Gold Coast (13 page)

“Don’t worry about it.”

Roland liked that tone of confidence coming back into Arnold’s voice, the dumb shithead. He brought a folded Delta Airlines envelope out of his side pocket and handed it to Arnold.

“This here’s your flight. Tomorrow noon. You’ll be driving out to the airport in your Jaguar, huh? License ARN-268?”

“I’ll probably take a cab.”

“Drive,” Roland said, “case somebody wants to follow you, see that you go to the airport and not take off for the big swamp.”

“Something’s funny,” Arnold said.

“Okay,” Roland said, “let’s forget the whole thing, asshole. I’ll see you in two days for the vig. I’ll see you next week and the week after—”

“It’s just a little funny,” Arnold said. “I mean it isn’t
that
funny. Not nearly as funny as that shit
you pulled with the gun. You got a very weird sense of humor, if you don’t mind my saying.”

“No, I don’t mind,” Roland said. “We were just having us some fun, weren’t we?”

MARTA’S BROTHER, JESUS,
came for the cassette tape a little after seven o’clock, while Mrs. DiCilia was upstairs. He said this was the last time. No more.

Marta asked him if he had been drinking. He said yes, with Lionel Oliva. He said, Why are we doing this? It wasn’t a question. Why should we make life difficult for the woman? What has she done to us? Why should we want to deceive her? Still not asking questions. Marta listened. No more, Jesus said. You’re drunk, Marta said. Jesus said, How does that change it? No more. Doing this for Roland. How can a man work for Roland and live with himself? Still not a question. Marta said, All I do is hand you this. Nothing more. Jesus said,
No
more! You feel the same way I feel. (Which was true.) So no more. I’m leaving. Marta said, But if I leave—Jesus said, I leave to be away from Roland. You don’t have to leave. Talk to the woman. Help her for a change. Marta said, Where
are you going? Cuba, Jesus said. Then why give him this one? Marta said. Because when I go to see him and give it to him, Jesus said, I may have the nerve to shoot him. Or I may not. But I think I’m going to Cuba.

Then the one named Maguire came in Mrs. DiCilia’s car at five minutes to eight.

Marta thought Mrs. DiCilia was going out with him, but they spoke outside for a few minutes and then the one named Maguire drove away. Mrs. DiCilia returned to the house and went up to the room that had been Mr. DiCilia’s office, next to the master bedroom. Mrs. DiCilia had gone to the public library today—she had told Marta—for several hours, then had returned to spend most of the day in the room.

Marta remained in her own room for nearly an hour, telling herself it wasn’t wrong to record Mrs. DiCilia’s telephone calls; it was for the woman’s protection—which is what they had told her—to keep bad men away from her. But if the men who were supposed to be protecting her were worse than the ones they were keeping away— If she
knew
this— Yes, then she could say to Mrs. DiCilia she had just found it out or realized it. Not confessing, but revealing a discovery. There was a great difference. For then Mrs. DiCilia would trust her and have no reason to fire her. Marta wanted to
help Mrs. DiCilia. But she first wanted to keep her job.

She went upstairs to the office-room, where Mrs. DiCilia sat at the desk holding the telephone and a pair of scissors.

There was something different about the room. The white walls were bare. The framed photographs of Mr. DiCilia and other men—Mr. DiCilia shaking hands with them or standing smiling with them—were gone. They had been taken down.

Marta waited.

Mrs. DiCilia was speaking to someone named Clara, saying all right, she’d phone him the day after tomorrow, then.

There were newspapers and pieces cut from newspapers covering the surface of the desk, pictures out of the paper, pictures out of magazines, that seemed to be of Mrs. DiCilia.

Mrs. DiCilia was asking if Clara had the phone number of Vivian Arzola.

Marta, looking at the pictures on the desk and thinking, It’s being recorded. The telephone. Roland will come for the tape and—what would she tell him?

There were small snapshots in black and white on the desk, and newspaper pictures of another woman, not Mrs. DiCilia, that had been machine-copied and looked marked and faded.

Mrs. DiCilia was saying all right, she’d try to call Vivian at the office again, and thanked the one named Clara.

Mrs. DiCilia hung up the telephone, looking at Marta. “Yes?”

“I have something I want to tell you please,” Marta said.

“Where’s a cowboy get a hat like that?”

Roland turned his head to look at Maguire on the bar stool next to him. He said, “Right in downtown Miami. There’s a store there sells range clothes.”

“Like western attire,” Maguire said. “I believe if I’m not mistaken it’s the Ox Bow model.” As advertised in the window of Bill Bullock’s in Aspen.

