Gold Coast (16 page)

“I’m waiting for you to come out and say it,” Karen said. “What you want.”

“I’m not bragging or anything,” Roland said, “but ladies have asked me that before. ‘What do you want?’ they say, ‘anything.’ ”

“I haven’t said ‘anything.’ ”

“Not yet. See, the fact you got four million bucks, sort of—the proceeds of it—don’t make you any different from the other ladies asked me what I wanted. And I was in no position to be as nice to them as I am to you. See, Ed Grossi passed on before he changed anything, and guess who they put in charge?”

“I don’t believe you,” Karen said.

“Call Jimmy Cap. Ain’t nobody higher’n Jimmy.”

Karen started to move from the fireplace. She caught herself, moving to be moving, made herself stand motionless, relax, and put her hand on the rough beam that served as a mantel. Why was it so easy for him? Roland. The way he’d handled the police; refused to stand up or answer them. The convenience, the timing of Ed Grossi’s death. She wanted to probe, ask questions, insinuate—

And found she didn’t have to. Roland said, “You don’t know for sure Ed was gonna change anything, let you off, as you told me one time. No, I believe
he meant to leave it as is. So you’re lucky, aren’t you, the way things turned out. Now you got somebody you can see eye to eye with.”

“The way it happened to turn out,” Karen said.

“Yeah, I don’t mean we should go out and celebrate Ed’s passing, but it does make it easier for all concerned.”

“That he happened to die,” Karen said, staying with it.

“Hey, they got the guy,” Roland said. “Don’t try and mix me up in that. No, all I’m saying, you work hard and sometimes you get lucky. And here we are, huh?”

“You had something to do with his death,” Karen said.

“I know the boy did it, that’s all. Ask the police, I already talked to them.”

Karen wanted to say, And Vivian, who’s also in this. Where’s Vivian? But she held back, aware of herself standing at the mantel, alone with the man who wore his hat in the house, the backcountry gangster, the Miami Beach hotdog, the good-ol’ boy with his boots on the coffee table—God—making herself remain calm while she felt the stir of excitement, and thought, as she had the first time he came here—you can handle it.

Play it his way. You can take him.

Karen said, “You still haven’t said anything, have you? What you want.”

“Yeah, I said ladies have offered me things, wanting to be nice.”

“How much is nice?”

“No, it’s got to be what you
want
to give. You don’t understand, do you?”

“I’m having a little trouble,” Karen said.

“Look, you got four million bucks, the proceeds of it. You got everything you should want or need. But if you leave here you’re cut off, the funds end.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“I’m reviewing the situation. I can’t see you leaving and giving up four million bucks.”

“I can’t either,” Karen said.

“But your fooling-around love-life is also curtailed, huh?”

“It looks like it.”

“Unless you and me get something going.”

“You mean all I have to do is go to bed with you?”

Roland grinned. “You mention it, I get horny. But see, I’m not going to force you. As I told you the first time I was here, I’m your boy cuz I’m the only one you got.”

“I go to bed with you,” Karen said. “Then what?”

“You
ask
me to go to bed.”

“All right, I ask you. Then what happens after that?”

“We live happily ever after.”

“You move in here?”

“Tomorrow, you want me to.”

“It’s not just money then. Even a whole lot.”

“Money?” Roland said. “Shit, I want the money and everything that goes with it. You, the whole setup.”

“But you’re not going to use force, intimidation.”

“Other than keeping your dink boyfriends away so’s you become sex-starved.”

“If it’s simply between you and me,” Karen said and paused. “You don’t have a chance.”

There was Roland’s grin, showing he was enjoying himself and liked the situation. He said, “We might’ve got off on the wrong foot and all. But, listen, you’re gonna find I’m really a sweet person.”

MAGUIRE SAW THE
Cadillac Coupe de Ville in the drive as he turned onto Isla Bahía. He continued past the house, seeing the dead-end ahead at the canal, and came to a stop.

Nowhere to hide. He knew it was Roland’s car in the drive: the same one he had watched Roland get in when they came out of the Yankee Clipper, Maguire hanging back so Roland wouldn’t see the Mercedes.

He’d see it now. Maybe looking at it out the window right this minute.

Well, he could turn around and get out of here, quick. Or he could go in the house— Didn’t we meet someplace before? He didn’t know how to play it. He didn’t know how Roland would react. But Roland was there and what if right at this moment Karen needed help? Shit. Andre Patterson said he had nerve; but that was going into a place ready, knowing what you were going to do, having a good idea what the reaction would be. This was
way different. Goddamn Roland—he didn’t know anything about him except he was built like a six and a half foot tree stump and had the hands and the reach and a hide it would be hard to even dent, ‘less you hit him with a tire iron. From behind.

He could feel them watching him. Roland and Karen. Shit. He backed up the car, all the way past the drive, and turned in.

