Freaky Deaky (23 page)

All afternoon
Skip kept trying to place a call to Bedford, Indiana, to wish his mom a Happy Mother’s Day. He’d dial the number and then the operator would come on to tell him the circuits were still busy—everybody in the entire country calling their moms. He’d hang up the phone and there would be Robin waiting for him, practically tapping her toe with impatience.

“Have you found a place yet?” Meaning to wire a charge that would go off after they left Monday morning.

He’d tell her he was still looking.

“Oh, on the phone?” Using that pissy tone. At one point she said to him, “I’m doing all the goddamn work,” and he told her it was about time she did
some
thing. It was fun to get her pulling on her braid, like she was going to tear it off. Then, out of bitchiness wouldn’t let him have any blotter when a craving for acid took hold of him, telling him in that pissy tone, “Not till you do your work.” Still
anxious for him to wire the charge that would kill two people and leave him and her rich. So he promoted some weed off Donnell and started calling her Mom. “Okay, Mom. . . . Anything you say, Mom.” He believed if he squinted hard enough he’d see smoke coming out of her fucking ears. It was a weird situation.

Last night, Donnell had returned to the kitchen and laid a .38 revolver on the table, like the one Skip had stuck in his pants. Donnell waited for Robin to go upstairs, find a guest room, before he said, “That’s the gun, but ain’t nothing in it. Look at me. You think I just come off a cotton field? I’m gonna tell you how it is. Only first, you put that dynamite out in the garage.” They had some scotch and Skip decided a white man and a colored man could have more in common than a white man and woman—easy, if the woman was Robin. A whiz at thinking up dirty tricks and getting you to do things her way, but otherwise a pain in the ass.

What Robin meant by “doing all the work” was having to act sweet and girlish with Woody.

The man didn’t come downstairs till afternoon and was already half in the bag. Skip would never have recognized him on the street after all these years. Woody blinked, startled by this woman giving him a hug and a kiss and then acting hurt, curling her lower lip, saying, “You don’t remember me?” Woody said, “Gimme a hint.” Robin gave
him more than that. She unbuttoned her shirt and his eyes opened to a picture from his past, though now hanging a bit lower. “Robin!” Woody said. “How much you need?”

He remembered that, how she used to get him to loan her money. And he remembered her being here last Saturday, now he did, but didn’t recall agreeing to buy her books to turn into a musical. So Robin pouted again and seemed about to cry—Skip wondering if she ever actually had, at some time in her life. Robin said, “But we did, we talked about it,” and showed Woody the contract, all the legal bullshit—“herein referred to as the Fire Series”—without mentioning the amount out loud, the $425,000 for each of the four books.

Donnell stepped over to say to Skip, “The man ain’t buzzed enough. I could slip him a ‘lude.”

For that matter, Skip was thinking, he could put an arm lock on the man till he signed. The contracts were something to show the police, after, proof they’d made a deal with Woody before a mysterious explosion took his life. (And the life of his chauffeur.) Skip couldn’t tell Donnell that, so he said, “Robin’ll handle him.”

And she did, by convincing Woody they’d lined up Gordon Macrae to star. “Don’t you remember talking about Gordon Macrae?” Sure he did. Woody said, “Boy-oh-boy,” taking the pen Robin offered. Skip made a face, watching the man sign
the contracts: it seemed the next thing to robbing the dead.

Yet here was the man happy as could be, saying, Let’s celebrate, have a party, telling Donnell to go pick up some Chinese for when they got hungry.

Robin said she’d go with him.

Skip had to wonder about that. He followed them out to the kitchen, where Robin was saying she wanted to see Woody’s signed check. Anxious. Donnell said, “The checkbook is in the desk and it stays there. Nobody touches it till I write in this name and the numbers and hand it to you as you leave. After the man has called the bank. Understand? Be cool, girl. You know how to be cool? Try.”

Donnell took car keys off a hook by the door. Skip saw Robin getting her killer look and held on to her arm, letting Donnell walk out, down the back hall to the garage.

Close to her Skip said, “He’s showing us who’s boss, that’s all. It doesn’t hurt any. You took something away from him last night and now he’s got it back.”

Robin turned to look Skip in the face. After a moment she said, a little surprised, “What’d I take?”

“His manhood. Don’t you know anything? You put him down, I have to pick him up.” Skip stepped to the window as he saw a gray Mercedes appear in
the back drive, out of the garage. He saw Donnell, behind the wheel, raise a remote control switch to close the garage door. The car moved off, past Robin’s VW and around the corner of the house. Skip stared out at the backyard now.

Robin said, “We don’t need Don-
nell
.”

