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-pound 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?'
