Freaky Deaky

  Greta bent from the waist to open the oven and gave Chris a shot of her plain white panties.

  "Five-fifty? . . . I'm sorry. Yeah, I got it. Five-fifteen Canfield."

  Greta came over to the table with her coffee and coffee cake.

  "Maureen, I'm sorry. Hold it again, will you?"

  They smiled at each other. Greta could feel hers and knew his was real. Look at his eyes.

  "Will you sit down?"

  "I don't want to bother you."

  "You already have."

  She said, "Okay," and sat down across from him and began listening to his conversation as she glanced at the front page of the morning Free Press on the table. They were talking about Robin. Her name was Robin Abbott.

  Chris said, "Maybe she's at work." He said, "Well, you have to find out. Go there and talk to somebody." He said, "I'd be glad to. You're kidding, but I'm not. I'd go in a minute." He said, "Call Huron Valley, see if she had a job lined up." He said, "Oh, I thought she just got out. . . . Yeah, if somebody had been killed she could still be in. I remember Mark, but I don't remember a Robin Abbott. What was the guy's name, Emerson?" Greta watched him write Emerson Gibbs on the newspaper. "Give me the mother's name. . . . She's got dough, huh? Live out there." He underlined the names and then drew boxes around them. Greta watched him look up and smile and then look down at the names again as he said, "I'd sure like to go with you." He said, "I know, but you're gonna find that out. Have you talked to Wendell yet?" Greta watched him glance at the wall clock. It was eight thirty-five. He said, "You want to talk to Robin you're gonna have to hurry. Once Wendell gets on her . . ." He listened and said, "Yeah, but she's not gonna be in a very cooperative frame of mind if she's a suspect. Hey, you know what you could do? Wendell goes with you like he's with Sex Crimes and then sneaks up on her with Mark. What a tragedy, Jesus Christ, the guy steps out for a can of peanuts. . . . You know what I'm thinking? Since Wendell's gonna talk to her anyway. Take me with you . . . I mean it." He said, "That's beside the point. They're not gonna send a guy from the Bomb Squad, but that's who you need. I could look around there while you're talking to her. . . ." He said, "Yeah, I'll wait."

  Greta smiled, watching him. He was performing, aware of her and maybe a little self-conscious. It reminded her of last night: still talking, high, walking back from Brownie's, but quiet riding up in the elevator, quiet coming into the apartment, neither of them saying a word as they turned out the lights in the living room. Then in the hall Chris telling her there were towels laid out for her in the bathroom. Greta asking if he was sure he didn't want his dad's room. No, all his stuff was in the other bedroom--where she'd looked at family photographs earlier and picked him out at different ages, recognizing Chris as the young boy with the blond crew cut squinting at the sun, trying to smile; the teenager with darker hair to his shoulders, not smiling. He stopped at the door to the room with the pictures. They were both so well-mannered in the hall saying good night after all the God's Owns and the bottle of Piesporter, after looking at each other in that warm boozy glow and knowing something was going to happen. So carefully polite closing their separate doors. Greta undressed, listening. In the bathroom she washed her face and hands, stared at herself in the mirror as she brushed her teeth, turned the water off and stood listening. She got in the king-size bed and lay there in the glow of the lamp, listening. Until that was enough of that and she shouted, "Mankowski!" Paused and yelled, "Are you coming or not?"

  He came.

  And now he was saying to Maureen, "Okay, will you let me know?" Listening and then saying, "Because I know more than any of you and if I can help, why not?" Saying, "Good. I'll see you. Maureen? Call me. . . . Right." He reached over to hang the phone on the wall and came back to Greta smiling. "Where were we?"

  "They found Robin," Greta said.

  "We know where she lives. It's a start. You know what else we know? She did time, thirty-three months, for destruction of government property. With a bomb."

  Greta said, "Robin?" and saw the older woman with the braid at Woody's, perfectly at ease with her shirt off that night; saw Robin and was aware of Chris saying, "We know," still a working cop in his mind. Greta said, "You only found out what her last name is yesterday."