“Then what’d you bring him in for?”

Standing with his back to her he heard Robin say, “I don’t know, it seemed like a good idea.”

He heard the
flick
of her lighter.

“You know yet where you’ll put the dynamite?”

Skip turned from the window and had to grin at her. Funny she should ask. He said, “Once you have the idea, it’s easy. Later on, after Donnell gets back, take him in the bathroom or someplace. Huh? You do what you’re good at and I’ll do what I’m good at, maybe we’ll get lucky and pull this off.”

Robin said, “Luck has nothing to do with it.” She blew smoke at Skip and walked out of the kitchen.

He turned to the window again and looked at Robin’s red VW thinking, Five sticks under the hood, wired to the ignition.
Go on get the car started, I’ll be right with you
. Tell her you forgot something and watch from a window. It made more sense than placing the charge where he had in mind.

Skip was still in the kitchen when Donnell returned with three sacks of Chinese cartons. They shared a joint while Donnell placed the cartons
inside the big restaurant-size oven, Skip thinking that disrespecting a man and killing him were two entirely different things.

Full of thoughts today.

He said, “Robin rolls a joint.”

Donnell said, “She good for something, huh?”

“She’s dying to get you in the bathroom.”

“What you telling me that for?”

“It’s the only time she’s pleasant.”

Skip drew on the joint, handed it to Donnell and said in his constricted dope voice, “I gotta go call my mother.”

Donnell said, “Hey, shit, I have to do that too.”

Donnell knew the one to keep an eye on was Robin. Skip was a man went headfirst right to it. Robin, you had to watch your back with her, she’d circle on you. Said she’d like to see the signed check; shit, she like to slip one out of the book, put her name on it later on. When she gave him eyes, letting him know she wanted her needs met, that was all right. Skip had said this situation excited her and she was hot. Fine, but it wouldn’t be in no bathroom this time, not with all the beds in the house. It made it easy to keep an eye on her, lying underneath him, straining her head against the pillow going
“Ouuuu . . . ouuuu.”
There was a woman Donnell had in this same bed
screamed
when she was peaking, cute woman
that came in to clean the house and loved to sing but would get the words all fucked up. Like the Christmas song about chestnuts roasting in an open fire, then the next part, instead of Jack Frost, she’d say “Jack Paar nippin’ at your nose.” But,
man, she
moved
underneath you, and even screaming was better than Robin with that
ouuu, ouuu
. When they were done, getting dressed, Robin gave him this cool look over the shoulder like she was prize pussy. Donnell said to her, “Robin?” serious, giving her a look back. When she said what, he said, “I think you getting better.”

Skip walked into the pool house and said, “Jesus Christ,” at the sight of Woody floating on his rubber raft, flapping his hands in the water. Robin came out with Sunday papers under her arm and Skip said, “Catch this.”

“Beautiful,” Robin said.

Skip watched her walk over to the table and sit down, barely glancing at the mound of flesh out there.

He said to her, “I been a good boy, Mommy. I did what you told me while you were upstairs getting laid. Can I have my candy now?”

“Where’d you put it?” Still curious about the dynamite, but not enough to look up from the paper.

“You’re gonna love how it works,” Skip said, and had to let it go at that. Donnell was coming out of the sunroom and around the shallow end. Look at the dude, a regular breath of spring in a yellow outfit now, like he was going to a party, Donnell’s gaze holding on that sight out in the water. Skip said to him, “The man’s bare naked.”

“Yeah, I think he must’ve forgot he has company. You leave him here alone?”

“Few minutes. I had to go the bathroom.”

“Yeah, he thought it was time for his swim. Man will take a shower and come out rubbing his hands together, means it’s the cocktail hour.”

“Shit, he won’t miss that money, will he?”

“Won’t even remember it’s gone.”

Skip turned his back to Robin sitting at the table.

“You ever drop acid?”

“I have, but it don’t agree with me.”

“If you want to try again . . .”

“I like the bad habits I have.”

“Well, I think I’ll trip, if you’ll watch the store.”

All three of them heard the doorbell, Robin looking up from the paper. Donnell said, “Everybody be cool now.”

Skip watched him walk out through the sunroom and come back a few minutes later with a good-looking redhead, escorting her the way a cop will hold you by the arm.

* * *

As soon as she saw Woody, Greta said, “Oh, my Lord,” and looked away. What was going
on
here? People watching a naked man. . . . She recognized Robin, dressed this time, wearing jeans and a light sweater, the woman staring at her; but didn’t know the guy with the beard and ponytail, scruffy looking, grinning at her. Donnell seemed friendly, holding onto her arm, saying, “This is Mr. Woody’s friend Ginger.”

