lines.”
Skip said, “Hey, Robin? I got an ear for bullshit, having worked in the movie business. Don’t give me this ‘Oh, by the way, Woody’s driver used to be a Black Panther’ shit. If I’m gonna take part in this I don’t want any surprises.”
“That’s why I told you.”
“It’s the way you told me I don’t especially care for. Donnell wore black leather and had a house full of guns. I know, ’cause I tried to buy one off him. He gave me his big-time nigger look and told me to beat it.”
“He wears a suit and tie now,” Robin said, “and shines his shoes. He might even shine Woody’s.”
“Why do I find that hard to believe?”
“I don’t know,” Robin said. “You’re the one told me everyone’s sold out, joined the establishment.”
Skip said, “Yeah, but I wasn’t thinking of Don nell .”
That night she was tense for the first time in years, driving into the Jefferson Beach Marina past boat storage buildings and Brownies, the boat people’s hangout, past light poles along the docks that showed rows of masts and cabin cruisers, and on down to the lakefront in darkness.
Robin nosed her five-year-old VW into a row of parked cars to wait and within moments felt relief.
Woody’s limo stood off by itself, the light-gray stretch with bar, television and Donnell Lewis, tonight inside behind dark-tinted glass. Other times he’d wait outside the car, still sinister in a neat black suit, the shades, the mustache and little be-bop tuft curling around his mouth. He never said much to other drivers standing around, he kept apart. She had studied him for days, watching the way he moved, smoked cigarettes, one hand in his pocket, until finally she checked him out with the doorman at the Detroit Club, who told her, “Yeah, that’s him, that’s Donnell. You know him?” Goodquestion. You can make it with a tall spade in the powder room during a Black Panther fundraising cocktail party and still not be able to say you know him. Or count on being remembered by him.
Robin smoked a cigarette watching the limo, the gray shape beneath a light pole, the windows black. She finished the cigarette, walked over to the car and tapped on the driver-side window with her key. Then stepped back as the window began to slide down and she saw his face in the dark interior, his eyes looking up at her.
“Are you waiting for that benefit cruise?”
“Tranquility,” Donnell said. “That’s the name of it, the boat.”
“This’s the place then,” Robin said.
“Went out from here, it has to come back. Pretty soon now.”
Robin thanked him, watching his eyes. Not as close as she had watched them the afternoon in the powder room sixteen years ago, her jeans on the floor, hips raised against the rim of the washbasin, Donnell staring at himself past her in the mirror, eyelids heavy, a man watching himself making love, no strain, until he did look at her for a moment before his eyes squeezed closed. But didn’t look at her again after that, as he collected the checks and left with his Panthers.
She turned with the hum of his window rising, went back to her car and sat there, not sure whatshe was feeling—if she wanted to believe he remembered her, if it mattered one way or the other—until she saw the lights of the yacht, Tranquility , a white shape, coming out of the night with the sound of dance music, society swing. A scene from an old movie. Robin circled back to Brownie’s, went inside and took a place at the bar to wait.
She ordered a cognac and sat quietly in her raincoat in the nearly empty marina bar-restaurant, hearing faint voices, a woman’s laughter, thinking, making judgments. Deciding that boat lovers were essentially smug, boring people. They came in here off their boats into another boat world with all the polished wood, the bar section that was part of a boat, and all the nautical shit, life preservers on the wall. Thinking, What is it about boats? Deciding boats were okay, it was
Skip said, “Hey, Robin? I got an ear for bullshit, having worked in the movie business. Don’t give me this ‘Oh, by the way, Woody’s driver used to be a Black Panther’ shit. If I’m gonna take part in this I don’t want any surprises.”
“That’s why I told you.”
“It’s the way you told me I don’t especially care for. Donnell wore black leather and had a house full of guns. I know, ’cause I tried to buy one off him. He gave me his big-time nigger look and told me to beat it.”
“He wears a suit and tie now,” Robin said, “and shines his shoes. He might even shine Woody’s.”
“Why do I find that hard to believe?”
“I don’t know,” Robin said. “You’re the one told me everyone’s sold out, joined the establishment.”
Skip said, “Yeah, but I wasn’t thinking of Don nell .”
That night she was tense for the first time in years, driving into the Jefferson Beach Marina past boat storage buildings and Brownies, the boat people’s hangout, past light poles along the docks that showed rows of masts and cabin cruisers, and on down to the lakefront in darkness.
Robin nosed her five-year-old VW into a row of parked cars to wait and within moments felt relief.
Woody’s limo stood off by itself, the light-gray stretch with bar, television and Donnell Lewis, tonight inside behind dark-tinted glass. Other times he’d wait outside the car, still sinister in a neat black suit, the shades, the mustache and little be-bop tuft curling around his mouth. He never said much to other drivers standing around, he kept apart. She had studied him for days, watching the way he moved, smoked cigarettes, one hand in his pocket, until finally she checked him out with the doorman at the Detroit Club, who told her, “Yeah, that’s him, that’s Donnell. You know him?” Goodquestion. You can make it with a tall spade in the powder room during a Black Panther fundraising cocktail party and still not be able to say you know him. Or count on being remembered by him.
Robin smoked a cigarette watching the limo, the gray shape beneath a light pole, the windows black. She finished the cigarette, walked over to the car and tapped on the driver-side window with her key. Then stepped back as the window began to slide down and she saw his face in the dark interior, his eyes looking up at her.
“Are you waiting for that benefit cruise?”
“Tranquility,” Donnell said. “That’s the name of it, the boat.”
“This’s the place then,” Robin said.
“Went out from here, it has to come back. Pretty soon now.”
Robin thanked him, watching his eyes. Not as close as she had watched them the afternoon in the powder room sixteen years ago, her jeans on the floor, hips raised against the rim of the washbasin, Donnell staring at himself past her in the mirror, eyelids heavy, a man watching himself making love, no strain, until he did look at her for a moment before his eyes squeezed closed. But didn’t look at her again after that, as he collected the checks and left with his Panthers.
She turned with the hum of his window rising, went back to her car and sat there, not sure whatshe was feeling—if she wanted to believe he remembered her, if it mattered one way or the other—until she saw the lights of the yacht, Tranquility , a white shape, coming out of the night with the sound of dance music, society swing. A scene from an old movie. Robin circled back to Brownie’s, went inside and took a place at the bar to wait.
She ordered a cognac and sat quietly in her raincoat in the nearly empty marina bar-restaurant, hearing faint voices, a woman’s laughter, thinking, making judgments. Deciding that boat lovers were essentially smug, boring people. They came in here off their boats into another boat world with all the polished wood, the bar section that was part of a boat, and all the nautical shit, life preservers on the wall. Thinking, What is it about boats? Deciding boats were okay, it was
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