  Chris said, "Yeah, but also the kind of life she was into, going back to the seventies. If she associated with guys like Donnell, a Black Panther, that's a pretty good lead. Maureen didn't find Robin in the computer, so she checked with the Bureau, the FBI office here, and the agent Maureen happened to talk to knew all about her. Also this guy." Chris's gaze dropped to the newspaper. "Emerson Gibbs."

  Greta looked at the two names he'd written on the front page. "Who's Marilyn Abbott?"

  "Her mother. Maureen's gonna call her, see if she knows where Robin is. This guy, Emerson Gibbs, was convicted with Robin on the same bomb charge and did three and a half years. Both, it turns out, were heavy-duty political activists back at that time." Chris paused. "You know what I mean, back during the hippie days?"

  "I was in grade school," Greta said. "But I was in Hair when I was going to Oakland University. I went two years." She sang then, in a soft murmur, " 'This is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius . . . ' " stopped and said, "Were you a hippie?"

  "I'm not sure what I was," Chris said. "I was sort of on the edge of it. I took part in a couple of peace marches, a big one in Washington, and I went to Woodstock . . ."

  "Really?"

  "And then I went to Vietnam."

  "You did?"

  "For a while. I came back they were still marching, but"--Chris shook his head--"I didn't."

  Greta reached across the table for his hand, looking at his serious expression. She said, "Here we are playing house and I find out I barely know you." That got a little smile. "You have a lot to tell me about."

  "I'll tell you where we are right now," Chris said. "Maureen looks for Robin as a possible witness in a sexual assault case. But all of a sudden Robin becomes a suspect in a homicide investigation. Which wouldn't have happened if you hadn't seen her there Saturday night. But now, you understand, Homicide will have a priority, first dibs."

  "It's okay," Greta said.

  "If Maureen talks to her at all, it could be in the Wayne County jail."

  "Really, it doesn't matter," Greta said. "I don't see any reason to go to court if I'm gonna lose."

  "Yeah, but at least you get to accuse him in public."

  "I thought it over while I was taking a shower. I'm considering Mr. Woody's offer."

  There was a silence. Chris stared at her across the table. Then shrugged. "It's up to you."

  "You think I'm wrong?"

  He took his time. "If you look at it as an out-of-court settlement for mental anguish, or for injuries received, something along those lines--"

  "I like mental anguish," Greta said. "Remember the TV preacher who went to bed with a twenty-year-old girl? He did it once about seven years ago and lost his ministry and his theme park."

  "I read something about it," Chris said.

  "The preacher went to a religious psychologist on account of he was feeling so guilty. The psychologist said the preacher writhed on the floor for ten minutes kicking and screaming, making himself sick."

  Chris said, " 'Cause he got laid, once, seven years ago?"

  "His guilt was so enormous."

  "I've heard of guys kicking and screaming when they didn't get laid--"

  Greta said, "Listen to me, all right? The girl went to see a man who investigates preachers who fool around and get in trouble. The man put her in touch with a religious lawyer and they told the preacher they were gonna sue him for millions of dollars."

  "You mean they blackmailed the poor asshole."

  "No, they threatened to sue him, in court, on account of her mental anguish. See?"

  "But if she went to bed with the preacher willingly . . ."

  "She claims they put something in her wine--I don't know. But if you can make love to a guy and soak him two hu
ndred and sixty-five thousand, which is what they settled on out of court, what is the mental anguish from a rape worth? I don't think there's any comparison."

  "You want to get a lawyer?"

  "No way. Out of the first payment received the lawyer, and I think the guy who investigates preachers who fool around, took ninety-five thousand and the poor girl got twenty. The hell with that. And now that everybody knows about it she probably won't get another cent. What I'm asking is, If that's legal, do you think I'd be wrong to accept Woody's offer?"

  Chris said, "No, but you might be a little hasty. The way it was explained to me, the amount of the settlement is based on what Mr. Woody's valuable time is worth to him, without even considering your time, your mental anguish and so on."

  Greta began to smile as Chris went on:

  "No, I don't think twenty-five grand is fair to either of you."

