Freaky Deaky (16 page)

“Please, help yourself.”

“Mashed-up chickpeas doesn’t make it with me.”

“Then why do I think you want some?”

“Go ahead and eat,” Chris said. He took an olive. “You know what organizations she belonged to? Was she in the Weathermen?”

“Yes, but in and out,” Dizsi said. “She was in the White Panthers at one time helping the Black ones. I know that because I went to a cocktail party for them to raise bail money. There were so many different groups. The Yippies, the Revolutionary Youth Movement, the Action Faction, the Crazies, the Progressive Labor Party, strict Maoists. The Black Panthers were known here as the National Committee to Combat Fascism, and the White Panthers became the Rainbow People’s Party. I was younger then, I knew what I believed. I ask these people, what’s the matter with the friendly Socialist Labor Party, uh? I don’t know, I think it was because we didn’t drop acid and practice kundalini yoga. It turned them off.”

“Was Robin involved in that submarine thing?”

“Oh, no, that was in ‘sixty-seven, before her time.”

“But she did set a few bombs.”

“I don’t know if Robin actually did or if it was her friend Skip.”

“Who’s Skip?”

“You don’t know that name? Skip Gibbs?”

“I’ve heard of Emerson Gibbs.”

“Yes, that’s Skip. He came out of prison and went to Hollywood, someone told me, to work in the movies. In Special Effects.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Sure, he knows how to blow up things.”

“They were making a movie here,” Chris said, “blowing up things.” His gaze moved to the painting Dizsi was working on: a giant canvas that was solid black except for a diagonal streak of white that had some yellow in it, near the base of the painting. He said, “You don’t suppose Skip was here, working on that movie.” The streak of white could be headlights, the way it started narrow and widened out. “If he was . . .”

Dizsi said, “And if Robin knew he was here or happened to see him, and if they’re still friends . . . and if I sell that painting I want twenty thousand for it. No, make it twenty-five.”

Chris studied the painting, about seven feet high and fifteen feet wide. A door opened at the far end of the loft and Amelia appeared, daylight showing her body in the white dress. She stood there.

He looked at the painting again. “What is it?”

“Tell me what you see,” Dizsi said.

“Car headlights coming out of woods at night.”

“You’re absolutely right. It means you can buy it.”

“I don’t have a wall for it,” Chris said. “I don’t even have a house.” He watched Amelia close the door.

Dizsi was staring at his painting. “Those two could live in there, in the woods, Robin and Skip. They were lone wolves. I think half by choice and half of it because people didn’t like to associate with them.”

“Why not?”

“They were unpredictable, they scared the hell out of people.”

“Did you know Woody and Mark Ricks?”

Dizsi grinned, eating his squid. “Ah, now we’re getting to it. I didn’t want to be rude, ask you what’s this about. I met them, yes, and their mother. They’re the ones had the party for the Black Panthers. I don’t know what I was doing there, I left. But I did see the mother another time, when I was subpoenaed and had to go to the Federal Building.”

“For what?”

“They were always inviting me to sit down and discuss subversive activities with them. Listen, I’ll show you something. I have complete records of FBI and CIA investigations that concerned me
directly or even where my name appeared. Like investigations of some of my friends or associates. All of this I got through the Freedom of Information Act, three entire file drawers full of stuff.”

“Were Woody and Mark ever arrested?”

“Mark was picked up once,” Dizsi said. “You know when those students at Kent State were shot and killed? After that, there was a demonstration in Kennedy Square. May ninth, 1970. I know, I was there. Mark was one of those taken in and then released, no charge filed.”

“That’s why his mother was at the Federal Building?”

“Oh, no,” Dizsi said. “No, what I started to tell you I have in my records? It shows that Mrs. Ricks, following the Black Panther fund-raising party, became an FBI informant. Told them things she learned right in her house.”

“She snitched on her own kids?”

Dizsi was shaking his head. “To save her kids. She gave information about the Black Panthers, nothing important. No, but her biggest coup, she told the FBI where to find Robin and Skip.”

“Jesus Christ,” Chris said.

Now Dizsi was smiling a little. “Why does that make you happy?”

