"What I want," Donnell said, laying the checkbook on the table, "is to know how much you want. That's the only business we have, understand?"
Chris sipped his drink, in no hurry. "I'll tell you what I have a problem with, and I'll bet you do too. The first bomb, the one that took out Mark. That wasn't a warning shot, was it? That one had Woody's name on it. Yours, too, if you open doors for him. But how do they make any money if Woody's dead?"
Donnell didn't move or say a word.
"Unless their original idea," Chris said, "was to get Woody out of the way and go after Mark. Only Mark went after the peanuts. That can happen, something unforeseen. But you get down and look at it, I don't think Robin knows what she's doing. It seems to me she and Skip are as fucked up as they ever were. Back when they were crazies. I think about it some more and it doesn't surprise me. You know why?"
Donnell kept looking at him, but didn't answer.
"Because people don't get into crime unless they're fucked up to begin with."
Donnell said, "The policeman talking now."
"You know what I'm saying. Think of all the guys you used to hang out with are in the joint. You've been trying to think of ways yourself to fuck up, haven't you?"
Chris reached over to open the leather-bound book on the table and look at the three checks signed by Woodrow Ricks, the name written big, all curves and circles.
"You could write 'Donnell Lewis' and some big numbers on one of these, you must've thought of that. But first you have to get him to transfer enough money into the account to make it worthwhile, huh? And you haven't figured out how to work that."
Donnell said, "How much you want?"
"Twenty-five," Chris said, "nothing for you, no commission on this one. And if Woody stops payment, I put the bomb back in the pool."
"Gonna take the man for all you can get."
"Why not? Everybody else is."
In that big dim library Greta was saying to Woody, "You're trying to be nice to me now, because of what you did." He was making her nervous.
Telling her, Sit here. No, sit there, it's more comfortable. What could he get her, another drink? Did she want to watch a movie? Did she like Busby Berkeley? Ever see his banana number? But he didn't know how to put on the video cassette, and when he tried calling Donnell on the phone there was no answer.
Greta said, "Would you sit still so I can talk to you? That other time you hardly moved. Would you wipe your mouth, please? Doesn't that bother you? Look at your robe, it's a mess." He seemed to be listening now, but it was hard to tell. His face was like a road map, all the red and blue lines in it. If that liver spot on his cheek was Little Rock, there was U.S. 40 going over to West Memphis. The Mississippi came down his nose full of tributaries and drainage canals, curved around O.K. Bend at his mouth and went on down to the Louisiana line. Did he like being the way he was?
"Remember at the Seesaw audition, right after I tried out Mark had me sit with him? You were in the row behind us. I felt you touch my hair a couple times. I should've realized what the deal was, but I was busy listening to Mark talking to the director, being smart. That girl with the little plastic derby finished her number, she did 'Little Things' and the director goes, 'She must get a lot of love at home to have the confidence to come here.' That was okay; the girl really wasn't very good. But Mark said nasty things like 'She ought to have her vocal cords removed,' and I remember you laughing, thinking it was funny. You and Mark had no feeling for the person, what it's like to get up there with your legs shaking, trying to remember the words. . . . That one girl did 'The Sweetest Sounds I've Ever Heard' and Mark goes, 'Throwing up'd be a sweeter sound than that.' Trying to be funny, but everything he said was mean. I stayed and listened 'cause I wanted to play Gittel so bad, not knowing the deal was I'd have to play with you. Nobody asked me, okay, if I did, if I agreed to be humiliated, how much would I charge? See, you just went ahead, like buying something without asking the price. Well, now I'm gonna tell you what it is."
Chris went in the pool in his white briefs, dove straight down to the bottom, saw only one wire connected to the clock and made sure of it, a wire that ran to the dry-cell battery. He went up for a breath, dove again, removed the blasting cap from the dynamite and this time pushed off the bottom with the five sticks taped together, holding them over his head as he surfaced. Donnell was no help. He stayed at the shallow end, inside the doorway to the sunroom. On his third dive, Chris brought up the clock and the battery and placed them next to the dynamite on the tiled edge of the pool. Donnell approached as Chris swam over with the black athletic bag, swung it at him and let go, and Donnell jumped back as he caught the bag and dropped it, quick.