The bearded guy said, “Hey, Ginger, how you doing?” But not Robin, she didn’t say a word or look very happy about this interruption.

“I’m sorry to barge in like this. . . .”

Donnell said, “Well, you here now.”

“I just wanted to talk to Woody a minute.”

“He’s right there—go ahead.”

Greta said, “Yeah, I noticed,” raising her eyebrows in fun. “I better come back some other time.”

Donnell said, “No, it’s all right. Talk loud, he hear you. Watch.” Donnell brought her around by the arm to face the pool. “Mr. Woody, look who come to see you. Over this way, Mr. Woody. Look, it’s Ginger.”

“I should’ve called, I’m sorry.”

“Hey, he’s waving to you.” Donnell raised his voice. “Better get out, Mr. Woody. You gonna be all wrinkled like a prune.”

“I can come back tomorrow.”

Donnell said it again, “You here now,” turning her from the pool to the table. “You sit down. Mr. Woody’s about done with his swim. Make yourself at home, I’ll get you something to drink.” Sounding friendly, but he wasn’t, his hand tightening around her arm as she made a move to pull it away.

“I really can’t stay. I thought I might have just a minute, you know, to talk to him, but I’ll come back some other time. I’m supposed to meet somebody anyway.”

The next moment it became scary.

Robin said, “For God’s sake, will you sit down.”

The bearded guy came over and pulled a canvas chair out for her, saying, “You may as well enjoy yourself. What would you like, sweetheart, a drink?” He had spooky eyes, pale, pale blue.

Sitting down, at least she was able to free her arm of Donnell. She looked up at the bearded guy and shook her head. “I don’t care for anything, thanks.”

He was looking at Robin with his pale eyes, just barely grinning as he said, “I bet I know what she’d like.”

Greta saw Robin look up through her rose-tinted glasses and pause before she said, “Yeah . . .” dragging the word out in a thoughtful sound.

“I really don’t care for anything.” None of them paid any attention to her. “Really.”

Robin got up and left without saying a word. Donnell and the bearded guy went over toward the bar, behind where Greta was sitting. She turned her head to one side, alert, wanting to hear if they said anything, and all of a sudden rock music came blaring out, filling the whole room. What was going
on?
None of them acted drunk or stoned. They sounded friendly, except for Robin. Then why was she scared? They couldn’t
hold
her here if she didn’t want to stay. They weren’t going to tie her up. Greta felt herself getting mad. Damn right. . . . Turned her head and said, “Oh, my God!”

Woody was out of the swimming pool, coming toward her bare naked, shaking his head back and forth, saying, “No no no no no, that isn’t what I want to hear. Donnell!”

They did seem friendlier. Even Robin was sort of smiling as she kept watching her. When the bearded guy handed her the vodka-and-tonic Greta said, All right, just one, then she was leaving. And the bearded guy said, “One’s all you’ll need, Ginger.” She told him not to call her that. The bearded guy said, “You’re a cute girl, you know it? How you feeling?” He kept asking her how she felt and Robin kept watching her. She felt fine. Woody sat next to her saying boy-oh-boy in a terrycloth robe.
She felt a little funny, but generally fine, thinking maybe she could get Woody aside for a minute, and said, “About your offer. I think I’ll take it.” Woody said, something like, “Yeah? Okay. What offer?” And she realized it was going to take longer than a minute. She could smell marijuana. Now the bearded guy and Woody were singing “On the Street Where You Live” along with the deep, syncopating voice on the stereo, trying to do it with the
same timing and inflections as the voice. They were awful but thought they were good. Donnell handed her a joint, saying, “Here, girl, ease yourself off,” and she thought, What the heck, and took it. Robin was saying, “Jesus Christ, will you play something else?” They kept playing it over and over. Now Donnell was saying, “Five o’clock, munchie-wunchie time,” and she thought, It couldn’t be, and tried to remember what time she got here. About three? Now Donnell and the bearded guy were putting take-out cartons and paper plates on the table, pouring wine, dishing out something that seemed alive. They
were
alive—little white worms crawling over each other on the plates and these people were eating them. Woody had worms all over his chin. The funny part was, the worms didn’t look too bad. They seemed pure. Heck, everybody was digging in, so Greta said, “Here goes nothing,” and took a big bite. Mmmmm. But when she felt how
slimy they were crawling
around in her mouth and down her throat, she gagged and all of a sudden jumped up from the table, knocking over wineglasses, wanting so bad to clean out her insides, ran straight to the swimming pool and threw herself at the water.