Gold Coast (12 page)

“What do you think I’m worth?”

Karen’s voice:

“I’ll tell you right now what I want.”

Not putting it on, trying to act sultry, but straight. Looking at him without the sunglasses. “I’ll tell you right now what I want.”

She wanted it, too. She had said the first time, “I could hardly wait.” This time was like the first time multiplied, more of it, more free and easy with each other, fooling with each other in that big broken-down bed, then getting into it, picking it up, beginning to race, feeling the rush. It was as different as day and night, the girl and the woman. The girl okay, very good in fact, but predictable: the same person all the way, making little put-on sounds—“Oh, oh, oh, don’t stop now, God, don’t ever stop”—she must’ve read somewhere and decided that was how you made the guy feel good. The woman, the forty-four-year-old woman didn’t fake anything. She watched him with a soft, slightly smiling look that was natural. She moved her hands all over him, everywhere, which the girl never did—as though the girl was supposed to get it and not give unless she gave as a special favor; the girl very open and, quote, together, saying, “You want to fuck?” if she felt like it; except that it had no bearing on how she was in bed—the girl
not aware of the two of them the way the forty-four-year-old woman was. The woman in the photograph. The lady in the million dollar home. The lady. That was the key maybe. The lady, with a poise and quiet tone, easing out of the role as they moved over and around each other on the bed, not being tricky about it but natural, touching, entering the special place of the slim, good-looking lady, moving in and owning the place for awhile, right there tight in the place, and the lady trying to keep him, hold onto him there. Yes, there. Now that was different. That was being as close to someone as you could get without completely disappearing into the person, gone. Man. To look forward to that for another—how many years? Wondering if it was a consideration, a possibility. Maybe not. But at least feeling close enough to be able to say, “They got your age wrong in the paper.” Smiling.

“They got a number of things wrong,” Karen said, “including the way it was written.”

“All the questions. It was like a quiz.” Kissing her shoulder, her, neck, feeling it moist. “I don’t care how old you are . . . we are. What difference does it make?”

“None that I can think of,” Karen said.

Her tone was all right, but what did it mean?
None
, because the way they felt, it didn’t matter?
Or
none
, because nothing was going to come of this anyway?

“I’m almost forty,” Maguire said. “It’s just another number. Forty, that’s all.”

“Then why are you talking about it?” Karen said.

They went downstairs and sat in the living room, with drinks Karen made at the built-in marble bar. Maguire checked the room for hidden mikes planted behind figurines and paintings or in the white sofa and easy chairs. They talked about Roland, what he might ask for, wondering if they could get him to ask for it over the phone, make an extortion demand and hook him with his own device. Which wasn’t likely. Sometime, Karen said, she’d like him to look at the antiques and art objects and tell her what they were worth. Maguire was ready to do it now, but they went outside instead, all the way out to the seawall. They stood looking at tinted points of light in the homes across the channel, at cold reflections in the water. He thought of the photo again that had been taken here, Karen standing with hands on hips, legs somewhat apart, sunhat and sunglasses—the slim, good-looking woman who was close to him, in a skirt now, barefoot.

He liked skirts. He liked the idea of lifting up a skirt, something from his boyhood, something you
did with girls. She moved against him when he began to kiss her. She let herself be lowered to the grass where he began to bring her skirt up to her hips and put his hand under it.

Gretchen came out and hopped around them, sniffing their legs. Maguire told the dog to get the hell out of there.

Sitting on the patio, another drink; were they going to go out to eat or not? It was strange the way she brought up the question of the dog, surprising him, asking him why he wasn’t nice to Gretchen.

He said, “What do you mean I’m not nice to her? What do you say to a dog that’s not nice?”

She said, “You ignore her. Until tonight you only said one word to her, the first time you came here, you told her to relax.”

“Well, that was nice,” Maguire said. “What do I want to talk to a dog for? I talk to dolphins all day, and I don’t ordinarily, you’re right, talk to animals at all. I don’t have that much to say to them.”

She said, “You know who’s nice to Gretchen?”

He said, “I’ll talk to the dog when I have time. I’ll be very happy to.”

“Roland,” Karen said. “He can’t keep his hands off her.”

Maguire said, “Well, I’d keep an eye on him if I were you.”

He said that, and they were friends again. The strange part was feeling a little tension between them over the dog. Or else he imagined it.

No, the dog wasn’t a problem. What mattered was, they always got back to Roland.

