Freaky Deaky by Elmore Leonard
The next moment it became scary.
Robin said, "For God's sake, will you sit down."
The bearded guy came over and pulled a canvas chair out for her, saying, "You may as well enjoy yourself. What would you like, sweetheart, a drink?" He had spooky eyes, pale, pale blue.
Sitting down, at least she was able to free her arm of Donnell. She looked up at the bearded guy and shook her head. "I don't care for anything, thanks."
He was looking at Robin with his pale eyes, just barely grinning as he said, "I bet I know what she'd like."
Greta saw Robin look up through her rose-tinted glasses and pause before she said, "Yeah . . ." dragging the word out in a thoughtful sound.
"I really don't care for anything." None of them paid any attention to her. "Really."
Robin got up and left without saying a word. Donnell and the bearded guy went over toward the bar, behind where Greta was sitting. She turned her head to one side, alert, wanting to hear if they said anything, and all of a sudden rock music came blaring out, filling the whole room. What was going on? None of them acted drunk or stoned. They sounded friendly, except for Robin. Then why was she scared? They couldn't hold her here if she didn't want to stay. They weren't going to tie her up. Greta felt herself getting mad. Damn right. . . . Turned her head and said, "Oh, my God!"
Woody was out of the swimming pool, coming toward her bare naked, shaking his head back and forth, saying, "No no no no no, that isn't what I want to hear. Donnell!"
They did seem friendlier. Even Robin was sort of smiling as she kept watching her. When the bearded guy handed her the vodka-and-tonic Greta said, All right, just one, then she was leaving. And the bearded guy said, "One's all you'll need, Ginger." She told him not to call her that. The bearded guy said, "You're a cute girl, you know it? How you feeling?" He kept asking her how she felt and Robin kept watching her. She felt fine. Woody sat next to her saying boy-oh-boy in a terrycloth robe. She felt a little funny, but generally fine, thinking maybe she could get Woody aside for a minute, and said, "About your offer. I think I'll take it." Woody said, something like, "Yeah? Okay. What offer?" And she realized it was going to take longer than a minute. She could smell marijuana. Now the bearded guy and Woody were singing "On the Street Where You Live" along with the deep, syncopating voice on the stereo, trying to do it with the same timing and inflections as the voice. They were awful but thought they were good. Donnell handed her a joint, saying, "Here, girl, ease yourself off," and she thought, What the heck, and took it. Robin was saying, "Jesus Christ, will you play something else?" They kept playing it over and over. Now Donnell was saying, "Five o'clock, munchie-wunchie time," and she thought, It couldn't be, and tried to remember what time she got here. About three? Now Donnell and the bearded guy were putting take-out cartons and paper plates on the table, pouring wine, dishing out something that seemed alive. They were alive--little white worms crawling over each other on the plates and these people were eating them. Woody had worms all over his chin. The funny part was, the worms didn't look too bad. They seemed pure. Heck, everybody was digging in, so Greta said, "Here goes nothing," and took a big bite. Mmmmm. But when she felt how slimy they were crawling around in her mouth and down her throat, she gagged and all of a sudden jumped up from the table, knocking over wineglasses, wanting so bad to clean out her insides, ran straight to the swimming pool and threw herself at the water.
Chapter 28.
The light above the door showed Donnell in his yellow outfit, his expression almost a grin, getting ready to or thinking if he should or not, the look becoming a relaxed pose. Maybe a little vague, stoned. He was holding a brown plastic trash bag, folded flat.
"I've been standing here five minutes," Chris said, "ringing the bell."
"Couldn't hear it with the music. Having a jivey kind of evening out by the swimming pool. I happen to go in the kitchen for something. . . ." He showed Chris the trash bag. "Man, you might not believe it, but I'm glad to see you stop by. Get some things straightened out here."
"Where's Greta?"
"Mean Ginger? She's out there."
"What's going on?"
"Man's having a party, entertaining his guests, what he does. Come on in, it's fine."
Donnell started to turn, hand on the door, then waited as Chris looked out at the street, at his dad's Cadillac parked behind Greta's blue Escort.
"The other people," Donnell said, "their car's around the back."
