us.' He said to Chris, 'It was just a half a one. 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