He said to her, “I guess I’m gonna have to meet him, aren’t I?” A few moments later he said, “I don’t see you having conversations with the dog.”

THE REASON ROLAND SERVED
the six months at Lake Butler:

Dade County Criminal Division had charged Jimmy Capotorto with three counts second degree and one count first degree murder: the victims being the three employees who died in the Coral Gables Discount Mart fire and the star witness who died of gunshot wounds in the parking lot of the VA Hospital. Dade County
knew
, circumstantially, Coral Gables Discount had borrowed shylock money from Jimmy Cap. They had the written testimony of the star witness, the former Coral Gables Discount owner, that described how Jimmy Cap had taken over management of the company and had decided to liquidate. They lost their star witness in the VA Hospital parking lot, on Eighteenth Street Road. But they now had a second star witness who described Jimmy Cap and revealed the license number of his two-tone red and white Sedan d’Ville pulling out of the lot moments following the
sound of several gunshots; this within two blocks of the Dade County Public Safety Department offices. Jimmy Cap’s lawyer pointed out that the first star witness was a drug addict and had gone to the VA Hospital parking lot to purchase stolen morphine to relieve his tensions. The second star witness, however, was a one-legged ex-Marine who had come out of the hospital after visiting one of his buddies. He said on the witness stand, pointing to Jimmy Capotorto, “Yes sir, that’s him.”

Jimmy Cap’s lawyer put Roland Crowe on the stand, and Roland said Jimmy Cap had spent the evening with him visiting a Cuban lady out on Beaver Road off the Tamiami Trail. The Cuban lady was waiting to go on next if they needed her.

The state’s prosecutor hammered away at Roland’s credibility, bringing out the fact Roland himself had served eight years in Raiford for second degree murder—objected to and sustained, but there it was—then asked Roland if he had spoken to their witness, the ex-Marine, out in the hall. Roland said, “No sir.” The prosecutor said hadn’t he, Roland, said to the ex-Marine, “You only got one leg now. How’d you like to keep talking and go for none?” Roland said if the Marine had said that, then the Marine was a fucking liar. The judge warned Roland his language would not be tolerated. The prosecutor kept at Roland, trying to
hook him. But Roland remained cool. He said to the state’s prosecutor, “What you say, sir, is your opinion. The only thing is, opinions’re like assholes, everybody’s got one.”

Roland was sentenced to a year and a day for contempt, reduced to six months following an appeal. But he had stared long enough at that one-legged Marine, who finally said maybe he’d been mistaken about his testimony.

Jimmy Cap talked about it all the time, describing Roland on the witness stand, even describing Roland to Roland himself, the way the gator had fucked their minds around with his you-all bullshit and had actually dis
tract
ed them from the reason they were in court. Jimmy Cap, at one point, had said to Roland, “Hey, I owe you six months.”

When Roland came to see Jimmy Cap, at his office in the Dorado Management suite, Jimmy Cap said, “Buddy”—meaning it—“what can I do for you?”

“I was supposed to see Ed,” Roland said, “but I guess he’s out of town.”

“So talk to Vivian.”

“Vivian’s out too.”

“Is it important?”

“He’ll chew my ass cuz I can’t find him.”

“When they’re both away,” Jimmy Cap said,
“they’re shacked up at Vivian’s for a couple of days. Ed tells Clara he’s gone to Pittsburgh or some fucking place, they’re up in Keystone.”

“Yeah?” Roland grinned, tilted up his Ox Bow and sat down. “That reminds me. The company manages a condo up in Boca, don’t it?”

“Oceana,” Jimmy Cap said.

“And Frank DiCilia had a place there he used, if I ain’t mistaken?”

“That’s right.”

“But I don’t imagine anybody’s using it much no more. I know the lady ain’t cuz I’m the one watching her. You know about that?”

“Jesus,” Jimmy Cap said, “that’s a weird setup. Ed told me something about it, I said, Jesus Christ, we back in the fucking Sicilian Mountains or Miami, Florida? We got better things to do. She’s not a bad-looking broad either, you know it?”

“Look but don’t touch,” Roland said. “I got one firmer and younger up in Boca just dying for it. But this problem, see, she’s a waitress at a place up there? And she’s married. She can get out of the house only maybe a couple hours in the evening; but I don’t have no place to take her up there. You follow me? I mean a nice place, to impress her a little bit.”

Jimmy Cap said, “So you’re thinking of Frank’s apartment.”

“If it’s sitting there going to waste,” Roland said.
“I remember I took a piss in there once, it had this great big bathtub you walked up some steps to get in.”