"Friends of Woody's?"
"Old ones. They been doing a little business, now they having some fun. Man, this is the most could happen, you showing up here. I expect you looking for Ginger. She mention she suppose to meet somebody, I figured was you."
"I was coming anyway," Chris said.
Donnell squinted to show pain and moved his shoulders, looking out at the night. "That business with Juicy, huh? That wasn't suppose to been like that." His gaze came back to Chris, calm now, serious. "The Juice, what I meant for him was to talk to you was all. You understand? Ask you kindly would you mind stepping away from something wasn't any of your business."
Chris said, "Or get my other leg broken."
"No"--Donnell again showing pain--"nothing like that was to happen."
"You and the Juice may have to pay for a windshield and new seats," Chris said, "but that's something else. What I want you to tell me right now's where I can find Robin. We'll see how you do with that and then we'll go on from there."
Donnell's face turned deadpan.
"Like to speak with Robin, huh? How 'bout the Skipper? Like to speak with him too?"
Chris took a moment, looking at Donnell trying hard not to show any expression, the man playing with him, putting him on. Chris said, "You gonna bring them out or what?"
Donnell said, "Shit," and let his stoned grin come. "How'd you know?"
"You'd better lead the way."
"We been waiting on you, man. What you been doing all day, sleeping?"
Once they reached the hall Chris could hear the stereo and recognized U2, the Irish rockers. He said, "That doesn't sound like Woody."
"It's Robin's tape," Donnell said. "Robin's had enough of Mr. Woody's shit."
Coming out of the sunroom Chris saw the pool illuminated pale green in semidarkness and saw figures in soft lamplight, in the lounge area by the bar and stereo. Three seated, one standing. The beat and Bono's voice filled the room. Moving ahead of him, opening the trash bag, Donnell said, "Look at who I found, everybody. It's Officer Mankowski come looking to see what he can score."
He heard a voice, Robin's, say, "He's too late."
"We got leftovers here, officer." Donnell was at the table now, dumping the dinner remains into the trash bag. "Help yourself."
Chris moved past him. He saw Greta get up from the sofa, her hair strange-looking, pasted to her head. She was wearing an oversized sweatshirt, white with a black band around the middle, that reached to her mid-thighs: legs and feet bare in the sweatshirt minidress.
Robin, smoking, sat at the end of the sofa. Skip, next to her, was in a director's chair tilted back against the wall. On the cocktail table in front of them were their drinks and sets of typewritten sheets of paper. Woody, in a bathrobe, stood at the bar pouring a scotch.
Greta stood waiting. She gave Chris a weak smile.
"What's the matter?"
She shrugged, raised her hands and pushed up the sleeves of the sweatshirt. Her face was drawn, without makeup.
"What'd they give you?"
Behind him, Donnell: "She fell in the pool."
"She tripped," Skip said. He reached out, waited, and Robin handed him the joint.
Donnell's voice, behind Chris, said, "Yeah, shit, that's what she did, she tripped."
Chris looked at Robin. "You gave her acid?"
"I didn't give her anything," Robin said. "Skip did."
Skip said, "Hey, what's wrong with you? You don't tell him something like that. He could go fucking crazy on us." He said to Chris, "It was just a half a on
e. She wanted it. Ask her."
"You tell her what could happen?"
"Hell, she's okay. Don't sweat it."
Chris stepped toward him and swiped the leg of the chair with his foot, taking it out from under him, Skip yelling, "Hey!" banging his head on the wall as he hit the floor. Chris stood over him.
"You tell her what could happen?"
"Man, look at her. She's fine."
"You slipped it to her, didn't you?"
"Ask her, go on, how she feels."
Chris said, "Don't move."
As he turned to Greta, Robin said to Skip, "Are you going to take that from him?"
Skip said, "Will you stay out of this, for Christ sake?"
Chris put his hands on Greta's shoulders. She looked up at him, her face pale. "How do you feel?"
"Just kinda tired, that's all."
"He tell you what he was giving you?"
"I don't know, I had a drink and he said . . . I don't know what he said."
"Sit down, okay? Just for a little while; we'll be going soon." Chris eased her into the sofa. He turned to Robin and saw her sly look in those pink glasses, almost a grin.