“You’re right,” Roland said, touching the curved brim and looking at Maguire again, a man who knew hats.

“But you didn’t get that suit there,” Maguire said.

“No, the suit was made for me over in the Republic of China,” Roland said.

Maguire shook his head. “No shit.”

“Yeah, over in Taiwan. It cost you some money, but if you’re willing to pay—”

“I know what you mean.”

“—then you got yourself a suit of clothes.”
Roland’s chin rested on his shoulder, looking at Maguire. “I bet I know where you’re from. Out west.”

“How’d you know?” Maguire said, giving it just a little down-home accent.

“I can tell. Where you think I’m from?”

“Well, I was gonna say out west, too,” Maguire said. “I don’t know. Let me see—Vegas?”

Roland straightened around, looking down the bar at the display of bottles and the portholes full of illuminated water. “Bartender, give us a couple more here, if you will please.” Then to Maguire, “What’re you drinking?”

“Rum,” Maguire said.

“One Caribbean piss,” Roland said to the bartender, “one Wild Turkey. Las Vegas, huh? Shit no, I’m from right here in Florida.”

“Lemme see,” Maguire said, “you a cattle rancher? Those brahmans with the humps?”

“Naw, I was in cement, land development. Before that I was a hunting-fishing guide over in Big Cypress. Take these dinks out don’t know shit, one end of a air boat from the other.”

“Over by Miccosukee I bet,” Maguire said.

“Near, but more west, by Turner River.”

“I drove through there one time,” Maguire said, “I stopped at this place on the Tamiami for a cup of coffee?”

“Yeah.”

“Little restaurant out there all by itself. This woman about thirty-five, nice looking, serves me the coffee and then she sits down in a chair right in the middle of the floor, I’m sitting at the counter?”

“Yeah.”

“She says, ‘I love animals. It tears me up when one gets run over by a car.’ She says, ‘I love cowbirds the most. They have the prettiest eyes.’ With this dreamy look on her face, sitting out in the middle of the floor. She says, ‘Their little heads go back and forth like this’—she shows me how they go—‘pecking away; they’ll peck at a great big horsefly.’ ”

“That’s right,” Roland said, “they will.”

“She’s sitting there—I said to her, ‘You all by yourself?’ She says, ‘Yes, I am.’ I said, ‘You live here?’ She says, ‘Yes, I do.’ I said, ‘You want to go back to the bedroom?’ She says, ‘I don’t care.’ ”

Roland hit the edge of the bar with his big hand. “Yeah, shit, I know where that’s at.”

“We go back there,” Maguire said, “she never says a word all the time we’re doing it. We get dressed, come back out, she pours me another cup of coffee and sits down in that same chair again in the middle of the floor?”

“Yeah.”

“Hasn’t said a word in about twenty minutes now.”

“I know.”

“She says, ‘We found a little parrot was hit by a car once. We nursed it, we got it well again and kept it in the bathroom so it’d be warm. But it drowned in the commode.’ ”

Roland, shaking his head, said, “Je-sus, I know her and about a hunnert just like her.” He opened his eyes and put on a blank expression, turning his head to look around slowly and drawled in a high voice, ‘Yeah, I was down to Mon-roe Station, les see, ’bout five years ago for a catfish supper.’ Fucking place’s a mile and a half down the road. Man, I had to get out of there ‘fore I got covered over with moss.”

“It ain’t the Gold Coast,” Maguire said, “nor afford you the opportunities, does it?”

“Make thirty-five hundred a year in the swamp you’re big stuff. Over here you turn that up every week or so and sleep in on Saturday.”

“I guess if you know what you’re doing,” Maguire said.

“And got hair on your balls,” Roland said. “Right now I’m lining up a deal—when it comes off I’m gonna be set for life as long as I live.”

“What is it, land?”

“Land, you could say that,” Roland said. “Land, a house, a trust fund.” Roland looked over his shoulder, studying the diners at the tables.

Maguire had a close look at the man’s creased rawhide face, and it made him feel tired to imagine
trying to hit that face and hurt it. Like kicking an alligator. The way to do it, have a friend waiting outside in the car. Start bad-mouthing Roland till he says come on, step outside. Go out in the parking lot and square off, get Roland turned the right way and then the friend guns the car and drives it over Roland, hard.

He said, “You meeting somebody?”

“Yeah, some people I’m suppose to see,” Roland said. “There’s this dink giving me a bad time. But if they don’t come real quick, I’m going.”

