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said. “Sure, that motel on La Cienega where Jim Morrison and the Doors used to stay.”
    “That’s how you remember it?”
    “Right off of Sunset. You walked in I didn’t know if it was you or some light-skinned colored chick, your hair was all frizzed up in a natural. I go, Who is this, Angela Davis? Once I saw it was you underneath all that hair I couldn’t get my clothes off fast enough.” Skip grinned at the motel scenes popping in his head until he heard Robin say:
    “You were Scott Wolf then and I was Betsy Bender. And five days later we were picked up.”
    “I’d gone to Venice,” Skip said, “to get some dope. . . . I don’t know how anybody could’ve recognized us, you especially, with that ‘fro.” And heard her say:
    “I didn’t either, at the time. I thought, Well, maybe it’s just as well. You think it’s going to be fun living underground, thrills and chills. I was never so bored in my life.”
    “I wasn’t,” Skip said. “I got into different gigs, some a little hairier’n others. I robbed a bank one time.”
    He heard Robin say something he believed was “Far out.” Impressed, but calm about it. Not too surprised.
    “Just the one, I didn’t like those cameras they had looking at you. I held up some other places, grocery stores, Seven-Elevens. I liked Seven-Elevens except they don’t pay much.”
    He watched her fooling with her braid. As shestroked it the end curled up and came toward him from across the room. Skip reached up to touch it.
    “What’re you doing?”
    “Nothing.”
    He dropped his hand to the back of his head and felt his ponytail hanging there, behaving itself. He watched Robin take a sip of beer. Saw her eyes raise from the can; not wearing her glasses now. Saw her tongue touch her lips and waited for it to come at him, flick out like a snake’s tongue. There was a little snake in her. She could hit you quick with a word or throw something when you least expected. She looked fine, not another one like her. The tongue slipped back in her mouth and Skip said, “You ever get laid underwater?”
    “Not lately.”
    She looked like she was waiting to see if he remembered a time. The same as at the restaurant yesterday, it was like she was giving him a memory quiz, going back to things that happened during the past almost twenty years. She was asking him now:
    “Were you zonked when you pulled the robberies?”
    “You think I’m crazy? ‘Course I was.”
    “Did you use a gun?”
    “Not in the bank, it was spur of the moment. But after that one I did.” He watched her take another sip of beer.
    “Did you ever kill anyone?”
    The sparkling water settled and he could see her waiting for him to answer, then smiling a little, holding the smile on him before she said:
    “You have, haven’t you?”
    “I almost killed a guy with a sword one time. I had it in mind.”
    “Working in the movies?”
    “Over in Spain. But the one you want to hear about—how I rigged a guy’s car with a bomb, huh? Blew when he opened the door. I never met the guy or even saw him, outside of his picture in the L.A. papers, after. It was a dope business thing, this guy pissing on somebody else’s territory.”
    Robin kept watching him. Interested but not the least bit excited.
    “It was when I was using that safe house in Venice. I’d take a trip some place, come back, and there’d be a new bunch of freaks crashing there. I didn’t think anybody knew me, except one time I’m there this geek keeps staring at me like for a couple of days. Finally he goes, ‘You aren’t Scott Wolf, are you? You’re Skip Gibbs. You blew up the army recruiting office in the Detroit Federal Building, September whatever-the-date-was, 1971.”
    “September twenty-ninth,” Robin said, “my birthday.”
    “The geek says he was in the Weathermen atAnn Arbor, but I didn’t remember him. He’d fix me up with weed, all I wanted for nothing—see, he was dealing—and then he put me in touch with