* * *

The notebook with the red cover marked
MAY–AUGUST
’70 was on Wendell Robinson’s desk, the metal desk in the far corner of the squad room by the window with the air-conditioning unit that didn’t work. Wendell, sitting behind the desk in a neat gray suit and rose-tinted necktie, watched Chris taking his time: looking around as if he’d never been here before, appraising the office full of old desks and file cabinets that made Barney Miller’s TV squad room look swank. Mankowski taking his time ’cause he’d seen the notebook lying there and knew a search had been done. Wendell picked up his coffee mug with a “7” on it and took a sip. There—Chris finally turning this way, about to get to it.

“Where is everybody?”

“Out on the street, where they supposed to be.”

“That’s a good-looking suit. You don’t seem to go with the decor around here.”

“I have to say you do,” Wendell said. “Is that what you’re trying to tell me, you want a job?”

“You’re gonna want to give me one.”

“Why’s that?”

“First, tell me what you know.”

“I don’t know shit. We didn’t find nothing.”

“You got the notebook.”

“I still don’t know shit. It’s full of how smart she is and how dumb everybody else is.”

“You talked to her. . . .”

“Yeah,
I
talked. That girl knows how to act with police. Kept her mouth closed tight.”

“Gave you dirty looks?”

“Gave me
nothing
.”

“You want a motive?”

Wendell didn’t answer, looking at this old-timey young cop comes in here in his worn-out sportcoat and some kind of angle, with that instinct of an old-timey cop, too.

“Mark and Woody’s mom, now deceased, turned her in,” Chris said. “Told the shoes where to find Robin and her buddy Skip Gibbs. They picked them up in Los Angeles and brought them back for trial.”

Wendell got comfortable in his chair, sat back with his coffee, raised his tasseled loafers to the desk, next to the notebook.

“So the mama’s dead, Robin takes it out on the two boys?”

“Why not?”

“I’m not arguing with you, I like it. I’ll take anything given to me free. But how good is it?”

“It’s good,” Chris said. “It could even get better.” He picked up Wendell’s phone and dialed four numbers.

“Jerry? . . . Fine, I’m in the building, up at Seven. . . . No, I’m not talking to anybody higher
than lieutenant,” Chris said and looked at Wendell. “I want to ask you something. When you were with that movie crew and they blew up the cars, you met all the special-effects guys, didn’t you? . . . Was there a guy named Skip Gibbs?” Chris listened for a moment. “Well, it must be. How many Skips are there? . . . Can you check? . . . Call up the company and ask them. . . . Out in Hollywood, the one that made the movie. Would you do that? I’m sure it’s the guy, but let’s nail it down. . . . No, it only sounds like I’m working. Jerry, I’ll talk to you. Thanks.” Chris hung up and looked at Wendell again.

“Skip was here with the movie crew.”

“Some Skip was.”

“It’s the guy. He’s a dynamite man.”

“Say he was here. We don’t know he still is.”

“
I
could find that out,” Chris said, “and I’m not even an ace homicide dick.”

“But you like to be one, huh? Win my respect,” Wendell said, “and have me beg to get you. It could be done, Mankowski, you ever move back to town. But this motive now you telling me, is it good? Or you giving me some more theorizing shit like with the peanuts?”

“It’s solid,” Chris said. “You want to know where to look it up quick, without going to the feds? Save you valuable time, you can sit around drinking coffee?”

“Here comes the deal.”

“I’ll trade you the source for a Xerox of the notebook.”

“There’s nothing in it. Take it, long as you bring it back.”

“And Donnell Lewis’s file, just for fun. Something to read in bed.”

Wendell said, “Now we coming to something. Slip that in about Donnell. You been talking to him?”

“Once. Yesterday.”

“How come he called here? Wants to know how to get in touch with you?”

“Donnell?”

“Was just before Maureen called me, about eleven thirty. He wouldn’t tell me what he wanted. And you’re acting surprised as hell, like you not gonna be any help.”

“You give him my number?”

“How could I do that? I don’t even know it.”

Wendell watched Chris look up at the dirty window, getting a thoughtful squint in the afternoon glare.

“He know you’re suspended?”

“He was the witness for the lawyer’s complaint, I roughed up his boss.”

“Maybe he wants to tell you he’s sorry.”

“The only thing I can think of, what it might
be,” Chris said, “Donnell has an idea I’ve been on the take now and then. Maybe he knows cops that were, back during his life of crime, and he thinks I can be had.”

“Couldn’t be you let him think it,” Wendell said, “driving around in your maroon Cadillac.”

“You never know what somebody might tell you,” Chris said, “when they think you’re somebody else.”

“You’re having fun being suspended, aren’t you?”

“Except for the pay.”