Tell this one to Wendell. They come to threaten money out of the guy, the same ones that killed his brother, and end up they have a party and everybody gets ripped. Wendell says, Is that right? And you were there, huh? What did you do? You hang around, you leave, what?
"What time'd she take it?"
Robin shrugged. "I didn't notice." She offered the joint, extending it toward him.
"You must've been one of the crazies, way back."
"No, I was political. I had a crush on Che Guevara."
"What'd you do, blow up a ladies' room in the General Motors Building?"
"That was somebody else."
"Do police cars? Stick of dynamite underneath?"
"Not me. Skip might've."
"I never," Skip said. "Jesus Christ." Down on the floor shaking his head.
"It's cool," Donnell said, coming over with the trash bag. "Was like seven eight hours ago, we into mellow now. Ain't nothing can get us upset or turned sideways--even you picking on poor Skippy. Come on, you need to have that edge taken off. You want weed, you want booze? How 'bout both? You see how it is, you gonna need something, believe me."
"When I see how what is?" Chris said.
Donnell had turned and was saying, "Mr. Woody, look at who's here. That nice police officer, come around collecting again."
"Well, I'll be," Woody said from the bar. "I know that guy, that's--he has a Polack name like Kaka. . . . It's Kaka-kowski, isn't it?"
Donnell said, "You close, Mr. Woody. That's what they call him, Kaka, on account of he don't know shit."
Now all four of them were grinning, including Woody, having fun at the party, Chris looking at them, thinking, You gotta get out of here. But then took a few moments, time nothing to them, and looked at Donnell.
"I'm missing something, aren't I?"
Donnell's grin got bigger. "Not just something, man, everything. Sit down there next to your Ginger. Skip'll pour you a drink and Robin, she's gonna read you something, sitting right there on the table, will show you how fulla shit you are in judging people." Donnell lifted the brown plastic bag by the neck. "While I go throw this in the trash."
Donnell walked through the main hall liking himself and the sound of his voice, replaying it in his head, Mr. Woody saying Kaka, not knowing shit what he was saying, then taking it from the man and running with it. He was back on top. The only part that had bothered him was having to trust Robin to give him his million out of the check later on; which had bothered him more with her being disrespectful last night, but he'd got that settled. Said to her, "Convince me I should trust you. You don't give me a good answer the deal's off." She'd said, "You know why you're going to? Because this is so easy we can do it again next year. But if I try to fake you out of your share, I'm through. Right?" He liked that. Seeing as there were two kinds of greed, take-it-and-get greed and long-term greed. Since she had spent time to write all those books to pull the stunt, then she must operate on long-term greed and that was good. Donnell hadn't thought about doing it again next year.
From the kitchen he went down the back hall and opened the door to the garage thinking, Yeah, but wait a minute. How was she gonna write four more books in a year?
Then his mind was taken off that as he flipped on the light switch and nothing happened. Shit, the light was burnt out. He went back to the kitchen, opened drawers till he found one of Mr. Woody's many flashlights. Tried it, it worked fine.
Now he followed the flashlight beam into the three-car garage, swept clean, just the Mercedes in there now; followed the beam to a row of plastic garbage cans and got rid of the trash bag. The light beam turned with Donnell, moved over the plaster wall past bamboo rakes, gardening tools . . . stopped and came back, lower along the wall by the floor, stopped again and held near the lighted doorway, where Skip had set down the case of dynamite last night. Where Donnell had watched him set down the case of dynamite. Right there. Only it wasn't there now.
It wasn't anywhere. Donnell swept the garage with the flashlight, got down and looked underneath the Mercedes. That wooden case wasn't anywhere in sight. He ran through the back hall to the kitchen and looked around. Ran through the front hall to the library before he told himself to slow down, be cool. He laid the flashlight on the bar, poured himself an ounce of scotch and drank it.
Now then. Look at it.
Donnell looked and thought, Get the signed will out of the desk and leave the motherfucking house, now.
He took another little shot of the scotch. Looked again and thought, Ask Skip what he did with it.
