Gold Coast (5 page)

“HE SAY HE’S A FRIEND
of Mr. Grossi,” Marta said. “Mr. Grow. You supposed to have met him one time before.”

“Grow?” Karen said. She felt Gretchen’s tongue on her shoulder. The dog had come out with Marta.

“Yes, Grow,” Marta said.

Lying on her stomach, Karen looked at the watch close to her face. Quarter to five already. It amazed her that time did go quickly. Time now to—what? Go in and dress. She didn’t remember a Mr. Grow from anywhere. Turning, getting up from the lounge, Karen held the bra of her bathing suit to her breasts, fastened it, then reached for the phone on the umbrella table and dialed a number, Ed Grossi’s private line.

“Ed? Karen.” She paused, listening a moment. “Everything’s fine . . . No, no problems. Listen, do you know someone, a man by the name of
Grow? . . . Yeah, that’s what I thought. That must be it . . . No, I don’t know what he wants. Is he a friend of yours?” Then listened to Ed saying well, yes, in a way. Roland Crowe was an employee. He’d probably stopped by to see if there was anything she needed, maybe take a look around—“For what?” Like a security check, Ed said, that’s all. But listen, if the guy was imposing, taking up her time, tell him to get lost. That bluntly. Not someone whose feelings Ed Grossi cared about. “Thanks,” Karen said. And Ed said sure, anytime.

Quiet Ed Grossi, trying to sound himself, but a little disturbed. By what? Her call, perhaps interrupting him? Or the fact Roland was here. Whoever Roland Crowe was. A man who worked for Ed Grossi but wasn’t Italian or Cuban.

“Ask him to come out,” Karen said. She reached for a white cotton robe as Marta went back to the house.

Roland walked along the seawall to the point of land where a boat canal joined the Intercoastal. He stood for some time looking across the broad channel to the homes on the far side, then turned and seemed to study the DiCilia house: the million dollar layout that resembled a California mission, tan brick and clay tile roof; red pyracantha bushes
forming borders, screening the swimming pool and brick patio.

As Roland came this way across the lawn, Karen watching him, Gretchen ran out from the house, barking, coming to a sudden stop. Roland went down to one knee to take the dog in his hands, playfully roughing her up, saying something, repeating it, as the little gray dog licked and sniffed him.

Gretchen ran off toward the house and Roland squinted after her. Coming to the patio he said, “That’s a nice little doggie you got. What’s her name?”

“Gretchen,” Karen said.

“Yeah, she’s a nice little girl.” Squinting up at the house again, then looking directly at Karen in the canvas chair. “I thought that was some view out there, but this one beats it.” Giving her a friendly grin. “I’ve sure heard a lot about you.”

Karen touched her knee to pull the robe over her leg, but let her hand rest there.

Roland caught it, the brown hand with three little gold rings lying there idle on the brown knee. Yes sir, begin small and work up. No hurry. This woman might not even realize how bad she needed it. Like a starving person forgetting about food as the stomach began to shrink up.

Marta was hanging around back there in the
shade of one of the archways, door open behind her, leading inside. Roland didn’t know if Marta was keeping an eye on him or what. Maybe told by the lady to stay close.

The lady, he figured was near his age, somewhere around forty. The maid, twenty years younger, and with a little more meat on her but not as good looking. Both of them in white. A short-skirt skimpy uniform; and the robe the lady wore, Roland bet, didn’t cover no more than a little swim suit. She might even be bare-assed under there. Two women in white all alone in this place like a Florida castle. It sounded to Roland like something in a storybook. The fair princess with some kind of a spell on her that she’d have till her prince come along and fucked her.

All that going on in his head inside the summer cowboy hat. Hey, prince—Roland grinned.

“What’s funny?” Karen said.

“Nothing. I was thinking of something.” Then serious. “See, the problem, this place is pretty exposed, out here on a point.”

“I don’t see a problem,” Karen said.

“What I mean, the place is tempting. Be easy for somebody to get in here, maybe clean out your jewel box.” Roland kept staring at her with a grin fixed on his mouth.

“We have security service, it’s around here all night,” Karen said.

“Yeah, well those rent-a-cops aren’t worth—they’re mostly older retired fellas.”

“What I don’t understand—you walked all around—what exactly you’re looking for.”

