Freaky Deaky (25 page)

Chris said, “The Skipper?”

Donnell stared at him deadpan. He walked away, following Robin and Skip out of the library. The door closed. Chris turned to the TV screen. He didn’t recognize the movie or any of the actors; they were all teenagers. He looked at his watch. It was 12:10.

* * *

At 2:20 the library door opened. Donnell entered. He took time to close the door quietly. Chris, seated at the desk, watched him come through the lamplight showing in dull green shades, a dark figure now. Donnell had changed his clothes. Chris followed his gaze as Donnell glanced at the TV screen, at a young woman in an empty house at night, backing away from a door, scared to death.

Chris said, “When they do that, not look where they’re going, you know some disfigured asshole is waiting for them.”

“They come here,” Donnell said, planting his hands on the desk, getting right to it, “they have a box of dynamite I make him put in the garage. I go out there, it’s gone and the car’s locked and there’s no way to open the garage up. The ‘lectric thing you push don’t work. And the light’s out.”

“You ask Skip about it?”

“What? Ask him how he’s gonna blow me up? I
know
he’s set it someplace.”

“Stay out of the garage, you’ll probably be all right.”

“How would he work it?”

“You look around the house?”

“Enough. Box of dynamite ain’t that easy to hide.”

“Where’s Robin and Skip?”

“In the kitchen mostly.”

“Let’s say he put the dynamite in the car,” Chris said. “A gray Mercedes, right? I remember it from when the limo blew up, with his brother.”

“How would he
do
it?”

“When you drive in and out you use a garage door opener?”

“Little thing with a button on it you push, yeah.”

“It sounds like he put the charge in the Mercedes and wired it to the door opener, the motor. They put us in the garage and go out the other way. Drive off in the VW, Robin presses the button—bang. No witnesses. By the time the investigation gets to a canceled check with her name on it . . . I don’t know, I guess she’s got that worked out. But why’re they staying all night? Now’s the time to do it.”

“The man has to transfer the money, call up the bank at nine
A.M.
They want to see him, make sure the check don’t bounce.”

Chris said, “Yeah, that’s right, from his trust account. Has he paid them yet? Given ’em the check?”

“After he phones. Then I fill out the name and the amount. Shit, and get put in the garage, huh?” Donnell looked at the TV screen and back to Chris. “I’m the one has to make the move. I ain’t gonna let Mr. Woody get killed.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that.”

“Not this soon. I had a gun. . . . Man, they fucked my head good.”

“What was your cut?”

“I’m not in this deal.”

“You mean now you’re not.” Chris said, “We don’t have a gun . . . but you know what we do have—if you haven’t thrown it out.”

“What do we have?”

“Five sticks of Austin Powder, in a black bag. In this room, the last time I saw it.”

Donnell stared at him. He took a moment to say, “It still is.” Another moment to say, “But what good is it to us?”

“There’s wire in the bag,” Chris said, “and a battery. The battery’s probably shot, but I notice there’s a flashlight on the bar. Another one by the TV.”

“Has ’em all over the house,” Donnell said, “the man’s afraid of the dark.”

Getting up from the desk Chris said, “Bless his heart.”

Woody saw naked mole rats
coming at him, no hair or eyes, a sack of bones with teeth so big they couldn’t close their mouth. Creatures that never saw light, never supposed to come out of the ground, but they were on his bed, on
him
, naked mole rats crawling up his body and he couldn’t
move
. All he could do was raise his head and scream, “Yaaaah!”

And the naked mole rats disappeared.

Woody didn’t want to open his eyes. He thought now he was in the hospital and had wet the bed during the night. It must be where he was, the bed was cranked up against his back and under his legs, holding him wedged in. Now he believed he could feel tubes in his nose, his arms and his peter and if he opened his robe would see the incision across his tummy and pink stuff seeping out from the infection. It was where they had cut him open looking for an ulcer and found he had acute gastritis, the lining of his tummy raw. He told the doctor he’d cut
down on the rich food. The doctor told him he should go easier on the cocktails, too, saying one before dinner wouldn’t hurt him. As if there was such a thing as one drink. He began to realize that was six years ago, it wasn’t now and there wasn’t a tube down his throat—he coughed—it felt like that from not swallowing all night. He could hear that noise in his ears, that
zing zing zing
, and the feeling his head was filled with hot
exhaust smoke, in his head and his mouth, so wherever he was it must be morning. He wanted to open his eyes a little and reach for the drink on the silver tray, have that first one and feel the relief, oh, Jesus, that would go through him leaving some pain, nausea, but worth it as the feeling got up into his head and began to cool that hot exhaust. He wanted to hear Donnell telling him to rise and shine, open his eyes a little and see the silver tray, the drink in the morning light. He did hear a voice, but it wasn’t Donnell’s. It was a girl’s voice, close to him, saying, “I think he’s awake.” Then another voice, not as close. Then the girl’s voice saying, “Boy, did I sleep.” He heard her again, but not so close now, tell the other person, “Don’t. My breath must be awful.” The other person was a man. Woody could hear their voices but not what they were saying. Until the girl’s voice rose as she said, “But why?” The man said
something and she said, “I don’t believe this.” The man spoke to her without raising his voice and Woody didn’t
hear the girl’s voice after that. He must have slept again. . . . Now the voice he heard was Donnell’s.

