Freaky Deaky

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.

The light above the door showed Donnell in his yellow outfit, his expression almost a grin, getting ready to or thinking if he should or not, the look becoming a relaxed pose. Maybe a little vague, stoned.

He was holding a brown plastic trash bag, folded flat.

"I've been standing here five minutes," Chris said, "ringing the bell."

"Couldn't hear it with the music. Having a jivey kind of evening out by the swimming pool. I happen to go in the kitchen for something..

.." He showed Chris the trash bag.

"Man, you might not believe it, but I'm glad to see you stop by. Get some things straightened out here."

"Where's Greta?"

"Mean Ginger? She's out there."

"What's going on?"

"Man's having a party, entertaining his guests, what he does. Come on in, it's fine."

Donnell started to turn, hand on the door, then waited as Chris looked out at the street, at his dad's Cadillac parked behind Greta's blue Escort.

"The other people," Donnell said, "their car's around the back."

"Friends of Woody's?"

"Old ones. They been doing a little business, now they having some fun. Man, this is the most could happen, you showing up here. I expect you looking for Ginger. She mention she suppose to meet somebody, I figured was you."

"I was coming anyway," Chris said.

Donnell squinted to show pain and moved his shoulders, looking out at the night.

"That business with Juicy, huh? That wasn't suppose to been like that." His gaze came back to Chris, calm now, serious.

"The Juice, what I meant for him was to talk to you was all. You understand? Ask you kindly would you mind stepping away from something wasn't any of your business."

Chris said, "Or get my other leg broken."

"No"-Donnell again showing pain-"nothing like that was to happen."

"You and the Juice may have to pay for a windshield and new seats,"

Chris said, "but that's something else.

What I want you to tell me right now's where I can find Robin. We'll see how you do with that and then we'll go on from there."

Donnell's face turned deadpan.

"Like to speak with Robin, huh? How 'bout the Skipper? Like to speak with him too?"

Chris took a moment, looking at Donnell trying hard not to show any expression, the man playing with him, putting him on. Chris said, "You gonna bring them out or what?"

Donnell said, "Shit," and let his stoned grin come.

"How'd you know?"

"You'd better lead the way."

"We been waiting on you, man. What you been doing all day, sleeping?"

Once they reached the hall Chris could hear the stereo and recognized U2, the Irish rockers. He said, "That doesn't sound like Woody."

"It's Robin's tape," Donnell said.

"Robin's had enough of Mr. Woody's shit." doming out of the sunroom Chris saw the pool illuminated pale green in semidarkness and saw figures in soft lamplight, in the lounge area by the bar and stereo.

Three seated, one standing. The beat and Bono's voice filled the room.

Moving ahead of him, opening the trash bag, Donnell said, "Look at who I found, everybody. It's Officer Mankowski come looking to see what he can score."

He heard a voice, Robin's, say, "He's too late."

"We got leftovers here, officer." Donnell was at the table now, dumping the dinner remains into the trash bag.

"Help yourself."

Chris moved past him. He saw Greta get up from the sofa, her hair strange-looking, pasted to her head. She was wearing an oversized sweatshirt, white with a black band around the middle, that reached to her mid-thighs: legs and feet bare in the sweatshirt mini dress Robin, smoking, sat at the end of the sofa. Skip, next to her, was in a director's chair tilted back against the wall.

On the cocktail table in front of them were their drinks and sets of typewritten sheets of paper. Woody, in a bathrobe, stood at the bar pouring a scotch.

Greta stood waiting. She gave Chris a weak smile.

"What's the matter?"

She shrugged, raised her hands and pushed up the sleeves of the sweatshirt. Her face was drawn, without makeup.

"What'd they give you?"

Behind him, Donnell: "She fell in the pool."

"She tripped," Skip said. He reached out, waited, and Robin handed him the joint.

Donnell's voice, behind Chris, said, "Yeah, shit, that's what she did, she tripped."

Chris looked at Robin.

"You gave her acid?"

"I didn't give her anything," Robin said.

"Skip did."

Skip said, "Hey, what's wrong with you? You don't tell him something like that. He could go fucking crazy on us."

He said to Chris, "It was just a half a one. She wanted it.

Ask her."

"You tell her what could happen?"

"Hell, she's okay. Don't sweat it."