  Maureen Downey's voice said, "Where were you, in the bathroom?"

  "I was resting."

  "It's ten o'clock in the morning."

  "I know what time it is."

  "I'm at Five-fifteen Canfield, in the manager's office. He said Robin should be around somewhere, she doesn't work and hasn't left town. Her car's parked on the street."

  "You call her mother?"

  "I tried, no answer. Listen, Wendell likes your idea. Start talking to her about the rape and slide into the homicide. He's gonna meet me here."

  "When?"

  "In about an hour."

  "Call me, soon as you talk to her."

  "Why're you so anxious?"

  Chris paused. "No--I'm coming too. I'll meet you there."

  "Wendell won't like it."

  "I'll talk to him." Chris said goodbye, placed the phone against his chest and turned his head on the pillow to look at Greta, her dark brown eyes looking back at him. "That was Maureen."

  "I heard."

  Chapter 18.

  Skip had thought that today he'd pretend he was a wealthy suburbanite: drop his ration of acid, sit back with a few cold beers, his feet up, and watch movies on cable TV, cars bursting in flames, stunt men being shot off of high places--see if he could recognize the work, or how it was done if it was a new gag--and then Robin said they were leaving because the phone had rung.

  He'd told her, "You don't think it was for you, do you? It's some old lady calling your mother."

  She'd looked at that phone like it was wired to blow and told him to stop and think. What if someone called while she was on the phone talking to Woody? They'd get a busy signal, right? And that would mean someone's in the house, right? But her mother's friends would know she was on a cruise. So you know what they'd do? Skip asked Robin to tell him. They'd call the cops--that's what they'd do!

  She wasn't thinking.

  Skip said, If your mother's friends know she's on a cruise, why would they call?

  Now Skip wasn't thinking.

  Never use logic on an emotional woman. Or one in any state, for that matter. Robin gave him her killer look instead of an answer. So Skip tried another approach, trying to sound sincere. Robin? Even if the cops did come, what would they do? Ring the doorbell, look in some windows? They didn't have a key, did they?

  Yes!

  That was where she had him, got him out of the chair in front of the TV and into the car. She was probably lying; she still had him because he couldn't prove otherwise. But what pissed her off most was something he couldn't help but mention.

  "If it could get us in trouble, why did you want to call from your mom's in the first place?"

  She said, "Because you had to get laid. That's the only reason I stayed at Mother's house, for you."

  It hadn't even been that good. Not anywhere near as good as it used to be. As for her laying the blame on him, that was typical of a man-eater like Robin, who had never in her life admitted being wrong and would think quick to incriminate whatever poor asshole was nearest. In this instance Skip sitting next to her in the Lincoln, Robin driving, Robin hauling ass eighty miles an hour down the Chrysler freeway to get home in time to call Woody before eleven. Most other cars were doing about seventy. They drove as fast here as they did in L.A., except out in L.A. there were more places to drive fast to.

  She was jumping lanes also, cutting in and out of traffic and getting horns blown at her.

  If those other people were stunt drivers and he was being paid thirty-five hundred for this ride it might be different. It inspired Skip to ask, "How about if you call from a pay phone? We wouldn't have to rush so."

  Robin didn't answer; she kept driving.

  "Look over there, the Sign of the Big Boy. We could relax, have us a cup of coffee first."

  Robin said, "You really think I'm going to stand at a pay phone in a Big Boy, with people coming in and out past me, and tell Woody, Now here's the deal? Somebody standing next to me, waiting to use the phone? 'Uh, we'd like a million dollars, Woody.' He goes, 'What'd you say?' He can't hear me 'cause I have to keep my voice down."

  She seemed calmer doing that little skit and it made some sense. But she was thinking too much. Probably going over in her mind what she'd say to the guy. Skip thought of telling her if she didn't call him at eleven, call him later on, after the bomb went off. What was the difference?

  But that made too much sense and could get her pissed off again. Or she'd say she didn't want to talk about it any more, so drop it. That was how some women miscalculated the guy's frustration level and got hit. The woman would still win. She'd keep showing him her black eye to make him feel like an asshole. It was best not to get worked up in the first place. What Skip did, flying down the Chrysler freeway, he went through his mind looking for harmless but interesting topics of conversation. . . . And thought of a good one.