“Time to get up.”

It was Donnell, but it didn’t sound like him. Woody opened his eyes to a dim room. “Where am I?”

“You home.”

Donnell moved closer and Woody saw the drink he was holding, the crystal dull; there was no morning light shining on it, but that was all right. Woody took the drink in his hands, secure now, able to spare a moment. He said to Donnell, “I saw the mole rats again.”

“Is that all, just the rats?” Donnell said. “Gonna put your other drink in your coffee. Come on to the bathroom now and throw up. They waiting on you.”

Greta, seated, watched Donnell follow Woody out of the library and close the door. “That poor guy . . . I’m glad I changed my mind.” She pulled herself out of the chair and raised her arms, stretching, looked around to see Chris standing behind Woody’s desk, staring at it.

“I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee,” Greta said. “Is it okay if I ask?”

Earlier this morning Chris had told her they were watching the commission of a crime and there was
nothing they could do about it or be able to prove later. That Robin and Skip were going to walk off with a lot of money and would be on edge; they had guns, so don’t say anything to make them mad. That was all he told her and answered questions after that saying he didn’t know.

Chris said, “Let’s see if we can get a cup,” coming around from behind the desk.

“I’d like to talk to Woody too,” Greta said, “if it’s okay. I’m gonna accept his original offer of twenty-five thousand. If he still wants to give it to me, fine. If he doesn’t—well, the hell with it.”

Chris stopped close to Greta. He put his arms around her and kissed her and said, “You’re fun, you know it?”

Greta said, “I wish I felt like it.”

Skip brought Chris and Greta into the kitchen at gunpoint, seated them on a bench with their backs to a wall of cupboards, then with Robin’s help shoved the table up against them, tight. Chris watched Skip slip the .38 into his waist, behind him and beneath the black
Speedball
jacket. Robin carried the Glock in front, shoved into her jeans. She stood at the sink with a cup of coffee and a cigarette.

Chris said to her, “You’re having fun, aren’t you?”

Robin said, “Not as much as I’m going to have.”

Skip brought cups to the table and poured coffee. Now Donnell, a bottle of cognac in his hand, brought Woody in and got him seated at the end of the table.

Robin said, “Bring the phone over.”

Donnell looked at her and said, “You want the phone, you bring it over.” He poured cognac into Woody’s coffee.

Chris watched Robin, the pistol grip tight against her white sweater, wishing to God he hadn’t brought it. She kept staring at Donnell. After a few moments Robin brought the phone from a counter to the table, placing it in front of Woody. He looked at it, then up at Donnell.

“What about Beaver?”

Chris could smell him; the man looked sick, in a daze.

“You early this morning,” Donnell said. “The Beaver come on after while, when I give you your Alpha-Bits.”

Skip said, “Is that what he eats? Does he want some eggs? I’ll fix him some.”

Donnell shook his head. “We out of eggs.”

“I can fix ’em any way you want,” Skip said. “I was a short-order cook one time in L.A., when I was looking for movie work.”

“
That’s
where I saw you,” Greta said, “I’ve been trying to think. It was while they were making that
movie, week before last. You were talking to people on the set.”

“You watch some of that?”

“I was
in
it.”

Skip said, “Well, I didn’t know you were a movie star.”

“I was only in one scene, but I had lines. The director said, well, that I did okay.”

“He’s a good one,” Skip said, “Ray Heidtke. I worked for him before. If he likes you he’ll use you again.”

“You think so?”

Chris, listening, wanted to ask Greta something, but he was watching Robin with her fidgety little moves: the way she smoked the cigarette, looked at the clock, sucked on that cigarette again looking at Skip—not liking what was going on, left out—and mashed the cigarette in the sink. She said, “All right, let’s do it.”

Donnell looked at the clock. “It’s only five till.”

“Humor me,” Robin said.

And Chris thought, Please.

Donnell picked up the phone and said to the man, “You ready? We gonna transfer the money now.” The man looked up at him through the blood in his eyes not knowing shit what it was all about, lost in his head, but nodding, saying oh, yeah, sure he was
ready. Donnell dialed and said into the phone, “Doris, how you doing? . . . Don’t have time to chat this morning, here’s Mr. Ricks.” The man took the phone from him, said, “Hi, Dorie, how are you? . . . Yeah, I guess we are.” He said, “Heeeeere’s Donnell,” doing his routine, and handed the phone back grinning. Donnell, not feeling any grins inside him, told Doris straight Mr. Ricks was moving a million seven from his trust account to the commercial one, gave her the account numbers by heart and listened to her repeat the whole thing. “That’s it. Okay, here’s Mr. Ricks back.” Donnell passed the phone to the man. The man said, “What?” Probably forgot
who he was talking to. Said, “Oh. Yeah, one . . . uh-huh, yeah, seven, that’s right. Thanks a million, Dorie.” Donnell took the phone back from the man’s shaky hand and hung it up.

