He looked up and said, "You haven't either. Come here." Robin obeyed, joined him on the sofa, placed her handbag on the floor close between their bare legs, and let him study her profile as she stroked her braid and gazed out at the black and silver room.

He said, "You really haven't changed."

Robin remained silent.

He said, "You turn me on."

Robin said, "Maybe it's the robe."

"You like it, it's yours."

"Thanks, Mark, but it feels used. If I want a robe I'll get my own."

He liked that, shining his brown eyes at her. He liked her attitude, she began to realize, because he wanted some of it to rub off on him.

"I'm not kidding, you really turn me on."

She said, "That's what I'm here for."

"I don't mean just in bed."

She said, "I know what you mean."

He told her she made him feel different, got him worked up again the way she used to during the movement days when they were raising hell, running a campus revolution. He told her he felt the same way now, he could look at her and get high.

Aw, that was nice. It softened her mood. She said, "I missed you, Mark." She said it was weird, the feeling that she had to see him again.

"Why now, after so many years?"

"I could feel it too," Mark said. He told her it was like some kind of extrasensory communication. Like they were thinking of each other at the same time and the energy of it, like some kind of force, drew them together. He told her that when he walked into Brownie's his mind had flashed instantly on everything they did together during that time.

And now when he thought of her he'd feel a rush, like he could do anything he wanted.

"You can," Robin said.

"What's the problem?" Making it sound as though there wasn't one.

"I told you: Woody."

Mark said that at this point in time she was the only person he could talk to, because she knew where he was coming from, the way it used to be with Woody, Woody always there but sort of tagging along, never part of the action. He told her this was the reason he'd brought it up the other night, his situation, Woody holding him down, smothering him.

"I felt you reaching out," Robin said.

"People don't understand. Guys I have lunch with at the DAC, they're into investments, venture capital, they don't know from rock concerts.

That's what I want to do, produce concerts. But why should I have to bust my ass, go out and borrow money when it's right there, in the family?

When it's as much mine as his?"

"It's a matter of principle," Robin said.

"Exactly. You know how long I've been carrying him?"

"Forever," Robin said.

"But why doesn't Woody want to do rock concerts? Why Seesaw?"

"Yeah, or The Sound of Music, for Christ sake, Oklahoma.

He's the one comes up with these dinosaurs, but I'm the producer, it's my name goes on the playbill."

"Not exactly hip," Robin said.

"It looks to me like he's trying to get you to quit."

"You ask him for money, you know how he gives it to you? He hands you the check, only he holds onto it and it's like a tug-o'-war until he decides to let go." Mark was starting to whine.

"He resents you," Robin said, "your looks, your personality, everything about you."

"I know it, he's jealous, he's always been. Now he's getting back at me. It's all he cares about. But if I weren't there to run the show, you know what would happen? He'd fall flat on his ass."

Robin said, "But would it hurt him?"

Mark hesitated. He said, "No," sounding resigned, at low ebb.

"Not with his hundred-million-dollar cushion."

Now Robin paused.

"That much?"

"Close to it."

She watched him drink his wine and refill the glass.

Poor little guy, he needed a mommy. She reached out and touched his arm.

"Mark?" Felt his muscle tighten and took that as a good sign.

"Let's get down to what this is all about.

The reason you have a wealthy two-hundred-and-fifty pound drunk sitting on you is because he happened to get the estate and you got screwed.

But you stay close to Woody, you put up with him, because at least half that hundred million should be yours. Am I right?"

"That's right."

"Do you ever talk to him about it?"

"He thinks it's funny. I tell him it isn't fair and he grins at me."

"So there's no chance he'll ever cut you in."

"Not unless he dies."

"I was about to ask," Robin said.

"If something happens to Woody, are you his heir?"

Mark nodded, sipping his wine.

"You assume that, or you know it for a fact?"

"That's the way it's set up, the trust succession. A couple of foundations get a piece of it and some aunt I don't even know, but I get most of it. At least two-thirds."

"Sixty million," Robin said.

"Something like that. The trust keeps making money."

"So now you're waiting… hoping maybe he'll drink himself to death?"

"You see how he was the other night? It could happen."

"Yeah, but Mark, who do you think should decide your future, you or Woody's liver?"

"That's good," Mark said, grinning at her.

"That's very good."

Robin watched him look off, nodding, thinking about it. She said, "Mark?" And waited for him to come back to her, eyes shining, hopeful.

"You want to hear a better one than that?"

A woman detective named Maureen Downey asked if she just happened to run into Mr. Ricks at Galligan's.

Greta said she went in when she saw his car parked there.

The woman detective, Maureen, had nice teeth and appeared to be a healthy outdoor girl. Greta could see her teeth even in this dark end of the lobby that seemed like part of an empty building. The others were across the room at the counter, under the fluorescent lights:

Chris Mankowski-who seemed to know what he was doing now, if he didn't before-Woody Ricks, his driver, Donnell, and three uniformed officers, not counting the ones behind the counter. Woody Ricks had not shut up since they brought him in, but Greta could not hear what he was saying.

Maureen Downey asked if she felt all right. Greta said her head hurt a little and she kept swallowing, afraid she was going to throw up, but didn't feel too bad outside of that. Maureen said they were going to take her to the hospital. Greta said, Oh, no. Maureen said it was just across the street on St. Antoine; make sure she was okay. There was a commotion over at the counter. Greta saw two of the uniformed officers taking Woody by his arms, Woody trying to twist away from them. She saw Chris Mankowski pull a gun from under his coat, stuck in his pants, and hand it to the black policewoman behind the counter. He then took hold of Woody's necktie and led him to what looked like a freight elevator at the end of the counter, the two officers still holding on to Woody's arms. They went into the elevator and the door closed. Greta asked Maureen where they were taking him. Maureen said up to Prisoner Detention on nine.

She said Mr. Ricks was not helping his case any: he'd be held overnight because of the way he was acting and be arraigned in the morning at Frank Murphy. Greta said, Oh, boy. Not too happy. She lowered her head to rest it on her hand. Maureen got up from the bench they were sitting on, saying she'd be right back, and walked over to the counter.

Not a minute later Greta looked up to see Woody's driver, Donnell, standing in front of her. Donnell said, "You in trouble now, if you don't know it." Greta said, "Why don't you go to hell." He stood there looking down at her until she heard Maureen coming, Maureen calling Donnell by name, telling him to keep away from her. Donnell left and Maureen said, "Did he threaten you?" Greta shook her head, swallowing. She didn't feel like talking, not even to Maureen.

Skip remembered Robin's mom's house, big country place made of field stone and white trim with black shutters, off Lone Pine in Bloomfield Hills and worth a lot. The kind of house important executives lived in. He liked the idea of staying here but arrived bitchy; he'd been ready to come last night and Robin wasn't home.