Freaky Deaky by Elmore Leonard Page A

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