Robin said, “She didn’t ask any questions?”

“It’s the man’s money,” Donnell said to her. “He can do what he wants with it.”

Skip came over saying, “Give me a hand,” and they pulled the table away from Chris and Greta wedged in there. Skip said to them, “You don’t mind, you’re going in the garage till we leave. Get you out of our hair.” Then looked this way at Donnell and said, “You take Mr. Woody, all right?”

Man with a gun stuck in his pants being so polite.

Donnell wondered for a second if he should say, Wait now, he was supposed to fill in the checks. But
he didn’t. Best just to go in there. It was happening the way Chris Mankowski had said last night he thought it would. They’d get put in the garage. Then Skip and Robin would go in the library to get the check. He’d said to Chris, “What about the bomb in the garage?” Chris said, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll find the wire and cut it.” He’d said to Chris, “But what if they come back from the library?” And Chris said, “They won’t.” Without having time to say how it would work. What he said was to let it happen and don’t get Skip or Robin mad.

That’s why Donnell couldn’t believe it when Robin started out of the kitchen and Chris said, “Robin?”

She stopped and looked at him.

“Put the gun on the table and lay on the floor.”

It was like Robin couldn’t believe it either, the way she was looking at him, going, “What?”

He was saying to Skip, “You too. Gun on the table, lay face down on the floor.”

Skip said, “I like your spunk, man. Heavy.”

Robin said, “You believe it?”

Skip said, “That’s from the dick handbook, how you’re suppose to do it.”

Donnell, a step off from Skip and behind him, tried shaking his head at Chris, but the man wouldn’t look at him. Doing what he said not to, causing a mean, bitchy look to come over Robin’s face. Then making it worse.

Chris saying, “I have to give you a chance. You don’t take it, it’s up to you.”

Sure enough, Robin pulled the gun out of her jeans and stiff-armed it in Chris’s face. She said, “I’ll give you a chance to get in the fucking garage, man. How’s that? Or die here.”

Skip made a face in his beard, telling her, “Hey, let’s stick to the goddamn script, okay? You get the check, I’ll put them in the garage.”

Donnell thinking, That’s it, let it happen. But no.

The hard-on cop had to say to her now, in his quiet way, “Robin? You’re not gonna make it.”

Why was he telling her? Donnell kept shaking his head, saying inside it, Look at me, look at me. But the man wouldn’t.

Skip told her, “Go, will you.”

Robin did, but stepped up to Chris first to touch the gun to his head and tell him, “I’ll be right back.”

He didn’t say anything to her, kept still as she walked into the butler’s pantry, finally leaving. Didn’t say a word till Skip, staring at him, said:

“What’s gonna stop her?”

Asking it like that—Chris still didn’t have to say one word, let it happen, but he did.

He said, “Five sticks of Austin Powder.”

Skip’s hand moved slow-motion over his beard. He said, “Five sticks . . .”

“In a black bag,” Chris said.

And Skip said, “Oh, shit.”

“In the desk now,” Chris said. “In the drawer with the checkbook.”

Skip paused. He said, “You’re trying to fake me out, aren’t you? How would you know how to wire a charge?”

Right there—too good to resist. “I guess nobody told you,” Donnell said, having to say it, “my friend here was on the Bomb Squad.”

Skip banged open the swing door yelling “Robin!” running through the dining room, knowing in his mind he should never have got into this, yelling “Robin!” in the front hall, the woman working it, changing it, messing it up and never telling him a goddamn thing. He was too old for this—got to the library door to see her across the room at the desk, had time to breathe and yell at her, “Don’t touch it!”

It was quiet in the kitchen. Chris looked at Greta, her face raised, listening. Donnell stood across the table. He put his hand on the man’s shoulder, and Woody opened his eyes and blinked a few times at Greta. He said, “Hey, I know you.”

Greta said, “Well, that’s good.”

Donnell said, “He got to her by now,” and said to Chris, “You had to tell him, huh? Say to me don’t say nothing, you had to tell him.”

Chris said, “You want Skip with us or with Robin?”

Donnell had to think about that.

Greta said, “Maybe we should just leave.”

Donnell jumped on that. “Before they come back in here, with their guns.”

Chris said, “Wait.”

Donnell said, “I like to know what they doing.”

“She’s close to it,” Chris said. “It’s right there.”

Donnell said, “Wait now. Man, wait just a minute. Mr. Woody’s new will I spent my fucking life getting him to sign is in that same place, man, in the
desk
.” Donnell was moving toward the pantry. “He
can’t
let the woman open that drawer.”

Chris said, “Five bucks she does.”

They might not have heard him. At that moment dynamite exploded a few rooms away, not as loud as imagined waiting for it to happen; but the sound of it, so hard and sudden, did fill the room and the impact rattled the windows and the table and made the coffee cups jump.