"I have him sign three at a time when he's able to," Donnell said, "for whatever needs might come up. You being a need. You understand? This is opportunity looking at you." He closed the checkbook. They walked down the hall and through the sunroom to the shallow end of the swimming pool.

"Go look on the bottom by the diving board."

Chris saw the black athletic bag floating in the clear water. He walked along the edge to the deep end, looked down and studied the dark shapes on the bottom, Donnell's voice filling the room now, telling him from a distance how he'd found the bag, brought it in here and thrown it, and the bag must've hit the board and those things came out of it.

Chris looked at his watch.

"What time was that?"

"Was about quarter of eleven."

"You thought if you dropped dynamite in water it wouldn't go off?"

"I was hoping."

"You were wrong."

"Then why didn't it?"

"It still might. Or it could've shorted when it hit the water, blown you through the window. Why don't you come here, so I don't have to yell."

"I been as close to it as I want."

Chris walked back to the shallow end.

"We don't know what time it's set for, do we? If it was put there early this morning, within the past twelve hours…" He reached Donnell and said, "You know you could be arrested, withholding evidence of a crime."

"Man, I didn't make the bomb."

"Doesn't matter. Why didn't you call Nine-eleven?"

"Have the police come, the fire trucks? Pretty soon we have the TV news. Mr. Woody don't want none of that.

Man likes his privacy and is willing to pay for it." Donnell brought a ballpoint pen out of his pants pocket and opened the checkbook.

"Tell me what your shakedown price is these days."

Chris said, "Anything I want?"

"Long as it seems to be right."

"I say ten thousand?"

"I write it in."

"What if I say twenty?"

"I write it in. But now twenty you getting up there. I'd have to sell that figure to the man, convince him."

"He's already signed the check."

"Yeah, but that don't mean the money's in the bank.

See, he keeps only so much in there. It gets low, the man calls a certain number and they transfer money from his trust account to his regular business account. I think I could talk the man into paying twenty, but I'd have to have a cut, like ten percent. Two grand for the service, understand?"

"I don't know," Chris said, looking out at the pool.

"I'd have to take my clothes off, dive in there… the bomb could go off any time. I'm fooling with a fast high explosive under water, can barely see what I'm doing-" "You cut the wire," Donnell said.

"Is that all?" Chris brought out the Spyder-Co knife that was always in his right-hand coat pocket.

"Here, you do it."

"The shakedown pro. I should've known," Donnell said.

"Drive up in your Cadillac, twenty don't meet your greed. Gonna go for what you can get."

"The way I have to look at it," Chris said, "I make a mistake, I'm floating face down in a fucking swimming pool, something I never thought of before." He paused.

"You'd have to look in the Yellow Pages, see if you can find another bomb disposal man."

"For what, if the bomb's gone?"

"The next one. They'd have to try again."

Donnell stared at him.

"You think so, huh?"

"You don't seem to understand what this is about. It's a payback,"

Chris said, "get even for getting snitched on and doing time. Mark and Woody's mom told the feds where to find Robin and her boyfriend, Skip.

The mom's dead, so they go after the boys, thinking, Well, they probably told the mom anyway."

Donnell said, "Robin, huh?" and started to smile.

"First time we met I said you must be dumb as shit, didn't I? I'll tell you something now that we talked again. You still dumb as shit.

You live in your little get-even bomb world, down there bent over taking wires apart. See, that's why people like you get hired by people like me. I write down "Mr. Mankowski' and 'twenty-oh-oh-oh' on one of these checks, man, you'll dive in with your clothes on. It don't matter who's doing what or why and don't tell me different.

"Cause once you on the take, man, you on it, for good."

Chris said, "Let's go sit down."

He walked off, going to the lounge area halfway up the length of the pool-the arrangement of chairs and low tables by the bar and stereo system-and poured himself a scotch. There was water in the ice bucket.

A buzzing sound came from the phone sitting on the bar and a light went on.

Chris took his drink to a table and sat down.

Donnell said, from the shallow end of the pool, "That's Mr. Woody.

Wait half a minute, he'll forget what he wants."

Chris sipped his whiskey. The phone buzzed a few more times. Donnell was staring at the clear water.

"Say that thing could still go off?"

"You never know," Chris said. The phone had stopped buzzing.

"Come on, sit down. Tell me what Robin said when she called."

That got his attention. Donnell looked over but didn't say anything.

"I'm dumb as shit," Chris said, "you have to straighten me out. So it's not a payback, it's a pay up or get blown up.

The anarchist turned capitalist. It used to be political, now it's for money." He thought about it a moment, nodding.

"It makes sense. Get out of that dump she's living in. Or she's bored, uh? Tired of writing those books…" Chris sipped his drink.

Donnell was still watching him.

"So why didn't you call Nine-eleven? You find a bomb, you call the police, fire, anybody you can get. The only reason I can see why you didn't," Chris said, "you must be in on it. You're working it with her."

Donnell came away from the shallow end now.

"I let somebody send me a bomb? Am I crazy? Then get you to get rid of the motherfucker? Explain that to me."

Chris said, "Maybe you got involved after the bomb was delivered… when she called. It was Robin, wasn't it?"

Donnell didn't answer that one but kept coming, not taking his eyes off Chris.

"I think what happened," Chris said, "she thinks the bomb's already gone off, outside. That's the warning shot.

Now she tells you on the phone how much she wants and you're thinking, Man, why don't I get in on this? Or you don't think she's asking enough, so you tell her you'll be her agent, get her a better deal.

Extortion, though, I imagine you'd want more than ten percent."

"What I want," Donnell said, laying the checkbook on the table, "is to know how much you want. That's the only business we have, understand?"

Chris sipped his drink, in no hurry.

"I'll tell you what I have a problem with, and I'll bet you do too. The first bomb, the one that took out Mark. That wasn't a warning shot, was it? That one had Woody's name on it. Yours, too, if you open doors for him. But how do they make any money if Woody's dead?"

Donnell didn't move or say a word.

"Unless their original idea," Chris said, "was to get Woody out of the way and go after Mark. Only Mark went after the peanuts. That can happen, something unforeseen.

But you get down and look at it, I don't think Robin knows what she's doing. It seems to me she and Skip are as fucked up as they ever were.

Back when they were crazies. I think about it some more and it doesn't surprise me. You know why?"

Donnell kept looking at him, but didn't answer.

"Because people don't get into crime unless they're fucked up to begin with."

Donnell said, "The policeman talking now."

"You know what I'm saying. Think of all the guys you used to hang out with are in the joint. You've been trying to think of ways yourself to fuck up, haven't you?"

Chris reached over to open the leather-bound book on the table and look at the three checks signed by Woodrow Ricks, the name written big, all curves and circles.