to see his brother, Mark.

"Greta who?" the girl in the office wants to know.

"What is this about?" I work up my nerve to come here, you're worried about Woody's rights being violated. Hell with mine. I wish you'd taped this so you could play it back and hear what a pathetic little weenie you sound like."

Chris said, "Wait, okay? If I type up your statement, will you sign it?"

It didn't seem likely. She was walking out.

"Greta, if you'll cooperate we can at least bring him in.

See if we can get him to admit it."

That turned her around at the door.

"Woody put it a little different. He said if I'd cooperate we could fall in love."

V hris left his dad's Cadillac in the lot on Macomb, across from 1300, and walked down to Galligan's, thinking:

What kind of an impression was he making lately?

There was the St. Antoine Clinic doctor accusing him of being a macho fraud if not bisexual. There was Phyllis practically calling him a pervert for going to Sex Crimes.

His own dad looking at him funny, wondering why he was having so much trouble with women. Now a rape victim, a really good-looking one, had accused him of being a weenie. Walking along Beaubien in this old downtown section, past Greektown now, cars jammed into the narrow street, he couldn't get it out of his mind. Back when he was driving a radio car, a drunk, some guy being restrained from knocking the shit out of his wife, might look at Chris's nameplate on his uniform and call him a dumb fucking Polack. But no one had ever insinuated he was a pervert or called him a weenie. Jesus. He had never met a girl named Greta before, either.

He walked with his head down, serious, looking at the sidewalk, telling himself, Well, you go through shitty periods, things happen, you get your car stolen… Things build up and you see everything at once instead of taking them one at a time. You start looking into the future and then you have doubts. The fuck are you doing? You should've gone into something else, computers, robotics.

Right, get into something guaranteed to bore the shit out of you. Deal with things. Get a boat. He thought of times when he was a uniform, and kids, every once in a while, would do that number, "Your old man work? No, he's a cop." His dad had his own version of it.

"You could've taken over the business, lease a new Cadillac every year."

Estimating how many yards of "ashphalt" to do a shopping center parking lot. He'd say to his dad, "What I always wanted, a new car every year," and his dad wouldn't get it.

Except he had to admit his dad's Cadillac Seville wasn't bad, sitting in there in all that quiet, effortless luxury. It beat the shit out of his Mustang that was now down south somewhere, repainted. Chris looked up and it was strange, in that moment, the way his mood suddenly changed and he came to life.

Parked at the curb next to Galligan's, on the Beaubien side of the two-story building, was a gray stretch limo.

He knew who the car belonged to even as he approached, walked past, and there it was confirmed on the rear end, the vanity plate that said WOODY. It was a nice day for a change, about 68 degrees, late-afternoon sun hot on the glass towers of the Renaissance Center, right there across Jefferson rising up seven hundred feet against a clear sky. A nice day to be out. Chris put his hands in his pants pockets and stood looking at the car with a feeling he liked.

Being on the edge of something about to happen. At least the possibility. His dad had said one time, "You guys, you walk into a situation you get to quit thinking and act like cops." Maybe there was some truth in it.

See what happens and react. There was no way to make an arrest. But the guy who'd raped the girl who called him a weenie was close by. In Galligan's or in the car, hidden behind the black windows. Chris was standing there with his hands in his pockets when the driver appeared, rising from the street side of the limo, the driver saying, "The man should be back presently."

"Is that right?" Chris said.

"What're you telling me for?"

"Say up there on the sign No Parking," the driver said, "and you the police, aren't you?" The guy politely offhand about it in his tailored black suit, his white shirt and black tie. Neat mustache, hair lacquered back…

But also with a dull threat in his stare, a look Chris recognized, knew all about, though he said to the guy, "I don't know you. I remember times and places and you're not in any of them." Chris walked up to the limo to get a closer look across the pale gray top.

The driver shook his head back and forth, twice.

"No, we never met."

"Then it must be my sporty attire caught your eye," Chris said. He was wearing his navy blazer with tan corduroy pants, a deep blue shirt and tie.

"Is that it?"

"Must be," the driver said.

"Or how you got something wrong with your hip, make your coat stick out funny."

Chris said, "Where'd you do your time, Jackson? Or they send you to Marquette?"

"Man, what're you coming down on me for?"

Chris said, "Because you're about an inch away from fucking with me, but now you know better. You're gonna watch that attitude your parole officer told you about."

The driver said, "Oh, man," shaking his head.

"You right out of the book. Old-time dick like all of 'em, dumb as shit."

Chris laid his hands on the round edge of the car roof.

"Where do you want to go with this?"

The driver said, "I don't want to take it no place. I don't want to take nothing. You understand what I'm saying to you?"

Chris said, "Why don't you get in the car and drive around the block.

You'll feel better and I'll feel better."

Chris already felt better. The driver was a stand-up guy and wanted him to know it, that's all. Okay, Chris knew the guy and now the guy knew him, the guy still giving him the look but with a little more life in his eyes. The look with the heavy lids would be a natural part of him, his style, to warn people he was bad and they better know it. That was okay, it was probably true. But it wasn't something between them that had to be settled. Chris said, "We're too old and mature to get in a fist fight," and saw the guy's expression give a little more. The guy seemed about to say something, but then his gaze moved. Chris looked over his shoulder.

A beefy guy, his sportcoat open, trousers riding below his belly, was coming along the sidewalk from Galligan's corner entrance. And now the driver was at the back of the car, coming around to this side to open the door. Chris had to step away. Now he saw, beyond the guy, Greta Wyatt coming, trying to run in her heels, grabbing the strap of the handbag slipping from her shoulder. She was swinging it at the fat guy now as she caught up with him, yelling, "Chris, it's Woody!"

Look at her, hanging onto the guy, fighting him. But what amazed Chris more than anything-she remembered his name. Yelling it again, "Chris, help me!" He was moving toward them now, hurrying as he saw Woody grab hold of her wrist in both hands and slam her, hardly with an effort, against the side of the building. Chris saw her head hit the wall, got there and caught her bouncing off, stumbling into his arms, as Woody walked past them to his car.

Chris held her against the wall now, his hands gripping her shoulders.

He said, "Look at me." Late sunlight in her face; he could see freckles beneath her makeup, her cheekbone scraped.

"Can you see me?" Greta nodded, brown eyes staring at him. She seemed dazed.

"Can you stand up by yourself?" She nodded again.

"You better sit down."

She shook her head.

"Okay, but don't move." He took his hands away slowly, making sure.

"I'll be right back."

Woody was inside the limo, the driver closing the door as Chris walked up.

"Open it."

"Nothing happened, man. Let it go."

"Open it."

"The lady was bothering him."

"Lean on the car," Chris said.

"You know how, with your legs spread. You got two seconds. One..

."

Woody's driver said, "Let me tell you something."

"Two…"

Woody's driver said, "All right. But don't touch me.

You understand? Don't touch me." He turned to the car.

Chris opened the rear door. He had to stoop, lean in to see Woody in the dark against gray upholstery, the man's size filling half the seat.

Chris said, "I'm a police officer.

Will you step out of the car, please?"

Woody wasn't looking at him. He had a remote control switch in his right hand and he was watching television, the set mounted next to decanter bottles on a corner shelf behind the facing seat. Woody said, "What?"

"I said I want you to step out of the car."

Woody frowned, his tongue moving around in his mouth. He said, "I just got in the car," still not looking at Chris.

"Didn't I just get in? Yeah, I'm watching "People's Court." It's good. See, this woman says her boyfriend borrowed eighty bucks and won't pay her back."

Chris could smell salted peanuts. The guy was eating them from a can wedged between his fat thighs, raising his hand in a fist to his mouth, then wiping the palm of his hand on his pants.

"Sir, are you gonna step out of the car?"

Woody glanced at Chris now as he said, "I told you, I'm watching TV."

Chris said, "You don't get your ass out of there right now I'm gonna pull you out," and couldn't believe it when the guy put both of his hands over the can of peanuts, turned a shoulder to Chris and yelled,

"Donnell! Who is this?"

Chris said, "I don't want your peanuts, I want now. " He stared at the guy another moment before coming out of the car to see the driver looking past his shoulder at him.

"Gonna pull the man out? I have to see this."

"He's resisting arrest. Explain it to him."

"You asking me to help you?"

"You'll feel better," Chris said.

"Citizen cooperation being the key to a safer community. Tell him, he behaves I won't cuff him."

Donnell said, "Shit," and smiled, showing himself for the first time.

"You never gonna bring him up. Print that man, his lawyer will sue your police ass."

"I've got assault on him, and that's just for openers."

Donnell said, "The man watches "People's Court," on the TV? Now and again I take him to Frank Murphy, see felony exams, see a guy standing on first degree cut up his woman, it's the same as TV to him, you dig?

It's a show.

That's the only time, the only reason the man will ever be in a court.

You understand what I'm saying?"

"Where'd he get you, Donnell?"

"We go way back."

"Donnell what?"

"Hey, you want me or you want him?"

"I can't make up my mind," Chris said.

He looked over at Greta. She was watching him, holding a Kleenex to her face, her red hair on fire in the sunlight. He could see the way it winged out straight on both sides and made her slim neck look vulnerable. He could see it clearly against the tan-painted wall. Her hair, her legs in the short skirt…

Chris turned, stooped and reached in for Woody, sitting in his limo eating peanuts, watching TV; said, "Come on, get outta there," and Woody raised one leg without looking and kicked at him until Chris came out of the doorway.

Donnell said over his shoulder, "You gonna need your SWAT team."

Chris went over to Greta holding the Kleenex to her face. She looked stoned. He brought her to the car, motioning Donnell out of the way, and opened the passenger-side front door.

"You ride up here," Chris said.

"Don't say anything to Woody, okay?"

"You're asking a lot."

She said it just above a whisper, looking at him. He held on to her arm, feeling a slender part of her in his hand beneath the sweater, until she was inside, closed off behind the black glass. Donnell was waiting for Chris to look at him.

"You expect me to drive you?"

"I think you're gonna give me some shit," Chris said, "but in the end, yeah, you will. So why don't you save us some time?"

"Man, I could see you coming," Donnell said.

"I say to myself, There's one, look at him. See, even if I have any doubt, like you knew how to dress, you open your mouth you give it away."

Chris said, "Is that it? You through?"

"Play the hard-nose dick with me. Nothing ever changes, does it? Not if you like the way it is, you the man, huh? You call it. Well, you fuck with that man in there, you have something to learn."

Chris said, "Now are you through? You gonna get in?"

"I'm not driving you no place."

Chris said, "Okay, don't. When he asks me where you are, what do I tell him? You got tired and went home?"

Donnell kept looking at him but didn't answer.

"See? You really want to drive," Chris said.

"You just didn't know it."

Twenty minutes from the time Robin arrived at Mark's apartment they were in bed. Robin's feeling was that if you ball a guy in a limo, in a tent and in the woods your first weekend together seventeen years ago, you could be taking off your clothes as you walked in, it was going to happen. But why hurry? They planned to spend the evening together. She wasn't surprised by Mark's serious look-the little guy was nervous-or the way he'd gone about setting the mood with cool bossa nova and chilled wine, lamps turned low, maroon silk sheet turned back… This was the drill with successful guys his age, proud of their technique but, my God, so studied with the prolonged toying, the toe-sucking, all the moves they learned in magazines to bore the shit out of the poor bimbos they picked up in singles bars. Robin went along, writhed, moaned, finally asked him, "Mark, are we gonna fuck or not?" and was happy to see the old spunk still turned him on. Toward the end Robin gave him authentic gasps, came down gradually as Mark twitched and shuddered, opened her eyes as she heard him say, "Wow.

That was dynamite."

Robin said, "It wasn't bad." She took her handbag from the bedside table into the bathroom, freshened herself and flipped the tape in the Panasonic recorder. She liked the way he referred to dynamite off the top of his head, but doubted that she had anything useful on the tape.

Not yet, anyway.

Mark came out of his walk-in closet with two identical black silk robes, checked the size of one and gave it to Robin: phase two of the young executive drill, his-and-her shorty robes, play suits worn over bare skin. They went into the living room and became part of it, Robin realized, blending with the silver and black decor, chrome and glossy black fabrics, black and white graphics on the wall she believed were nudes. Robin moved toward the big window, an evening sky outside, and Mark, pouring wine, said, "You've seen the river. It hasn't changed."

He looked up and said, "You haven't either. Come here." Robin obeyed, joined him on the sofa, placed her handbag on the floor close between their bare legs, and let him study her profile as she stroked her braid and gazed out at the black and silver room.

He said, "You really haven't changed."

Robin remained silent.