"Man, you get me all wet."
Chris pulled himself out of the pool. He picked up the bag, held it open in the light from the windows and got a surprise. Inside were a pair of pliers, a short coil of copper wire and several clothespins. Maybe left by mistake--the guy forgot the stuff was in there. Or it was a hurry-up job. Maybe the guy had to work in the dark. It was all evidence and Chris knew he should take it with him. Or put it in a safe place--he liked that better--and tell Donnell to keep his hands off, don't go near it. Scare him. He looked around the pool house. Maybe in the library; there were a lot of cabinets in there. And pick it up later on, if he had to.
Donnell said, "It's mean-looking shit, that dynamite." He put his hands on his knees for a closer study. "The clock, hey, only got one hand on it."
"The hour hand," Chris said. "You see the hole punched right next to the 'eleven'? There was a screw in there. Here, it's on the end of the wire that goes to the blasting cap. This wire connects the clock to the battery, and this other one goes from the battery to the blasting cap. You see how it works? The hour hand comes around, touches the screw set for eleven o'clock, the circuit is closed and the dynamite blows. Only the screw came out 'cause somebody did a half-assed job putting it together. It's simpler if you use the old-fashioned kind of alarm clock with the bell on top, you don't need the screw. You run your wires, one from the bell, the other from the hammer, the dinger, set the alarm and when it rings, that's it. You're probably lucky they didn't use that kind. The screw wasn't set in tight enough. You threw the bag, it hit the diving board and that's when it probably came out." Chris picked up the taped sticks of dynamite and placed them in the bag. "Let me have a towel, okay? I'll get dressed and we'll put this somewhere."
Donnell, hands on his knees, began to straighten with a thoughtful kind of frown, his mind working.
"Man, you knew it, didn't you? You look at this shit laying on the bottom, you knew it wasn't gonna go off. You run the price up on me with nothing to worry about."
Chris said, "That's why people like me like to get hired by people like you."
Chris kept glancing at her, waiting, until finally he said, "Well? What happened?"
Greta said, "Have you ever noticed, the corners of his mouth are always sticky? He opens his mouth and you can see, it's like old saliva stuck there. I kept thinking about that time he kissed me."
"Not the other?"
"Well, both, but I was looking at his mouth. He never wipes it. Anyway, I told him I wanted a hundred thousand."
"You did?"
"What's the difference? Whatever I ask for, I'd just be picking it out of the air."
"What'd he say?"
"You won't believe this. He asked me to marry him."
Chris looked at her and the Cadillac jumped lanes and he had to get straightened out before he said, "Come on."
"I'm not kidding. I said, 'Look, let's just settle this and I'll leave. There's no way in the world I'd ever marry you.' "
"Yeah?"
"And then he tells me how he's worth a hundred million dollars and we'd share it, a hundred million."
"Jesus Christ."
"I said, No, I wouldn't. He said, Think about it."
"Yeah?"
"That's all."
"What do you mean, that's all? Are you think
ing about it?"
"Of course not. He said we should get to know each other before I decide."
"Jesus Christ."
"And if I'd rather have a hundred thousand than a hundred million he'd give it to me."
"He said that?"
"Well, not in so many words. It took him a while."
Chris turned east on Eight Mile and for several moments had to concentrate on the traffic. Greta was silent.
"What're you doing, thinking about it?"
"No, I'm not thinking about it."
"What're you doing?"
"I'm not doing anything, I'm sitting here."
"What about the settlement?"
"I go back, tell him I've thought about it . . . I guess, and then he gives it to me."
"You mean you're gonna think about it?"
"No, but I have to tell him I did."
"Why? Just tell him you want the hundred thousand."
"I feel sorry for him."
"What does that mean?"
"Why're you so picky? Can't I feel sorry for him?"
"I guess if you want to," Chris said, reaching into his inside coat pocket. "I didn't get a proposal of marriage, but I didn't do too bad." He brought out Woody's check and handed it to Greta. "Twenty-five grand, for cleaning out his swimming pool."
