Elmore Leonard: Freaky Deaky

The waiter appeared with Skip's drink and the bottle of wine, opened it and poured a taste into Skip's glass.

Robin watched Skip hold the wine in his mouth and wink at her, and for a moment she thought he was going to spit it out and do a scene with the waiter. Skip loved scenes. But this time he swallowed and gave her a sly grin.

"I wasn't gonna do nothing. Guy's a real waiter, wears a tux, probably been here all his life."

Robin tried again, patient.

"You remember the last time we had dinner here?"

Skip had to stop and think. She watched him look around, maybe for something that might remind him.

"We got picked up in 'seventy-eight… It wasn't after they brought us back."

"Before that. Before we went underground."

"Man, that was a long time ago."

"We came here December fifteenth, 1971," Robin said, "about a week after we got back from New York." She waited again as Skip frowned, thinking hard.

"We went to New York for that stop-the-war benefit."

He came alive.

"Yeah, in that big cathedral."

"St. John the Divine," Robin said.

"You sold tickets at the door and walked off with something like nine hundred dollars."

"I think it was more."

"You told me nine hundred."

"The People's Coalition for something or other."

"Peace and Justice."

"Yeah, they had a bunch of celebrities giving talks. It was so goddamn boring, that's why I ripped 'em off. I figured they weren't gonna cut it, so fuck 'em."

"But when we came here for dinner, you were broke."

"I'd bought a ton of acid and a few pounds of weed by then."

"You said, "It looks like we're going to have to eat and run, fast," and I said, "Why don't you take up a collection?"

Remember?"

He was looking around again.

"Yeah, shit, I remember."

Robin watched his gaze stop and hold on a trio of strolling musicians across the room, short, heavyset guys in red vests, two with guitars, one with a stand-up bass. They were singing "The Shadow of Your Smile" to a table of diners trying to ignore the trio.

"I dumped the bread out of the basket and that's what you used," Robin said, bringing Skip back.

"You went from table to table."

Skip was grinning.

"I went up to this couple, I go, "Pardon me, but can you spare some bread?" The guy thought I meant bread. He goes, serious as can be,

"You ask your waiter, he'll get you some." I like to died."

"You sound more Indiana farm boy," Robin said, "than even you did before."

"From hanging out with these two stunt guys from Texas. Couple of shitkickers, but good guys. I think before Mr. Mario told me to sit down I scored about fifty, sixty bucks."

"Thirty-seven," Robin said, "and the drinks and dinner came to thirty-two fifty. You might've left a tip, but I doubt it."

"Come on-you remember the exact amount?"

"After we talked on the phone I looked it up in my journal. It was thirty-two fifty."

"That's right, your notebooks. You filled up a bunch, huh, writing your column."

"I have everything we did," Robin said, "from the summer of 'sixty-eight in Chicago to June of 'seventy-two, when we were busted and jumped bail. I have the names of every single person we were involved with, too. Including the copouts."

"I always liked your stuff, had a mean sound. You kept writing, didn't you?"

"I did "Notes from the Underground' the first couple of years. The Liberation News Service picked it up. Since Huron Valley I've written four historical romance-rape novels. Have you ever heard of Nicole Robinette? Emerald Fire? Diamond Fire?"

"I don't think so."

"I'm Nicole."

"Why'n't you write your own story? Be more exciting."

"I have a better idea," Robin said.

She waited for Skip's reaction, watched him pick up his vodka, drink most of it and rattle the ice in the glass. He was with her but not paying attention to every word grinning in his beard now.

"Man, we let it rip, didn't we? Dope, sex, and rock and roll. Old Mao and Karl Marx tried to keep up but didn't stand a chance against Jimi Hendrix, man, the Doors, the Dead, Big Brother and Janis. Hey, and my all-time favorite outlaw band-you know the one it was? MC5. Jesus, those dudes, man…"

Robin heard the strolling trio coming to the end of "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina." She said, "How about the dynamite runs? Stoned out of your mind."

"You had to be," Skip said, "car full of high explosives.

That first time coming back from Yale, Michigan, M-19, two lanes, I kept seeing the road disappear, like a big hole would open up in front of us and I'd think, Oh, shit, we're gonna die. Except I knew I was tripping, so I'd hang onto the wheel like my knuckles were gonna pop.

But I'll tell you something, I never had what you'd call a bad trip in my life.

I mean dropping acid. The only bad trips I can remember is when I wasn 't stoned. Wake up in some goddamn holding cell with these assholes giving each other peace signs."

Robin said, "I could tell you were a little ripped when you walked in."

"Not bad. All I had after work was some hash and beer.

I'm still geeked on acid, but couldn't find none. I can get blotter in L.A. once in a while, it's okay. But old Owsley's preemo purple or even windowpane, that stuff could get you in touch with your ancestors.

All they want to sell you on the street is crack and that's bad shit, messes you up.

Acid's good for you-I mean you don't overdo it, become a burnout. It's like a laxative for the brain, it mellows you while it cleans out your head."

Robin sipped her wine. She said, "I have some," and saw Skip's sly grin peeking through his beard, a sparkle coming into his pale eyes.

"You know I suffer from anti-acrophobia, fear of not being high."

"My apartment's right around the corner."

"Bitchin". What kind is it?"

"Blotter. Has a little numeral one on it."

"Shit, I gotta go back to work. They're gonna shoot some night for night."

"It's there when you want it," Robin said.

Skip grinned at her.

"You're setting me up, aren't you?

You got a dirty trick in mind and you need the Skipper to help you pull it."

Robin gave him her sort-of smile.

When the trio in the red vests strolled up she decided to let Skip handle it, not say anything. She watched him look up as the leader asked with an Italian sound how they were this evening and would they like to make a request.

Maybe their favorite song? She watched Skip's bland expression and saw it coming.

"You guys remember a group used to be around here, the MC5?" The leader frowned.

MC5? He wasn't sure. What was one of their tunes? She watched Skip, with his pale, innocent eyes, say, "

"Kick Out the Jams, Motherfuckers." You guys know that one?" Robin watched, thinking, Oh, man, have I missed you. hris asked the St. Antoine Clinic doctor if he thought a psychiatric evaluation was really necessary. All he was doing was transferring to another section. He'd still be at 1300 Beaubien, up from the sixth to the seventh floor and down at the other end of the hall.

The St. Antoine Clinic doctor, a serious young guy with narrow shoulders and glasses, not much hair, was looking at the sheet Chris had filled out. He didn't seem to be listening. He said, "Tell me if anything I read is incorrect. You're Christopher Mankowski, no middle initial.

Date of birth, October 7, 1949."

Chris told him so far it was correct.

The doctor cleared his throat. He cleared it a lot, faint little growls coming from deep in there.

"You're presently a sergeant, bomb and explosives technician, assigned to the Crime Laboratory Section."

"I'm also a firearms examiner, you might want to put down. Or I was.

Right now I'm not sure what I am."