He said, "You turn me on."

Robin said, "Maybe it's the robe."

"You like it, it's yours."

"Thanks, Mark, but it feels used. If I want a robe I'll get my own."

He liked that, shining his brown eyes at her. He liked her attitude, she began to realize, because he wanted some of it to rub off on him.

"I'm not kidding, you really turn me on."

She said, "That's what I'm here for."

"I don't mean just in bed."

She said, "I know what you mean."

He told her she made him feel different, got him worked up again the way she used to during the movement days when they were raising hell, running a campus revolution. He told her he felt the same way now, he could look at her and get high.

Aw, that was nice. It softened her mood. She said, "I missed you, Mark." She said it was weird, the feeling that she had to see him again.

"Why now, after so many years?"

"I could feel it too," Mark said. He told her it was like some kind of extrasensory communication. Like they were thinking of each other at the same time and the energy of it, like some kind of force, drew them together. He told her that when he walked into Brownie's his mind had flashed instantly on everything they did together during that time.

And now when he thought of her he'd feel a rush, like he could do anything he wanted.

"You can," Robin said.

"What's the problem?" Making it sound as though there wasn't one.

"I told you: Woody."

Mark said that at this point in time she was the only person he could talk to, because she knew where he was coming from, the way it used to be with Woody, Woody always there but sort of tagging along, never part of the action. He told her this was the reason he'd brought it up the other night, his situation, Woody holding him down, smothering him.

"I felt you reaching out," Robin said.

"People don't understand. Guys I have lunch with at the DAC, they're into investments, venture capital, they don't know from rock concerts.

That's what I want to do, produce concerts. But why should I have to bust my ass, go out and borrow money when it's right there, in the family?

When it's as much mine as his?"

"It's a matter of principle," Robin said.

"Exactly. You know how long I've been carrying him?"

"Forever," Robin said.

"But why doesn't Woody want to do rock concerts? Why Seesaw?"

"Yeah, or The Sound of Music, for Christ sake, Oklahoma.

He's the one comes up with these dinosaurs, but I'm the producer, it's my name goes on the playbill."

"Not exactly hip," Robin said.

"It looks to me like he's trying to get you to quit."

"You ask him for money, you know how he gives it to you? He hands you the check, only he holds onto it and it's like a tug-o'-war until he decides to let go." Mark was starting to whine.

"He resents you," Robin said, "your looks, your personality, everything about you."

"I know it, he's jealous, he's always been. Now he's getting back at me. It's all he cares about. But if I weren't there to run the show, you know what would happen? He'd fall flat on his ass."

Robin said, "But would it hurt him?"

Mark hesitated. He said, "No," sounding resigned, at low ebb.

"Not with his hundred-million-dollar cushion."

Now Robin paused.

"That much?"

"Close to it."

She watched him drink his wine and refill the glass.

Poor little guy, he needed a mommy. She reached out and touched his arm.

"Mark?" Felt his muscle tighten and took that as a good sign.

"Let's get down to what this is all about.

The reason you have a wealthy two-hundred-and-fifty pound drunk sitting on you is because he happened to get the estate and you got screwed.

But you stay close to Woody, you put up with him, because at least half that hundred million should be yours. Am I right?"

"That's right."

"Do you ever talk to him about it?"

"He thinks it's funny. I tell him it isn't fair and he grins at me."

"So there's no chance he'll ever cut you in."

"Not unless he dies."

"I was about to ask," Robin said.

"If something happens to Woody, are you his heir?"

Mark nodded, sipping his wine.

"You assume that, or you know it for a fact?"

"That's the way it's set up, the trust succession. A couple of foundations get a piece of it and some aunt I don't even know, but I get most of it. At least two-thirds."

"Sixty million," Robin said.

"Something like that. The trust keeps making money."

"So now you're waiting… hoping maybe he'll drink himself to death?"

"You see how he was the other night? It could happen."

"Yeah, but Mark, who do you think should decide your future, you or Woody's liver?"

"That's good," Mark said, grinning at her.

"That's very good."

Robin watched him look off, nodding, thinking about it. She said, "Mark?" And waited for him to come back to her, eyes shining, hopeful.

"You want to hear a better one than that?"

A woman detective named Maureen Downey asked if she just happened to run into Mr. Ricks at Galligan's.

Greta said she went in when she saw his car parked there.

The woman detective, Maureen, had nice teeth and appeared to be a healthy outdoor girl. Greta could see her teeth even in this dark end of the lobby that seemed like part of an empty building. The others were across the room at the counter, under the fluorescent lights:

Chris Mankowski-who seemed to know what he was doing now, if he didn't before-Woody Ricks, his driver, Donnell, and three uniformed officers, not counting the ones behind the counter. Woody Ricks had not shut up since they brought him in, but Greta could not hear what he was saying.

Maureen Downey asked if she felt all right. Greta said her head hurt a little and she kept swallowing, afraid she was going to throw up, but didn't feel too bad outside of that. Maureen said they were going to take her to the hospital. Greta said, Oh, no. Maureen said it was just across the street on St. Antoine; make sure she was okay. There was a commotion over at the counter. Greta saw two of the uniformed officers taking Woody by his arms, Woody trying to twist away from them. She saw Chris Mankowski pull a gun from under his coat, stuck in his pants, and hand it to the black policewoman behind the counter. He then took hold of Woody's necktie and led him to what looked like a freight elevator at the end of the counter, the two officers still holding on to Woody's arms. They went into the elevator and the door closed. Greta asked Maureen where they were taking him. Maureen said up to Prisoner Detention on nine.

She said Mr. Ricks was not helping his case any: he'd be held overnight because of the way he was acting and be arraigned in the morning at Frank Murphy. Greta said, Oh, boy. Not too happy. She lowered her head to rest it on her hand. Maureen got up from the bench they were sitting on, saying she'd be right back, and walked over to the counter.

Not a minute later Greta looked up to see Woody's driver, Donnell, standing in front of her. Donnell said, "You in trouble now, if you don't know it." Greta said, "Why don't you go to hell." He stood there looking down at her until she heard Maureen coming, Maureen calling Donnell by name, telling him to keep away from her. Donnell left and Maureen said, "Did he threaten you?" Greta shook her head, swallowing. She didn't feel like talking, not even to Maureen.

Skip remembered Robin's mom's house, big country place made of field stone and white trim with black shutters, off Lone Pine in Bloomfield Hills and worth a lot. The kind of house important executives lived in. He liked the idea of staying here but arrived bitchy; he'd been ready to come last night and Robin wasn't home.

"I was working," Robin said, bright-eyed, glad to see her old buddy,

"and I have a tape to prove it."

"Full of grunts and groans," Skip said.

"I know what you were doing. Me, I'm looking out the window of the Sweet Dreams Motel at car headlights. Did the farmer see me sneaking out of his barn? Shit, I don't know. Hey, but you know what else I got, sitting right there? A sack of ammonium nitrate fertilizer. On the way back I bought a couple alarm clocks. They're not the kind I wanted, but they'll do."

"When you're happy, I'm happy," Robin said. She showed him the way: in the side door from the attached garage and downstairs to the basement bar-recreation room, Skip with the case of Austin Powder, Emulex 520 written on the side, Used in 1833 and Ever Since. Robin had his luggage, a hanging bag and a carryon. She told him he'd have to stay down here, not wander around or fool with any of the lamps that were on timers. The Bloomfield Hills cops could know which lights were supposed to be on.

"Some fun," Skip said.

She had taken the shelves out of the refrigerator so he could slip the whole dynamite case in. Skip told her it wasn't necessary unless she wanted it out of the way in a safe place. Robin said it was how they'd stored it back in the golden age, shoved the sticks in there with the Baggies of grass and the leftover brown rice dishes. Remember? She said, "We'd sit at the kitchen table and you'd wire the sticks to the battery and the clock while I read the directions to you out of The Anarchist Cookbook. " "Like a couple of newlyweds," Skip said.

"I also picked up a lantern battery, I forgot to mention, hanging around Yale with my finger up my butt."

"You're ready to go," Robin said, "aren't you?"

"Depending what we're gonna blow up."

"Woody's limo."

"Not the theater, late at night?"

"The limo," Robin said.

"With Woody in it. And Donnell too, his driver."

"What've we got against Donnell?"

"I don't like him."

Skip said, "I bet you said hi to him and he didn't remember who you were."

"If Woody's in the car, so is Donnell," Robin said. "How about when he turns the key?"

"Woody could still be in the house."

"You're right… Maybe some kind of a timer then."

"We've used timers. We used 'em at the Federal Building, the Naval Armory, that bank downtown, but it was when nobody was in those places."

"Time it to go off while they're driving along."

"If we knew he went someplace every day."

"He does, he goes out all the time."

"But we'd have to know exactly when. I don't think it'd be good if it blew in traffic, take out some poor assholes going home to their dinner."

"You want to do it at his house."

"Yeah, keep it neat," Skip said.

"Lemme think on it."

They went upstairs to the kitchen Skip said would make Betty Crocker come, one look at it, man, all the spotless conveniences, the copper pans he bet cost more than new tires. He told Robin Betty Crocker was the best looking woman he ever saw and would like to meet her sometime, while Robin fooled with the tape recorder, stopping and starting, listening to voices, until she said, "Okay," and they heard Mark's voice say, "You really haven't changed… You turn me on."

Skip said, "Jesus, he's serious, isn't he?"

Robin said, "Wait." She stopped the tape and ran it forward, stopped and listened to bits of conversation until she was ready for Skip again.

"Here we are. You have to understand Mark wants help but is afraid to come right out and ask. He's just told me that if Woody dies he gets about two-thirds of the estate. Something like sixty million."

Skip said, "You mean it?"

"Listen." Robin punched the ON button and voices came out of the recorder.

ROBIN: So now you're waiting… hoping maybe he'll drink himself to death?

MARK: You see how he was the other night? It could happen.

ROBIN: Yeah, but Mark, who do you think should decide your future, you or Woody's liver?

Skip grinned, listening, fooling with his beard.

MARK: That's good… That's very good.

Skip said, "You had that one ready."

Robin said, "Listen."

ROBIN: Mark?… You want to hear a better one than that?

There was a silence. Skip, running his hand over his chin, smoothing his beard now, looked at Robin.

ROBIN: What would you say if you didn't have to wait? If Woody were to suddenly disappear?

Skip said, "Shit," grinning.

MARK: How?

ROBIN: In a cloud of smoke.

Skip was still grinning, shaking his head.

MARK: Is this like a magic trick?

"Jesus Christ," Skip said.

ROBIN: Something like it, only better.

MARK: Yeah? Why?

ROBIN: Because once he disappears he never comes back.

What would you say to that?

MARK: I think I'd say… yeah, I'd say how much is a trick like that worth?

ROBIN: You mean what does a trick like that cost, don't you?

What it's worth to you is everything. Sixty million. Right?

MARK: It might not be that much.

ROBIN: Mark, if you're not interested…

MARK: I didn't say that.

ROBIN: Then don't fuck with me. Either you want Woody gone or you don't.

Skip made a face, pretending to be surprised.

MARK: I'm not sure I know what that means.

ROBIN: Yes, you do. Gone means gone.

MARK: Well, let's say like if I were to go along with it… ROBIN: Cut the shit, Mark. You're a big boy. You say yes or no. If you say yes, your troubles are over. If you say no, you're on your own.

MARK: I don't know what you're gonna do.

ROBIN: Of course not. You don't want to know.

MARK: All right. How much?

ROBIN: You want it done?

Silence. Skip didn't move.

MARK: Yes.

ROBIN: Two million.

"Jesus Christ," Skip said.

ROBIN: We'll work out the payment, make it look like an investment.

Silence.

MARK: All right.

Skip raised his eyebrows at Robin, who stared back at him, holding up her hand.

ROBIN: There's one thing you have to do.

MARK: What?

ROBIN: Get me a key to Woody's limo.

MARK: How would I do that?

ROBIN: Mark… if that's all you have to do, don't you think you'll find a way?

MARK: I guess so.

ROBIN: Will you do it?

Silence.

MARK: Okay.

Robin pushed the OFF button. Skip sat at the kitchen counter nodding, thinking about it. He looked up at Robin.

"What do you need the car key for?"

"So you can get in. I'm sure they keep it locked."

"Shit, that's no problem. I'd rather do it myself than wait for little Markie."

"I want him involved," Robin said.

"He's involved. He said yeah, he's gonna pay to see his brother disappear. What else you want?"

"How about a way to do it?"

Skip said, "How 'bout when Woody comes out to the car and the Black-ass Panther opens the door for him?"

