Freaky Deaky

MARK: Well, let's say like if I were to go along with it… ROBIN: Cut the shit, Mark. You're a big boy. You say yes or no. If you say yes, your troubles are over. If you say no, you're on your own.

MARK: I don't know what you're gonna do.

ROBIN: Of course not. You don't want to know.

MARK: All right. How much?

ROBIN: You want it done?

Silence. Skip didn't move.

MARK: Yes.

ROBIN: Two million.

"Jesus Christ," Skip said.

ROBIN: We'll work out the payment, make it look like an investment.

Silence.

MARK: All right.

Skip raised his eyebrows at Robin, who stared back at him, holding up her hand.

ROBIN: There's one thing you have to do.

MARK: What?

ROBIN: Get me a key to Woody's limo.

MARK: How would I do that?

ROBIN: Mark… if that's all you have to do, don't you think you'll find a way?

MARK: I guess so.

ROBIN: Will you do it?

Silence.

MARK: Okay.

Robin pushed the OFF button. Skip sat at the kitchen counter nodding, thinking about it. He looked up at Robin.

"What do you need the car key for?"

"So you can get in. I'm sure they keep it locked."

"Shit, that's no problem. I'd rather do it myself than wait for little Markie."

"I want him involved," Robin said.

"He's involved. He said yeah, he's gonna pay to see his brother disappear. What else you want?"

"How about a way to do it?"

Skip said, "How 'bout when Woody comes out to the car and the Black-ass Panther opens the door for him?"

"I like it," Robin said.

"Same as the one I did in L.A. many years ago. Put the charge in the trunk of the car. Dynamite, about five sticks is all, ammonium nitrate and a plastic bottle of fuel oil.

Insert blasting cap in a stick and run two wires from it-one to the battery, the other to a clothespin that's got copper around each end where it snaps together-and run a third wire back to the battery. You got it?"

"You wedge the clothespin open," Robin said.

"You got it. Use a little hunk of wood and run a line from it through the trunk and around the side of the back seat and hook it to the door with a safety pin. The door opens, it pulls the wedge out of the clothespin, your circuit is closed, and the car goes up in a great big ball of fire."

Robin said, "How do you know which door he'll open?"

"If I have any doubts I'll wire 'em both."

"You're my hero," Robin said.

"What do I get for being it?"

"You get to trip," Robin said.

"I brought you a present." s was going to visit Greta on Wednesday, but before he was out of 1300, Wednesday had become one of the worst days of his life and he never made it to the hospital. He did call, late, and a nurse told him Greta was diagnosed as having a mild concussion and would probably be released in the morning, after the doctor looked at her.

When he walked into Detroit General Thursday about 10 A.M. Greta had on her sweater and skirt, anxious to leave.

She said, "This's the scariest hospital I've ever been in."

Chris told her it was old.

"I don't mean how it looks," Greta said.

"There people in here handcuffed to their beds. I think half the patients have gunshot wounds." Chris said, Well, some of them. Outside in the sunlight he asked if he could drive her home or anywhere. Greta said she had a car.

After that, walking along St. Antoine toward the parking structure, she was quiet. He asked her if she felt okay.

She said, Fine. Then she said, "How come this morning, Maureen stops by to talk? She tells me I have to come up to sign the complaint and all, acting like it's her case now.

I asked where you were, she said you were busy."

"I was taken off," Chris said.

"Why?"

"It has to do with the way cases are assigned, according to the workload." He glanced at Greta and saw her eyes narrowed at him.

She said, "I can tell if you're lying."

"It's true."

"Yeah, but something happened you're not telling me about."

"Maureen's a pro," Chris said.

"You have nothing to worry about."

He didn't have to dodge or add to that. They were in the parking structure now, Greta looking around. She said, "I left it right in this aisle, I know I did. It's a light-blue Ford Escort." After a while she said, "Shit. Somebody stole my car. Is that possible, a block from the police station?"

"They get stolen closer to it than that," Chris said.

They walked back to 1300, into the Clinton Street entrance and the dismal lobby that belonged to the First Precinct. At the counter Greta told the sergeant wearing a white uniform shirt her car had been stolen just two blocks from here, an '84 Ford Escort, light blue, license number 709-G something, like GTN. Or, wait, maybe it was 907.

The sergeant asked to see her registration. Greta told him it was in the car, in the glove compartment. The sergeant said he would have to have proof of ownership before he could make out a report. Greta said,

"You saw me here the other day, didn't you? You know who I am. You think I'm lying? It's got brand-new snow tires on it I bought at Sears instead of leaving this dumb town like I should've."