'Skip, I have a feeling, okay? I know he did.'
Man, she did not like to be argued with. Never did. It tightened up her face, put a killer look in her eyes.
'Okay, they informed on us and now they're sitting on fifty million bucks. You look around this dump you're living in and you feel they owe you something. Am I telling it right?'
'We feel they owe us something,' Robin said.
'Fine. How much?'
'Pick a number,' Robin said. 'How about seven hundred thousand? Ten grand for every month we spent locked up. Three fifty apiece.'
'I was in longer than you.'
'A few months. I'm trying to keep it simple.'
'Okay, how do we go about getting it?'
'I ask for it as a loan.'
'Seven hundred big ones. I can imagine what they'll tell you.'
'Maybe the first time I call.'
'Then what?'
'Then late one night their theater blows up.'
Skip said, 'Hey, shit,' grinning at her. 'The subtle approach, blow up their fucking theater. I love it.'
'The smoke clears, I try again.'
'Pay up or else.'
'No. This isn't extortion, I'm asking for a loan.'
'That what you're gonna tell the cops?'
'I haven't threatened anyone.'
'They're still gonna be all over us. Shit, me especially, I'm the powderman.'
She was shaking her head at him in slow motion.
'They won't know anything about you, you'll be at Mother's. She's on a three-month cruise, you'll have the whole house to yourself.'
Skip felt himself getting into it, wanting to move around. 'I'd have to line up some explosives. Keep it at Mommy's. Man, I love dynamite, and I never get to use it. Dynamite and acid, man, that'll Star Trek you back to good times. The way it was.'
Robin was smiling at him, raising her arms, and her arms reached him way before she did. Her hands came to rest on his shoulders. He had to tilt his head back to look up at her face, at her pale skin stretched over bone, her cheeks hollow, sunken in. He could see what her skull looked like in there. He could see hands holding her bare skull and a teacher voice in his mind saying this was a woman thirty-five to forty, a hunter. The voice saying, Look at the fucking teeth on her, this was a man-eater.
The jaw in the skull moved. Robin said:
'From that time we first met--oh, but we freaked them out, didn't we?'
Skip blinked, feeling his eyes wet. 'You know it. Couple of the baddest motherfuckers ever to set foot inside of history.'
Now the skull was grinning at him.
'You stole that line.'
'Yeah, but I forgot from where.'
Man, look at this fine girl.
Skip said, 'You're working me over like you used to and I love it. Getting me to play your dirty tricks on those boys. . . . But just suppose for a minute, what if it wasn't Woody and Mark that got us busted?'
Robin's face came down close. He could feel her breath. In the moment before she put her mouth on his, Skip heard her say, 'What difference does it make?'
Chapter 5
Saturday noon in the kitchen of his dad's apartment in St. Clair Shores, Chris said, 'This doctor, he not only won't look you in the eye, he doesn't listen to a thing you say. I tell him why I'm leaving the Bomb Squad. I don't see where it's any of his business, but it doesn't make any difference anyway, he's already made up his mind. I'm leaving 'cause I'm scared, I can't handle it.' Chris was getting a couple of beers out of the refrigerator.
Chris's dad, Art Mankowski, was frying hamburgers in an iron skillet, working at arm's length so the grease wouldn't pop on him. His dad said, 'Get an onion while you're in there, in the crisper. Listen, you'd be crazy if you weren't scared.'
'Yeah, but this guy wants to read a hidden meaning into everything, like with the spiders.'
'You want your onion fried or raw?'
'I'd rather have a slice of green pepper, if you have any, and the cheese melted over it.'
'I think there's one in there, take a look. Get the cheese, too, the Muenster. Where'd you have it like that?'
'It's the way Phyllis makes 'em,' Chris said. 'You put A-1 on it instead of ketchup. See, if you don't like spiders there's something wrong with you, you're queer. So I know, after we get through the spiders and have I ever been impotent, if he brings up why am I going to Sex Crimes, there isn't a thing I can say the guy's gonna believe. I must be a pervert, some kind of sexual deviant.'
Chris's dad said, 'Well, I can understand him asking. Why not Homicide, Robbery, one of those? They seem more like what you'd want to get into.'
'I asked for Homicide, I told the shrink that. There aren't any openings.'
'Sex Crimes,' Chris's dad said. 'You know the kind of people you'd be dealing with?'
'Yeah, women that got raped and the guys that did it. Also different kinds of sex offenders. You sound like Phyllis. She can't understand why I'd want it. I told her I didn't. You go where there's an opening and they think you'll do a job.'
Chris's dad said, 'I can't imagine, with all the different departments you have in the Detroit Police . . .' He said, 'You want to put your things away before we sit down?'
'I'll only be here a few days, a week at the most. I have to find a place in the city.'
His dad said, 'So you're gonna leave your things out in the middle of the floor?'
In the front hall three sportcoats, pants, a dark-blue suit, poplin jacket and a lined raincoat lay folded over a mismatched pair of canvas suitcases and several cardboard boxes. Chris carried his possessions through the hall to a room with a hospital bed, where his mother had spent her last three years staring at framed photographs of her children and grandchildren. The pictures were taken at different ages so that Chris, his sister Michele and her three girls became a roomful of kids. Faces that gradually lost identity as they stared back at his mother from the walls, the dresser. . . . Chris had stood at the foot of the bed watching Michele comb their mother's hair, Michele saying, 'Look who's here, Mom, it's Christopher.' His mom said, 'I know my boy.' Then looked up at Michele and said, 'Now which one are you?' He was hanging his clothes in the empty closet when he heard his dad's raised voice and answered, 'What?'
'I said why don't you go back to Arson?'
Chris walked through the hall to the foyer. His dad was across the formal living room in the dining-L, the glass doors to the balcony behind him, filled with pale light. His dad was placing the cheeseburgers and a bag of potato chips on the table, ducking under the crystal chandelier, his dad in a plaid wool shirt, sweat socks, no shoes. Art Mankowski was sixty-eight, retired from the asphalt paving business. (Chris had grown up thinking of that black tarry substance as 'ash-phalt' because that was the way his dad had pronounced it, and still did.) His dad went up north deer hunting in the fall, spent the winter in the Florida Keys bonefishing, and would stop off in Delray Beach to visit Michele and her family on the way back. After being with the three grandchildren Art would call his son the cop and ask him if he was married yet. In the spring he'd look out the window at Lake St. Clair, wanting it to hurry up and thaw so he could get out in his 41-foot Roamer.
They sat down to lunch. Chris said, 'You remember the Huckleberry Hound cartoon where Huckleberry smells smoke, he goes looking for it and sees all this heavy smoke coming out of the birdhouse?'