"I like it," Robin said.

"Same as the one I did in L.A. many years ago. Put the charge in the trunk of the car. Dynamite, about five sticks is all, ammonium nitrate and a plastic bottle of fuel oil.

Insert blasting cap in a stick and run two wires from it-one to the battery, the other to a clothespin that's got copper around each end where it snaps together-and run a third wire back to the battery. You got it?"

"You wedge the clothespin open," Robin said.

"You got it. Use a little hunk of wood and run a line from it through the trunk and around the side of the back seat and hook it to the door with a safety pin. The door opens, it pulls the wedge out of the clothespin, your circuit is closed, and the car goes up in a great big ball of fire."

Robin said, "How do you know which door he'll open?"

"If I have any doubts I'll wire 'em both."

"You're my hero," Robin said.

"What do I get for being it?"

"You get to trip," Robin said.

"I brought you a present." s was going to visit Greta on Wednesday, but before he was out of 1300, Wednesday had become one of the worst days of his life and he never made it to the hospital. He did call, late, and a nurse told him Greta was diagnosed as having a mild concussion and would probably be released in the morning, after the doctor looked at her.

When he walked into Detroit General Thursday about 10 A.M. Greta had on her sweater and skirt, anxious to leave.

She said, "This's the scariest hospital I've ever been in."

Chris told her it was old.

"I don't mean how it looks," Greta said.

"There people in here handcuffed to their beds. I think half the patients have gunshot wounds." Chris said, Well, some of them. Outside in the sunlight he asked if he could drive her home or anywhere. Greta said she had a car.

After that, walking along St. Antoine toward the parking structure, she was quiet. He asked her if she felt okay.

She said, Fine. Then she said, "How come this morning, Maureen stops by to talk? She tells me I have to come up to sign the complaint and all, acting like it's her case now.

I asked where you were, she said you were busy."

"I was taken off," Chris said.

"Why?"

"It has to do with the way cases are assigned, according to the workload." He glanced at Greta and saw her eyes narrowed at him.

She said, "I can tell if you're lying."

"It's true."

"Yeah, but something happened you're not telling me about."

"Maureen's a pro," Chris said.

"You have nothing to worry about."

He didn't have to dodge or add to that. They were in the parking structure now, Greta looking around. She said, "I left it right in this aisle, I know I did. It's a light-blue Ford Escort." After a while she said, "Shit. Somebody stole my car. Is that possible, a block from the police station?"

"They get stolen closer to it than that," Chris said.

They walked back to 1300, into the Clinton Street entrance and the dismal lobby that belonged to the First Precinct. At the counter Greta told the sergeant wearing a white uniform shirt her car had been stolen just two blocks from here, an '84 Ford Escort, light blue, license number 709-G something, like GTN. Or, wait, maybe it was 907.

The sergeant asked to see her registration. Greta told him it was in the car, in the glove compartment. The sergeant said he would have to have proof of ownership before he could make out a report. Greta said,

"You saw me here the other day, didn't you? You know who I am. You think I'm lying? It's got brand-new snow tires on it I bought at Sears instead of leaving this dumb town like I should've."

Chris, standing on one foot and then the other, said, "Sergeant, why don't you quit acting like a hard-on and just write the report. So we can get out of here."

The sergeant, in his starched white body shirt looked at Chris and said, "From what I understand you're already out of here. I don't need any grief from you. I'll write the report when I know to my satisfaction a vehicle owned and operated by this lady's been stolen.

I'd be a lieutenant right now if I hadn't filled out a PCR one time containing false information that could've been verified."

Chris said, "I'm surprised you're not a commander by now."

The desk sergeant said, "You ought to know better than that."

Chris said, "What I mean is, you're hard-assed enough to be one."

Me drove Greta home in his dad's '87 Cadillac Seville, maroon with gold pinstriping. Greta didn't comment on the car or appear to wonder how he could afford to own it. On the way across West Fort Street, past warehouses and railroad freight yards, the Ambassador Bridge arching across to Canada in the car's windshield, she pinned him down.

"Are you gonna tell me what happened?"

"What do you want to know?"

"Before, you said you'd been taken off the case. And then that cop said something about your being out. Out of here. What'd he mean by that?"

"I've been suspended," Chris said.

"What does that mean?"

"I'm no longer a police officer. Until, if and when I'm reinstated."

"They kicked you out? Why?"

"You want the official reason or the real one?"

"Both."

"The real reason is because I put Woody in jail. His lawyer called the mayor's office and they dropped it on the department. Get the assault charge against Woody withdrawn on the grounds he was the one assaulted, not you, that he was defending himself and I overreacted and used force without due cause."

Greta said, "Wait a minute, he raped me."

"I'm not talking about the sexual assault, you can still press that one. I mean the one that put you in the hospital.

The lawyer threatened to sue the police department and the city, this is on the grounds that Woody was falsely arrested, unless the charge against him is withdrawn and I'm suspended from the force subject to dismissal."

Greta said, "A rapist can do that?"

"I guess if you're from one of the right families or your lawyer is."

"Why take it out on you?"

"They got mad. You go after who you can get."

"That's the real reason. What's the official one?"

"They gave it to my commander, find some excuse to dump me, and he did.

I've been suspended indefinitely and told to keep my mouth shut, pending a board hearing."

"For what?"

"Having a residence outside the city limits."

"You're kidding. You have to live in Detroit?"

"It's one of the rules."

"Then why don't you?"

"I did till last Saturday. It's a long story." There was a silence.

Chris said, "It's not that long a story, but if I told you about it you'd give me one of your funny looks. And I want you to have confidence in me. You'll have Maureen, but I'll be around too, in case you need me."

"Why?"

"Because I want to help you."

"Yeah, but why, if it's not your job?" She put her hand on his arm and said, "I got you fired. My God, I just realized that."

"No, you didn't, Woody did. Don't feel bad or give it another thought, okay? It's my problem and I'll handle it one way or another, depending on how chickenshit the department wants to be. But what it shows us, more than anything, is how much clout Woody's got. What'll happen, you'll probably hear from Woody's lawyer, thinking you've already signed the complaint, and he'll ask you to come in.

You say no thanks. So then he'll give you a bunch of shit on the phone how it saddens him a nice girl like you is gonna get dragged through a lot of unnecessary mud. He'll probably tell you he has witnesses who'll swear you made the moves on Woody, took him to bed."

"Then I wouldn't have a chance, huh?"

"If you go to trial they'll do everything they can to make you look bad. You have to consider that. The lawyer could even give Woody a Bible to read in court, I've seen it. But he's gonna have months to work on you, the lawyer, before you ever go to trial, if you do, and I'm sure he'll try to scare the hell out of you."

Greta said, "I won't answer the phone if it rings."

She was afraid already. Chris could hear it in her voice.

"Maureen'll get the names of everybody who was at that swimming party, see what they have to say. One or two might have it in for Woody, for some reason love the idea of putting it to him. I told Maureen I might talk with Mark Ricks after she got through with him. Maureen said okay, just don't tell me about it."

Greta said, "How can you, if you're suspended?"

"I'd talk to him man to man," Chris said.

"Ask him what the deal is, if he pimps for his brother."

"He'd never admit it."

"He might, it's how you ask. He might even think being a pimp is cool.

I remember Mark Ricks from way back, but I don't remember Woody, so I didn't associate the name right away."

"You know Mark?"

"I'd see him at school, when I was at U of M. You couldn't miss him, he loved to make speeches. Maureen'll talk to him first. Also find out who his friend is, Robin, if we need her… You don't know anything about her, if she's an actress, maybe was in one of his plays?"

"That could be," Greta said.

"She was kind of a showy type. Way older than the other girls, but had a nice figure."

"How old?"

"I'll bet close to forty."

"You said Mark picked her up at Brownie's… How did Robin get to Woody's? She ride in the limo?"

"She had her own car there."

"What kind?"

"A VW. I remember, 'cause I was so surprised when Mark went with her.

He drove."

"And you rode in the limo."

"Four of us. with Woody and his fur coat."

"He say anything to you on the way?"

"Not a word. The girls did all the talking. Woody drank and ate peanuts."

Chris could almost smell them as she said it. They turned off Fort Street to cross railroad tracks and a freeway.

"I might as well tell you right now, I don't see it coming to trial. I mean even if there was evidence, the guy's too well connected."

"So if you're rich enough," Greta said, "you can do whatever you want."

Familiar words.

"You can even double-park in front of the Detroit Club," Chris said,

"and not get a ticket."

They were driving north on Junction now, Chris's old neighborhood that was turning from Polish to Hispanic, the bell tower of Holy Redeemer in the near distance, Greta's gaze moving along the block of old-fashioned two story frame houses with steps leading up to porches.

"There it is, the one with the real estate sign: Sold " She said, "How about a grilled cheese sandwich and a cup of coffee? If I have any bread."

What she didn't have, Chris noticed, was furniture.

She brought him into an empty living room saying everything had gone to Arkansas-well, except her bedroom set upstairs, the kitchen table and chairs, a TV and that telephone message recorder on the floor. A tiny red light on it was flashing. Greta said, "My mom's the only one ever calls me," went down to her knees and turned on the machine.

A male voice said, "Greta? You like Greta or you like Ginger? I like Ginger, myself. Anyway, about this situation happened between you and Mr. Woody Ricks? There appears to be some misunderstanding. All you have to do is call 876-5161.1 believe we can settle this matter and everybody will be happy. Especially you, Ginger. Please call that number soon as you can."

Greta punched the OFF button and looked over her shoulder at Chris, frowning.

"That was his lawyer?"

"It was his chauffeur," Chris said, "trying to sound like a lawyer.

That was Donnell."

Thursday noon Donnell went out to the limo parked in the turnaround part of the drive back of the house.

The car had been standing here since bringing the man home from jail yesterday, the man saying all the way up Woodward Avenue, "They never clean that place."

Couldn't believe it.

"They never clean the floor, they never clean the toilet. The smell in there was terrible." The man should talk, with the messes he made, but that's what he'd said. The man had no idea of all the things he didn't know.

Donnell had told him, "You think that's bad and that ain't even the real jail, that's the police jail. You have to be in the old Wayne County jail sometime you want to experience a jail." The man couldn't get over they didn't clean it.

Today the man was more his regular self, not knowing shit what was going on and not seeming to care.

This afternoon he was going to watch movies.

"What ones?" Donnell asked him.

"You want an Arnold Schwarzenegger festival or a Busby Berkeley?"

Lately the man liked Arnold Schwarzenegger being the barbarian with the big two-hand sword fighting the bad dudes. He liked to sit there with his martini and his popcorn and ask Donnell, if he was Arnold Schwartzniggerthe way the man always said the name-which of the bitches in the movies he'd rather fuck. Like would he take that tall colored girl in the Conan picture or that Swedish broad in the other one?

Wouldn't matter how many times the man asked it, the man's brain being mush, Donnell would say lemme think on it. Then he'd tell the man he'd take Grace Jones. Not 'cause he was racially inclined toward her, either, but 'cause she had a body on her went up and up and up and never stopped; though he would tell the bitch to get a wig if she couldn't grow hair.

Today the man wanted Busby Berkeley, which meant he would be smoking weed with his martini. He liked to be under weed when he watched those musical numbers, the chorus girls moving their arms and legs like designs changing in a kaleidoscope. But there wasn't any weed in the house. Donnell said he'd go out and get some.

He was standing by the limo, keys in his hand, about to open the door when he said to himself, Wait a minute, shit.

He'd picked up most of a whole pound of weed must've been like two weeks ago. He turned, getting his head to remember where he'd put it, looking up at this pile of bricks where he lived, a house as big as hotels he'd known. It came to him the weed was still in the car. He hadn't taken it inside. No, it was still in the trunk. He walked back and opened it with the key, raised the lid…

Donnell looked at the package, something wrapped in a brown plastic trash bag that wasn't weed, the weed was in the spare-tire well, and said, Uh-oh, his hand on the trunk lid, not wanting to move. He saw the wires coming out of the package to the clothespin. He saw the cord running from the clothespin to a hole cut in the wall behind the back seat and said it again, Uh-oh. He heard about clothespins with copper bent around the ends. He felt his body made of stone while his brain lit up to see the meaning of this, why it was happening to him… Like the same thing with the dude that had sold him the weed, Booker.

Exactly.

One week ago this day it was, Booker raised up from his chair and got blown to pieces. Was there a connection?

Donnell couldn't see one. Now it began to irritate him. He bought the shit, he didn't deal it. If he wasn't in the business, who wanted him to die? Nobody. Not lately anyway. Not even police. So the bomb was for the man. Open the door for the man to get in the car… Yeah, it might be for the man, Donnell realized, but both their asses would get shot into the sky.

