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this Mexican dude that worked for the guy that paid me to do the job. Only I never saw the guy. Only the Weather geek and the Mexican dude.”
    “What’d you get for it?”
    Skip watched her turn to the desk as she asked the question and pick up a can he thought at first was bug spray.
    “I got five grand. That was my price, all hundred-dollar bills.”
    Not looking at him Robin said, “It can be worth a lot more than that.” She was standing at the clean white wall looking at the can, reading the directions.
    “Well, sure, it was about ten years ago.”
    Robin said, “I mean there’s a way to do it now with a much higher price tag.”
    Skip was thinking, Has it been ten years? He said, “It was at least a couple years before we met in L.A.”
    Robin said, “We come back to that.” Staring at him. “You know why? Because five days later we were picked up. You said, ‘I don’t know how anybody could’ve recognized us.’ Have you thought maybe they didn’t? They were told where to find us?”
    Skip said, “I thought of that, sure.”
    “For how long?” Robin said. “I’ve been thinking about it for eight years. I made a list of names, anybody who had contact with us then or could’ve known or found out where we were. I’ve crossed out names until finally I’m left with two and they were at the top of the list all the time.”
    Skip watched her turn to the wall and begin to spray, her arm moving up and down and in half circles to form capital letters about a foot high, painting something on that pure white wall in bright red. She stepped aside and Skip was looking at:
MARK
    “The hell’s that suppose to mean?”
    He heard Robin say, “Dark hair, brown eyes, nice body. On the staff of the Michigan Daily , sold ad space. How about Mark the mechanical mouth?”
    “Mark Ricks,” Skip said, “sure, with the bullhorn. He’d lather up the students, get ’em chanting, the cops’d come storming across the quad and Mark’d split for the Del Rio bar. Man, you’re bringing it all back. ‘Two four six eight, organize and smash the state.’ ”
    Robin was spray-painting again, making waves, so Skip waited, thinking back. He could see a guy with dark hair and an Indian kind of headband onthat corner by the Undergrad Library, the Ugli, yelling through his bullhorn, a guy with him beating on a tom-tom. Skip said, “ ‘One two three four, Vietnam’s the bosses’ war.’ With his mom paying his way through school, huh?”
    Robin’s voice said, “He carried Chairman Mao’s red book in the glove box of his red Porsche.”
    She was looking this way now and Skip saw she had painted another name under Mark:
WOODY
    “Shit, I remember him,” Skip said. “Mark’s big brother. Was always in the bag or stoned.”
    “Bigger but dumber.” Robin stood there admiring her work. “Woodrow Ricks. We used to call him the Poor Soul.”
    Skip was nodding. “I can see him. Fat, sloppy dude with curly hair. He’d do this little wiggle and pull his pants out of his crack. Kind of sissified.”
    “Afraid of the dark,” Robin said.
    “That’s right, we’d turn the lights out on him and he’d have a fit. Hey, but he always had dough, huh? Mark’d make him pay for everything.”
    “That’s why Mark let him tag along. Mark would run out of money, he’d get Woody to call home and Mom would send a check. You remember their house? The indoor swimming pool?”
    It gave Skip instant recall. “ That’s where we didit underwater. Yeah, we’d go there weekends to party.” He grinned at the memory of that big glassed-in room, voices echoing. “Everybody’d get smashed, tear their clothes off and jump in the pool.”
    “Sometimes with our clothes on, ” Robin said. “Their mother used to lurk. Remember that? Never said a word to anyone, but you’d see her lurking. She was a boozer. Mark said she drank at least two fifths a day.”
    Skip closed his eyes against the naked-light glare, to rest them, and listened to