“Clean the little waitress up first,” Jimmy Cap said. “Sure, I’ll get you a key anytime you want.”

“Now’d be fine,” Roland said. He waited a moment. “Oh, hey, you got Vivian’s private number up there in Keystone?”

“Is it important?”

“Life or death situation,” Roland said. He grinned, but he meant it.

Maguire said, “I’m gonna make a phone call, that’s all. I’ll be right there.”

Brad Allen said, “You come to my office right now or you’re out of a job.”

The camp director. The school principal. Tell him what to do with the job.

Maguire watched him walking away. Pretty soon, he thought. He followed Brad to the office beneath the grandstand, ten by twelve, with a wooden desk, one chair, four cement walls covered with photos of Brad Allen and dolphins—Brad & Pepper, Brad & Dixie, Brad & Bonnie—Brad feeding, patting, kissing, presenting, admonishing, cajoling dozens of different one-name dolphins that, to Maguire, all looked like the same one.

Brad, seated, looking up at Maguire standing at
parade rest, said, “All right, here’s the new routine. You ready?”

“I’m ready,” Maguire said.

“Beginning of the Flying Dolphin Show, most of the people’ve just come in. Right?”

“Right.”

“You say, ‘Anybody notice that lion out there by the main entrance?’ ” Brad’s tone becoming an effortless drawl.

Jesus Christ, Maguire thought.

“ ‘We got Leo—that’s the lion’s name—to keep out undesirables, anybody that might come in and cause trouble. But the trouble is, the lion’s asleep all the time. Never moves. That’s why you might not’ve noticed him.’ Then you say, ‘Leo did cause a problem, though, one time, back when, for some reason, our porpoises were all getting sick and dying on us. Well, this fella came along and said, “What you got to do is feed your porpoises seagull meat, and I guarantee they’ll live forever.” He said he’d supply it, too. Well, we’d try anything, so we told him okay, bring some gull meat. Well, the next day he’s walking in with it, stepping over Leo, when all of a sudden about a dozen cops jumped out and arrested him. And you know what for?’ You wait then, make sure you’ve got everybody’s attention. Then you say, ‘He was arrested for transporting gulls over the staid lion for immortal porpoises.’ ”
Brad Allen grinned. “Huh? What do you think?”

“Can I use your phone?” Maguire said.

“Karen, how are you?”

“Who is this?”

“You know who it is.”

“Let me see. Is it Howard?”

“Come on—”

“Don’t you know when I’m kidding?”

“Well, I thought I had a sense of humor, but I think it was just ruined for good. Like pouring sugar in a gas tank.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at work. Listen, let’s meet tonight.”

There was a silence. Karen wondering what to say.

“At the Yankee Clipper. No, I’ll try to pick you up about eight, then we’ll go there. Okay?”

Tentatively, “Okay.” A pause. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, there’s somebody I want to see. So wait for me to pick you up.”

“I understand,” Karen said.

Jesus Diaz had taken Lionel Oliva to Abbey Hospital to get thirteen stitches in his head and four inside
his lower lip. They were in the Centro Vasco the next day, in the afternoon, Jesus having something to eat, Lionel Oliva drinking beer, holding it against the swollen cut in his mouth, when Roland came in. Roland said, “What’s the matter with him?”

“He hit his head,” Jesus said.

“I want you to pick up the tape after supper and drop it off,” Roland said.

Jesus looked up at Roland and said, “I’m going to Cuba.”

“What d’ya mean you’re going to Cuba? Shit, nobody goes down there. It’s against the law.”

Jesus had, only this moment, thought of Cuba. If he wasn’t going there he’d go someplace else. “You can go there now,” he said. “I got to see my mother. She’s dying.”

“Well, shit,” Roland said, “I got things going on, I got to go up to Hallandale—” Roland was frowning; he didn’t like this. “When you coming back?”

“I don’t know,” Jesus said. “I have to wait to see if she dies.”

“Well, listen, you pick up the tape and drop it off ‘fore you go to Cuba. Don’t forget, either.” Roland turned and went toward the front of the quiet, nearly empty restaurant.

“Where did he get that suit?” Lionel Oliva said, not moving his mouth. “It makes you close your eyes.”

Jesus Diaz was still watching Roland, the hat, the high round shoulders, the light behind him as he moved toward the front entrance.

“I’d like to be able to hit him,” Jesus said. “I would, you know it? If I could reach him.”