Who wanted the man dead? The man wasn't into nothing. Most of the time the man barely knew where he was at.

There was only one person Donnell could think of would love it to see the man dead. That was the man's brother, Markie. Except little Markie didn't know shit, no way how to do a bomb.

"Less he got somebody who did.

Well, the man wasn't going nowhere today. If the man said he was, tell him wait till you get the scissors. Cut the string should do it. There wasn't a ticking sound, it wasn't that kind. Donnell paused on that.

Uh-huh, cut the string, shit, and find out it's what they want you to do, it's a pressure release kind of bomb tricky motherfuckers rig up.

The kind that did Booker.

Donnell kept thinking along that line now, wondering should he talk to the dude was Booker's bodyguard, Juicy Mouth. Where was Juicy when his boss sat down in the chair? Ask him, yeaaah, did he know anybody was doing bombs lately?

Donnell got the weed out of the tire well and brought the trunk lid down, pushed on it gently till he heard the lock click.

When he answered the front door he had on black athletic shorts, a black sweatshirt and hundred-dollar running shoes. Donnell didn't run; it was one of his leisure outfits. He looked at Mark Ricks standing outside on the stoop and said, "Can I help you?"

Markie didn't like it when he played with him. The little fella brushed past without a word, came in and, as usual, looked sideways quick at his mama looking down at him from the wall. Like he didn't trust even a picture of the tiny bitch.

"How's my brother?"

"Beautiful," Donnell said.

"The man remains above earthly shit like jail. You know what I'm saying to you?

Man's all the way live and into his pleasures."

"I wish you wouldn't talk like that."

"I know you do."

Markie was trying to give him an icy-cold look now.

"Where is he?"

"At the movies," Donnell said, and walked past Mark to lead the way into Woody's library, his hangout: a big room full of books never opened, full of worn leather and dark oak, figured damask draperies; but a bar and stereo, too, and a pair of deep-cushioned recliners aimed at a 46 inch Sony television screen. Woody sat in one holding a straight-up martini in a wine goblet. Donnell said to him, "What can I get you while I'm up? You want something to nibble on? You brother's here. Turn your head this way, you see him."

Woody, smiling, paid no attention.

Mark said, "Woody, how are you?"

Donnell, looking at the screen, said, "Oh, I didn't realize." And said to Mark, "Don't bother him now, that's his favorite Busby Berkeley, the banana number. Fine young ladies dancing with bananas big as they are, huh? Look at that, making banana designs. Look at your brother now, starting to cry with the pleasure of it."

"He's laughing," Mark said.

"Little of each, crying and laughing," Donnell said.

"Yeah, the banana number. Man eats it up. Now you gonna see Carmen Miranda come out with all the fruit and shit on top her head."

Woody, not looking at them, said, "Where my peanuts?"

"Got the munchies," Donnell said.

"Huh, you got the munchies? Well, you done ate all the peanuts up.

Have to wait till I get some."

Donnell was watching Carmen Miranda, her face all painted, the fruit and shit on her head. He heard Markie say, "Doesn't he keep peanuts in the car?" The little fella close beside him. Markie saying something now that was not like him at all. Saying, "I'll go look. Where're the keys?"

Donnell paused, his brain asking him, Did you hear that? Is that what he said? Donnell turned very slowly to Markie looking up at him with a big-eyed funny look, the little fella wanting to do it and like afraid he might be told no. Donnell stared into those big eyes looking for a tricky gleam of some kind. He said, "Yeah, the keys, they in the kitchen. On the hook by the door." The little fella started to leave.

"Wait now. The peanuts have to be on the back seat. You understand?"

Markie nodded, anxious.

"Yeah, in back. I know."

He left and Donnell eased into the recliner next to Woody, who was wiping his eyes, Woody saying, "I want to see this part again."

"We both do," Donnell said.

"But I want my peanuts."

"Your brother went to get "em."

"My brother-what's he doing here?"

"We gonna find out," Donnell said.

"Or, we might never." He started to grin.

"Lookit, shit, how they holding their bananas."

Chris and his dad were in the kitchen, his dad frying hamburgers in the iron skillet at arm's length, saying, "You want the green pepper and A-l?"

"No, do 'em the regular way."

"Find out what she wants on hers."

"It's Greta," Chris said. He stepped into the doorway to the dining-L.

Across the living room Greta stood at a front window looking out at Lake St. Clair.

"What do you want on yours?"

"Just Lee and Perrins, if you have it."

Chris came back to his dad at the range.

"They're all different, aren't they?"

"I thought I told you that," his dad said.

"How long she gonna be staying?"

"You mean Greta?"

"Greta-I want to know what kind of an arrangement we have here."

"You said it was okay."

"Well, you ask me right in front of her."

"What's the problem?"

"Esther and I're going to Toronto for a few days. I won't be here."

"You won't be here for what, to chaperone us?"

"I don't understand what's going on," his dad said.

"Twelve years on the job and you get suspended, what's the first thing you do? You involve yourself with another girl."

"I'm not involving myself, I'm helping her out."

"You go from one to the next."

Chris said, "You want to know what I don't understand? You're going on a trip with Esther and you're worrying about me being alone here with Greta. Does that make sense? You're going for obvious reasons."

"To have a good time."

"That's what I mean. But we're here for one reason only. Greta needs a place to stay and she needs help. I'm not involving myself in any way other than that."

His dad said, "Who you kidding?" hey were eating when the phone rang. Chris said he'd get it and went out to the kitchen, leaving his dad alone with Greta in the dining-L.

Greta said, "I can see Chris takes after you. You sound so much alike, when you talk."

The dad said, "You think so?"

"You seem more like brothers. I'm not just saying that, either, it's true."

"He's got more hair," the dad said, "but I'm bigger than he is."

Greta smiled.

"You see a father and son are good friends, I think that's neat. It says something about both of them. I like your son a lot. He has qualities, I swear, you don't see very often in guys these days."

"He turned out okay," the dad said.

"I'll tell you something. He gives you his word, you can take it to the bank."

"That's what I mean," Greta said, "there's nothing phony about him. He looks you right in the eye."

The dad said, "So you went on that cruise, uh?"

Chris came back to the table not looking at either of them. He sat there thinking until his dad said, "You gonna tell us who it was, or we have to guess?"

Greta, smiling, looked from the dad to Chris.

"It was Jerry. Somebody blew up Woody's limo."

What was left of Greta's smile vanished.

"He was in it?"

"His brother Mark was. They think he opened a door and the bomb went off. Killed him, like that." Chris took his time and said, "Homicide wants to talk to me."

Greta said, "Why?" sitting up straight in the dining room chair. "

"Cause it was meant for Woody?"

Chris nodded and his dad said, "Wait a minute.

What've you got to do with it?"

"I guess they think if you can take a bomb apart," Chris said, "you can put one together."

The SQene was back of the house, behind a police barricade across the drive, where the rear end of the limo was glued to the cement, gray metal scorched black, tires burned off, both doors and the trunk lid gone. The car had been blown in half, the front end driven thirty feet across the backyard where it lay nosed into a bed of shrubs. Fragments of glass, upholstery, torn bits of rusted metal were scattered about the drive in puddles of water. The evidence techs were packing up, getting ready to leave. The morgue wagon was pulling out as Chris arrived.

Jerry Baker had waited. He told Chris Homicide was still here, that's all, inside talking to Woody Ricks and his chauffeur. Jerry asked him if he'd stopped at 1300 on the way.

Chris said, "What for? To give myself up?"

He had parked in front and walked up the drive watching a TV newsman dramatizing to a camera, arm raised to the mansion, describing this scene of murder, foul play, a devastating act of destruction…

Two of the garage doors, scorched black, were closed when the bomb exploded, protecting a gray Mercedes sedan parked inside. The third garage door was raised.

Jerry told Chris that Mark Ricks had come out of the house from the kitchen and through the garage. He said that according to Donnell Lewis, the chauffeur, Mark was getting his brother's peanuts he'd left in the car. He must have unlocked the driver-side door and pressed the button to unlock the rear door. Then when he opened it, Jerry said, Mark was blown into the garage with the door in his hand, only the hand was no longer attached to Mark. They brought Woody out to look at the body, make a positive I.D." and he couldn't do it. He kept squinting his eyes, saying, What is that? The chauffeur, Donnell, very casual, wearing these sporty athletic shorts and jogging shoes, told him it was his brother. Jerry said the guy was burned but wasn't exactly what you'd call a crispy critter. He looked more like some giant hand had picked him up, squeezed him good and thrown him in the garage. Jerry raised his face to the overcast sky and sniffed.

"You smell it?"

"Ammonium nitrate and fuel oil," Chris said.

"Somebody knew what he was doing. What else've you got?"

"A burnt-up battery, a spring off a clothespin. Let's see, I got safety pins from both the rear doors, stuck in bits of upholstery.

We'll find out it was dynamite, I'm pretty sure. See if any's been stolen from around."

Chris looked up at the back of the house, taking in its size, all the chimneys rising out of the slate roof, more like a venerable ivy-covered institution than a home. He believed you'd have to be a millionaire just to heat the place.

At the other end of the house French doors opened onto a terrace with an ornamental cement rail around it. The swimming pool was probably inside there. Chris said, "You know what it reminds me of in a way?

Booker's, last week."

"It does me too," Jerry said.

"It went through my mind there could be a nexus."

"Maybe it's the French doors. Or what you said about Donnell wearing jogging shoes made me think of it."

"I'm going more by my nose," Jerry said.

"Walk in the house and take a whiff. They aren't smoking Kools in there.

If this one's dynamite it'll give Homicide something to think about.

They like to get into motives and all that shit," Jerry said.

"I'm through here."

"Who's working it?"

"Half of Squad Seven's out doing a house-to-house.

Wendell's inside. Wendell Robinson, dressed like he's going to a party."

"Wendell is a party," Chris said.

"If I have to talk to anybody I'd just as soon it's Wendell."

After Jerry left, Chris waited by his dad's Seville, parked behind two identical medium-blue Plymouth sedans. It was a quiet street of old trees and homes built of old money. From the front, Woody's house seemed more like a residence, except for the two cement lions sitting on either side of the entrance, guarding the place for Woody and his chauffeur. Just the two of them, according to Jerry, living in this great big house.

The front door swung in. Now Wendell Robinson appeared with Donnell, two black guys against the dark of that arched opening: one with hands on his hips showing his brown bare legs, the other in a beige three-piece suit, the Homicide lieutenant. Chris watched Wendell come past the stone lions now and down the slate walk adjusting his vest, buttoning the beige suit coat, Wendell with his cool, pleasant expression, paisley tie in rust tones against a soft ivory shirt. No way of telling a nickel-plated Smith auto was wedged in tight to his right hip. Chris said, "You're looking fine," and couldn't help smiling. There was something about Wendell that made him feel good.

"I understand you want to talk to me."

"So you come here in your Cadillac and grin at me," Wendell said,

"think it's funny. I like your style, Mankowski. You gonna confess or I have to beat it out of you?"

"I didn't do it, I swear."

"Okay, that's enough of that shit. But there other people, I'll tell you right now, probably gonna talk to you."

"Why?"

"

"Cause they upset. I'm talking about people on the third floor. They want this one closed before it's barely open. See, what happened, the inspector gets the call on this while he's in the deputy chiefs office.

He calls me to give it to Seven. I go down there, now your Major Crimes commander is also present and some other brass happen to stop in. You see the picture? They all in there theorizing their ass off who could have done it. Nobody's even gone to the scene yet. Your name comes up. Hey, what about Mankowski? On account of the business you had with Mr.

Ricks. One of them goes, Mankowski, man, he's hotheaded.

Another one says you cold-blooded, tough cop who don't take any shit."

"You serious?"

"A man was blown up. Okay, and you been around people that have got killed and you know how to make a bomb."

"Jesus Christ."

"It doesn't have to make sense, it just has to sound like it does. You understand? Somebody mentions maybe Internal Control ought to look into Booker again."

"They think I did Booker?"

"They not thinking, man, they theorizing, trying to put little pieces together, see what fits, get' it closed. They wonder, What about that girl the man was alleged to have raped?"

"Yeah, it was her," Chris said.

"She sneaked out of the hospital and wired the car."

"Or does she know somebody could have wired it?

Like they picking lint off their clothes. They nervous is what they are."

"

"Cause the guy's important," Chris said, "Woody.

You have money, you have clout."

