'He say anything to you on the way?'
'Not a word. The girls did all the talking. Woody drank and ate peanuts.'
Chris could almost smell them as she said it. They turned off Fort Street to cross railroad tracks and a freeway.
'I might as well tell you right now, I don't see it coming to trial. I mean even if there was evidence, the guy's too well connected.'
'So if you're rich enough,' Greta said, 'you can do whatever you want.'
Familiar words. 'You can even double-park in front of the Detroit Club,' Chris said, 'and not get a ticket.'
They were driving north on Junction now, Chris's old neighborhood that was turning from Polish to Hispanic, the bell tower of Holy Redeemer in the near distance, Greta's gaze moving along the block of old-fashioned two- story frame houses with steps leading up to porches.
'There it is, the one with the real estate sign: Sold.' She said, 'How about a grilled cheese sandwich and a cup of coffee? If I have any bread.'
What she didn't have, Chris noticed, was furniture. She brought him into an empty living room saying everything had gone to Arkansas--well, except her bedroom set upstairs, the kitchen table and chairs, a TV and that telephone message recorder on the floor. A tiny red light on it was flashing. Greta said, 'My mom's the only one ever calls me,' went down to her knees and turned on the machine.
A male voice said, 'Greta? You like Greta or you like Ginger? I like Ginger, myself. Anyway, about this situation happened between you and Mr. Woody Ricks? There appears to be some misunderstanding. All you have to do is call 876-5161. I believe we can settle this matter and everybody will be happy. Especially you, Ginger. Please call that number soon as you can.'
Greta punched the OFF button and looked over her shoulder at Chris, frowning. 'That was his lawyer?'
'It was his chauffeur,' Chris said, 'trying to sound like a lawyer. That was Donnell.'
Chapter 12
Thursday noon Donnell went out to the limo parked in the turnaround part of the drive back of the house.
The car had been standing here since bringing the man home from jail yesterday, the man saying all the way up Woodward Avenue, 'They never clean that place.' Couldn't believe it. 'They never clean the floor, they never clean the toilet. The smell in there was terrible.' The man should talk, with the messes he made, but that's what he'd said. The man had no idea of all the things he didn't know. Donnell had told him, 'You think that's bad and that ain't even the real jail, that's the police jail. You have to be in the old Wayne County jail sometime you want to experience a jail.' The man couldn't get over they didn't clean it. Today the man was more his regular self, not knowing shit what was going on and not seeming to care.
This afternoon he was going to watch movies. 'What ones?' Donnell asked him. 'You want an Arnold Schwarzenegger festival or a Busby Berkeley?'
Lately the man liked Arnold Schwarzenegger being the barbarian with the big two-hand sword fighting the bad dudes. He liked to sit there with his martini and his popcorn and ask Donnell, if he was Arnold Schwartznigger--the way the man always said the name--which of the bitches in the movies he'd rather fuck. Like would he take that tall colored girl in the Conan picture or that Swedish broad in the other one? Wouldn't matter how many times the man asked it, the man's brain being mush, Donnell would say lemme think on it. Then he'd tell the man he'd take Grace Jones. Not 'cause he was racially inclined toward her, either, but 'cause she had a body on her went up and up and up and never stopped; though he would tell the bitch to get a wig if she couldn't grow hair.
Today the man wanted Busby Berkeley, which meant he would be smoking weed with his martini. He liked to be under weed when he watched those musical numbers, the chorus girls moving their arms and legs like designs changing in a kaleidoscope. But there wasn't any weed in the house. Donnell said he'd go out and get some.
He was standing by the limo, keys in his hand, about to open the door when he said to himself, Wait a minute, shit. He'd picked up most of a whole pound of weed must've been like two weeks ago. He turned, getting his head to remember where he'd put it, looking up at this pile of bricks where he lived, a house as big as hotels he'd known. It came to him the weed was still in the car. He hadn't taken it inside. No, it was still in the trunk. He walked back and opened it with the key, raised the lid. . . .
Donnell looked at the package, something wrapped in a brown plastic trash bag that wasn't weed, the weed was in the spare-tire well, and said, Uh-oh, his hand on the trunk lid, not wanting to move. He saw the wires coming out of the package to the clothespin. He saw the cord running from the clothespin to a hole cut in the wall behind the back seat and said it again, Uh-oh. He heard about clothespins with copper bent around the ends. He felt his body made of stone while his brain lit up to see the meaning of this, why it was happening to him. . . . Like the same thing with the dude that had sold him the weed, Booker. Exactly. One week ago this day it was, Booker raised up from his chair and got blown to pieces. Was there a connection? Donnell couldn't see one. Now it began to irritate him. He bought the shit, he didn't deal it. If he wasn't in the business, who wanted him to die? Nobody. Not lately anyway. Not even police. So the bomb was for the man. Open the door for the man to get in the car. . . . Yeah, it might be for the man, Donnell realized, but both their asses would get shot into the sky.
Who wanted the man dead? The man wasn't into nothing. Most of the time the man barely knew where he was at. There was only one person Donnell could think of would love it to see the man dead. That was the man's brother, Markie. Except little Markie didn't know shit, no way how to do a bomb. 'Less he got somebody who did.
Well, the man wasn't going nowhere today. If the man said he was, tell him wait till you get the scissors. Cut the string should do it. There wasn't a ticking sound, it wasn't that kind. Donnell paused on that. Uh-huh, cut the string, shit, and find out it's what they want you to do, it's a pressure re lease kind of bomb tricky motherfuckers rig up. The kind that did Booker.
Donnell kept thinking along that line now, wondering should he talk to the dude was Booker's bodyguard, Juicy Mouth. Where was Juicy when his boss sat down in the chair? Ask him, yeaaah, did he know anybody was doing bombs lately?
Donnell got the weed out of the tire well and brought the trunk lid down, pushed on it gently till he heard the lock click.
When he answered the front door he had on black athletic shorts, a black sweatshirt and hundred-dollar running shoes. Donnell didn't run; it was one of his leisure outfits. He looked at Mark Ricks standing outside on the stoop and said, 'Can I help you?'
Markie didn't like it when he played with him. The little fella brushed past without a word, came in and, as usual, looked sideways quick at his mama looking down at him from the wall. Like he didn't trust even a picture of the tiny bitch.
'How's my brother?'
'Beautiful,' Donnell said. 'The man remains above earthly shit like jail. You know what I'm saying to you? Man's all the way live and into his pleasures.'
'I wish you wouldn't talk like that.'
'I know you do.'
Markie was trying to give him an icy-cold look now.
'Where is he?'
'At the movies,' Donnell said, and walked past Mark to lead the way into Woody's library, his hangout: a big room full of books never opened, full of worn leather and dark oak, figured damask draperies; but a bar and stereo, too, and a pair of deep-cushioned recliners aimed at a 46-inch Sony television screen. Woody sat in one holding a straight-up martini in a wine goblet. Donnell said to him, 'What can I get you while I'm up? You want something to nibble on? Your brother's here. Turn your head this way, you see him.'
Woody, smiling, paid no attention.
Mark said, 'Woody, how are you?'