It was getting too close. “I’m going myself,” Maguire said. “ ‘Less I can buy you a drink.” He was becoming anxious to get out of here.

“Well, one more,” Roland said, and squared around to the bar. Looking at the portholes, the illuminated green water, he started to grin. “You know what’d be good? Pop one of them windows. See all that swimming pool water come pouring in here”—grinning, enjoying the idea—“People jumping up, trying to get out, shit, the water pouring out all over their dinner.”

“Yeah, that’d be good,” Maguire said. “Get everybody’s dinner all wet.”

WHEN THE PHONE RANG,
Vivian looked at Ed Grossi. Ed had her private number. Jimmy Cap had her number. Her mother in Homestead had it. Ed’s lawyer—

Grossi heard her say on the phone, after she had answered in a hesitant voice and spoke to whoever it was for a moment, “What? . . . What’re you talking about? I never gave it to you . . . I did not.”

Tough lady. Very soft and good to him but a tough lady to keep between him and other people. Twelve years she had worked for him: in the beginning somebody to go to bed with, good-looking young Cuban broad; but too intelligent to remain only a piece of ass. More intelligent, basically, than himself or anyone in the organization; but a little weak in self-confidence because she had been a migrant farmworker and was sometimes intimidated by people with loud voices. Something she had to learn: Loudness did not mean strength or power.
Though she could be loud herself sometimes and it seemed to work.

He liked to come here and be alone with Vivian for a few days at a time. Do some thinking. Wear flowered shirts and Bermuda shorts. Try investment ideas on her. Tell her things about his past life he had never told anyone, certainly not his wife, Clara. Go to bed with Vivian. Eat fried bananas. Smoke dope with her, which he never did anywhere else but here. Twelve years only. And yet thinking of his life before Vivian seemed a long time ago, or like looking back at another person named Ed Grossi.

She brought the phone to him, where he sat, in his favorite deep chair, his thin bare legs extending to the matching ottoman.

“It’s Roland.”

Seeing her clouded expression, then hearing Roland’s sunny voice: “Ed, hey, I hope I ain’t taking you away from anything, partner, but I got a little problem come up.”

Presenting a problem, but making it sound like it was nothing. Then becoming more serious, with a sound almost of pain, goddarn, not knowing how to handle it and wanting Ed to help him out if he wasn’t too busy and could get away for awhile.

Vivian waited, not sitting down, trying to read Ed’s expression, which told her nothing, and learn
something from his brief words, questions. Something about Karen DiCilia. She took the phone from him when finally he said, “All right, I’ll be there,” and hung up.

“Be where?” Vivian said.

“Boca. DiCilia’s apartment.”

“He told me I gave him this number,” Vivian said. “I didn’t. I know I didn’t give it to him. What’s he doing there?”

“He says Karen was drunk, talking loud to some reporter, starting to make a scene. So he took her to the apartment.”

“Why? Wait a minute.” Vivian put the phone on the floor as she sat down on the edge of the ottoman. “Where was this, in Boca?”

“He says in a restaurant. Roland followed her—it looked like she was meeting someone, this woman he finds out is a newspaper reporter or a writer, something like that.”

“Yes?”

“But he thinks Karen was already drunk before she got there.”

“She drinks much?”

“I don’t know, maybe.”

“Call her at home,” Vivian said.

“What do you mean, call her? She’s at the apartment.”

“How do you know for sure?”

“I heard her voice. Roland said, ‘Just a minute. I heard her say something.’ Then Roland said she was sick and went in the bathroom.”

Vivian said, “What restaurant was it?”

“He didn’t say.”

“You’re getting old.”

Grossi looked at her without saying anything.

“I’m sorry,” Vivian said. “Let’s call him back and find out the restaurant.”

“Why?”

“Call and see if her car’s there. If he says he drove her to the apartment. Why there? Why not home?”

“He says the woman reporter would probably go there. He says Karen is going to tell her everything if I don’t speak to her first, Vivian. Christ, the bullshit things we get into.”

“Let’s call him back,” Vivian said.

“It’s an unlisted number. I don’t know what it is.” Ed Grossi pulled himself out of the chair and went into the bedroom.

“I can go to the office and get it,” Vivian called after him. “Forty minutes.”

After a moment Grossi appeared in the bedroom door without his Bermudas now, in striped undershorts. “You can drive me.”

“Call her home,” Vivian said. “See if she went to Boca.”

Grossi was patient with Vivian because he understood
her. “I heard her voice on the phone. She’s at the apartment, we’re going to the apartment. Okay?”