"That's what it might seem," Wendell said, "but that's bullshit. They nervous 'cause we had six hundred and forty-six homicides last year. We closed better than half, sixty-one percent. But the FBI, they tell everybody seventy four percent is the average nationwide. So they nervous we don't look so good. Man, they don't give a shit about Woody Ricks or his brother, it's how they look. They think this one should be easy. Man gets a bomb put in his car, there must be somebody doesn't like him, right? Simple."

"Or somebody gains by it," Chris said.

"Yeah, except the only one would jam, according to Woody, is the one that got blown up. Least that's what I think Woody told me. The man's hard to understand. He has Donnell like interpret for him, say what he means."

"What about this," Chris said.

"What if Mark was put ting the bomb in the car, doing the finishing touches, and it blew?"

"I'm told he wasn't out there two minutes. How's a man like that know how to make a bomb? The man wasn't qualified. Look at it another way.

If it was Mark hired it done, he wouldn't have gone near the car, would he?"

Chris looked at the house.

"What about Donnell?"

The front door was still open.

"If he isn't on the computer it was erased."

"I don't have to look up Donnell," Wendell said.

"The man's been arrested for assault, robbery, extortion, causing disturbances… Did federal time back when he was a member of the Panthers, wore the little beret? They got him for possession of a machine gun and other contraband kinds of shit in his house, hand grenades and such."

"I think he's watching us," Chris said.

Wendell looked at the house.

"Sure he is, thinking I'm gonna try to set him up. Which I might have to, 'less I find me a bomb maker someplace."

"How'd he get next to Woody?"

"Claims they known each other a long time. Says Mr.

Woody took him in and it changed his life."

"That's what he calls him, Mr. Woody?"

"There is something peculiar," Wendell said, "how it is between those two. I said to him, "You the man's chauffeur. Where's the rest of the help?" Donnell gives me his look, says, "I'm all the help the man needs."

" "Maybe the Panther lets Woody go down on him," Chris said, "and Woody lets the Panther do whatever he wants. He ever deal drugs?"

"Now you come to another theory," Wendell said, "tie it some way to Booker. I don't mean with you, I mean two bombs all of a sudden go off in a week. So we ask ourselves, who did Booker? Was it the people supply him?"

"He was leaning that way," Chris said.

"Okay, what if Woody was financing Booker, setting him up to go independent? How's that sound? The people up above find out and take them both out."

Chris said, "You want it to be dope-related, don't you?"

Wendell said, "I want it 'cause if it ain't, what the fuck is it?

People kill each other in this city, if it ain't over pussy or fussing over who owes money or a parking place, then it's dope. Killing over turf or a busted deal. The vans they go around in? They call 'em gunships. Drive by a house and spray it with an Uzi. And you know what?"

"Half the time it's the wrong house."

"And when they do get the right one they shoot the wrong people. They shoot little kids happen to be in the room."

"This was a bomb."

"That don't bother me. They'll throw a pipe bomb in the house. You've seen it done. They can make a pipe bomb, they can make any kind.

What's the difference?"

"What's Donnell say?"

"Somebody wired the wrong car."

"He tell you that with a straight face?"

"Why couldn't it happen?"

"Wendell, the guy'd have to come to the wrong house first. Look at it.

With the fucking lions sitting out in front.

A guy's gonna plant a bomb he scouts the place, knows exactly where he's going."

Wendell, hands in his pockets, stared at the house.

The front door was closed now. He said, "Or, Donnell thinks it could've been wired when the car was someplace else. You know, parked with some other limos. They all look alike. Jerry say you have the package ready, you could hook it up in five minutes."

"Maybe Jerry could," Chris said.

"I'd want to take a little more time myself. But where's Donnell go without Woody? I don't mean to the store, I mean where there'd be other limos. But if Woody's along-he gets out, the guy wires it and Woody gets back in, that's where it blows, right? Not in the backyard."

Wendell was nodding, resigned.

"I suppose."

Chris looked at the house again, wondering what they were doing in there, right now. He said to Wendell, "How come Mark went to get the peanuts, not Donnell?"

"Donnell says Mark wanted to do it."

"What if Woody had his own car wired," Chris said, "and sent Mark out to get the peanuts?"

"He couldn't have, he didn't know Mark was there.

The man doesn't seem to know much of anything. Eyes all watery like a skid-row burnout."

"Psychosocially debilitated," Chris said.

"I like that," Wendell said, "I'll put that down. I talk to him, here's his brother blown to shit just a while ago, the man hardly seems to realize it. I don't mean 'cause he's in shock, either. Man has a wet brain."

Chris was looking at the house again.

"What if it was Donnell that set it up? Somehow he talked Mark in to getting the peanuts."

"I'm gonna collect my people and leave," Wendell said.

"I'll tell them on the third floor I interrogated you and found you psycho socially debilitated, couldn't think of nothing but peanuts.

How's that sound?"

Chris was still looking at the house. He nodded and said, "Planters Peanuts, in the blue can." wW hat the man liked to do for his nap time, couple of hours before dinner: turn on the stereo way up loud enough to break windows, slide into the pool on his rubber raft naked to Ezio Pinza doing "Some Enchanted Evening" and float around a few minutes before he'd yell,

"Donnell?" And Donnell, his hand ready on the button, would shut off the stereo. Like that, Ezio Pinza telling the man to make somebody his own or all through his lifetime he would dream all alone, and then dead silence. No sound at all in the dim swimming pool house, steam hanging over the water, steam rising from the pile of white flesh on the raft, like it was cooking.

Donnell had changed from his black athletic outfit to a loose white cotton pullover shirt, loose white trousers with a drawstring, bare feet in broken-in Mexican huarachis, dressed for an evening at home. Donnell stood at the edge of the pool watching the man float past, eyes closed, Donnell thinking, Stick an apple in his mouth. Thinking, I wish Cochise could see this.

Say to Cochise, "What's it remind you of?" Cochise would see it, sure, like the pig cartoons used to be in The Black Panther. Pigs squealing, a big black fist holding them up by the tail. Pigs hanging from a tree, lynch ropes around their necks. Pig in a cop uniform sweating bullets, going "Oink," a brother holding a pistol in the pig's face.

It was Cochise Patterson had brought him into the Panthers, Cochise telling him the basic tool of liberation was the gun. Cochise reading to him from the minister of defense, Huey P. Newton: "Army.45 will stop all jive. A357 will win us heaven." It was all to do with the gun and it was cool. Justify packing. Have a reason. For only with the power of the gun could the black masses halt the bullshit terror and brutality perpetrated against them by the jive racist power structure. Cochise telling him they would never stop till they had destroyed and committed destruction on capitalism.

Except Cochise was back in the slam doing fifteen to twenty-five, saying fuck it and reading comic books. Some had learned, some had come around and joined the other side. Look at Eldridge Cleaver, the most famous Panther of all. After running as a fugitive, hiding out in Canada, Mexico, Cuba, North Africa, over in Asia and then France, he had found Jesus and was praising the American Way as the only way.

Being called a "world-record-breaking belly crawler" didn't seem to bother him one little bit.

Donnell, too, keeping his eyes open to opportunity, had come around since those revolutionary times. He hadn't found Jesus as his redeemer, but somebody who might be even better.

"Mr. Woody," Donnell said to the white mound on the raft, "you haven't told me what you want for your supper."

The man floated in the steam mist with his eyes closed, hands trailing in the warm water. What would he be thinking, his head all fucked up from booze? What would he see in there? Sights maybe from a long time ago still clear, but the recent shit gone, not having made a good impression in his mind. What had the man done lately that was worth remembering?

"Mr. Woody?"

"What?" Eyes still closed.

"You thought about supper?"

The man worked his mouth like he was getting a bad taste out of it, but no words came from him.

Donnell put the tips of his fingers behind his ear and leaned out over the tiled edge.

"Ain't that your tummy I hear growling?"

No answer.

"You upset about your brother, huh?"

No answer. The man was asleep or didn't know what he was talking about. What brother?

"You gonna be hungry you finish your swim. I'll fix you some chicken.

How's that sound?"

No answer.

Call the Chinaman, pick up a load of chicken lo mein and pile the shit on a dinner plate for the man. Order some of that shrimp wrapped in bacon for himself. Sometimes they would eat together in the kitchen, the man calling him his buddy.

"You have a funeral parlor you want to use?… I'll look up see who did your mama. Don't you worry about it.

I'll take care of everything."

Donnell had been doing most of the man's thinking for the past three years now, since one night at All That Jazz on Cadillac Square, never expecting to see somebody like Mr. Woody Ricks in a mostly black lounge. But there was the limo out front, a white boy with a chauffeur hat behind the wheel. Inside the piano bar drinking gin, dropping a ten in the tip bowl each time he spoke to Thelma Dinwiddy playing nonstop nine till two, Thelma playing under the name of Chris Lynn with her satin headband and her lovely smile, playing the ass off those show tunes the man requested. All That Jazz had once been a hotel coffee shop; now it was done-over dark to look like a nightclub: a place black entertainers came to sit in with Thelma's piano or to sing a number.

Thelma would find the key and smile as she wrapped chords around a voice doing maybe "Green Dolphin Street" like they'd worked together forever.

Donnell went to the bar that time where he noticed Juicy Mouth was sitting and took the stool next to him, but didn't speak till an old man finished with "Tishamingo Blues," Thelma riding along, the old man saying he was going to Tishamingo to get his ham bone boiled, on account of Atlanta women had let his ham bone spoil.

Juicy was a Pony Down runner then, selling on street corners before getting promoted, because of his size and meanness, to Booker's bodyguard. Donnell finally said to Juicy, "See that fat man there?

Lives in the biggest house you ever saw. His mama gave a party for the Panthers one time, not knowing what she was getting into. Thought it was to raise money for the zoo or some shit. Can you see her friends, these people trying to smile? Like they partied with brothers every weekend? Only you know they never been close to one less it was at the car wash or was a sister cleaned their house." Donnell said to Juicy, who was a kid and didn't know shit about Panthers or any of that, "I want you to do something for me. When the man goes to the men's room, I want you to follow him in and start to vamp on him. Tell him it's fifty bucks to take a piss or you gonna cut his dick off. See, then I come in just then and throw a punch at you like in the movies, dig? And save the man's ass. I don't hit you, I pretend to."

The men's room was out the door of the club and across the lobby, kept locked, so people wouldn't come in off the street and use it. You told the club doorman you were going to the men's and he buzzed the men's door open for you when you got to it. Mr. Woody finally went and Juicy followed.

Then Donnell walked over to the doorman, handed him a ten and said,

"Let me have a few minutes' peace in there doing my business." He slipped on black leather gloves before going in and hit Juicy hard, the knife flying, blood flying, hit him in his surprised face again and got the man zipped up and out of there.

Sitting in the back of the man's car with him, Donnell pointed to the guy in the front seat with the chauffeur hat on and said, "What good is he? He drives you, yeah, but what good is he?" Sounding mad because someone wasn't looking out for the man.

The man said, "You saved my life," reaching for his wad of money.

Donnell stopped his hand and said, "I saved you better than that. Now I'll tell you who I am and what I'm willing to do for you out of respect for your mother, a woman I think of and admire to this day."

In the following months Donnell, wearing a tailored black suit now, white shirt, black tie but not the chauffeur hat, would sit down with Mr. Woody from time to time, look the man in the eye with sort of a puzzled frown and ask him:

"What do you need a cook for living here only cooks white Methodist food and acts superior, won't talk to nobody? I happen to learn food preparation in the slam. I cook good…

"What do you need a fat maid for living here watches TV upstairs all day? I can get us a maid to come in, clean up and get out. A cute maid…

"What do you need to write checks for, pay bills, be bothered with all that picky shit? Excuse me. I can do it for you…

"What do you need to put up with your brother whining at you for? You the one has the musical ear. He don't like it, tell him go do his cock rock someplace else…

"What do you need to call your mother's lawyer for, get charged two hundred dollars an hour? I learn food preparation, I also happen to learn about legal affairs. Most time you don't need to get in it, have to sign all those papers. I can talk. I can make deals. I can tell people how it is… "What do you need to go to court for, have that redhead bitch call a fine man like you a rapist in front of everybody in town? I can talk to her for you."

Coming up pretty soon he would have to look the man in the eye and ask him:

"Don't you need to change your will, now that your brother's gone?" Ask him: "Anybody else you want to put in it?"

Being subtle wouldn't pay, the man spaced on booze and now and then a 'lude slipped him to keep him mellow and manageable, the man always in low gear with his dims on.

It might have to be put to him: "Mr. Woody, I would consider it an honor to be in your will." Play with that idea.

Say it in a way to make the man laugh and feel good.

