"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."
He 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."
&nbs
p; "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."
Chris 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 nothing you don't know. You look at Mr. Woody, you don't see a man you give a shit about or what happens to him. What you see looking back at you is pickin's, is opportunity. Am I 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 limo, you keep the change?"
Donnell's brows raised, fun in his eyes. "Shit, it won't take you no time."
Chapter 16.
Here 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 something. 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 sunsuit 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 e
at 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.
They 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.
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