Elmore Leonard: Freaky Deaky

When she answered the phone and he said hi, Phyllis said, "Hi, guy.

I've been wondering when you'd call."

He could see her in a silky negligee holding the phone in the crook of her neck, hair up, foot on a chair, cotton balls wedged between her toes.

"I want to ask you something," Chris said.

"If you had called yesterday-no, Thursday," Phyllis said, "I might've given in, asked you to come home. I was feeling sort of down, to tell you the truth. Chris? We did have some laughs, didn't we?"

He tried to think.

Living with Phyllis, most of the time it meant watching her get ready:

Phyllis bathing, painting her nails, anointing her big-girl body with lotions, putting on flimsy, see through undergarments that showed dark places… He gave her a pair of musical panties one time; you pressed the rose and it played the theme from Love Story-"Where do I begin, da da da da da da da… "-which got a laugh, but not much of one. Undergarments were her vestments. But then she'd "dress for power," as she called it, cover that soft white body in a business suit, and go off to the bank.

He began to say, "Phyllis…?" but she beat him.

"I met a guy yesterday, Chris."

Then paused, and it intrigued him just enough that he said, "Yeah?"

"A neat guy. Bob owns quite a large plant in Fort Wayne, Indiana. They manufacture dry-cleaning solvents, dyes, spot removers…"

Chris said, "I guess somebody has to."

Phyllis said in her grave tone, "That isn't fair, Chris."

"What isn't?"

"Taking how you feel out on Bob. Listen, I'm really sorry it didn't work. I tried, I'm sure you did too. It's just one of those things."

"Just one of those crazy flings," Chris said.

There was another pause.

A trip to the moon on some kind of wings. Gossamer.

"I think I detect a certain tone," Phyllis said.

"I know you, Chris. I know when you're upset. Your friend Jerry told me what happened and I thought, Oh, the poor guy.

On top of everything else."

"What did he tell you?"

"About your suspension."

"Phyllis, I just want to ask you something."

She said, "If you want my opinion, I think it's the best thing that could happen to you. Now you've got a chance to realize your potential and go for it. Get into marketing, that's where the action is, Chris, where it's happening."

"In marketing." It amazed him she could talk like that in the kind of underwear she wore.

"In a business that's on the move. You're a bright guy, Chris, and you're not afraid to take risks. Think of how many years you could've lost your hands, or even your life.

We don't have to go into that, do we? The point I want to make: What did you stand to gain in return? Nothing. No bonus, no profit participation… Chris, my friend Bob that I mentioned? He started out on the road selling days. He worked his way up to sales manager, director of marketing, and when his dad retired he was made president and executive chairman of the board."

"Phyllis?"

"Yes, Chris."

"I was wondering, if a guy transfers money from a trust account to a business account and writes you a check, is it good right away, or you have to wait for something to happen?"

There was a silence this time.

Chris waited. He thought of something else and said, "Is this Bob by any chance married?"

Skip strolled through Hart Plaza from Jefferson Avenue down to the embankment close to the river. He took a moment to look at Canada, then strolled back across the sweep of pavement, past a tubular arch of sheet metal, the Noguchi fountain, a mist of water shining on it. A block from here there was a metal sculpture of Joe Louis's fist and forearm, artwork for a workingman's town. Skip's gaze wandered, ready to settle on any guy in his late thirties who could be a cop: a guy with a certain amount of heft standing in one place, waiting, eyes moving. He spotted a few black guys who could go either way, pushers or narcs, but no one who met his idea of what Mankowski would look like. So he went across Jefferson to Galligan's, walked in at ten to six, and there was the guy, Mankowski, sitting at the bar.

Skip was pretty sure. The guy didn't have the heft Skip thought he would, but he was the right age and had enough of a cop look: like an ex-ballplayer who'd spent most of his years in the minors. There was one other guy down the bar and couples wearing convention badges in two of the booths and that was it. Skip took a stool on Mankowski's left, leaving a stool between them, and asked the bartender for a scotch and water. After taking a good sip, he leaned on the bar, turned his head and looked past his shoulder at Mankowski. s had asked the bartender how the Tigers did today and Tommy told him they were playing tonight, Cleveland was in town. Saying there were only about five day games on Saturday this year. Saying all the beer drinkers'd be in about ten thirty. Chris had watched the guy in the black satin jacket come in and caught a glimpse of the movie name on the back, in red, as the guy looked around.

After Tommy stepped over and poured the guy a scotch, Chris heard him say:

"You ever been to Perry's in San Francisco? It's on Union Street. I swear this place looks just like it."

"It looks like some place to everybody," Chris said.

"Maybe that's the idea."

"Well, it's handy. You stay at any of the hotels, it's right here."

Chris said, "Yeah, it's right here." He took a quarter turn on the stool to face the guy and said, "But where's Robin? Didn't she come with you?"

The guy stayed low, looking past his shoulder. He turned his head to take a drink and then looked this way again.

"We ever met, you and I?"

"No, this's the first time."

"Well, I'm gonna have to ask, how'd you make me?"

Chris said, "I know you're not in the dry-cleaning business, Skip.

Maybe it's the ponytail, or the way you talk to your shoulder, like you're in the chow hall at Milan, I don't know. Or it's just you look dirty. You know what I mean?"

Chris watched the guy straighten and do a little number, a head shake as though he'd been hit. Skip said, "Hey, I don't want any part of you, man. Take it easy, okay?"

Chris touched the stool between them.

"Sit here. I want to tell you something I won't have to raise my voice."

Skip shrugged and then slid over, bringing his drink with him, saying,

"I know who you are, man. You're still playing the dick with me. Once a dick-am I right? I bet when you guys had some poor asshole in the chair, asking him questions, I bet you played the hardass, didn't you?

Show 'em no fucking mercy."

Chris said, "No, I was- always the nice guy. I'd stick up for the assholes and pretty soon they're dying to tell me anything I want to know. Like I say to you, Can I buy you a drink? Or I say, I understand you shoot dynamite like a pro. Rub your ego, see. Then I ask you where Robin is and you tell me. That's how it works."

"She'll meet you after," Skip said.

"Shit, you got me to talk."

"Why didn't she come with you?"

"Says she doesn't know you well enough. See, we got conflicting opinions as to what the fuck you're up to. If you're not a cop anymore, what are you? Things like that."

"I'm on you now," Chris said.

"Jesus, I know that, but what else? All I have, you understand, is hearsay. I'm suppose to find out what your game is, before you talk to Robin. If I don't like what I hear then you don't talk to her. It's like that."

"All you have to know," Chris said, "I don't want to see anything happen to Woody."

"You don't work for him. Or do you?"

"I don't want to see him get hurt. I don't want to even see him nervous or upset. If I do, I'll pull the chain on you and you're gone."

Skip leaned closer, sliding his elbow along the bar.