“I didn’t give him this number,” Vivian said. “I know goddamn well I never gave it to him.”

If Ed or Vivian called back, Roland would say, “Just a minute,” and put his hand over the phone. Then he’d say, “Shit, now she’s passed out.”

Or he’d turn his tape recorder on again and give them one of the snatches of Karen’s voice he’d pulled off of yesterday’s cassette and rerecorded, Karen talking to the newspaper lady who’d called.

Roland punched the recorder to hear it again.

“Why do you keep asking me that if you know what I’m going to say? Think of something else.”

Roland would say, first, “Mrs. DiCilia, will you talk to Mr. Grossi, please?”

Then punch the recorder and hold the phone toward it.

“Why do you keep asking me that if you know what I’m going to say?”

Maybe cut it right there. Then say to them, Now she won’t talk to nobody. You better come see if you can handle her.

Roland liked this Oceana setup. All modern, bigger than Arnold’s place, top-floor view and that deep, square-cut bathtub in there. He just might at
that run into a nice cocktail waitress. Bring her up here when he wasn’t busy with Karen. Or bring her when he was. That bathtub’d hold three easy.

Roland went over to the closet by the front door, where he’d hung his suit jacket. He lifted the big .45 Smith out of the inside pocket and laid it on the hat shelf of the closet, against the back wall. He left the suitcoat hanging in there, but kept his Ox Bow straw on, resetting it loose, straight over his eyes trooper-fashion. People would ask him, “You ever take your hat off?” He’d say, “Let’s see. Yeah, I take it off when I wash my head.” Then wait as if thinking till they said, “Well, don’t you take it off any other time?” And he’d say, “Oh yes, every Sunday I do when I go to church.”

It was eleven years ago last March, Roland had his serious hat trouble, the time he was pouring cement for the subdivision going in along the Fakahatchee Strand over by the west coast and he went into this restaurant in Naples to have his dinner. At that time he was wearing a white Stetson that was seasoned and shaped the way rodeo contestants were wearing theirs, curved high on the sides but sort of snapped down in front. Some college boys in the place, drinking beer, would look over at him eating dinner with his hat on. He knew they were making remarks, snickering and laughing, bunch of dinks wearing athletic department sweat shirts and numbered jerseys. On their way out, number 79
stopped by Roland’s table, stood there with his powerful shoulders and arms, hands on his hips, and said, “You always wear your hat when you eat?” The others, behind him, snickering some more. Roland said to 79, not looking up from his dinner, “Get the fuck away from me, boy, ‘fore you end up in the salad.” Number 79 reached for Roland’s hat, got a fork stuck in his forearm and was letting out a howl when Roland belted him across the salad bar, smashing the sanitary see-thru top and sending the boy to the hospital for stitches, nearly as many as the number on his breakaway football jersey. Roland pleaded guilty to aggravated assault, was placed on a year’s probation and paid hospital costs out of his pocket, $387, when they told him his Blue Cross wouldn’t cover it.

He was in that same Lee County Circuit Courtroom a year later and this time they got him good. They told him to take off his hat and charged him with second degree murder: brought in witnesses who testified Roland had threatened to harm a land developer by the name of Goldman, who Roland had said owed him money; had been seen arguing with Goldman, provoking a fight, which was stopped; seen driving out toward Fakahatchee with Goldman, in his pickup truck, the day before he was found in a drainage canal, shot to death. No probation this time. Roland got 10 to 25 in Raiford and served seven long years. Time to learn how to
use his head and make valuable connections. Then he got out and never went back to the swamp again, outside of one time when a hotel owner fell behind on his vig and Roland drove out to the site of the Everglades jetport that was never completed, shot him and dumped him in a borrow pit a couple of alligators were nesting in. When Roland was called in for that kind of work now, he’d borrow Lionel Oliva’s quick little eighteen-foot cruiser and head out toward the Stream, throw the guy over the side and take potshots at him till he disappeared.

Ed Grossi was a different situation.

Sometimes, when Vivian would continue to insist, making her point over and over, Ed Grossi would think, Yes, yes, yes. Talk, talk, talk. She was intelligent, but she was still a woman. She had insisted on driving him to Boca Raton; so he allowed her to, giving her that much, but not saying anything to her most of the way up Interstate 95.

Vivian said, “Why are you mad?”

He said, “I’m not mad.”

She said, “I know when you’re mad, whether you admit it or not.”