Thought, You crazy? He sneaky, scheming something or he would've told you. Him and Robin.
Thought, He could've put it back in her car. . . .
And ran from the library back to the garage, reached inside and pressed the button on the wall that would raise the garage door. Nothing happened.Pressed it some more. Nothing happened. He moved through the dark to the Mercedes--use the remote control box in the car.
The car was locked. He had come back from the Chinaman's and had not locked it, but now it was. He wanted to see in the car. But he'd left the flashlight in the library.
Donnell said it to himself again, Be cool.
They talked about the man to his face and he didn't seem to realize it, sitting in his bathrobe with his drink, Robin standing next to his chair in a kind of protective pose. She had turned off the stereo. It was quiet, talk running down. What else was there to say? Chris looked at Greta, eyes closed, head nodding. He looked at Skip, making a drink at the bar, and then at Robin again.
"You make it sound like you're defending him."
"He knew what he was doing," Robin said. She put her hand on Woody's shoulder. "Didn't you?" Woody didn't move. "You weren't drunk when you signed the contracts."
"The man's alcoholic, he's always drunk," Chris said. "His lawyer knows that. You're conspiring to extort money. The only difference, you're using paper now instead of a bomb."
Robin said, "All right, what's the problem? If you think it'll be contested, let's wait and see."
Chris looked at Woody. "Are you listening to any of this?"
"He's asleep," Robin said.
"I almost feel asleep myself," Skip said, "the way you're beating it to death. It's done, let's get the party going."
Chris watched Donnell come out of the sunroom and cross to the bar, taking his time; watched him pour a scotch, not saying a word. Skip nudged him. "Go put a tape on. We got to pick this up before it dies." Chris watched Donnell give Skip a look, deadpan, that Skip missed as he walked away from the bar with a drink. He came over to Chris.
"Hold this for me."
Chris looked up at him.
"Just hold it a second, it won't hurt you."
"Put it on the table."
"Take it, or I'll pour the goddamn thing on you."
; Chris held out his hand and Skip put the drink in it.
"You got a good grip on it?"
Skip reached behind his back, beneath his jacket and came out with his .38 Special.
"Now show me that goddamn gun you have, whatever it is, with just two fingers of your one hand. Take the magazine out and hand it to me and chuck the gun in the swimming pool. Can you remember all that, or you want me to go through it again?"
Robin came over. She said, "Break his nose."
Skip said, "Just take it from him--Jesus."
Chris brought the automatic out with his left hand and Skip stepped back, arms rigid aiming the .38.
"Let me have it," Robin said.
Chris said, "Don't tempt me."
She reached down and snatched the pistol out of his hand and said, "Weird," looking at it.
Skip said to Chris, "You're spending the night here so we won't have to worry about you. Tomorrow morning, fine, you can leave. But not before we say."
Robin extended the Glock in both hands, aiming at Chris's face and closing one stoned eye.
"Is this how you do it?"
They brought Chris and Greta to the library. Chris watched Robin, still holding the Glock, waving it idly as she looked around. She said, "You're sure?" Skip pulled aside a panel of the heavy damask draperies to show grillwork covering the inside of the window. "Been on there forever, but he'd need a wrecking bar, at least." Chris watched Robin move to the desk. She was opening a drawer when Donnell came in with Woody. Donnell gave her a look and she gave him a shrug, closing the drawer. Now she raised the Glock in two hands, sighted on Donnell guiding Woody to his TV chair and said, "Pow." Donnell looked over, stared a moment before helping Woody into the chair, Woody saying, "What's the movie?" Donnell didn't answer. Chris said to Greta, "We're gonna be here a while." She didn't seem to mind. She looked so small in the sweatshirt. He put her in the chair next to Woody. Donnell looked at him. Chris waited. He heard Robin say, "Donnell? Bring the phone when you come." Donnell said, "It ain't the kind you move." Robin opened the drawer again, brought out a pair of scissors and snipped the line close to the phone. She said, "Never mind." She walked away from the desk with the Glock auto and the scissors. Donnell turned the set on. Woody asked him again, "What's the movie?" Donnell said, "Whatever comes on," his voice flat. "This's surprise night." Chris waited. Donnell looked across Greta at him. "You have to go to the bathroom you tell me and I tell him."
