Freaky Deaky (14 page)

“I like mental anguish,” Greta said. “Remember the TV preacher who went to bed with a twenty-year-old girl? He did it once about seven years ago and lost his ministry and his theme park.”

“I read something about it,” Chris said.

“The preacher went to a religious psychologist on account of he was feeling so guilty. The psychologist said the preacher writhed on the floor for ten minutes kicking and screaming, making himself sick.”

Chris said, “ ’Cause he got laid, once, seven years ago?”

“His guilt was so enormous.”

“I’ve heard of guys kicking and screaming when they
didn’t
get laid—”

Greta said, “Listen to me, all right? The girl went
to see a man who investigates preachers who fool around and get in trouble. The man put her in touch with a religious lawyer and they told the preacher they were gonna sue him for millions of dollars.”

“You mean they blackmailed the poor asshole.”

“No, they threatened to sue him, in court, on account of her mental anguish. See?”

“But if she went to bed with the preacher willingly . . .”

“She claims they put something in her wine—I don’t know. But if you can make love to a guy and soak him two hundred and sixty-five thousand, which is what they settled on out of court, what is the mental anguish from a rape worth? I don’t think there’s any comparison.”

“You want to get a lawyer?”

“No way. Out of the first payment received the lawyer, and I think the guy who investigates preachers who fool around, took ninety-five thousand and the poor girl got twenty. The hell with that. And now that everybody knows about it she probably won’t get another cent. What I’m asking is, If that’s legal, do you think I’d be wrong to accept Woody’s offer?”

Chris said, “No, but you might be a little hasty. The way it was explained to me, the amount of the settlement is based on what Mr. Woody’s valuable
time is worth to
him
, without even considering
your
time, your mental anguish and so on.”

Greta began to smile as Chris went on:

“No, I don’t think twenty-five grand is fair to either of you.”

Maureen Downey’s voice said, “Where were you, in the bathroom?”

“I was resting.”

“It’s ten o’clock in the morning.”

“I know what time it is.”

“I’m at Five-fifteen Canfield, in the manager’s office. He said Robin should be around somewhere, she doesn’t work and hasn’t left town. Her car’s parked on the street.”

“You call her mother?”

“I tried, no answer. Listen, Wendell likes your idea. Start talking to her about the rape and slide into the homicide. He’s gonna meet me here.”

“When?”

“In about an hour.”

“Call me, soon as you talk to her.”

“Why’re you so anxious?”

Chris paused. “No—I’m coming too. I’ll meet you there.”

“Wendell won’t like it.”

“I’ll talk to him.” Chris said goodbye, placed the
phone against his chest and turned his head on the pillow to look at Greta, her dark brown eyes looking back at him. “That was Maureen.”

“I heard.”

Skip had thought that today
he’d pretend he was a wealthy suburbanite: drop his ration of acid, sit back with a few cold beers, his feet up, and watch movies on cable TV, cars bursting in flames, stunt men being shot off of high places—see if he could recognize the work, or how it was done if it was a new gag—and then Robin said they were leaving because the phone had rung.

He’d told her, “You don’t think it was for you, do you? It’s some old lady calling your mother.”

She’d looked at that phone like it was wired to blow and told him to stop and think. What if someone called while she was on the phone talking to Woody? They’d get a busy signal, right? And that would mean someone’s in the house, right? But her mother’s friends would know she was on a cruise. So you know what they’d do? Skip asked Robin to tell him.
They’d call the cops—that’s what they’d do!

She wasn’t thinking.

Skip said, If your mother’s friends know she’s on a cruise, why would they call?

Now Skip wasn’t thinking.

Never use logic on an emotional woman. Or one in any state, for that matter. Robin gave him her killer look instead of an answer. So Skip tried another approach, trying to sound sincere. Robin? Even if the cops did come, what would they do? Ring the doorbell, look in some windows? They didn’t have a key, did they?

Yes!

That was where she had him, got him out of the chair in front of the TV and into the car. She was probably lying; she still had him because he couldn’t prove otherwise. But what pissed her off most was something he couldn’t help but mention.

“If it could get us in trouble, why did you want to call from your mom’s in the first place?”

She said, “Because you had to get laid. That’s the only reason I stayed at Mother’s house, for
you
.”

It hadn’t even been that good. Not anywhere near as good as it used to be. As for her laying the blame on him, that was typical of a man-eater like Robin, who had never in her life admitted being wrong and would think quick to incriminate whatever poor asshole was nearest. In this instance Skip sitting next to her in the Lincoln, Robin driving, Robin hauling ass eighty miles an hour down the Chrysler freeway to get home in time to call Woody
before eleven. Most other cars were doing about seventy. They drove as fast here as they did in L.A., except out in L.A. there were more places to drive fast
to
.

She was jumping lanes also, cutting in and out of traffic and getting horns blown at her.

If those other people were stunt drivers and he was being paid thirty-five hundred for this ride it might be different. It inspired Skip to ask, “How about if you call from a pay phone? We wouldn’t have to rush so.”