“Do one thing for me,” Wendell said, “don’t impersonate a cop. Make that two things, and don’t tell me what you’re doing.”

“Unless I get something good.”

“Well, that goes without saying.”

Woody said,
“I guess the place to start, put down I want to cross out Mark’s name and anything in it that has to do with him. Say, ‘As he is no longer a successor co-trustee of the estate.’ I’m pretty sure that’s what he was. Put that down under his name, successor co-trustee. But you know something? It must say in there what happens if he dies. I mean before I do.”

Donnell, sitting at the library desk with the green lamp on, said, “Cross out Mark,” as he wrote it on a legal pad, underlined it and stopped there.

“I got it, Mr. Woody. You understand the lawyer knows who comes out of the will. What we have to tell him is who you want to go
in
. Hmmm, let’s think about that.”

The man was pacing in his bathrobe, way over on the other side of the room now, looking at the TV set like he wanted to turn it on. He’d been on his way to the swimming pool for his late-afternoon dog-paddle when Donnell caught him in
the sunroom, told him not to go in there. The man asked why not. Donnell said to him, Mr. Woody,
the bomb
. The man said, Oh yeah, he forgot. He looked in at the pool like a kid looking out the window at rain. What was he going to do now? Didn’t know whether to cry or have a drink. So Donnell had lit his face up and said, Hey, I got an idea. . . .

“You thinking, Mr. Woody?”

“The lawyer’s also a co-trustee. But that doesn’t mean he gets anything. I don’t think he does.”

“You have to watch those people, Mr. Woody. Who you want in there wasn’t in there before?”

“Mark was my only brother.”

“Doesn’t have to be kin.”

“Did I tell you? I decided I’m not gonna take singing lessons.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“You notice I never sing in the morning? I like to sing in the pool, your voice carries. But I never sing in the morning.”

“I notice that.”

“You know what I used to think?”

“No, sir.”

“That red things were best for hangovers, in the morning. A really bad one, I’d drink a bottle of ketchup.”

Man was cuckoo.

“You know what I think I might do?”

“What’s that?”

“Get married.”

“You have to be in love, Mr. Woody. It’s the law.”

“I mean it. Not right away but pretty soon. There’s one I like, too. The redhead.”

“You mean the one say you raped her, wants to take you to court and have you thrown in jail?”

“The one that was here—when was it?”

“You had all kind of ladies here, Mr. Woody.”

Donnell’d had some, too. Some of the man’s, brought here by Mark, and some of his own. Ladies who’d stop by for a late supper and Donnell would take off Ezio Pinza for his own kind of enchanted evening: put on the Whodinis, put on Run-DMC, put on some oldies like the Funkadelics, like the Last Poets, the original rappers rapping to “Wakeup Niggers” and get some live sound in the house. The ladies would be gone in the early morning, before the man had his drinks on the silver tray.

“The redhead, with the red bush.”

“Has, huh? You don’t tell me.”

“Ginger,” the man said.

The man remembered her name. “She the one, huh?”

“I’m in love with her.”

“Before you get married, how ’bout we get this new will done?”

“I could put her in it.”

“You could. Let’s see you have anybody closer to you.”

“I can’t think of any.”

“Go through the alphabet.
A . . . B . . . C . . . D.
Anybody you like start with
D,
Mr. Woody?”

“Did you know I was suppose to wear glasses?”

“We thinking of
D
s, Mr. Woody. Come on, let’s think of somebody.” Donnell waited. If the man was any dumber you’d have to water him twice a week.

“What do I need glasses for, I can see all right. That’s why I’m not gonna take singing lessons.”

Man had chicken lo mein for brains. The trouble was, Donnell hadn’t slipped him a ‘lude at lunchtime, hoping to keep him more awake and get this fucking will taken care of. But the man was
too
awake, talking with his head wandering all over the place.

“I’ve been thinking of writing a book. I could dictate it, like we’re doing now.”

Donnell got up from the desk, went over to the man and eased him into his TV chair, staying over him, Donnell placing his hands on the fat arms of the chair. He was going to get it done and would sit on the motherfucker if he had to.

“I thought of somebody, Mr. Woody.”

“Who?”

“Myself. I’d be proud to be in your will.”

Donnell had to grin then to get the man to grin,
but kept looking at the man’s wet eyes to show he meant it.

“Well, yeah, you’re gonna be in it.”

“I said, whose name start with D? You didn’t say nothing.”