Robin said, "For God's sake, will you sit down."
The bearded guy came over and pulled a canvas chair out for her, saying, "You may as well enjoy yourself. What would you like, sweetheart, a drink?" He had spooky eyes, pale, pale blue.
Sitting down, at least she was able to free her arm of Donnell. She looked up at the bearded guy and shook her head. "I don't care for anything, thanks."
He was looking at Robin with his pale eyes, just barely grinning as he said, "I bet I know what she'd like."
Greta saw Robin look up through her rose-tinted glasses and pause before she said, "Yeah . . ." dragging the word out in a thoughtful sound.
"I really don't care for anything." None of them paid any attention to her. "Really."
Robin got up and left without saying a word. Donnell and the bearded guy went over toward the bar, behind where Greta was sitting. She turned her head to one side, alert, wanting to hear if they said anything, and all of a sudden rock music came blaring out, filling the whole room. What was going on? None of them acted drunk or stoned. They sounded friendly, except for Robin. Then why was she scared? They couldn't hold her here if she didn't want to stay. They weren't going to tie her up. Greta felt herself getting mad. Damn right. . . . Turned her head and said, "Oh, my God!"
Woody was out of the swimming pool, coming toward her bare naked, shaking his head back and forth, saying, "No no no no no, that isn't what I want to hear. Donnell!"
They did seem friendlier. Even Robin was sort of smiling as she kept watching her. When the bearded guy handed her the vodka-and-tonic Greta said, All right, just one, then she was leaving. And the bearded guy said, "One's all you'll need, Ginger." She told him not to call her that. The bearded guy said, "You're a cute girl, you know it? How you feeling?" He kept asking her how she felt and Robin kept watching her. She felt fine. Woody sat next to her saying boy-oh-boy in a terrycloth robe. She felt a little funny, but generally fine, thinking maybe she could get Woody aside for a minute, and said, "About your offer. I think I'll take it." Woody said, something like, "Yeah? Okay. What offer?" And she realized it was going to take longer than a minute. She could smell marijuana. Now the bearded guy and Woody were singing "On the Street Where You Live" along with the deep, syncopating voice on the stereo, trying to do it with the same timing and inflections as the voice. They were awful but thought they were good. Donnell handed her a joint, saying, "Here, girl, ease yourself off," and she thought, What the heck, and took it. Robin was saying, "Jesus Christ, will you play something else?" They kept playing it over and over. Now Donnell was saying, "Five o'clock, munchie-wunchie time," and she thought, It couldn't be, and tried to remember what time she got here. About three? Now Donnell and the bearded guy were putting take-out cartons and paper plates on the table, pouring wine, dishing out something that seemed alive. They were alive--little white worms crawling over each other on the plates and these people were eating them. Woody had worms all over his chin. The funny part was, the worms didn't look too bad. They seemed pure. Heck, everybody was digging in, so Greta said, "Here goes nothing," and took a big bite. Mmmmm. But when she felt how slimy they were crawling around in her mouth and down her throat, she gagged and all of a sudden jumped up from the table, knocking over wineglasses, wanting so bad to clean out her insides, ran straight to the swimming pool and threw herself at the water.
Chapter 28.
The light above the door showed Donnell in his yellow outfit, his expression almost a grin, getting ready to or thinking if he should or not, the look becoming a relaxed pose. Maybe a little vague, stoned. He was holding a brown plastic trash bag, folded flat.
"I've been standing here five minutes," Chris said, "ringing the bell."
"Couldn't hear it with the music. Having a jivey kind of evening out by the swimming pool. I happen to go in the kitchen for something. . . ." He showed Chris the trash bag. "Man, you might not believe it, but I'm glad to see you stop by. Get some things straightened out here."
"Where's Greta?"
"Mean Ginger? She's out there."
"What's going on?"
"Man's having a party, entertaining his guests, what he does. Come on in, it's fine."
Donnell started to turn, hand on the door, then waited as Chris looked out at the street, at his dad's Cadillac parked behind Greta's blue Escort.
"The other people," Donnell said, "their car's around the back."