“When you going to Cuba?” Lionel Oliva said.

“Fuck Cuba,” Jesus said. “Man, I’d like to hit him, one time. I think I’d like a Tom Collins, too.”

Roland liked Arnold Rapp’s balcony view a whole lot more than his own. You could look straight down on the swimming pool and some palm trees or turn your head a notch and there was the Atlantic Ocean. It didn’t make sense. Here was Arnold, about to have a nervous breakdown, with the good view. Whereas Roland, who had the world by the giggy at the present time, had a piss-poor view of the ocean down a street and between some apartments.

He said to Arnold, “You don’t get outside enough. Look at you.”

“
Look
at me?” Arnold said. “How’m I gonna get outside, I’m on the fucking telephone all day. Now, you know what I gotta do now? Borrow money, for Christ sake, a hundred grand, guy I know in New York—if he was here I’d kiss him, shit, I’d blow him, he says he’s gonna come through. That’s what I have to do, get deeper in
hock so I can buy time to put together some deals, I ought to go outside.”

“You got this week’s?” Roland said.

“What’re you talking about this week’s? I don’t owe you till Friday.”

“Couple of days, what’s the difference?”

“You kidding? Almost eight grand a day, man; it makes all the fucking difference in the world.”

“Ed don’t think you’re gonna pay it.”

“He doesn’t, huh.”

“He thinks you’re gonna get on a aeroplane one of these days,” Roland said. “He thinks we ought to settle up. So he said go on see Arnie, get it done.”

“Get what done? Jesus Christ, now wait a minute—”

Roland reached inside his suitcoat and brought out a .45 caliber Smith & Wesson revolver with a six and one-half inch barrel, one of the guns he kept stored for this kind of work.

“Now come on—Jesus, put it away.”

Extended, pointed at Arnold sitting on the couch, the big Smith covered Arnold’s face and half his body. Roland reached down to the easy chair next to him and picked up a satin pillow. He held it in front of the muzzle, showing Arnold how he was going to do it as he moved toward him, the poor little guy pressing himself against the couch, nowhere to go, looking like he was about to cry.

“I’m gonna pay you. Man, I’m
paying
you,
haven’t I been paying? I got some money now you can have.”

“Shut your eyes, Arnie.” Roland took the pillow away so Arnie could look into the .45 muzzle that was like a tunnel coming toward his face. “Close your little eyes, go seepy-bye.”

Those eyes wild, frantic, the gun right there in his face.

“Ready?” Roland said. “Close ’em tight.”

Arnold grabbed the barrel, wrenching it, twisting, rolling across the satin couch. Roland yelled out something, his finger caught in the trigger guard, then grabbing the finger as it came free, holding it tight, the finger hurting something awful, and there was Arnold aiming the gun at him now, pointing it directly at his chest, Arnold closing his eyes, the dumb son of a bitch, as he held the Smith in both hands and pulled the trigger.

Click.

Pulled it again.

Click.

And again and again.

Click, click.

Roland grinned.

Arnold hunched over and started to cry.

Roland took the gun from him, lifting it between thumb and two fingers by the checkered walnut grip and slipped it back into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He patted Arnold on the shoulder.

“It ain’t your day, is it, Arnie? Come on out on the balcony.”

Arnold pulled away from him, his mouth ugly the way he was crying without making much of a sound.

“You dink, I ain’t gonna throw you off. We’re gonna sit out in the air while I tell you how you can get born again.”

“I don’t see why I can’t meet him someplace here,” Arnold said. He was sighing, but starting to breathe normally again.

Poor little fella, his nose wet and snotty. Roland handed him a red bandana handkerchief.

“You got Drug Enforcement on your ass, you dink. Ed ain’t gonna chance being seen with you around here.”

“I don’t see why Detroit.”

“Arnie, I don’t give a shit if you see it or not. That’s where Ed says he’ll meet you.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow, maybe the day after. You go to the hotel there at the Detroit airport and wait for a call. Ed’ll get in touch with you.”

“Yeah, but when?”

“When he feels like it, you dink.” Shit, maybe he ought to forget the whole thing and throw the dink off the balcony.

“Then what?”

“Then you meet someplace, you tell him your deal.”

“What deal?”

“Jesus Christ, you told me to get Ed to bank a couple of more trips, and he could take it all. Didn’t you tell me that?”

“Yeah, right. I wasn’t sure.”

“Listen, Ace, I’m standing here in the middle with my pecker hanging out. You better be sure you got a deal to make him.”