“Any evidence somebody’s been setting the place up,” Roland said. Was she too thin? Naw, her hips looked a nice size, nice round white curve there. “See, I was originally from over in the Everglades. Used to track, hunt a lot, so I got a fairly keen eye for reading sign.”

Karen studied him. She said then, “Would you like something cold?”

“Sure, that’d be fine.”

She looked over her shoulder. “Marta? Bring out a couple of vodka and tonic, okay?” And continued to look that way until Marta was in the house. Turning to Roland again, Karen said, “Mr. Grossi didn’t ask you to come here.”

Roland sank into a canvas director’s chair and stretched out his boots, crossing his ankles—fairly close now with kind of a side view of her.

“He didn’t?”

“Is this your idea, or did someone send you?”

“My idea, in a way.”

“What do you mean, in a way?”

“Coming here is my idea, but I wouldn’t be here, would I, if it wasn’t for the situation.”

“What situation?”

“Your being a widow, the way things’ve been going
and all.” Roland teased her with his grin, like he knew more and was holding back. They were getting to the good part quick, and he was enjoying it. This woman sure wasn’t dumb.

“What situation exactly are we talking about?” Karen said.

“I’m not allowed to tell.”

“But you’re going to, aren’t you?” Karen said. “Or you wouldn’t be here.”

She was aware of a curious feeling, wanting to urge him to explain, but knowing she didn’t have to. She could sit back, and it would come out. She could show indifference, and he would still tell her.

Roland was squinting with a slight grin. “You figured that out, huh? I’m not just inspecting the premises.”

“Well, otherwise you wouldn’t have mentioned it,” Karen said. “You’re certainly not a little kid.”

“No, I’m not little,” Roland said.

“Sometimes little kids say, ‘I’ve got a secret, and I’m not gonna tell you what it is.’ What you said was, you’re not sup
pos
ed to tell.” Patient, speaking to a child.

Roland shook his head. “Uh-unh, I said I’m not al
low
ed to tell.”

Karen smiled, hanging on. “I guess there is a difference, isn’t there?”

“But I’m gonna tell you anyway,” Roland said.
“I don’t think it’s fair you living like this, not knowing.”

Marta was coming, Gretchen tagging along.

Karen was aware of another strange feeling, enjoying the suspense, waiting to learn something, wanting to make the feeling last, afraid the revelation would be something she already knew, or suspected. But right now an interesting, close-to-unbelievable situation, entertaining this backcountry gangster, who sat with his cowboy hat tilted low and his long legs stretched out comfortably as the maid served cocktail-hour vodka and tonic.

You can handle it, Karen thought. And you can handle Roland. Mr. Crowe. Out of a minstrel show.

She had handled—up to a point—someone much more potentially dangerous than this guy who worked for Ed Grossi but seemed to be venturing out on his own. Roland wanted something, that was obvious. Playing a nice-guy role that was about as subtle as his electric-blue suit.

Marta left them.

Roland was leaning forward playing with Gretchen on the ground, saying, “Yeah, you’re a nice little Gretchie. You’re a nice little Gretchie, ain’tcha, huh? Ain’tcha?”

“What is it you’re going to tell me?” Karen said.

“Hey, Gretchie, come on, Gretchie, don’t bite
me, you little dickens. That ain’t nice to bite people.”

Karen decided to wait.

Roland looked up at her, his hands still fondling the dog. “You’re not allowed to see anybody, what it is. I mean any man that might have serious or sexu’l intentions.”

“I beg your pardon,” Karen said.

“I’m supposed to keep ’em away from you. Any man believed to be serious—you know, not the grocery boy or something—I tell him to keep moving.”

“Protecting the widow,” Karen said. “That’s what I was afraid of. I guess I’ll have to have a talk with Mr. Grossi.”

“Well, there’s a little more to it.”

“This is Ed Grossi’s idea, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s your husband’s idea.”

“My husband’s?”

“He left word, no man gets near you in a serious way or as a one-nighter just fooling around or anything like it as long as you live. In other words your husband’s cut off your action.”

Karen was frowning. “Are you serious?”

“It’s what they tell me,” Roland said. “I’m the one supposed to keep ’em away from you.”