"Friends of Woody's?"
"Old ones. They been doing a little business, now they having some fun. Man, this is the most could happen, you showing up here. I expect you looking for Ginger. She mention she suppose to meet somebody, I figured was you."
"I was coming anyway," Chris said.
Donnell squinted to show pain and moved his shoulders, looking out at the night. "That business with Juicy, huh? That wasn't suppose to been like that." His gaze came back to Chris, calm now, serious. "The Juice, what I meant for him was to talk to you was all. You understand? Ask you kindly would you mind stepping away from something wasn't any of your business."
Chris said, "Or get my other leg broken."
"No"--Donnell again showing pain--"nothing like that was to happen."
"You and the Juice may have to pay for a windshield and new seats," Chris said, "but that's something else. What I want you to tell me right now's where I can find Robin. We'll see how you do with that and then we'll go on from there."
Donnell's face turned deadpan.
"Like to speak with Robin, huh? How 'bout the Skipper? Like to speak with him too?"
Chris took a moment, looking at Donnell trying hard not to show any expression, the man playing with him, putting him on. Chris said, "You gonna bring them out or what?"
Donnell said, "Shit," and let his stoned grin come. "How'd you know?"
"You'd better lead the way."
"We been waiting on you, man. What you been doing all day, sleeping?"
Once they reached the hall Chris could hear the stereo and recognized U2, the Irish rockers. He said, "That doesn't sound like Woody."
"It's Robin's tape," Donnell said. "Robin's had enough of Mr. Woody's shit."
Coming out of the sunroom Chris saw the pool illuminated pale green in semidarkness and saw figures in soft lamplight, in the lounge area by the bar and stereo. Three seated, one standing. The beat and Bono's voice filled the room. Moving ahead of him, opening the trash bag, Donnell said, "Look at who I found, everybody. It's Officer Mankowski come looking to see what he can score."
He heard a voice, Robin's, say, "He's too late."
"We got leftovers here, officer." Donnell was at the table now, dumping the dinner remains into the trash bag. "Help yourself."
Chris moved past him. He saw Greta get up from the sofa, her hair strange-looking, pasted to her head. She was wearing an oversized sweatshirt, white with a black band around the middle, that reached to her mid-thighs: legs and feet bare in the sweatshirt minidress.
Robin, smoking, sat at the end of the sofa. Skip, next to her, was in a director's chair tilted back against the wall. On the cocktail table in front of them were their drinks and sets of typewritten sheets of paper. Woody, in a bathrobe, stood at the bar pouring a scotch.
Greta stood waiting. She gave Chris a weak smile.
"What's the matter?"
She shrugged, raised her hands and pushed up the sleeves of the sweatshirt. Her face was drawn, without makeup.
"What'd they give you?"
Behind him, Donnell: "She fell in the pool."
"She tripped," Skip said. He reached out, waited, and Robin handed him the joint.
Donnell's voice, behind Chris, said, "Yeah, shit, that's what she did, she tripped."
Chris looked at Robin. "You gave her acid?"
"I didn't give her anything," Robin said. "Skip did."
Skip said, "Hey, what's wrong with you? You don't tell him something like that. He could go fucking crazy on us." He said to Chris, "It was just a half a on
"You tell her what could happen?"
"Hell, she's okay. Don't sweat it."
Chris stepped toward him and swiped the leg of the chair with his foot, taking it out from under him, Skip yelling, "Hey!" banging his head on the wall as he hit the floor. Chris stood over him.
"You tell her what could happen?"
"Man, look at her. She's fine."
"You slipped it to her, didn't you?"
"Ask her, go on, how she feels."
Chris said, "Don't move."
As he turned to Greta, Robin said to Skip, "Are you going to take that from him?"
Skip said, "Will you stay out of this, for Christ sake?"
Chris put his hands on Greta's shoulders. She looked up at him, her face pale. "How do you feel?"
"Just kinda tired, that's all."
"He tell you what he was giving you?"
"I don't know, I had a drink and he said . . . I don't know what he said."
"Sit down, okay? Just for a little while; we'll be going soon." Chris eased her into the sofa. He turned to Robin and saw her sly look in those pink glasses, almost a grin.