“I was waiting for you to get to L.” The man still grinning.

“
Damn
. You way ahead of me, huh?” Donnell grinned with the man, wishing to Jesus he could make himself cry at this moment like movie stars. He rubbed one of his eyes anyway, put his hand back on the chair arm and said, “Mr. Woody, how much you have in mind to leave me when you go?”

The man tried to look away to think, but Donnell stayed over him.

“I don’t know. . . .”

“About. Gimme a round number.”

“How long have you been with me?”

Oh, man. . . . “Mr. Woody, how
long
doesn’t have nothing to do with it. All by myself, who takes care of you? Feeds you, cleans your mess, keeps people from running games on you?” Keep going, the man was nodding. “Who protects your life from people that send you bombs?”

“You do.”

“What is a man does all that worth to you after you gone and you don’t need the money anyway?”

“I don’t know.”

“Or have anybody else to give it to.”

“Twenty-five thousand?”

Shit.

“Mr. Woody, you giving that to a woman you don’t even know.”

“A hundred thousand?”

“Your lawyer gets that for taking you to lunch and you pay for it, at your club.” Donnell paused but stayed over him. “Think a minute. Would you pay this woman two million dollars so she won’t send you a bomb, blow you up?”

“If I have to.”

“Then wouldn’t you want to give the same amount, at
least
, to the person that’s gonna keep it from happening? You understand what I’m saying, the person being me?”

Look at the man’s glassy wet eyes, all the busted blood vessels in his nose, his face; the man was a mess. Yeah, but he was nodding, agreeing.

“I guess that’s fair.”

Donnell hurried back to the desk and sat down.

“Okay, I’m putting in—how’s this? You being of sound mind . . .”—pausing to write—“you want to leave Donnell Lewis . . . at least two million dollars . . . if and when . . . you ever die.” Donnell finished, read it over—man, look at it—was about to say, Ready for you to sign, Mr. Woody.

The doorbell rang.

And what he said was, “Shit.”

Got up and went out to the front hall hoping
it was the paperboy come to collect, Donnell in a mood to kick the kid’s ass across the street. He peeked through the peephole as he always did, cautious, and the dark cloud parted and the sun came out to shine on—lookit who’s here—Sergeant Mankowski and the redhead name Ginger.

Chris said, “I hope we’re not interrupting anything. If Mr. Woody’s floating in the pool we’ll come back.”

“No, he’s not floating today. Come in, come in.”

“Miss Wyatt would like to have a word with him.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. He be glad to see you.” Donnell full of life in his silky yellow shirt and pants, smiling white teeth at them, saying hi, Ginger, saying to Chris he’d been trying to get hold of him but nobody seemed to have his number; was he hiding or what? Giving them all this chatter crossing the hall to the library, saying yeah, this was nice they dropped by, saying, “Mr. Woody, look who come to see you. Ginger, Mr. Woody, and her friend.” All talk and motion all at once.

Greta was giving Chris a look. He shrugged, no help. Donnell was going over to the desk, Woody was pulling himself out of his chair, straightening his bathrobe, making himself presentable, Donnell shoving papers into a desk drawer and opening
another one. Now he was holding what looked like a leather-bound commercial checkbook. Greta’s voice, kept low, said, “What’s going on?” Chris said, “Beats me.” Woody was creeping toward Greta on his swollen legs, arms bent but outstretched. “Boy-oh-boy . . . Ginger, is that you? Sit down and we’ll have a drink. Donnell?” Chris watched Donnell move close to the man to say something to him and the man said, “Oh, yeah, that’s right.” Donnell came over with the checkbook and said to Chris, “Mr. Woody will fix Ginger up. He’s got the bar there has a fridge in it”—looking at Greta—“if you like some wine. Or he’ll make you a nice drink.”

Chris said, “You have any peanuts?”

“Yeah, those peanuts, we fresh out. Listen, she be fine with Mr. Woody. Can watch some TV.”

Chris liked the way Greta said, “I wasn’t fine with Mr. Woody the last time I was here.” Turned to the man creeping up in his bathrobe and said, “Are you gonna behave yourself?”

“Boy-oh-boy,” Woody said.

Donnell touched the man’s shoulder. “Yeah, that means he’s mellow, feeling good. He’ll be nice. Huh, Mr. Woody? Sure.” Donnell looked at Chris again. “Come with me, I’ll show you something will interest you.”

