"Clothespins?"

"Have Wendell put on the warrant you're looking for explosive materials and literature."

"What kind of literature?"

"A notebook with a red cover that's marked "May to August 1970." If you don't find anything else, at least get hold of the notebook.

There's something in it, 'cause she hid it while you were talking to her. Covered it with some papers. Maybe she's got instructions in it, how to make a bomb. But even if it doesn't look like anything," Chris said, "hold on to it and let me see it, okay?"

Maureen didn't answer. She squinted, making a show of studying him.

"I don't get it. You want to work so bad, why don't you straighten out your residence problem, get your shield back?"

"I don't think I like Sex Crimes."

"Okay, but why this? What're you trying to prove?"

"Nothing, I'm just going along."

"That's what I'm asking you. Why?"

He had to think of words to describe something he knew without words, something that came to him as he stood at Robin Abbott's bookshelf and looked at her past and realized her past was her present.

"One thing leads to another," Chris said.

"Greta takes us to Robin. You find out she was a hard-core revolutionary at U of M and I pick up on it because I was there, I saw what was going on. I was even into it, not much but enough that I could feel it again. She did too, when I was talking about it. You see her face? She was dying to tell stories, top anything I said easy, but she held back. She was afraid if she got started she might say too much, give away what she's into now."

"If she's into anything."

"Maureen, come on. Why'd she hold back? What's wrong with talking about old times?"

Maureen said, "It looked like she's living in those times." Chris smiled at Maureen coming around.

"Or she'd like to relive them, huh? But if she can't, then maybe she gets into it in a different way or for a different reason. You know what I mean?"

"Maybe she's mad at somebody," Maureen said.

It raised Chris's eyebrows.

"Maybe somebody, when she was busted," Maureen said, "turned her in."

Chris said, "That's not bad, Maureen." He thought about it and said,

"Yeah, I like it. I might be able to look into that."

Me remembered one night in the Athens Bar, a guy he'd see in there, an artist by the name of Dizsi, telling how they had planned to blow up a submarine, the one that used to be parked in the Detroit River behind the Naval Armory.

It was for sightseeing, Dizsi said, but it was also a symbol of war. He believed someone informed on them, because the submarine disappeared before they could destroy it and later turned up in the Israeli navy.

Chris liked to listen to Dizsi. He was Hungarian and spoke through his gray beard with an accent that was perfect for telling about anarchist plots. Dizsi had escaped the Russians, traded Budapest for Detroit, taught fine art at Wayne State and supported student demonstrations until he was fired. Now he lived in a loft studio in Greektown where he painted wall-size canvases and was waited on by his mistress, Amelia.

"You remember Robin Abbott?"

"Yes, of course, and I'll tell you why."

Chris liked to watch him eat, too. Dizsi could make things Chris wouldn't dare even to smell look good. Today, having his lunch in the studio when Chris walked in, he was eating marinated squid and hummus, wiping Greek bread in the colorless paste. A bottle of Greek wine stood on the table where tubes of paint had been pushed aside. Chris didn't especially like retsina, either, but had some when Amelia appeared in a long white shirtdress and filled Dizsi's glass, Dizsi saying, "We tried to get Robin to join the Socialist Labor Party. Or it was the Young Socialist Alliance."

Chris watching Amelia, her face clean and pale as a nun's within the soft curve of her dark hair parted in the middle, eyes cast down; Dizsi saying, "It was a fantastic opportunity, here in a blue-collar city, for a mass orientation program…" Chris watching Amelia's eyes raise and lower again, Amelia leaving them now, Chris wondering what a mistress did all day, Dizsi saying, "But Robin was only words, pretentious rhetoric, writing about the proletariat without even knowing one person who worked on the line."

He pushed the plate of hummus toward Chris.

"Please, help yourself."

"Mashed-up chickpeas doesn't make it with me."

"Then why do I think you want some?"

"Go ahead and eat," Chris said. He took an olive.

"You know what organizations she belonged to? Was she in the Weathermen?"

"Yes, but in and out," Dizsi said.

"She was in the White Panthers at one time helping the Black ones. I know that because I went to a cocktail party for them to raise bail money. There were so many different groups. The Yippies, the Revolutionary Youth Movement, the Action Faction, the Crazies, the Progressive Labor Party, strict Maoists.

The Black Panthers were known here as the National Committee to Combat Fascism, and the White Panthers became the Rainbow People's Party. I was younger then, I knew what I believed. I ask these people, what's the matter with the friendly Socialist Labor Party, uh? I don't know, I think it was because we didn't drop acid and practice kundalini yoga.

It turned them off."

"Was Robin involved in that submarine thing?"

"Oh, no, that was in 'sixty-seven, before her time."

"But she did set a few bombs."

"I don't know if Robin actually did or if it was her friend Skip."

"Who's Skip?"

"You don't know that name? Skip Gibbs?"

"I've heard of Emerson Gibbs."

"Yes, that's Skip. He came out of prison and went to Hollywood, someone told me, to work in the movies. In Special Effects."

"You're kidding."

"Sure, he knows how to blow up things."

"They were making a movie here," Chris said, "blowing up things." His gaze moved to the painting Dizsi was working on: a giant canvas that was solid black except for a diagonal streak of white that had some yellow in it, near the base of the painting. He said, "You don't suppose Skip was here, working on that movie." The streak of white could be headlights, the way it started narrow and widened out.

"If he was…"

Dizsi said, "And if Robin knew he was here or happened to see him, and if they're still friends… and if I sell that painting I want twenty thousand for it. No, make it twenty-five."

Chris studied the painting, about seven feet high and fifteen feet wide. A door opened at the far end of the loft and Amelia appeared, daylight showing her body in the white dress. She stood there.

He looked at the painting again.

"What is it?"

"Tell me what you see," Dizsi said.

"Car headlights coming out of woods at night."

"You're absolutely right. It means you can buy it."

"I don't have a wall for it," Chris said.

"I don't even have a house." He watched Amelia close the door.

Dizsi was staring at his painting.

"Those two could live in there, in the woods, Robin and Skip. They were lone wolves. I think half by choice and half of it because people didn't like to associate with them."

"Why not?"

"They were unpredictable, they scared the hell out of people."

"Did you know Woody and Mark Ricks?"

Dizsi grinned, eating his squid.

"Ah, now we're getting to it. I didn't want to be rude, ask you what's this about. I met them, yes, and their mother. They're the ones had the party for the Black Panthers. I don't know what I was doing there, I left. But I did see the mother another time, when I was subpoenaed and had to go to the Federal Building."

"For what?"

"They were always inviting me to sit down and discuss subversive activities with them. Listen, I'll show you something. I have complete records of FBI and CIA investigations that concerned me directly or even where my name appeared. Like investigations of some of my friends or associates. All of this I got through the Freedom of Information Act, three entire file drawers full of stuff."