"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."
Chapter 10.
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, playsuits 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-poun
d 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 fieldstone 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.
Freaky Deaky Page 8