There was a possibility with the redhead bitch to make some good money.

If he could get her to go along. He could always write himself a nice check if he ever had to leave in a hurry. No, the deal was to get in the man's will for a big chunk and then work out the next step. Having Markie out of the way should make it easier to become the man's heir.

Except, shit, what took Markie out was somebody doing a bomb, and that didn't make any sense however Donnell looked at it. Somebody wanted to kill the man and the man didn't even know it. Floating there this enchanted evening, dreaming all alone…

The front doorbell rang.

Donnell left the swimming pool room, went through the sunroom and along a dark hallway to the foyer. The news people had stopped calling and knocking on the door.

He'd watched them out front. He'd watched the dude cop talking to the hard-nose cop, Donnell wondering whose Cadillac that was, and couldn't believe it when the hard nose cop, the now out-of-work cop, drove off in it. That had been about a half hour ago. Donnell was thinking about it again, wondering how it could be as he bent his head to peek through the peephole in the door, took a look and straightened quick.

The hard-nose cop was back. Standing there with a can of peanuts in his hand.

Chris said, "I hear you're out of these," offering the can of Planters Cocktail Peanuts.

Donnell didn't move to take it, Donnell in a loose white outfit doing his cool look with the heavy lids, the look saying he wasn't surprised, he wasn't entertained or impressed, either. Reserving judgment.

Chris said, "I hear if you hadn't run out of nuts the guy's brother would still be alive. Gives you something to think about, huh? If he hadn't gone out there-what's his name, Mark? Somebody else would've opened the car door."

Donnell stared, thumbs hooked in the drawstring on his pants. Or pajamas, or whatever they were.

Chris said, "I can't imagine Woody opening the door.

That's what he's got you for, right? Open doors, drive him around…

What else you do for him? Call up a young lady, tell her there appears to be some kind of a misunderstanding?"

Donnell kept staring at him.

"That what you do? Ask her to call you? Tell her you have a way to settle the matter and make her happy?" Chris tossed the can of peanuts in the air, not high.

Donnell caught it in two hands at his waist, staring back, eyes never moving.

"You believe I called some woman?"

"Hey, come on, I heard you. I know it was you. I'll get a court order for a voice print if you want and we'll nail it down."

Donnell, frowning, raised one hand in slow motion, holding the peanuts in the other, saying to Chris, "Wait now. What is this shit you giving me, what I did?"

"You phoned Greta Wyatt."

"Tell me who she is."

"The one you're gonna see in court, asshole, when your boss stands trial."

"Oh, that Greta. Yeah, see, I call her Ginger. Now what was it I said to her?"

"You're gonna make her happy," Chris said.

"What we want to know is, how happy?"

"What you saying to me, you speaking for the lady."

"Like you seem to represent Woody," Chris said.

"Who needs lawyers?"

Donnell said, "Yeaaah," and then paused, thoughtful.

"I see you come to visit, policeman that use to be into high explosives, interested in such things-I thought you want to ask about this bomb business."

"I'll be honest with you," Chris said, "I don't give a shit about the bomb, that's your problem. You're gonna offer Miss Wyatt a payoff. I want to know what you have in mind."

"Let me look at it again," Donnell said, beginning to smile a little.

"Drive up in a Cadillac you manage on about maybe six bills a week take-home. Yeah, I can see you interested in payoffs, rake-offs and such. Come on inside."

They walked through to the library, Chris reminded of Hooker's house where the old woodwork and paneling had been painted an awful green.

Here, there was the feeling nothing had been changed in the past fifty years or more. Chris chose a deep chair, watching Donnell reach beneath the shade of an ornate lamp close by. Low-watt lights came on to reveal the brass figure of a woman, dull, tarnished. Chris asked Donnell if those were pajamas he had on. Donnell gave him a dreamy look, patient, came over and sat on the fat cushioned arm of a chair facing Chris.

"Now then. What I get into first with the young lady, I let her know this kind of situation is not anything new to Mr. Woody. Being a wealthy man, getting his picture in the paper, the man has games run at him all the time. You understand? People looking to score off him. He knows it, he say to me, "Donnell, it's a shame how people have to be so greedy. Even good people, they see the chance. What is somebody trying to stick me for this time?" I say to him, "You recall this young lady name of Ginger?" Mr. Woody say, "Ginger? Do I know a Ginger?" I say to him, "Remember the party you had, this young lady took all her clothes off?"

"You're telling her," Chris said, "what you're gonna say in court. Is that it?"

"I haven't even come to the good part."

"You're threatening her."

"I'm only saying what I could say."

"Instead of doing the whole skit, let's get to the payoff."

"Don't rush me, man. See, I could go on to tell how I happen to notice her fishing out Mr. Woody's dick, taking him upstairs by it, leading him along, you dig? That's the key word, leading. You understand what I'm saying? Means it was her idea, not his."

"So Mr. Woody's willing to pay," Chris said, "to stay out of court."

"Now you with it. Avoid the embarrassment, even though he's not to blame."

"How much?"

"We come to the part ain't none of your business. I tell her the numbers. She the only one."

"If you can find her."

"She don't call me, I call her. Mention the figure, see where her values lie."

"She's moved," Chris said.

Donnell took a little time.

"She move in with you?"

Chris nodded and Donnell, watching him, took a little more time.

"I don't suppose you in the book. Being a cop, type of person could get shot through his window." Donnell said, "Hmmmm," thinking about it.

"See, I understand where you coming from. You like the idea of the payoff. But see, look at it from my side, I don't need you fucking up the deal, getting the bitch to hold out when I'm willing to make a fair offer."

"What'd you call her?"

"Hey, shit, you her lawyer, what else? Gonna protect her good name? I tell you right now I saw her in bed with the man, doing a job on him, too."

Now Chris had to take a moment, settle down.

"Where is he?"

"Who, Mr. Woody? Having his swim."

Chris got out of the chair.

"Let's go talk to him."

Donnell, sitting relaxed, round-shouldered on the arm of the chair, didn't move.

"Man, you love being a cop, don't you? I notice it the other day in the street. Come down on me like an old time dick, being the man, huh?

You play it a little different, more quiet about it, you don't get that mean red flush come over your face. But it's the same shit. Long as you have the big pistol you get anything you want. That's where it's at, the gun. I learned that many years ago, in my youth."

Chris said, "Is that it? You through?"

"Oh, man, you gonna work that hard-nose routine again?"

"Now're you through?"

Donnell said, "Shit," taking his time coming off the chair arm.

"You want to see Mr. Woody? Come on, let's go see him." hey stood at the edge of the pool watching the naked man on the rubber raft.

"Is he all right?"

"All the way live as he wants to be."

"I don't see him breathing."

"Watch his tummy you see it move… There. You see it?"

"That's what it's like to be rich, huh?"

"Have anything you desire."

"Why does somebody want to kill him?"

"The dude cop ask me that every way he could think of. Wants to know was it me. I ask him, what's my gain?

Check it out."

"You know how to set explosives, don't you?"

"How would I?"

"You were in the Panthers."

"Never blowed up nothing in my life. I'll take a poly graph on it."

"What'd you do, in the Panthers?"

"Worked on our free breakfast program, for the kids."

"That what you got sent away for, making breakfast?"

"So they don't go to school hungry. You ask me a question, but you don't want to hear the answer."

"You did time."

"Got along fine. Left that behind and never look over my shoulder. I remember to speak politely. Not hit or swear at people. Not damage property or crops of the poor oppressed masses. Not take liberties with women."

"You learned that in the joint?"

"In the Panther Party, man. We had rules for clean living we had to learn verbatim by heart. Like no party member have a weapon in his possession while drunk or loaded off narcotics or weed."

"Okay, I believe you," Chris said.

"Like no party member will use, point or fire a weapon unnecessarily or accidentally at anyone."

"The key word being 'unnecessarily."

"

"And that would include a bomb. Even if I knew how to make one, what would be the necessity of it? You understand what I'm saying? What is my motive? What do I stand to gain?"

"It comes back to Mr. Woody."

"Every time. With the dude cop, too. Does he have enemies? Went all through all that, back and forth."

"How far back?"

"He does better going back than trying to remember what happened yesterday."

"He doesn't seem worried," Chris said, watching the man floating in a mist of steam, body glistening white.

"Mr. Woody can't think of anybody doesn't love him."

"He's sweating…"

"Want to say, like a pig, huh?" Donnell raised his voice.

"Mr. Woody, you awake?"

Chris watched the man on the raft lift his head. He began to move his hands in a feeble paddling motion.

"I was thinking," Chris said.

"Mark used to run with some freaks when he was in school. I didn't know him, I'd see him with his bullhorn trying to sound political. Only the guy didn't know Ho Chi Minh from sweet-and-sour shrimp."

"Can tell a fake, can't you?"

"I wondered, the Panthers ever get together with the freaks?"

"Social occasions. Bring a spade home and introduce him to your mama.

Little Markie would demonstrate, get his picture in the paper? I do the same thing, get my ass thrown in jail."

"The way it goes," Chris said.

"I understand he had a friend with him Saturday night, woman he used to know."

"Yeah, there was one come with Mark. I been trying to think-"

" "Her name's Robin."

Donnell said, "Yeaaah, Robin Abbott," with a sound of relief.

"That's who it was. Damn, I been trying to think if I knew her. She come up to me I was waiting for the boat.

Yeah, shit, Robin Abbott. See, but she didn't say nothing to me, who she was."

"Didn't remember you, either."

Donnell gave him a look with the heavy lids. Then seemed to smile, just a little.

"I don't know about that."

"How'd you meet her?"

"Look at Mr. Woody doing his famous aqua-ballet dog paddle. He has to go down the shallow end to get out."

"You meet Robin through Mark?"

"Right here in this house."

"What was she into?"

"What they were doing then, grooving on weed and shit. I'd see her on the street now and then, she was living by Wayne with this dude had a ponytail. I remember him good. They all had the hair. You know, that was the thing then, the hair. She had different hair, real long down her back… I think she knew who I was at the boat but didn't say nothing. There was something happened to her I'm trying to remember.

Like she got busted and took off…" Donnell paused.

Chris waited, watching the fat naked man rise in the shallow end of the pool, the water at his belly, and blow his nose in his hand.

Donnell said, "Oh, you sneaky. We talking about the bomb, now you have us back on the other conversation.

You looking for somebody was here Saturday could be a witness, huh?

Testify against Mr. Woody."

"Robin Abbott," Chris said.

"And that's all you get."

"What was she arrested for?"

"I never said she was."

"You know where she lives?"

"You have all I'm saying, for whatever good you think it's gonna do you." Donnell turned to the pool and raised his voice.

"Mr. Woody, look who come to see you. It's the man had you busted."

Woody was out of the water on the other side of the pool, wiping his face with a towel.

Chris called out, "I brought you some peanuts," and heard his voice filling the room.

Now Donnell called to him, "See what he's doing, Mr.

Woody? Wants to get on your good side."

Chris watched the fat man raise one arm, turn and enter a door with a frosted-glass window.

"Where's he going?"

"Have a cold shower, wake him up. He'll be out in a minute, start his cocktail hour."

Chris felt himself perspiring.

"Why does he keep it so hot in here?"

"The way he likes it. The ladies get hot, take their clothes off and jump in the water. Like your friend I told you, Ginger."

"You go in with them?"

"Getting all wet's never been one of my pleasures."

Chris reached behind Donnell with one hand and gave him a shove. It didn't take much. Donnell yelled "Hey!" off balance, waved his arms in the air, hit the water and went under. Chris hunched over, hands on his knees. He watched Donnell's head come up, saw his eyes, his chin pointing, straining, the look of panic, arms fighting the water.

Chris said, "You don't know how to swim, do you?

That can happen you grow up in the projects, never get a chance to learn. Some guys turn to crime."

Donnell reached the side of the pool and got his arms up over the edge to hang there gasping. Chris studied the man's glistening hair, the neat part, waiting until he calmed down and was quiet.

"How much you offering Miss Wyatt?"

Donnell wiped his hand across his face. He looked up, then tried to press against the tile as Chris placed his foot on Donnell's head.

"I didn't hear you."

"Five thousand."

Chris said, "Let me give you a hand." e was thinking that seeing a guy naked could give you an entirely different impression than seeing him with clothes on. Woody was one of those fat guys who hardly had an ass on him. Why didn't any of the fat go there? He had milk-white legs and walked like his balls were sore, coming around from the other side of the pool now in a terrycloth robe, taking forever, his curly hair still wet, face tomatoed out. He had little fat feet, pink ones. Chris could see what Woody looked like when he was a kid. He could see other kids pushing him into swimming pools.

