Freaky Deaky

by Elmore Leonard

  This time when he called her phone-answering voice came on, though not the cute Ginger one saying she wasn't home, doggone it. The voice said, "Hi, this is Greta Wyatt. If you'll leave your name and number, please, after you hear the beep, I'll get back to you." Chris waited for the beep and said, "Greta? It's Chris. I'm home--"

  Then heard her real voice come on saying, "Hi. I was listening, hoping it was you."

  "You have a different way of answering."

  "Yeah, I changed it. It's a long story. Well, actually it isn't so long, but it's hard to explain."

  "I called before, your line was busy."

  "It's Mother's Day, I was talking to my mom and dad. Also, the real estate guy called first thing this morning. The people buying the house have to get out of theirs--I think they've been putting it off-- and now they want to move in Tuesday."

  "That soon?"

  "I told the real estate guy, Swell, now I have to hurry up and find a place. I've been reading the classifieds, but I don't know where any of the streets are and the two I called up both sounded colored."

  Chris said, "I have to do that too. Find a place."

  There was a silence on the line. Now that he was facing it he wasn't sure what to say. Moving in with a young lady and going apartment-hunting with her were two different things. He was glad Greta didn't say anything cute.

  "My dad's coming home this afternoon. I have to meet them at the airport."

  "I have to wait for the real estate guy to call me back," Greta said. "He thinks maybe he can find me something, but if he doesn't. . . . I don't know, I'll call a few more."

  Giving him his cue again. Chris said, "Well, listen, after I get back from the airport, how about if we go out, get something to eat?"

  "Sounds good."

  There was another silence.

  "I'd help you look for a place, but I have to wait for my dad to call."

  "That's okay."

  "See if they get an earlier flight. Then I'll be over soon as I can."

  "Fine, but you better call first."

  "Okay."

  "If I have to go out I'll leave a message on the answering thing, when I'll be back, okay?"

  He didn't want to hang up.

  "I couldn't call you last night. I got into something. . . . Well, I'll tell you about it. What did you do?"

  "Nothing. Watched television and went to bed." She said, "Chris, I miss you."

  "I miss you too. I wish you were here."

  "I'm gonna have to hire a mover, for my stuff."

  "I can get a truck. Don't worry about it."

  She said, "What would I do without you?"

  They said goodbye right after that and hung up, and he wondered if she was being sarcastic. Except she'd said she missed him. He thought maybe she sounded different. Yesterday she thought he was different. They weren't yet in touch with what slight change meant in each other. He shouldn't assume anything, outside of she was a little more serious, her mind taken up with finding a place to live, and he hadn't been any help to her at all. He should call her back and tell her there was nothing to worry about, they'd find a place.

  Or tell her at least that he'd help her find a place.

  Or talk about something else. Tell her about Juicy.

  She might not think living together was such a good idea anyway. This soon.

  If his dad and Esther got on the flight that arrived at three thirty, they'd be at the Toronto airport by two-something. Leave the hotel an hour before that. . . . He'd have to leave here by two, drive all the way to Metro, find a place to park. . . . He'd have time if he left right now to stop off and see Donnell first. Except it wasn't a stop-off kind of job. Holding the gun on the guy, say, "We'll have to finish this later. I have to go pick up my dad." Shit, he'd have to stop off at 1300 and reload the Glock or else pick up a box of nines somewhere. Find a gun shop open on Sunday. He had to see Donnell today. Locate Robin and Skip. Be ready for Monday morning. He should've told his dad he was working or made something up. There was nothing worse than waiting for a phone to ring when you knew it might not.

  And it didn't.

  Two P.M. he was ready to leave, wearing a blue button-down shirt and khakis, and didn't feel right. For six years he'd never left wherever he was living without his Spyder-Co knife, his Mini-Mag flashlight and a gun, things you needed pockets for. So he put on his beige sportcoat. Then put on a faded red tie and felt better. He left the apartment a little after two and made one stop, at 1300, went up to Firearms and Explosives and reloaded the Glock auto. He considered taking along a box of 9-millimeters but decided against it. If he couldn't scare the shit out of Donnell with seventeen rounds he had no business trying.

  * * *

  His dad came off the plane with a dazed look, shaking his head, his raincoat and Esther's mink over one arm. He put the other arm around Chris and they gave each other a kiss on the cheek. Chris went to Esther, flashing her blue-shadowed, sixty-four-year-old eyes at him, hunched over and gave her a kiss while his dad told them they shouldn't make up a schedule if it don't mean anything. Look at what time it was, seven thirty, for Christ sake. Standing there talking about it. Moving finally, creeping along, Esther telling about Toronto, asking him to guess who they saw, staying at the Sutton Place. Touching his arm and stopping in the crowded aisle of the terminal to tell him: Tom Selleck. And the one who was in "Cheers," Ted Danson. His dad saying, And that broad, what's her name, the blonde. Esther saying, Kathleen Turner, staying at the same hotel, they saw her in the lobby, twice. . . . Chris trying to move them through the crowd, get them out of there.

  It was after nine by the time they'd crossed Detroit and reached St. Clair Shores. Chris had to help Esther up with her luggage and then stand in the doorway while she told him what a fine man his dad was, Chris nodding--till he opened his sportcoat and put his hands on his hips, let her notice the automatic stuck in his pants. Esther cut it short and said good night.

  His dad wanted him to have a drink. Chris said, Just a short one, calling to him in the kitchen as he went down the hall to his dad's bedroom. He sat on the bed and dialed Greta's number.

  Her phone-message voice said, "Chris? Hi. I'm going to see Woody and get that over with. Tell him I'm not going to marry him." There was a pause. "That's a joke. You're supposed to laugh. Anyway, I should be back around five." There was another pause before her voice said, "See you later. I hope."

  Chris waited, heard the beep and kept waiting for her real voice to come on. . . .

  Chapter 27.

  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 something. 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 fir
st, 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."