Robin didn’t answer; she kept driving.

“Look over there, the Sign of the Big Boy. We could relax, have us a cup of coffee first.”

Robin said, “You really think I’m going to stand at a pay phone in a Big Boy, with people coming in and out past me, and tell Woody, Now here’s the deal? Somebody standing next to me, waiting to use the phone? ‘Uh, we’d like a million dollars, Woody.’ He goes, ‘What’d you say?’ He can’t hear me ’cause I have to keep my voice down.”

She seemed calmer doing that little skit and it made some sense. But she was thinking too much. Probably going over in her mind what she’d say to the guy. Skip thought of telling her if she didn’t call him at eleven, call him later on, after the bomb went off. What was the difference?

But that made too much sense and could get her pissed off again. Or she’d say she didn’t want to
talk about it any more, so drop it. That was how some women miscalculated the guy’s frustration level and got hit. The woman would still win. She’d keep showing him her black eye to make him feel like an asshole. It was best not to get worked up in the first place. What Skip did, flying down the Chrysler freeway, he went through his mind looking for harmless but interesting topics of conversation. . . . And thought of a good one.

“Remember that big Stroh’s beer sign you used to see down a ways?”

He told her how a demolition company tore down the brewery, a sight he’d have come to watch if he’d known about it beforehand. He told her you didn’t explode a building when you took it down, you
im
ploded it. He told her for the Stroh’s job he read they’d set eight hundred and eighty separate charges and blew them at seven-and-a-half-second intervals, starting from the center of the structure and working out, blowing those support columns one at a time so that the building collapsed in on itself. He told Robin he was here in ’84, right after he got out of Milan, when they tore down the old Hoffman building, Woodward at Sibley. They blew the charge and the building just stood there till four hours later it fell the wrong way, right on top of the bar next door. He told Robin that when you have space around you it’s a
different ball game. He began to tell her how you demolish a silo, how you notch one side and shoot light charges on the other—

And Robin said, “Jesus Christ, will you shut up?”

That did irritate Skip, but did not set him off. He had a return ticket to L.A. He had a hundred and forty-seven dollars from the drugstore, and he had four hundred and something rubbers he could blow up like balloons to celebrate getting the fuck out of this deal if she got any snottier.

Neither of them said another word till they pulled up in front of her rundown apartment building on Canfield and Robin turned her head toward him, hand on the door latch.

“You go right back to the house and stay in the basement. And I mean
stay
there. Don’t even go
near
a window.”

“What if the phone rings?”

“
Don’t
answer it.”

“What if it’s you?” Skip said.

Got her.

Ten thirty Donnell brought Mr. Woody his eye-opener, vodka and pale dry ginger ale, half and half, two of them on a silver tray. He placed one of the drinks on the night table next to the flashlight
the man kept there in case of a power failure. The man, being scared to death of the dark, had flashlights all over the house.

The way Donnell usually worked it, he’d touch the man then and say, “Rise and shine, Mr. Woody, the day is waiting on you,” except if the man had wet the bed. Then Donnell would hold his breath and not say anything, just shake him, trying not to breathe in the smell coming off the man. Donnell would have to wait for the swollen face to show life mixed with pain, then for the man to get up on his elbow and take the drink. Donnell would then step out of the way. Soon as the man finished the drink he’d be sick right there if he didn’t get to the bathroom in time. Starting this wake-up service, Donnell had brought the man Bloody Marys, till he found out being sick was part of waking up. Did it one week and said, Enough of this Bloody Mary shit, cleaning up a bathroom looked like somebody’d been killing chickens in it.

Today Mr. Woody got in there okay to gag, make all kinds of sick noises while Donnell slipped on his earphones and listened to Whodini doing the rap, doing “The Good Part,” rappin’ “When we gonna get to the good part?” Rap. Yeah. Donnell watching the man didn’t slip and hit his head. “Mr. Woody?” Donnell said. “Get down to it, on your knees, you be safer.” Man would be closer to the toilet too, wouldn’t get his mess all over.

Mr. Woody came out catching his breath like he’d been crying, red face redder, and Donnell handed him his second drink, the one that would settle him, let his system know the alcohol was coming and everything would be fine.

There, the man said “Boy-oh-boy,” showing signs he wasn’t going to die just yet. Ordinarily about now Donnell would ask him what was on for today, play that game with him, like there was all this different shit the man could be doing. But not this morning.

This morning he said, “Soon as you have your breakfast we have to tend to some business.” He watched the man stumble against the bed trying to put his pants on. “Mr. Woody, what you do, you put your underwear on first. Then you sit down on the floor to put your trousers on, so you don’t kill yourself.” Asshole. The man could barely dress himself, could never pick out clothes that matched.

“Mr. Woody, the funeral people called up. They getting your brother this afternoon, from the morgue. They gonna cremate him, but then what do they put the remains in? See, they have different-price urns they use. Then is he going out to a cemetery? You understand? The funeral people want to know what to do with him.”