He could see kids choosing up sides to play some game and picking Woody last. He could see little Woody sneaking off by himself to eat candy bars. That type. A kid who slept with the light on and wet the bed a lot. Though he probably wet it more now, with the booze, than he did then. Chris usually felt sorry for quiet boozers who didn't cause any trouble. He felt a little sorry for Woody, the type of guy he could see Woody really was. With a stupid grin now eyeing the bait, the can of peanuts sitting open on the poolside table. He didn't look at Chris, seated in the deck chair, hands folded, patient. He looked at the peanuts and then went over to the bar and poured a lot of scotch into a glass with one ice cube, Chris waiting for him to ask if he wanted anything. But he didn't. That was okay. Chris watched him fooling with the stereo now until the score from My Fair Lady came blasting out of the speakers and he turned the volume down. Good.

Woody came over to the table and helped himself to peanuts before looking at Chris. Or he might've been looking past him, Chris wasn't sure. Woody's eyes didn't seem to focus.

He said, "Oh my. Oh my oh my. Yeah, I remember.

You're the guy that put me in jail, aren't you? I remember you now, sure."

Woody seemed to be thinking as he spoke, hardly moving his mouth. It wasn't that he slurred the words, he sounded like a guy who'd been hit in the head and was in a daze. He moved like it, too, off balance as he pulled a chair out from the table and sat down.

"Oh my oh me," Woody said.

"Life's too short, you know it? I'm not gonna be mad at you. Fuck it."

"Well, I'm mad at you," Chris said.

"For what?"

"I don't have a job. I got suspended."

"What're you mad at me for? I didn't do it."

"Who did, your lawyer? It's the same thing."

"Noooo, I didn't do it. Ask Donnell, he'll tell you."

Woody looked up at the ceiling and called out, "Donnell!… Where are you, boy?"

"He fell in the pool."

Woody's gaze lowered to Chris, squinting now, thinking it over, then looked at the pool.

"He's in the water? I don't think he knows how to swim."

"He's changing his clothes," Chris said.

"He was telling me you don't want to go to court on the sexual assault complaint."

"The what?" Woody had a mouthful of peanuts now, chewing, working his tongue around in there.

"The rape charge you're gonna be tried for."

"I didn't rape anybody. I thought that was taken care of. Wait a minute… Donnell!"

"Is he handling it for you?"

"Lemme think," Woody said. He picked up his glass and swallowed about an ounce of scotch.

"I get confused sometimes, everything that's been happening. My brother passed away…" Woody paused, squinting at Chris or past him.

"Jesus, you know something? I think it was today… Yeah, it was, my younger brother." He stopped again and seemed to be listening now and said, "My Fair Lady. You know who that is?"

"Mr. Ricks," Chris said, "you made an offer to a young lady, or you plan to, so she won't sign a complaint against you. On the rape charge we're talking about."

Woody was nodding now.

"Oh, yeah, that's right."

"I'm a friend of hers."

"Oh, I didn't know that. You're talking about Ginger.

No, I didn't rape her. She was in my bedroom, didn't have a stitch of clothes on. She's standing there-what would you do? I mean if she wasn't a friend of yours. Wait a minute. No, I thought Mark sent her up, that was it."

Woody shoved peanuts into his mouth. The hand came away and paused.

"Listen. You know who that is? The only guy in show business can get away with talking a song. You know what I mean? Instead of singing it. Rex Harrison as Doctor… you know, what's his name."

"Professor Higgins," Chris said.

"You walk in the bedroom, Miss Wyatt's there…"

"Who is?"

"Ginger. You throw her on the bed…"

"I didn't know she was a friend of yours. I thought, the way she was acting, you know, she was putting it on. Some of them go for a little rough stuff, they love that. But I didn't hurt her or anything, it was a mis-you know-understanding." Woody was nodding, convinced.

"That's why I don't know why she got mad. Let's forget it. I think twenty-five thousand is fair, don't you? Yeah, I thought my brother sent her upstairs."

"Twenty-five thousand," Chris said.

"Doesn't that sound about right? It's based on what my time is worth.

I think that's how we did it." Woody was nodding again.

"Yeah, that was it. So I don't have to spend time in court, time being the… you know, what it's based on. If it's worth it to me, it ought to be worth it to her. Don't you think?"

"Twenty-five thousand dollars," Chris said.

"Donnell said she would probably like cash instead of a check."

"You mention this to your lawyer?"

"My lawyer? No. We don't need him for this kind of thing. He's with a law firm, they've been around forever, they deal with city attorneys, with big development groups, up on that level. Donnell says they can talk to big people, they're the same. But if they tried to talk legal to this little girl they'd take six months and charge me an arm and a leg for it."

"So Donnell's handling it?"

Woody paused, reaching for the peanuts, and gave Chris what might be his shrewd look, a squint with a grin in it.

"Donnell only went to the tenth grade, but he knows how to talk to people. He's smart. He'll surprise you."

Chris said, "Kind of fella you can rely on."

Woody nodded, eating peanuts.

"You betcha."

Chris said, "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure, go ahead."

"Does having a lot of money-does it worry you?"

"Why would it worry me?"

"I just wondered." Chris got up from the table. He said to Woody,

"Rex Harrison isn't the only guy who talked a song. What about Richard Burton in Camelot? Richard Harris, in the movie."

Woody said, "Wait a minute," with his dazed look.

"Jesus Christ, you're right. Listen, sit down, have a drink."

Chris shook his head.

"I have to go."

Woody said, "Well, come back sometime you're in the neighborhood. Yeah, hey, and bring your friend. What's her name? Ginger."

Vhris opened the front door and stepped outside.

Donnell, in a suede jacket, hands in his pockets, stood against a stone lion.

"Been admiring your Cadillac."

"You like it?"

"I think you have taste. I think me and you, we both from the street, dig? We see what is. I'm not telling you amp; 152 take song you don't know. You look at Mr. Woody, you don't " man you give a shit about or what happens to him.

I you see looking back at you is pickin's, is opportunity. right?"

"You think I'm gonna shake him down?"

"I think it's in your head."

"How do you work it? He sends you out to buy a new you keep the change?" ponnell's brows raised, fun in his eyes.

"Shit, it won't you no time." ;

H ere they were driving up Woodward Avenue, Robin still yelling at him about taking her mother's Lincoln. She didn't say "without permission," but that's what it sounded like. She told him she absolutely couldn't believe it and would like to know what he was thinking. She told him when he got back to the house he was to put the car in the garage and leave it there. All this while they're creeping along, getting stopped at just about every light. That was annoying too, the stopping and starting.

Skip said, "You know what I did at Milan three and a half years? I was a chaplain's assistant."

Robin asked him, now with a bored tone, what that had to do with his taking her mother's car.

"I'll tell you," Skip said.

"It taught me patience. If I wanted to stay in a nice clean job, out of trouble, it meant I had to listen to this mick priest and his pitch to win my soul morning, noon and night. There was nothing I could do about it, I was in a federal lockup doing five to ten. Hey, Robin? But I'm not in one now, am I? I can listen to bullshit, or I can stop the fucking car right here and get out.

And you can do whatever you want with it."

Robin was silent.

"I did some stunt work, too. I tell you that? They pay you thirty-five hundred to roll a car over, smash it up," Skip said.

"Less withholding and social security it comes to about twenty-six hundred. I have that check and another one for twelve something. But I can't cash either one. I can open a bank account, if I want to wait two weeks to write a check on my own money."

Skip paused to give Robin a turn. She smoked a cigarette, staring at the cars up ahead, shiny metal and brake lights popping on and off.

"What I'm saying is, if I keep paying forty a day for a rental, I may as well give the checks to Hertz. So I took your mom's car. But then what do I find out? I'm gonna have to spend my last eighteen bucks on gas."

Robin said, "Gee, at least she could have left you a full tank."

That was encouraging; even though she didn't look at him, she was lightening up, dropping that pissy tone.

"Look at it this way," Skip said.

"If we get caught, what difference does it make whose car we're driving? We could even lay it on your mom, say the whole gig was her idea."

That got a reaction. Robin said, "Far out," squirming a little, flicking cigarette ash and missing the ashtray, not giving a shit.

Good.

They drove along this wide avenue in the pinkish glow of streetlights, Skip trying to think of things to say that wouldn't rile her. They had already talked on the phone 'about the little asshole blowing himself up. Robin called as soon as she saw it on the TV news.

"Now what do we do?

Goddamn it." Spoke of time wasted and hinted around that it was Skip's fault: if he'd only waited for Mark to get the key to the limo. That's what she was upset about, the scheme was blown. Then had laid into him about taking her mom's car so she could at least hit him with some thing. Skip believed women were often fucked up like that in their thinking. Get you to believe they're irritated about one thing when it's another matter entirely.

"Woodward Avenue," Skip said.

"This's the only town I've been to where the whores parade around on the main drag. Look at that one."

Robin said, "You don't know she's a whore."

Skip glanced at Robin puffing on her cigarette, still showing him some muscle. He said, "You're right. Ten o'clock at night this colored chick puts on a sun suit to get a tan."

"It's a miniskirt and halter."

"I'm wrong again," Skip said.

"How about, you hear the one about the guy that got bit by the rattlesnake right on the end of his pecker? The guy's up north deer-hunting with his buddy-" "I heard it," Robin said, "years ago."

Skip thought awhile and said, "The way they got these lights timed, I don't understand it. They make you stop about every block and look at how depressing this town has become. Where is everybody?… I know.

They're across the river at Jason's. They call it the Royal Canadian Ballet, these girls'll dance bare-ass right at your table. For ten bucks you can have your picture taken with Miss Nude Vancouver and her two breasts. There you are, the four of you smiling at the camera. Be nice to have framed. You know, as a memento, your visit to Canada. There's more going on over there than here. What I don't understand is why the car companies don't do something about it. They let the Japs eat the ass right out of their business. Just sat there and let it happen. Do you understand that?" No answer. She didn't know or she didn't care.

"Well, I'm glad your mom buys American. I like a big roomy automobile.

I don't know what all that shit is on the dashboard, but it looks good.

You know?"

Robin said, "Why're you talking so much?"

"I'm trying to impress you."

"I don't get it."

Skip looked at her and said, "I don't either. I haven't gotten anything since I came here."

"We've been busy."

"No, we haven't. You bring me on and then slip me the blotter. Get me off with acid. Hand it out one at a time."

"I haven't felt in the mood."

"I know what it is," Skip said, "you're afraid I might give you something. Like the broad in that ad, huh? She says she likes to get laid, but she ain't ready to die for it."

"I don't know where you've been," Robin said.

"You mean who I've been with. I've never done it with guys. Jesus, you ought to know that."

"You can get it the regular old-fashioned way too," Robin said, watching the road as they approached Seven Mile.

"You can't turn left, you have to go through and come back around."

Now she was telling him how to drive. hey would go by the house with the stone lions in front, circle around through Palmer Woods in this car that would seem to belong here, and return to make another pass.

"In there counting his money," Robin said.

"You like that picture?"

Skip liked the way she was warming up, getting with it again. What they were up to now was something they'd discussed on the phone. He said, "I like the big yards too, all the trees you can hide in. I like not hearing any dogs.

I hate dogs. Be working there in the dark and hear one?

Jesus. You try and set high explosives worrying if some dog's gonna jump on you and tear your ass off. You know what I mean?"

"It might be too soon," Robin said.

"The sooner the better. While the first one's still ringing in his ears. You've delivered the message. The guy goes, "Hey, shit, they're serious."

" Robin was silent.

Skip eased around a corner, watched the headlights sweep past a house with darkened windows and settle again on the narrow blacktop, an aisle through old trees. He glanced at her.

"What would you rather do instead? I can think of something, but you're afraid I might be carrying the AIDS.

What do you want me to do, get a blood test first? We're riding around with my wham bag in the trunk. It's got five sticks of dynamite, blasting caps and a loaded thirty-eight revolver in it and you're worrying about getting a social disease."

"I know why you're talking so much," Robin said, "you're nervous.

Aren't you?"

"I'm up," Skip said.

"I don't want to waste it, have to get back up again."

"What's the gun for?"

"Come on, what's any of it for? What're we doing?"

He saw her profile as she flicked her lighter, once, and held it to a cigarette, calm, showing him she had it together.

She said, "I want to be sure I know what I'm going to say to him, that's all. I want to have it down."

"What you say, that's the easy part. You'll come up with the words.

It's when you say it's gonna make the difference. The timing, that's what has to be on the button. I can set it for whenever you want up to twelve hours from now."

Skip looked at the instrument panel.

"It's now… which one's the clock? They got all that digital shit on there."

