"You notice I never sing in the morning? I like to sing in the pool, your voice carries. But I never sing in the morning."?

"I notice that."

"You know what I used to think?"

"No, sir."

"That red things were best for hangovers, in the morning. A really bad one, I'd drink a bottle of ketchup."

Man was cuckoo.

"You know what I think I might do?"

"What's that?"

"Get married."

"You have to be in love, Mr. Woody. It's the law."

"I mean it. Not right away but pretty soon. There's one I like, too.

The redhead."

"You mean the one say you raped her, wants to take you to court and have you thrown in jail?"

"The one that was here-when was it?"

"You had all kind of ladies here, Mr. Woody."

Donnell'd had some, too. Some of the man's, brought here by Mark, and some of his own. Ladies who'd stop by for a late supper and Donnell would take off Ezio Pinza for his own kind of enchanted evening: put on the Whodinis, put on Run-DMC, put on some oldies like the Funkadelics, like the Last Poets, the original rappers rapping to "Wakeup Niggers" and get some live sound in the house. The ladies would be gone in the early morning, before the man had his drinks on the silver tray.

"The redhead, with the red bush."

"Has, huh? You don't tell me."

"Ginger," the man said.

The man remembered her name.

"She the one, huh?"

"I'm in love with her."

"Before you get married, how 'bout we get this new will done?"

"I could put her in it."

"You could. Let's see you have anybody closer to you."

"I can't think of any."

"Go through the alphabet. A… B… C… D. Anybody you like start with D, Mr. Woody?"

"Did you know I was suppose to wear glasses?"

"We thinking of Ds, Mr. Woody. Come on, let's think of somebody."

Donnell waited. If the man was any dumber you'd have to water him twice a week.

"What do I need glasses for, I can see all right. That's why I'm not gonna take singing lessons."

Man had chicken lo mein for brains. The trouble was, Donnell hadn't slipped him a 'hide at lunchtime, hoping to keep him more awake and get this fucking will taken care of. But the man was too awake, talking with his head wandering all over the place.

"I've been thinking of writing a book. I could dictate it, like we're doing now."

Donnell got up from the desk, went over to the man and eased him into his TV chair, staying over him, Donnell placing his hands on the fat arms of the chair. He was going to get it done and would sit on the motherfucker if he had to.

"I thought of somebody, Mr. Woody."

"Who?"

"Myself. I'd be proud to be in your will."

Donnell had to grin then to get the man to grin, but kept looking at the man's wet eyes to show he meant it.

"Well, yeah, you're gonna be in it."

"I said, who's name start with D? You didn't say nothing."

"I was waiting for you to get to L." The man still grinning.

"Damn. You way ahead of me, huh?" Donnell grinned with the man, wishing to Jesus he could make himself cry at this moment like movie stars. He rubbed one of his eyes anyway, put his hand back on the chair arm and said, "Mr.

Woody, how much you have in mind to leave me when you go?"

The man tried to look away to think, but Donnell stayed over him.

"I don't know…"

"About. Gimme a round number."

"How long have you been with me?"

Oh, man… "Mr. Woody, how long doesn't have nothing to do with it.

All by myself, who takes care of you?

Feeds you, cleans your mess, keeps people from running games on you?"

Keep going, the man was nodding.

"Who protects your life from people that send you bombs?"

"You do."

"What is a man does all that worth to you after you gone and you don't need the money anyway?"

"I don't know."

"Or have anybody else to give it to."

"Twenty-five thousand?"

Shit.

"Mr. Woody, you giving that to a woman you don't even know."

"A hundred thousand?"

"Your lawyer gets that for taking you to lunch and you pay for it, at your club." Donnell paused but stayed over him.

"Think a minute. Would you pay this woman two million dollars so she won't send you a bomb, blow you up?"

"If I have to."

"Then wouldn't you want to give the same amount, at least, to the person that's gonna keep it from happening?

You understand what I'm saying, the person being me?"

Look at the man's glassy wet eyes, all the busted blood vessels in his nose, his face; the man was a mess. Yeah, but he was nodding, agreeing.

"I guess that's fair."

Donnell hurried back to the desk and sat down.

"Okay, I'm putting in-how's this? You being of sound ilgB, mind…"-pausing to write-"you want to leave Donnell Lewis… at least two million dollars… if and when you ever die." Donnell finished, read it over-man, look at it-was about to say, Ready for you to sign, Mr. Woody.

The doorbell rang.

And what he said was, "Shit."

Got up and went out to the front hall hoping it was the paperboy come to collect, Donnell in a mood to kick the kid's ass across the street.

He peeked through the peephole as he always did, cautious, and the dark cloud parted and the sun came out to shine on-loo kit who's here-Sergeant Mankowski and the redhead name Ginger.

Chris said, "I hope we're not interrupting anything. If Mr. Woody's floating in the pool we'll come back."

"No, he's not floating today. Come in, come in."

"Miss Wyatt would like to have a word with him."

"Yeah, that's fine. He be glad to see you." Donnell full of life in his silky yellow shirt and pants, smiling white teeth at them, saying hi, Ginger, saying to Chris he'd been trying to get hold of him but nobody seemed to have his number; was he hiding or what? Giving them all this chatter crossing the hall to the library, saying yeah, this was nice they dropped by, saying,

"Mr. Woody, look who come to see you. Ginger, Mr. Woody, and her friend." All talk and motion all at once.

Greta was giving Chris a look. He shrugged, no help.

Donnell was going over to the desk, Woody was pulling himself out of his chair, straightening his bathrobe, making himself presentable, Donnell shoving papers into a desk drawer and opening another one. Now he was holding what looked like a leather-bound commercial checkbook.

Greta's voice, kept low, said, "What's going on?" Chris said, "Beats me." Woody was creeping toward Greta on his swollen legs, arms bent but outstretched.

"Boy-oh-boy… Ginger, is that you? Sit down and we'll have a drink.

Donnell?"

Chris watched Donnell move close to the man to say something to him and the man said, "Oh, yeah, that's right."

Donnell came over with the checkbook and said to Chris, "Mr. Woody will fix Ginger up. He's got the bar there has a fridge in it"-looking at Greta-"if you like some wine.

Or he'll make you a nice drink."

Chris said, "You have any peanuts?"

"Yeah, those peanuts, we fresh out. Listen, she be fine with Mr.

Woody. Can watch some TV."

Chris liked the way Greta said, "I wasn't fine with Mr.

Woody the last time I was here." Turned to the man creeping up in his bathrobe and said, "Are you gonna behave yourself?"

"Boy-oh-boy," Woody said.

Donnell touched the man's shoulder.

"Yeah, that means he's mellow, feeling good. He'll be nice. Huh, Mr.

Woody? Sure." Donnell looked at Chris again.

"Come with me, I'll show you something will interest you."

Greta motioned to Chris, Go on, and that took care of that.

Once they were in the hall Donnell stopped and opened the checkbook.

"See?" There were three green tinted checks to the sheet, issued by Manufacturers National Bank, each imprinted with Ricks Enterprises, Inc. and bearing Woody's signature at the bottom.