“Tell ’em—I don’t know,” Woody said from the floor. “Did you get the paper in?”

“Not yet.”

“I want to know what my horoscope says.”

“I’ll get it for you,” Donnell said. “Read it with your breakfast. We have to talk about getting the mess cleaned up in back, have it hauled away. You want me to take care of it?”

“Call somebody.”

“I know some people do that kind of work.”

“That’s fine.”

Donnell watched him reach under the bed for his shoes.

“We have to talk about getting you a new limousine. What kind you want, what you want in it, all that.”

“I want a white one.”

“That’s cool. But what we have to do first, Mr. Woody, is see how you want to change your will, now your brother’s gone. I thought me and you could rough it out. You understand? Put it all down on a piece of paper and you sign it, you know, just in case you don’t talk to your lawyer for a while.”

“I think I either want a white one or a black one.”

Donnell bit on the inside of his mouth till he felt pain and said, “Mr. Woody, you want to look up here a minute? Never mind your shoes, I’ll tie your shoes for you. Please look up here.”

Multi-wealthy millionaire motherfucker sitting on the floor like a fat kid, not knowing shit.

“I believe you forget something you told me
yourself last night,” Donnell said. “This woman name of Robin Abbott? You remember her, was here Saturday?”

The man, looking up at him dumb-eyed, said, “Robin . . . ?”

“Use to show you her goodies.”

“Yeah, Robin.”

“You tell me she went to stir for doing bombs? Now your own brother got kill by one yesterday was put in your limo? Not his,
yours?
”

“Mark doesn’t have a limo.”

“Listen to me. You understand it could happen again?
Bam,
you get taken out, you not even looking, don’t even hear it. That’s why I’m saying you have to get a new will, man, Mr. Woody, in case anything might happen you don’t even know about.”

Look at the man looking fish-eyed. What’s he see?

“That’s what we gonna do next,” Donnell said, “while you having your breakfast. Write down things for your will.” Shit. Quick.

Woody said, “Will you get the paper?”

Donnell went downstairs. He’d look at the horoscope box in the paper and pick out a good one, read it to the man while he at his Sugar Pops.
This is a special day for romance. Love is looking up
. The man liked that kind. Or, what Donnell was thinking of doing as he crossed the front hall, make
one up.
Time to get your financial ass in order. . . . Don’t put off making your will. . . . Put in it whoever has been most loyal to you. Whoever cleans up your messes
.

He opened the front door hoping to see the
Free Press
lying close by. It wasn’t on the stoop, it wasn’t out on the grass. . . . He’d told the fat-kid delivery boy, Man, if you don’t have the arm then walk it up here on your young legs. But the fat kid’s daddy waiting out in the car, most likely hating rich people, had told the kid throw it, that’s how you deliver papers, throw the motherfucker. The fat kid would obey his daddy and the paper would end up half the time in the bushes.

The ones to the left of the door. Donnell went to the stone lion on that side and leaned over its back. There was the paper folded tight with a rubber band resting in the shrubs. There was the paper and there was something else looked like a bag underneath it. Donnell stepped around the lion and down off the slate front stoop. It looked like a new bag, not one had been out in the weather. The kind of black canvas bag a workman might have left? Or one of the police yesterday looking around. Donnell saw the bag in that moment as a
find
, something that could be worth something. He picked up the paper and the bag and went inside, closed the front door and locked it. Put the bag on the hall table with the paper, zipped the bag open, looked
inside at the clock, the battery, the five sticks of dynamite and the wires going from here to there and said, “Shit. I’m dead.”

It took a minute for Donnell standing there frozen to tell himself he wasn’t dead
yet
. That the bomb must’ve been put there during the night and had sat there all this time. It took him that little while to adjust to the situation and tell himself, Be cool. Are you cool? He wasn’t running off screaming, that was cool. He was looking right at the bag. He thought, Open the door, throw it outside. But couldn’t turn his back to it. It was like if he kept looking at the motherfucker it wouldn’t do nothing to him. Except there was a clock in there ticking toward a certain time or there wouldn’t be no need for the clock. If he looked at the clock it might tell him what time the bomb was going off. Only the clock wasn’t face up. To reach in, touch it, mess with the wires, that wouldn’t be cool. Look at a clock the last thing he ever did on earth?

What did that leave for him to do?

Donnell wiggled his toes in his hundred-dollar jogging shoes.

He said, “You got to put it somewhere, man.” Thought of outside, thought of down in the basement. He said, “You got to put it somewhere you don’t stop and fool with doors.” Thought another minute and picked up that bag again, the hardest thing he ever did in his life.

Donnell walked off with the bag down the hall, hurrying without running, the way those guys in a heel-and-toe walking race move their hips cute back and forth, holding the bag out to the side like it had a mess in it, went through the sunroom and out to the chlorine-smelling swimming pool, took some sidesteps turning, flung that bag
away
from him out over the water, ran back into the sunroom, hit the floor and covered his head.