Marta’s hair was combed but looked wet, like she’d just washed it. Maguire said, “Anybody home?”

“He’s here,” Marta said.

“I know he is. Where are they?”

“I think you better not come in.”

“It’s all right,” Maguire said. “I’m not gonna hurt him.”

Both of them watched Maguire make his entrance, appear and wait to be invited into the living room. Karen by the fireplace, Roland seated in a deep chair with his hat on.

Gretchen came over, sniffed at Maguire’s legs and went back to Roland who reached down, giving Gretchen his hand to play with, saying, “You smell the dead fish on him, Gretchie? Huh, do you? Pee-you but it stinks, don’t it?”

Karen watched without moving, though she didn’t seem tense; her eyes following Gretchen to Roland, then returning to Maguire with a mild expression, Maguire thinking, what if the dog was a test and he had flunked it? Maybe that’s what dogs were for. Maybe that was the time, just now, to stoop down and play with Gretchen and try to think of doggie talk. He wondered how Karen was going to handle it, what she’d say—

But it was Roland who invited him in.

“Hey, come on’n sit down. You son of a gun, you knew it was me the other night in the bar, didn’t you?” Roland grinned. “You tell her that story about the woman with the parrot?”

“I don’t believe he has,” Karen said, a little surprised.

Roland waved his arm. “Come on in here and sit down, partner.”

Maguire walked around the couch facing the fireplace and eased into it at the end away from Roland. He looked at Karen: her eyes on him but not telling him anything; guarded, or only mildly curious. Then looking at Roland as he spoke.

“This woman had a sick parrot she kep’ in the bathroom,” Roland said. “Christ, spent weeks nursing it back to health, got it all well again and the parrot, you know what it did? Tried to get a drink of water in the toilet and drowned.”

Karen said, “That’s the story?”

“He didn’t tell it right,” Maguire said. “You don’t say the parrot was trying to get a drink.”

“What was it doing,” Roland said, “taking a piss?”

“No, it’s the way the woman told it,” Maguire said. “The idea, like this is a moving experience, she’s been waiting for somebody to come by so she can tell it. But then when she does, it’s at the wrong time. You know what I mean?”

“Christ, I know them women better’n you do.”

“I don’t doubt that. I’m talking about this particular woman. All alone, nobody to talk to.”

“Waiting for somebody to come give ‘er a jump,” Roland said. “I know exactly what you’re talking about. But what do you believe that parrot was doing in the toilet?”

Karen looked from Roland to Maguire.

“I believe it wanted a drink of water,” Maguire said, “but that isn’t the point.”

“If that’s what the goddarn parrot wanted, then say it,” Roland said. “Otherwise it don’t make sense what the parrot was doing in the toilet.”

“You tell it your way, I’ll tell it mine,” Maguire said.

Karen looked from Maguire to Roland.

“Shit yeah, I’ll tell it my way,” Roland said. “You leave out the best part. Or you could say—
yeah, you could say the parrot
was
trying to take a piss and it drowned. That’d make it a better story.”

“You miss the whole point,” Maguire said.

“Miss the point—you dink, I
lived
out there with those people half my life.”

“I believe it,” Maguire said.

“What’s that mean, that remark?”

“You say you lived out there, I believe it. That’s all,” Maguire said, looking at the redneck son of a bitch sitting there like it was his house, feet up, playing with the dog. Be cool, Maguire thought. Take it easy. But Karen was watching, and he had to say something else.

He said, “You always wear your hat in the house?”

“You want to say something about it?”

“I asked you a simple question, that’s all.”

“You want to take it off me?”

“No, I think it looks good on you. Tells what you are.”

Black metal tongs and a poker hung at the end of the fireplace behind Karen.

“And what do you say I am?” Roland said.

“Let’s see. You wear a range hat and cowboy boots,” Maguire said, “and that suit”—aware of Karen listening—“I’d have to guess you’re with a circus.”

“You guessed it,” Roland said, starting to pull
himself out of the chair, ignoring Gretchen jumping at his leg. “And you know what I do at the circus?”

Karen could say something now. Right now would be a wonderful time for her to get into it. But Karen watched them without saying a word.

Maguire paused.

Three steps to the black iron poker—if he could get it off the hook in time.

He said, “Let’s see. Are you one of the clowns?”

Roland said, “No, I’m not one of the clowns.” Standing now, ten feet away. “I’m the Wildman of the Big Swamp, and what I do”—moving toward Maguire now—“I take smartass little dinks that smell of fish and I tear ’em asshole to windpipe and throw ’em away.”

Karen said, “Why don’t you sit down?” But much too late.

Maguire pushed off the sofa, going for the fireplace. Roland reached him easily, swiveled a hip, caught Maguire in a headlock against his side and held him there. Roland squeezed his hands together to apply pressure, and Maguire gagged, feeling his breath cut off.