“Wait a minute,” Karen said, “Frank?—” Staring at Roland, but going back in her mind—hearing it again, threatening Frank, angry, yes, but the threat less than half serious—and Frank saying in a weary
voice, “Karen, Karen, Karen—” The man who could write a book on paying people back. Thinking she knew him, but, good God, not taking the time to understand exactly how literal the man was. He had allowed her to think she was an equal, wife to husband. He had allowed her to ask blunt questions and finally threaten him with her independence. And he had quietly locked her up for good.

“Keep the woman in the house where she belongs.”

“What?” Roland said.

“You’re not kidding, are you?” Like coming out of shock, beginning to see things clearly again.

Roland seemed surprised. “No, I’m not kidding.”

“Something you dreamed up.”

“It’s been going on, ain’t it?”

“Yes, but—what do you say to them? How do you let them know?”

“You mean the guys? We tell them you don’t want to see them no more.”

“And what do they say?”

“Nothing.”

“I mean don’t they want to know why?”

“I ‘magine they get the point pretty quick.”

“Do you threaten them?”

“Well, there’s different ways. You put the boy against the wall and tell him something, he sees you
mean it.” Roland grinned. “I made a point with a boy today, didn’t believe at first I was serious.”

“What did you do?”

“Threw him in a swimming pool.”

“You don’t . . . beat them up or anything like that?”

“Whatever it takes,” Roland said. “That’s how Ed says handle it. See, he respects your husband’s wish here. But he don’t want to do it himself. Fact, all he wants to know it’s in somebody’s hands and being taken care of.”

“I’ll see Ed tomorrow,” Karen said.

“You sure you want to do that?”

“We’re going to quit playing games, I’m sure of that.”

“Well, as I see it, the one you’d have to talk to’d be Frank,” Roland said. “He’s the only one can call it off. Ed, he’s respecting the wish of his dead buddy. You know how them people are. He can’t change nothing, it’s the code, or some bullshit like that.” Roland was feeling more relaxed, into it now. He liked the way the woman was hanging on his words. “But you go to Ed, tell what you know, then he’s liable to take me off the job and put somebody else on ain’t as sympathetic. You follow me?”

“I’m not sure. Why are you . . . sympathetic?”

“I’m not one of
them
, as you can see. I work for them, but I don’t think the way they do. It’s like you’re a white woman got mixed up with these
people, I come along—I didn’t take none of their oaths and shit—so I can sympathize with your situation and maybe help you out.”

“How?” Karen said. “Not tell if I go out with someone?”

“No, see, I’d still have to do my job. There’s people watching me, too,” Roland said. “But maybe I could ease up your situation some. Come around, talk to you. Maybe, put our minds to it, we could work something out.”

“I’m not sure I follow you,” Karen said, following every word, watching his eyes beneath the cool-cowboy curve of the brim and knowing exactly what he was talking about.

“I mean ease up your situation.” Roland said. “I ‘magine you might be getting a little tense and edgy sitting around here, your husband dead, no men you’re close to. These dinks you went out with evidently didn’t turn you on any.”

She was tense, all right, watching him gradually moving in. She said, cautiously, “How do you know that?”

“It’s my business to know. See, me and you are much closer than you realize. We got a lot in common.”

“We do?” Karen said.

“See, I been thinking,” Roland said. “Why would a deceased husband want to cut off his wife’s . . . activity, let’s say, less he was good and
sore on account of she was messing around while he was alive.” Roland gave Karen a friendly wink. “Just wanting to have a little fun. What’s wrong with that? It’s the way we’re made, we got to keep active or we dry up, can’t even spit.”

“That’s quite an assumption,” Karen said. “I mean that I was cheating on my husband.”

“Nobody’s asking you to admit nothing you don’t want to,” Roland said. “It’s between me and you and the bed. I mean the bedpost.”

“Actually Frank had no reason—” Karen began, and stopped. Why was she trying to explain?

“It’s none of my business either way,” Roland said. “You don’t have to confess nothing to me, lady, to be born again. That’s the way I look at this setup, like a new beginning. Here you are stuck here, starting to dry up. Here I am full of notions going to waste, shit, working for them guineas. It’s like, I won’t tell if you won’t. You scratch mine and I’ll scratch yours and we’ll get something cooking here—see, once you give it some thought, realize how your dead husband and his buddy’ve got your knees tied together and there’s nothing you can do about it less I help you. You follow me? I’m giving you your big chance, lady, and it’s the only one you got.”