Tell this one to Wendell. They come to threaten money out of the guy, the same ones that killed his brother, and end up they have a party and everybody gets ripped. Wendell says, Is that right? And you were there, huh? What did you do? You hang around, you leave, what?
"What time'd she take it?"
Robin shrugged. "I didn't notice." She offered the joint, extending it toward him.
"You must've been one of the crazies, way back."
"No, I was political. I had a crush on Che Guevara."
"What'd you do, blow up a ladies' room in the General Motors Building?"
"That was somebody else."
"Do police cars? Stick of dynamite underneath?"
"Not me. Skip might've."
"I never," Skip said. "Jesus Christ." Down on the floor shaking his head.
"It's cool," Donnell said, coming over with the trash bag. "Was like seven eight hours ago, we into mellow now. Ain't nothing can get us upset or turned sideways--even you picking on poor Skippy. Come on, you need to have that edge taken off. You want weed, you want booze? How 'bout both? You see how it is, you gonna need something, believe me."
"When I see how what is?" Chris said.
Donnell had turned and was saying, "Mr. Woody, look at who's here. That nice police officer, come around collecting again."
"Well, I'll be," Woody said from the bar. "I know that guy, that's--he has a Polack name like Kaka. . . . It's Kaka-kowski, isn't it?"
Donnell said, "You close, Mr. Woody. That's what they call him, Kaka, on account of he don't know shit."
Now all four of them were grinning, including Woody, having fun at the party, Chris looking at them, thinking, You gotta get out of here. But then took a few moments, time nothing to them, and looked at Donnell.
"I'm missing something, aren't I?"
Donnell's grin got bigger. "Not just something, man, everything. Sit down there next to your Ginger. Skip'll pour you a drink and Robin, she's gonna read you something, sitting right there on the table, will show you how fulla shit you are in judging people." Donnell lifted the brown plastic bag by the neck. "While I go throw this in the trash."
Donnell walked through the main hall liking himself and the sound of his voice, replaying it in his head, Mr. Woody saying Kaka, not knowing shit what he was saying, then taking it from the man and running with it. He was back on top. The only part that had bothered him was having to trust Robin to give him his million out of the check later on; which had bothered him more with her being disrespectful last night, but he'd got that settled. Said to her, "Convince me I should trust you. You don't give me a good answer the deal's off." She'd said, "You know why you're going to? Because this is so easy we can do it again next year. But if I try to fake you out of your share, I'm through. Right?" He liked that. Seeing as there were two kinds of greed, take-it-and-get greed and long-term greed. Since she had spent time to write all those books to pull the stunt, then she must operate on long-term greed and that was good. Donnell hadn't thought about doing it again next year.
From the kitchen he went down the back hall and opened the door to the garage thinking, Yeah, but wait a minute. How was she gonna write four more books in a year?
Then his mind was taken off that as he flipped on the light switch and nothing happened. Shit, the light was burnt out. He went back to the kitchen, opened drawers till he found one of Mr. Woody's many flashlights. Tried it, it worked fine.
Now he followed the flashlight beam into the three-car garage, swept clean, just the Mercedes in there now; followed the beam to a row of plastic garbage cans and got rid of the trash bag. The light beam turned with Donnell, moved over the plaster wall past bamboo rakes, gardening tools . . . stopped and came back, lower along the wall by the floor, stopped again and held near the lighted doorway, where Skip had set down the case of dynamite last night. Where Donnell had watched him set down the case of dynamite. Right there. Only it wasn't there now.
It wasn't anywhere. Donnell swept the garage with the flashlight, got down and looked underneath the Mercedes. That wooden case wasn't anywhere in sight. He ran through the back hall to the kitchen and looked around. Ran through the front hall to the library before he told himself to slow down, be cool. He laid the flashlight on the bar, poured himself an ounce of scotch and drank it.
Now then. Look at it.
Donnell looked and thought, Get the signed will out of the desk and leave the motherfucking house, now.
He took another little shot of the scotch. Looked again and thought, Ask Skip what he did with it.
Thought, You crazy? He sneaky, scheming something or he would've told you. Him and Robin.