“Leave him alone,” Karen said, in a mild tone. Maguire hearing it and thinking, Christ,
tell
him! Make him! He couldn’t move; he tried to push against Roland, tried to reach around to get a grip on the man’s hips; but Roland squeezed, and Maguire felt himself grow faint.

“So this here’s the porpoise man,” Roland said. “Hey, partner, what do you do, play with them porpoises all day? They get you excited, watching ’em? Little shithead comes in here, starts flapping his mouth.” Roland held Maguire with one arm around his neck and began to rub the knuckles of his free hand into Maguire’s scalp. “Hey, shithead, how’s that feel? Give you a knuckle massage. I’ll give you a knuckle sandwich I ever see you around here again. How’s that feel, huh? Kinda burn, does it?”

Karen said, “That’s enough. Stop it.”

Roland took hold of Maguire’s right arm as he released him and bent the arm up behind Maguire’s back, lifting him up, raising his face that was flushed and stung, trying not to yell out but, Christ, his shoulder was about to twist out of place.

“That way,” Roland said. “Go on, toward the hall there.”

Karen watched, still at the fireplace, remembering something like this from a long, long time ago: Karen Hill watching two seventh grade boys on the school playground. The headlock; the Dutch rub, they called it then; the arm bent behind the back—

“Go on, get your ass out of here.” Roland in the hall now, giving Maguire a shove as he released him.

Maguire kept going to the front door. He saw Marta in the doorway that led to the back hall,
watching him, sympathetic. Or maybe not. Maybe thinking, So much for him.

Roland called out, “Leave the car!”

Maguire was opening the door when he called again.

“Wait a minute!”

Maguire waited, looking outside at the faint, early evening sunlight, not turning around. Roland came up to him.

“I want to ask you something,” Roland said, his tone mild again. “You’re over there with them porpoises all the time—you ever see ’em do it?”

“Do what?”

“You know,
do
it.”

“Every night,” Maguire said.

“No shit, every night, huh? Hey, you suppose I could come over sometime and watch?”

Jesus Diaz said to the woman in the doorway, her TV on loud behind her, “I know he be coming home soon. See, I know where he is. He told me to wait for him.”

Aunt Leona said, “It’s all right with me if you wait. Sit anywhere you want.” Pointing to some old lawn chairs.

“I mean I’m supposed to wait inside his place.” In case Roland followed Maguire for some reason, Jesus wasn’t going to have Roland see him sitting
here at the Casa Loma. He’d go to Cuba right now before he’d let it happen.

“Well, I don’t know,” Aunt Leona said.

“See, we old friends. I’m not going to steal nothing.”

Man, all that to get in his apartment. If it was dark he would have walked in himself. As it turned out it became dark as he sat watching Maguire’s black and white TV and drinking some of Maguire’s rum. A good-looking girl in a red T-shirt came in. Jesus stood up and said he was waiting for his friend. The good-looking girl said, “Lots of luck,” and went out. Finally, when Maguire walked in the door he looked surprised, though more drunk than surprised.

“I saw your two cars at the DiCilia house,” Jesus Diaz said. “But you’re all right, uh? You want to know who I saw before that?”

Maguire poured himself a rum over ice. “I don’t know, do I?”

“I saw Vivian Arzola. I look around Keystone all day. Nothing. I drive to her mother’s place in Homestead. There she is.”

“That’s nice,” Maguire said. “Tell the lady. Hold your hand out like this, she’ll give you a tip.”

“Right away Vivian’s scared to death when I see her. I say take it easy, I’m not going to hurt you. I jes want to tell you Mrs. DiCilia want to talk to you. She look at me like she don’t trust me. Something is
strange about her. You know? I leave, but I wait around in my car. Pretty soon she come out with a suitcase. I follow her little foreign car back to Miami to a house on Monegro. You know where I mean? In Coconut Grove, little pink house there. She goes in, a little while later I go up, ring the bell. No answer. Shit, I know she’s in there. But what’s the matter with her? You listening?” Jesus Diaz looked at Maguire stretched out on the bed now, holding his drink. “I ring the bell again. Nothing. So I open the door with these keys I have, you know? I look through the house. She’s hiding in the bedroom, man, in the closet. She say, ‘Oh, please don’t kill me.’ I say, ‘What do I want to kill you for?’ She say, ‘I won’t tell, I promise you.’ I say, ‘You won’t tell what?’ You listening? We talk some more, talk some more, I’m very nice to her, we talk about our mothers, I tell her I quit the business, I’m going to Cuba. She say, ‘I want to go with you.’ I say, ‘Why?’ We talk some more. You know what she’s scared of? Of course, Roland. You know why she scared? Hey, you listening? Because she know Roland killed Ed Grossi.”

“I’m listening,” Maguire said.