* * *
"Hi, it's me," Robin's voice said.
Donnell said, "It is, huh?"
He stood at the desk in the library. Mr. Woody, over watching Arnold Schwarzenegger killing dudes with his big two-hand sword, hadn't even looked up when the phone rang.
"Are you all right?"
"Just fine."
"I waited for the six o'clock news before I called. You want to tell me what happened?"
"I'll tell you something," Donnell said, "but not on the telephone."
"Great, I was hoping you'd say that," Robin's voice said. "Can we meet?"
"You want to take the chance, we can."
"What does that mean?"
"Girl, I don't have nice things to say to you."
"I'll bet you a million dollars," Robin's voice said, "you change your mind."
Chapter 21.
Chris and Greta were in his dad's king-size bed with both the gooseneck lamps, mounted above the headboard, turned on: Chris reading Robin Abbott's May-August 1970 journal, Greta reading photocopied material from various Donnell Lewis case files. She told Chris her first husband never read in bed, he watched TV. Then corrected that. "I mean the only husband I ever had." Chris said, "Uh-huh." He had on a pair of his dad's reading glasses, and she felt she was seeing another side of him. Greta looked over one time and said, "Excuse me, do I know you?" About eleven thirty he went out to the kitchen and brought back two cans of beer. Greta looked at him in his underwear and said, "You have scars on your legs," sounding surprised. "What in the world happened to you?" He got back in bed and told her about the old Vietnamese guy standing on the hand grenade, Greta sitting up chewing on her thumbnail, not saying a word. He finished and she kissed him, her eyes moist. They kissed some more and Greta asked Chris who did he think he was, Woody Allen? Woody was always making out in bed with Diane Keaton or somebody with his glasses on. In movies, anyway. They let it happen and made love, trying to take their time but then hurrying to get there. While they were drinking their beer Greta said, "Whenever you feel like showing me your scars, you can." Then after a few minutes she said, "Here your glasses, Dad," and they got back to reading, feeling at home with each other propped up on their pillows.
They would tell each other about parts they were reading.
Greta said Donnell Lewis had been arrested fourteen times but only went to prison once. She asked Chris, "You ever hear of being charged with creating an improper diversion? Violation of ordinance N.H. 613.404." He was selling Black Panther newspapers in downtown Detroit when he spotted a couple of undercover detectives watching him. So he pointed to them and told everybody that came by to look out for the pigs. He also called them fascist buffoon fools. The detectives said they were watching for pickpockets and when Donnell revealed their identity, that was the improper diversion. Three other times, while he was selling Black Panther papers, he was arrested for resisting and obstructing. Once he had to go to Detroit Generalto get ten stitches in the top of his head. The arresting officer said Donnell ran into a wall trying to avoid arrest. He was in a store collecting money for their kids' breakfast program and was arrested for attempting to commit extortion. The charge was reduced to soliciting for a charitable organization without a license. He was arrested another time for malicious destruction of property, painting Free Huey Newton on the side of the Penobscot Building. "Who's Huey Newton?"
"The guy that started the Black Panthers."
"How's the journal?"
Chris said, "I'm up to the rock concert at Goose Lake, two hundred thousand people. Robin says, 'Fifteen-dollar admission a bummer. Should be a free concert. The promoter, a smart-ass youth-culture rip-off artist, asks if we give our newspapers away free. . . . Dope scene unreal. Trash bags of Jamaican carried by strolling vendors. Organically grown mescaline. Blotter acid goes for a buck. Medics report bad trips, but not many. Strychnine poisoning. What else is new?' "
"Did you take dope?"
"I smoked pot and ate marshmallows for a few years. Listen, Robin says, 'It's private property, no pigs allowed. But they infiltrate. Beware of guys with short hair wearing dime-store beads, Bermuda shorts and tennies. I kid you not. Everything but a sign that says HI, I'M A NARC.' Here's Woody. This is good. 'Woody's case of champagne lasts a half day. He has booze in the limo and is completely smashed at all times. Woody's pissed. Went to the lake and couldn't get any chicks to take off their bathing suits. Even offered them money.' Listen to this. 'Hope I don't end up balling Woody out of the kindness of my heart.' "
He looked over at Greta looking at him.