Greta motioned to Chris, Go on, and that took care of that.

Once they were in the hall Donnell stopped and opened the checkbook. “See?” There were three green-tinted checks to the sheet, issued by Manufacturers National Bank, each imprinted with
Ricks Enterprises, Inc
. and bearing Woody’s signature at the bottom.

“I have him sign three at a time when he’s able to,” Donnell said, “for whatever needs might come up. You being a need. You understand? This is opportunity looking at you.” He closed the checkbook. They walked down the hall and through the sunroom to the shallow end of the swimming pool. “Go look on the bottom by the diving board.”

Chris saw the black athletic bag floating in the clear water. He walked along the edge to the deep end, looked down and studied the dark shapes on the bottom, Donnell’s voice filling the room now, telling him from a distance how he’d found the bag, brought it in here and thrown it, and the bag must’ve hit the board and those things came out of it.

Chris looked at his watch. “What time was that?”

“Was about quarter of eleven.”

“You thought if you dropped dynamite in water it wouldn’t go off?”

“I was hoping.”

“You were wrong.”

“Then why didn’t it?”

“It still might. Or it could’ve shorted when it hit the water, blown you through the window. Why don’t you come here, so I don’t have to yell.”

“I been as close to it as I want.”

Chris walked back to the shallow end. “We don’t know what time it’s set for, do we? If it was put there early this morning, within the past twelve hours. . . .” He reached Donnell and said, “You know you could be arrested, withholding evidence of a crime.”

“Man, I didn’t make the bomb.”

“Doesn’t matter. Why didn’t you call Nine-eleven?”

“Have the police come, the fire trucks? Pretty soon we have the TV news. Mr. Woody don’t want none of that. Man likes his privacy and is willing to pay for it.” Donnell brought a ballpoint pen out of his pants pocket and opened the checkbook. “Tell me what your shakedown price is these days.”

Chris said, “Anything I want?”

“Long as it seems to be right.”

“I say ten thousand?”

“I write it in.”

“What if I say twenty?”

“I write it in. But now twenty you getting up there. I’d have to sell that figure to the man, convince him.”

“He’s already signed the check.”

“Yeah, but that don’t mean the money’s in the
bank. See, he keeps only so much in there. It gets low, the man calls a certain number and they transfer money from his trust account to his regular business account. I think I could talk the man into paying twenty, but I’d have to have a cut, like ten percent. Two grand for the service, understand?”

“I don’t know,” Chris said, looking out at the pool. “I’d have to take my clothes off, dive in there . . . the bomb could go off any time. I’m fooling with a fast high explosive under water, can barely see what I’m doing—”

“You cut the wire,” Donnell said.

“Is that all?” Chris brought out the Spyder-Co knife that was always in his right-hand coat pocket. “Here, you do it.”

“The shakedown pro. I should’ve known,” Donnell said. “Drive up in your Cadillac, twenty don’t meet your greed. Gonna go for what you can get.”

“The way I have to look at it,” Chris said, “I make a mistake, I’m floating face down in a fucking swimming pool, something I never thought of before.” He paused. “You’d have to look in the Yellow Pages, see if you can find another bomb disposal man.”

“For what, if the bomb’s gone?”

“The next one. They’d have to try again.”

Donnell stared at him. “You think so, huh?”

“You don’t seem to understand what this is about. It’s a payback,” Chris said, “get even for
getting snitched on and doing time. Mark and Woody’s mom told the feds where to find Robin and her boyfriend, Skip. The mom’s dead, so they go after the boys, thinking, Well, they probably told the mom anyway.”

Donnell said, “Robin, huh?” and started to smile. “First time we met I said you must be dumb as shit, didn’t I? I’ll tell you something now that we talked again. You still dumb as shit. You live in your little get-even bomb world, down there bent over taking wires apart. See, that’s why people like you get
hired
by people like me. I write down ‘Mr. Mankowski’ and ‘twenty-oh-oh-oh’ on one of these checks, man, you’ll dive in with your clothes on. It don’t matter who’s doing what or why and don’t tell me different. ’Cause once you on the take, man, you
on
it, for good.”

Chris said, “Let’s go sit down.”

He walked off, going to the lounge area half-way up the length of the pool—the arrangement of chairs and low tables by the bar and stereo system—and poured himself a scotch. There was water in the ice bucket. A buzzing sound came from the phone sitting on the bar and a light went on. Chris took his drink to a table and sat down.