  "Remember that big Stroh's beer sign you used to see down a ways?"

  He told her how a demolition company tore down the brewery, a sight he'd have come to watch if he'd known about it beforehand. He told her you didn't explode a building when you took it down, you imploded it. He told her for the Stroh's job he read they'd set eight hundred and eighty separate charges and blew them at seven-and-a-half-second intervals, starting from the center of the structure and working out, blowing those support columns one at a time so that the building collapsed in on itself. He told Robin he was here in '84, right after he got out of Milan, when they tore down the old Hoffman building, Woodward at Sibley. They blew the charge and the building just stood there till four hours later it fell the wrong way, right on top of the bar next door. He told Robin that when you have space around you it's a different ball game. He began to tell her how you demolish a silo, how you notch one side and shoot light charges on the other---

  And Robin said, "Jesus Christ, will you shut up?"

  That did irritate Skip, but did not set him off. He had a return ticket to L.A. He had a hundred and forty-seven dollars from the drugstore, and he had four hundred and something rubbers he could blow up like balloons to celebrate getting the fuck out of this deal if she got any snottier.

  Neither of them said another word till they pulled up in front of her rundown apartment building on Canfield and Robin turned her head toward him, hand on the door latch.

  "You go right back to the house and stay in the basement. And I mean stay there. Don't even go near a window."

  "What if the phone rings?"

  "Don't answer it."

  "What if it's you?" Skip said.

  Got her.

  Ten thirty Donnell brought Mr. Woody his eye-opener, vodka and pale dry ginger ale, half and half, two of them on a silver tray. He placed one of the drinks on the night table next to the flashlightthe man kept there in case of a power failure. The man, being scared to death of the dark, had flashlights all over the house.

  The way Donnell usually worked it, he'd touch the man then and say, "Rise and shine, Mr. Woody, the day is waiting on you," except if the man had wet the bed. Then Donnell would hold his breath and not say anything, just shake him, trying not to brea
the in the smell coming off the man. Donnell would have to wait for the swollen face to show life mixed with pain, then for the man to get up on his elbow and take the drink. Donnell would then step out of the way. Soon as the man finished the drink he'd be sick right there if he didn't get to the bathroom in time. Starting this wake-up service, Donnell had brought the man Bloody Marys, till he found out being sick was part of waking up. Did it one week and said, Enough of this Bloody Mary shit, cleaning up a bathroom looked like somebody'd been killing chickens in it.

  Today Mr. Woody got in there okay to gag, make all kinds of sick noises while Donnell slipped on his earphones and listened to Whodini doing the rap, doing "The Good Part," rappin' "When we gonna get to the good part?" Rap. Yeah. Donnell watching the man didn't slip and hit his head. "Mr. Woody?" Donnell said. "Get down to it, on your knees, you be safer." Man would be closer to the toilet too, wouldn't get his mess all over.

  Mr. Woody came out catching his breath like he'd been crying, red face redder, and Donnell handed him his second drink, the one that would settle him, let his system know the alcohol was coming and everything would be fine.

  There, the man said "Boy-oh-boy," showing signs he wasn't going to die just yet. Ordinarily about now Donnell would ask him what was on for today, play that game with him, like there was all this different shit the man could be doing. But not this morning.

  This morning he said, "Soon as you have your breakfast we have to tend to some business." He watched the man stumble against the bed trying to put his pants on. "Mr. Woody, what you do, you put your underwear on first. Then you sit down on the floor to put your trousers on, so you don't kill yourself." Asshole. The man could barely dress himself, could never pick out clothes that matched.

  "Mr. Woody, the funeral people called up. They getting your brother this afternoon, from the morgue. They gonna cremate him, but then what do they put the remains in? See, they have different-price urns they use. Then is he going out to a cemetery? You understand? The funeral people want to know what to do with him."

  "Tell 'em--I don't know," Woody said from the floor. "Did you get the paper in?"