He said, “If you know I’m mad, even when I’m not, then you should know what I’m not mad at.” And thought, Jesus Christ, two grown people.

Grossi was mad—no, more irritated—because Vivian had said he was getting old. (“What restaurant was it?” “He didn’t say.” And because he hadn’t asked Roland the name of the restaurant she had said, “You’re getting old.” Then had said she was sorry, but still wanted to know the name of the restaurant.)

He said now, “Let’s forget it.” Which meant they were finished talking about whether he was mad or not; though he could continue to feel irritated.

Give a woman a little, she’d try to become the boss. You had to keep her in line. As they turned into the Oceana, going down to the parking area beneath the condominium, Grossi said, “Let me off by the elevator and wait for me.”

“I want to go with you,” Vivian said.

“I said let me off by the elevator and wait.”

Sit. Fetch. Sometimes you had to treat them like that.

“Maybe she needs a woman to be with her,” Vivian said.

Grossi got out of the Cadillac and slammed the door. He had to wait for the goddamn elevator, feeling Vivian watching him. Then he was inside, the door closed, there, and he was in control again. He’d have a talk with Vivian, tell her a few simple rules. Like when a certain point is reached, keep your mouth shut, the discussion’s over. Clara gave
him no trouble, but he had to listen to her talk about her garden. Karen talked about her freedom. Karen—he’d give her anything she wanted and get that settled, not have to worry about her anymore. Ridiculous, having to stop and deal with women.

Grossi knocked and Roland opened the door almost immediately, Roland holding a decorative pillow.

“I was sleeping,” Roland said.

Grossi came into the living room. “Where is she?”

“She’s in the bathroom. Sounds like she’s a little sick.”

“She sleep at all?”

“Little bit. She won’t talk to me no more.”

Grossi moved down the hall to the bathroom. The door was closed. He knocked and said, “Karen?” There was no response, no sound from inside. Roland was coming along the hall now, still holding the small pillow. “You sure she’s in here?”

“She might’ve passed out again,” Roland said. “Better look in there and see.”

Grossi turned the knob, expecting it to be locked. He opened the door carefully, not wanting to startle Karen or surprise her sitting on the toilet.

“Karen?”

He saw himself in the bathroom mirror. He looked toward the empty walkup tub. He looked
back at the mirror and saw himself and Roland behind him. He saw Roland looking at him in the mirror, not quite grinning, but with an alert, knowing expression.

In his mind, in that moment, Grossi heard Vivian saying, “You’re getting old,” and his own voice saying, “Oh my God,” and heard the heavy muffled gunshot hard against him, jabbing him, and saw in the mirror blood coming out of his shirtfront and on the mirror itself, his blood sprayed there as from a nozzle, seeing it in the same moment the sunburst pattern of lines exploded on the glass, his image there, his image gone.

Roland picked Grossi up, surprised how light he was, and dropped him in the deep bathtub.

He hadn’t thought about the mirror breaking. He’d clean up the glass and the blood. Replace the mirror some other time, tomorrow maybe.

Right now he’d move Ed’s car for the time being. Put it in a lot away from here, lock it up and walk back.

Wait till real late. Then the tricky part. Drop Ed out the window to land him in the sand. Better than taking him down the elevator in a box.

Drive him down to Miami International and put him in the trunk of Arnold’s Jag, Florida ARN-268, parked in the Delta area.

Don’t forget. Put the Smith in there too, grip and
trigger wiped clean of prints, but with Arnie’s partials all over the barrel.

Then drive Grossi’s car to Hallandale, park it near Arnie’s apartment.

Lot of work.

In the morning call the Miami Police. Change his voice to talk like a queer, one of Arnie’s ex-buddies: Hi there. You don’t know who this is, but I’ll tell you where you boys can find a dead body. (Probably have to argue.) Just listen, asshole, or I’m gonna hang up and not tell you who done it or where you can locate him up in De-troit.

Work on that before morning.

What else?

Roland thought of something and he said, out loud, “Oh my. Oh my aching ass.”

Something he had not thought of before and didn’t know why he hadn’t; but there it was, Jesus, the possibility.

What if Vivian had come here with Ed?

Vivian said, The son of a bitch. She backed the Cadillac up the parking aisle all the way past the street ramp, ready to turn and drive out.

But waited there and let herself calm down. What would it prove? Like stamping her foot or breaking dishes. Nothing. You won’t change him,
she thought. He’s sixty-three years old, and he’s the way he is. She put the Cadillac in “Drive” and, without accelerating, the car rolled down the aisle to the elevator door in the cement-block wall.