Thought, He could've put it back in her car. . . .
And ran from the library back to the garage, reached inside and pressed the button on the wall that would raise the garage door. Nothing happened.Pressed it some more. Nothing happened. He moved through the dark to the Mercedes--use the remote control box in the car.
The car was locked. He had come back from the Chinaman's and had not locked it, but now it was. He wanted to see in the car. But he'd left the flashlight in the library.
Donnell said it to himself again, Be cool.
They talked about the man to his face and he didn't seem to realize it, sitting in his bathrobe with his drink, Robin standing next to his chair in a kind of protective pose. She had turned off the stereo. It was quiet, talk running down. What else was there to say? Chris looked at Greta, eyes closed, head nodding. He looked at Skip, making a drink at the bar, and then at Robin again.
"You make it sound like you're defending him."
"He knew what he was doing," Robin said. She put her hand on Woody's shoulder. "Didn't you?" Woody didn't move. "You weren't drunk when you signed the contracts."
"The man's alcoholic, he's always drunk," Chris said. "His lawyer knows that. You're conspiring to extort money. The only difference, you're using paper now instead of a bomb."
Robin said, "All right, what's the problem? If you think it'll be contested, let's wait and see."
Chris looked at Woody. "Are you listening to any of this?"
"He's asleep," Robin said.
"I almost feel asleep myself," Skip said, "the way you're beating it to death. It's done, let's get the party going."
Chris watched Donnell come out of the sunroom and cross to the bar, taking his time; watched him pour a scotch, not saying a word. Skip nudged him. "Go put a tape on. We got to pick this up before it dies." Chris watched Donnell give Skip a look, deadpan, that Skip missed as he walked away from the bar with a drink. He came over to Chris.
"Hold this for me."
Chris looked up at him.
"Just hold it a second, it won't hurt you."
"Put it on the table."
"Take it, or I'll pour the goddamn thing on you."
"You got a good grip on it?"
Skip reached behind his back, beneath his jacket and came out with his .38 Special.
"Now show me that goddamn gun you have, whatever it is, with just two fingers of your one hand. Take the magazine out and hand it to me and chuck the gun in the swimming pool. Can you remember all that, or you want me to go through it again?"
Robin came over. She said, "Break his nose."
Skip said, "Just take it from him--Jesus."
Chris brought the automatic out with his left hand and Skip stepped back, arms rigid aiming the .38.
"Let me have it," Robin said.
Chris said, "Don't tempt me."
She reached down and snatched the pistol out of his hand and said, "Weird," looking at it.
Skip said to Chris, "You're spending the night here so we won't have to worry about you. Tomorrow morning, fine, you can leave. But not before we say."
Robin extended the Glock in both hands, aiming at Chris's face and closing one stoned eye.
"Is this how you do it?"
They brought Chris and Greta to the library. Chris watched Robin, still holding the Glock, waving it idly as she looked around. She said, "You're sure?" Skip pulled aside a panel of the heavy damask draperies to show grillwork covering the inside of the window. "Been on there forever, but he'd need a wrecking bar, at least." Chris watched Robin move to the desk. She was opening a drawer when Donnell came in with Woody. Donnell gave her a look and she gave him a shrug, closing the drawer. Now she raised the Glock in two hands, sighted on Donnell guiding Woody to his TV chair and said, "Pow." Donnell looked over, stared a moment before helping Woody into the chair, Woody saying, "What's the movie?" Donnell didn't answer. Chris said to Greta, "We're gonna be here a while." She didn't seem to mind. She looked so small in the sweatshirt. He put her in the chair next to Woody. Donnell looked at him. Chris waited. He heard Robin say, "Donnell? Bring the phone when you come." Donnell said, "It ain't the kind you move." Robin opened the drawer again, brought out a pair of scissors and snipped the line close to the phone. She said, "Never mind." She walked away from the desk with the Glock auto and the scissors. Donnell turned the set on. Woody asked him again, "What's the movie?" Donnell said, "Whatever comes on," his voice flat. "This's surprise night." Chris waited. Donnell looked across Greta at him. "You have to go to the bathroom you tell me and I tell him."