"Mark doesn't have a limo."

"Listen to me. You understand it could happen again?

Bam, you get taken out, you not even looking, don't even hear it.

That's why I'm saying you have to get a new will, man, Mr. Woody, in case anything might happen you don't even know about."

Look at the man looking fish-eyed. What's he see?

"That's what we gonna do next," Donnell said, "while you having your breakfast. Write down things for your will." Shit. Quick.

Woody said, "Will you get the paper?"

Donnell went downstairs. He'd look at the horoscope box in the paper and pick out a good one, read it to the man while he at his Sugar Pops.

This is a special day for romance Love is looking up. The man liked that kind. Or, what Donnell was thinking of doing as he crossed the front hall, make one up. Time to get your financial ass in order…

Don't put off making your will… Put in it whoever has been most loyal to you. Whoever cleans up your messes.

He opened the front door hoping to see the Free Press lying close by.

It wasn't on the stoop, it wasn't out on the grass… He'd told the fat-kid delivery boy, Man, if you don't have the arm then walk it up here on your young legs.

But the fat kid's daddy waiting out in the car, most likely hating rich people, had told the kid throw it, that's how you deliver papers, throw the motherfucker. The fat kid would obey his daddy and the paper would end up half the time in the bushes.

The ones to the left of the door. Donnell went to the stone lion on that side and leaned over its back. There was the paper folded tight with a rubber band resting in the shrubs. There was the paper and there was something else looked like a bag underneath it. Donnell stepped around the lion and down off the slate front stoop. It looked like a new bag, not one had been out in the weather. The kind of black canvas bag a workman might have left? Or one of the police yesterday looking around. Donnell saw the bag in that moment as a find, something that could be worth something. He picked up the paper and the bag and went inside, closed the front door and locked it. Put the bag on the hall table with the paper, zipped the bag open, looked inside at the clock, the battery, the five sticks of dynamite and the wires going from here to there and said, "Shit. I'm dead."

It took a minute for Donnell standing there frozen to tell himself he wasn't dead yet. That the bomb must've been put there during the night and had sat there all this time.

It took him that little while to adjust to the situation and tell himself, Be cool. Are you cool? He wasn't running off screaming, that was cool. He was looking right at the bag.

He thought, Open the door, throw it outside. But couldn't turn his back to it. It was like if he kept looking at the motherfucker it wouldn't do nothing to him. Except there was a clock in there ticking toward a certain time or there wouldn't be no need for the clock. If he looked at the clock it might tell him what time the bomb was going off. Only the clock wasn't face up. To reach in, touch it, mess with the wires, that wouldn't be cool. Look at a clock the last thing he ever did on earth?

What did that leave for him to do?

Donnell wiggled his toes in his hundred-dollar jogging shoes.

He said, "You got to put it somewhere, man."

Thought of outside, thought of down in the basement. He said, "You got to put it somewhere you don't stop and fool with doors." Thought another minute and picked up that bag again, the hardest thing he ever did in his life.

Donnell walked off with the bag down the hall, hurrying without running, the way those guys in a heel-and-toe walking race move their hips cute back and forth, holding the bag out to the side like it had a mess in it, went through the sunroom and out to the chlorine-smelling swimming pool, took some sidesteps turning, flung that bag away from him out over the water, ran back into the sunroom, hit the floor and covered his head.

There was no sound. Dead silence.

Then a ringing sound and Donnell felt his body jump.

The sound came again and came again, Donnell hearing it through his shoulders tight against his ears. It came again and he took his arms away, gradually raised his head. It came again and he got to his knees and reached for the phone.

"Mr. Ricks's residence…"

ICobin sat at her desk in a swivel chair, close to the red explosion on the wall. She recognized Donnell's voice and said into the phone, "Let me speak to him, please."

Donnell's voice said, "Mr. Ricks can't be disturbed.

You want to tell me who's calling?"

"Tell him it's quite important."

Robin was giving him her low, slow voice.

"You can leave a message," Donnell's voice said, "or you can call back later."

"I want to tell him I'm sorry about his brother."

"You can leave your name, your phone number."

Robin stroked her braid.

"I want to tell him it was an accident."

There was a silence on the line.

"What was?"

"His brother getting blown up. I want to tell him that.

Why don't you ask him if he can be disturbed or not?"

"Don't have to ask him, he's the one told me."

Robin moved and the swivel chair squeaked.

"I want to tell him I hope the same thing doesn't happen to him."

There was a longer silence on the line.

"I can tell him that," Donnell's voice said.

"But I want to be sure he understands it. If you tell him, you're taking on quite a responsibility, don't you think?"

There was a pause and then Donnell's voice said, "How much you looking to get?"

Now Robin paused. The chair squeaked again.

"I'd like about a million. Yeah, let's make it an even million. Can you remember to tell him that?"

"I believe so," Donnell's voice said.

"Would that be cash or you take a check?"

Robin hunched over the desk as she said, "You want to play, is that what you're doing? I'll play with you. In about two minutes, man, you'll hear the way I play. It's going to ring in your fucking ears so you won't forget."

There was a silence.

Then heard, "Hold it a minute."

Robin straightened in the chair.

"Hey, what're you doing?" Silence. She looked at her watch.

Twenty-five seconds passed.

Donnell's voice came on the line again.

"All right. Tell me how you want this million dollars given to you."

"Oh, are you back? You ready to talk?"

His voice said, "Behave, girl. I can hang up, end this business right now."

Robin got her low, quiet voice back.

"I'll let you know.

How's that?"

"When's this gonna be you talking about?"

"As soon as he has it."

"If the man doesn't want to give it to you, what?"

"Bow your head and think of Mark."

"Say you gonna kill him, blow him up?"

Before Robin could answer Donnell's voice said:

"All right, it's cool. I'll tell the man."

The line went dead.

Robin eased back in the chair and didn't move. She wanted to believe she'd handled it okay-at least considering the way Donnell was all of a sudden into it, playing it back, and it threw her timing off. The idea had been to keep him on till she heard the explosion, tell him to have a nice day and hang up.

She might have to give Skip a different version. Otherwise he'd say she blew it, misjudged the guy. Try to explain that. Well, you see him in his chauffeur suit opening doors, Jesus Christ, you assume he's now a well-behaved brand new house-nigger version of the old Donnell, right? And Skip would say, Hey, Robin? You decide this dude is born again and you haven't talked to him in like sixteen years?

Robin began to picture Donnell waiting by the limo, Donnell in his dark shades, the trim black suit… She lit a cigarette, got more comfortable in the creaky chair and began to think, Yeah, but wait.