"You think she did?"
"It doesn't say."
"She must be almost forty now."
"Yeah?"
"It just seems weird."
"Here's what she thinks of Mark," Chris said. " 'Nice bod, but spoiled, can be quite bitchy with others but will lick my hand to get me to look at him. Susceptible to bullshit I haven't used since junior high.' Here's the good part. Robin says, 'We put up a sign on the limo, TOTAL FREEDOM NOW! that brings TV guy with camera crew. Smart-ass TV guy asks, Freedom from what? I give him stock response. Freedom from everything, man. Freedom from government, freedom from misery, from hunger, etc. etc. through anarchy. Smart-ass TV guy calls me a Marxist. I tell him, No way. He says, But you're preaching Marxism, aren't you? Zap answer: If Marx says he wasn't a Marxist, why should I call myself one? You want labels, man, we want change. Chairman Mao said to seek truth from facts and it will bring on perpetual revolution. Can you dig it? It's here, man, and it won't go away.' "
Greta was still looking at him.
"Did everybody talk like that?"
"I think she was putting the guy on," Chris said. "You'd hear students yelling 'Smash the state,' and some of them were serious, not just turned on by the excitement. I was in Washington, there must have been a half million people in the streets, all protesting the war and you could feel it. We knew we were right, we had to be--so many people together. . . . I mean you could really feel it."
"But you went to war," Greta said.
"I was against it," Chris said, "because it didn't make sense. But I still wanted to know what war was like."
He was aware of sights and sounds from that other time, strange ones, glimpses of Khiem Hanh and the smell of wood smoke, glimpses of Woodstock too, beads and headbands and dirty jeans, the smell of grass, the rain, faces with glazed smiles. . . .
"I try to remember the way it was," Chris said, "and I get it mixed up with the way it was shown in movies, with the hippies so much wiser and laid back than the straights. Except in the Woodstock movie where the young guy says, 'People who are nowhere come here because they think they're gonna be with pe
ople who are somewhere.' And the guy's dopey girlfriend doesn't get it. She says, 'Yeah, well, like there's plenty of freedom. We ball and everything. . . . ' She was being used and didn't know it. You saw so much of that. All kinds of dumb kids taken advantage of by guys pretending to be gurus or Jesus, they had the hair, the beard. Or some asshole who called himself the Pussycat Prince and wore flowers in his hair and played a flute. All of them with that smug, stoned grin, like they knew something you didn't."
"Where are they now?" Greta said.
Robin and Donnell were at the Gnome on Woodward Avenue, a new-wave Middle Eastern restaurant that featured jazz, the McKinney brothers on piano and bass. Robin suggested it, her apartment was only a few blocks away. Donnell knew the place from bringing Mr. Woody here now and again; the man not caring too much for the lamb dishes, but ate up the way the brothers performed on show tunes. Donnell arrived a half hour late, picked up a scotch and Perrier at the bar, waved to the McKinneys and joined Robin, waiting in a booth with a glass of red wine, playing with her braid. He let her tell him, with three cigarette butts in the ashtray and another one going, she just got here; then felt her looking him over as he sipped his drink and settled in, letting his gaze wander over to the sound of mellow jazz.
She said, "I hope you have more to say than the last time we were together. Remember, in the bathroom? You watched yourself in the mirror . . . I suppose to see what a good time you were having." She said, "When I called today, the first time, did you have any idea who it was?"
"Yeah, I knew."
"You did not."
Donnell said, "Girl, I'm being nice to you. How long I can manage it is something else. I do remember us being in the bathroom. Only I ought to tell you, that wasn't the last time I had any pussy, understand? I've had some since then. Now we have that out of the way, you tell me what we come here for. See, I have to get back home soon, case Mr. Woody wakes up in the dark and don't know where he's at."
Robin said, "Yeah, but have you done it in a bathroom since then?"
Donnell said, "Shit," and had to grin at her. He took a sip of his drink. "Let's get to it. Tell me you setting the bombs or somebody else?"