"It's ten forty," Robin said.

"They ever quit making clocks with hands on 'em I'm out of business."

"It's ten forty-one," Robin said.

He liked her tone. Drawing on her cigarette now and blowing it out slow.

"I can set it for ten tomorrow morning, any time around in there. Or how about this? I set it to go off like in eleven and a half hours from the time I place it down.

See, then you figure to call ten or fifteen minutes before that."

Robin seemed to be thinking about it as she smoked.

"If he stays up boozing all night… You know what I mean? He probably sleeps late."

"I doubt he's gonna answer the phone anyway.

That's what he's got the jig for, the Panther." Skip looked past Robin out the side window. They were going by the house again.

"Guy likes animals, he's got the Panther, he's got lions out in front..

.. Listen, we can go buy gas, spend my last eighteen bucks and come back later. We have to stop by a gas station anyway, so I can use the men's room."

"You are nervous."

"My clock doesn't have a bell and hammer alarm on it, I have to rig something up. You want me to wire it in the car? Or a place I can turn a light on, lock the door?"

"I want you to be happy," Robin said. She stubbed her cigarette in the ashtray, once, and closed it.

"After, why don't I spend the night at Mother's?"

"You mean it?"

He looked over. She was stroking her braid now as she said, "On one condition…"

Mr. Woody finished the pound can of peanuts during his cocktail hour, so he wasn't hungry till near ten. He was in a pretty good mood, seemed almost alert and was talkative. Donnell fixed him up in the kitchen, dished out his warmed-up chicken lo mein, whole quart of it on a platter, opened two cans of Mexican beer and sat down with him at the opposite end of the long wooden table.

Donnell didn't like to get too close to the man when he was eating; the man made noises out his nose, head down close to his food like he was trying to hide in there.

"Mr. Woody, there something bothering me." It was a way to get his attention, the man thinking he was being asked his advice.

"What the police will do is talk to the people were here. Try to find one will tell 'em Ginger went upstairs and then you went up there after her. I'm saying if Ginger doesn't accept your generous offer."

The man stopped eating to think about that, frowned with his mouth open, the overhead light shining on him, and Donnell had to look away.

"I doubt your friends notice you were gone, the condition they was in, flying high on the blow. But there was one lady there wasn't of your regular group. The older one, had her hair in a braid?"

"Robin," Woody said.

"You remember her?"

See? He could do that. Pick somebody out from a long time ago. Like he had put certain things in his mind in a safe place the booze couldn't touch. Especially things and people had to do with his brother. Donnell settled in, leaning over his arms on the edge of the table.

"Robin Abbott, huh? I thought to myself, Now who is that? I didn't recognize her 'cause it had been so long. Was at the party your lovely mother had to raise bail money, huh?"

"Mom didn't want to have it," Woody said.

"Mark begged her, she said no. I had to talk her into it."

"Had a way with your mama, didn't you?"

"We got along. Mark took after Dad, so she didn't trust him."

"Your daddy went out on her, huh?"

"I guess so."

They hadn't talked about the dad much; the dad had moved away and passed on. No problem there to come up unexpected. Donnell let the man eat in peace a minute before starting in again.

"Yeah, was at that bail party I met Robin. I was introduced to her and all those people and then after while I ran into her in the bathroom.

The little one out by the front hall? I walk in, she's in there."

The man was listening, because he said, "She was in the bathroom, uh?"

"Yeah, she was in there, you know, combing her hair, prettyin' up, looking at herself in the mirror. She seem like a nice lady. Without knowing much about her."

The man said, "Who, Robin?" Digging into his pile of food.

"She was something else. You never knew… Like when she was hiding out she'd come to the house. Never call first, she'd come at night and stay here a few days. Mom didn't like her. She'd spy on her and Mark."

"Catch 'em in the toidy?"

"When they were talking. Then Mom'd get Mark to tell her to leave."

"Undesirable influence, huh?"

"After she was arrested, then we didn't see her till, you know, the other night."

"What'd the police get after her for, demonstrating?

Marching without a license?"

The man raised his head from the dish.

"Was the FBI.

For the time she and her boyfriend blew up that office in the Federal Building. You don't remember that?"

"I must've been gone then," Donnell said, easing up in the kitchen chair, looking at the man grinning at him, lo mein gravy shining on his chin.

"When we were at school, you know what she'd do any time she wanted something, like if she needed money?

She'd unbutton her shirt, hold it open and let me look at her goodies."

Donnell said, "Let you look at 'em, huh?" He said, "Mr. Woody, you telling me this lady knows how to set bombs?"

The man was eating and then he wasn't eating. He chewed and stopped chewing and stared at Donnell, swallowed and kept staring at him.

Donnell said, "Wipe your chin, Mr. Woody."

Skip told Robin when she dropped him off to give him ten minutes. Robin came around in the Lincoln, crept past the house looking for him, drove on and there he was up the street, the headlights finding him in the dark. It didn't take as long as he'd thought. Robin said he looked like a burglar going home from work. Skip said, home being Bloomfield Hills. Let's go.

Straight up Woodward out of Detroit without knowing it, except now there were four lanes of traffic both ways, people in a hurry, Skip looking at the miles of lit-up used car lots and motels and neon words announcing places to eat, Skip relieved, enjoying the ride, telling Robin he'd walked all the way around Woody's house, looked in windows at empty rooms and came back to his original idea: set it in the bushes up close to one of the concrete lions.

See, then she could say to Woody on the phone, "When you hear the lion roar you'll know we mean business."

Robin didn't comment on his idea. She was edging over with cars whizzing by to get into the inside lane.

"What're you looking for?"

"A drugstore," Robin said.

"Did you forget?"

Skip said, "Would you believe I've never purchased any of those things in my life?"

Once they found a drugstore open and Robin was angle-parked in front, he asked her what he was supposed to do for money. Robin gave him a ten and he went inside.

Skip was wearing his black satiny athletic jacket that had Speedball written across the back in red. He unzipped it and put his hands in his pockets as he looked at displays along the cigar counter. When he didn't see what he wanted he moved toward the back of the store, taking time to look at the shelves, more things to beautify you than make you feel better. There were two people at the counter in the pharmacy area: a woman in a peach-colored smock who looked like she sold cosmetics and had most of them on her, and a young skinny guy with a store name tag that said Kenny and a half-dozen pens in his shirt pocket. The young clerk asked Skip if he could help him. Skip said yeah, like he was trying to think of what it was he'd come in for, glanced at the cosmetics lady and told the young clerk he wanted a pack of rubbers.

The young clerk said, "What is it you want?"

"I want some rubbers," Skip said.

The young clerk said, "Oh, condoms." The cosmetics lady, about ten feet away writing in a notebook, didn't look up.

"They're right here," the young clerk said, raising his hand to a display on the wall behind him.

"What kind you want?"

"I don't care, any kind."

"You like the regular or the ribbed?"

Skip hesitated.

"The regular."

"Natural hush or lubricated?"

"Just plain'll be fine."

"Any particular color?"

Skip was about to ask the guy if he was putting him on, but the cosmetics lady was coming over saying, "The new golden shade is very popular. Kenny, why don't you show him those?"

The young clerk turned from the display holding a box that had a picture on it of a guy and a girl walking along a beach at sunset, holding hands. Skip wondered if you were supposed to think the guy had a rubber in his wallet and they were looking for a place to do it on the beach.

They were crazy if they did. Even a car was better than the beach.

Anybody's car that was open.

Skip said, "That's fine," getting the ten-dollar bill out of his jacket.

"How much is it?"

"This one's the economy pack," the young clerk said, looking at the price tag.

"Three dozen for sixteen ninety five Skip had the ten-dollar bill in his hand. He put it back in his pocket, took off his black satiny athletic jacket and said to the young clerk, "I'll tell you what," as he laid the jacket open on the counter.

"Gimme about a dozen of those economy packs. Put 'em right here."

The young clerk and the cosmetics lady seemed to be trying to smile.

Was he being funny or what?

No, he wasn't being funny. Skip reached behind him for the.38 stuck in his belt to show them he wasn't. He said to the cosmetics lady,

"While he's doing that, you empty the cash drawer. Then you both lay down on the floor." He said to the young clerk, "Hey, Kenny? But none of those ribbed ones. Gimme all regular."

Kobin pushed in the cigarette lighter, looked up and saw Skip coming out of the drugstore. He had his jacket off, bunched under his arm like he was carrying something in it. As soon as he was in the car he said, "Let's go." Robin held her hand on the lighter, waiting for it to pop.

"How many did you get?"

"Four hundred and something."

Robin said, "Well, we can always get more." She lit her cigarette.

"You must've used a credit card."

"Let's go, okay?"

"My, but we're anxious."

"I can hardly wait," Skip said. lay in Chris's dad's king-size bed wondering, If somebody handed you twenty-five thousand dollars in cash, what would it be in? Would it be in like a briefcase all lined up in neat rows? Would you have to take the money out and put it in something and give them back the briefcase?

Probably. She turned her head to look at the digital clock on the bedside table, green figures in the morning gloom: 7:49. She looked back at the ceiling and thought, Wait a minute. If ten one-hundred-dollar bills made a thousand, it wouldn't be much of a pile. Especially new ones.

She held her thumb and one finger about an inch apart, closed one eye as she looked up and narrowed the space between them. Ten one-hundred-dollar bills wouldn't be any more than an eighth of an inch. Times twenty-five . the whole amount'd be only three or four inches high.

You wouldn't need a briefcase for that, you could stick it in an envelope. Twenty-five thousand didn't seem so much looking at it that way. She had to buy a car…

She had to get up and brush her teeth and take a couple of Extra-Strength Excedrin. She'd had four drinks last night at Brownie's. Bourbon over crushed ice with a touch of sugar sprinkled on top. Chris had never had one.

She told him it was her dad's Sunday afternoon drink he called a God's Own-in the summertime with fresh mint her mom grew in the backyard. Two at the bar shaped like a boat, Chris smacking his lips with that first one, two more at the table, the God's Owns going down easy, and then a bottle of wine with the pickerel. Starting out quietly to discuss a serious matter and before she knew it they were having fun.

It was the way Chris told it, calling the guy Mr. Woody, describing this weird scene, Mr. Woody naked on a rubber raft, a mound of lard floating in the pool. Mr. Woody's colored chauffeur doing everything but kiss the man's hind end while he thought up ways to hustle him, hoping to skim twenty grand off the top of Mr. Woody's offer and give Ginger five. Chris calling her Ginger at first because they did.

She told him it was "Gingah" if he was going to say it, the way she heard it all her life from her family, and not "Gingurr" with his Detroit accent. Her dad gave her the name when she was little. Her sister Camille they called Lily, but they called her brother, Robert Taylor, always Robert Taylor. That was strange, wasn't it? Then she became Ginger Jones when she married Gary. She told Chris she'd planned to stay Greta Wyatt, but her mother had said, "You're not going to take your husband's name?" Like it was unheard of. (She didn't tell Chris Gary said it "Gin gurr" too and after a while it grated on her nerves-along with everything else about Gary, who had a wonderful singing voice but would never leave Dearborn, Michigan, because he was a mama's boy and she kept a tight hold on him. Mothers could mess up lives without even trying.) So to please her mother she became Greta Jones till the divorce and she had it changed back. Except she got more audition calls as Ginger Jones, so she was stuck with it professionally. What she should have done before marrying Gary was made up a stage name that ended with a smile when you say it, like Sweeney. Say it, Sweeney. Your mouth forms a smile. And Chris said,

"So does Mankowski. Say it:

Ginger Mankowski." She did, exaggerating the smile for him, but it didn't sound right. Ginger Mankowski. (Without telling him, she tried Greta Mankowski in her mind, heard the sound of it and saw herself fifty pounds heavier, a night cleaning woman at Ford World Headquarters.) Chris said to her, "If you're good, it doesn't matter what name you go by. Are you any good?"

She felt herself sag a little.

"I'm good. But do you know how many Ginger Joneses there are just in Detroit? Before you even begin to count New York or Los Angeles?"

He said to her, "There's only one Greta Wyatt that I know of."

He called her Greta after that, saying he had never known a Greta and liked the name a lot, coming on to her in sort of a little-boy way, which some guys pulled in order to sneak up on you. Chris did it pretty well, with a nice grin, like he didn't know he was a hunk and women looked at him coming back from the men's room.

He said Mr. Woody, "that poor, pathetic asshole," reminded him of Bingo Bear, a toy he'd given one of his nieces for her birthday. You squeezed Bingo's nose and he spoke, he'd say things like "Give me a hug… Scratch my

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