Gold Coast

by Elmore Leonard

  But if she knew antiques—maybe he could fake it a little, establish some kind of rapport, trust . . . confidence?

  The dog came over and began sniffing.

  “That’s fish,” Maguire said. He didn’t stoop to pet the dog or say anything else.

  Karen, in the doorway, saw this much. And the color of his pants and shirt beneath the jacket, making her hesitate a moment.

  “Mr. Maguire?”

  He looked up to see a slim, good-looking woman in beige slacks, a dark-blue shirt with white buttons, hand extended.

  Maguire rose, giving her a pleasant smile, shaking his head a little. They shook hands politely and he said, seriously then, “You know something?”

  Karen expected him to say, I’ve heard a lot about you, Mrs. DiCilia. Something along that line.

  But he didn’t. He said, “We’ve got matching outfits on. Tan and blue.”

  Karen said, “You suppose it means something?” Playing it as straight as he was.

  “I don’t know about you,” Maguire said, “but I got all dressed up. This particular outfit is from Burdine’s, up on Federal Highway.”

  “I’ve heard of Burdine’s,” Karen said, “but I’m not sure I’ve heard of you. You were a friend of my husband’s?”

  “Well, we weren’t exactly close. I worked for him once.”

  Karen said, “And you want to know if I’m all right? If I need anything? What else? Are you with Roland or on your own?”

  “I don’t know anybody named Roland,” Maguire said.

  “So you’re an independent. All right,” Karen said, “let’s go out on the patio. That’s where we hold the squeeze sessions.”

  “The what?”

  “Come on, I’m anxious to hear your pitch.” She walked past him to the French doors.

  It had felt like a good start. But now, she wasn’t being cool, she was ice-cold, assuming way too much. Maguire hesitated. He said, “You’ve got some very nice pieces here. The bergère, is it authentic Louis Seize?”

  Now Karen paused at the doors to look back and seemed to study him a moment.

  “The what?”

  Maguire grinned. Was she kidding? She waited, looking at him, and he wasn’t sure.

  “The chair. If it’s real, it belongs in a museum.”

  “It is in a museum,” Karen said. She turned and walked through the doors.

  Putting him on, Maguire decided. Not wanting to sound agreeable or give him anything. He followed her out to the patio, where a torch was burning and swimming pool lights reflected in the clear water, Maguire looking around, thinking, So this is what it’s like. Sit out here at night, watch the running lights, the power-boats going by on the Intercoastal.

  Ring for the maid, get her with some mysterious signal, because there she was. Maguire said rum would be fine, surprised, wondering why Mrs. DiCilia was being sociable, hearing her ask for a martini with ice. Put that down: not “on the rocks” but “with ice.” Yes, very nice; sit out here on the patio of your Spanish-Moorish million-dollar home that was full of antiques and art objects and—what?

  He was going to say he was sorry for coming so late, or early—one or the other—and hoped he wasn’t inconveniencing her. But why? Why suck around?

  He said, “Besides all this, what’s it like to be rich?”

  Karen didn’t say anything.

  “Never mind,” Maguire said. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I was thinking,” Karen said. “If you really want to know, it’s boring. I guess it doesn’t have to be, but it is.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “You asked me, I told you, it’s boring,” Karen said. “Next question. Let’s get to the point, all right?”

  The dog was sniffing around his foot again. Maguire crossed his leg.

  Mrs. DiCilia was on the muscle, a little edgy, yes; because she was waiting for him to pull some kind of scam. Out here for the squeeze session: probably one of a long line of guys who’d come to make a pitch, take advantage of the poor widow. The slim, good-looking great-looking widow. Maguire resented her assumption, being put in that category, somebody out to con her. The lady sitting there waiting for the pitch.

  The goddamn dog pawing his knee, scratching the material. Maguire reached down with one hand and moved the dog aside.

  Karen watched him.

  Sitting back he took the newspaper clipping out of his pocket, unfolded it carefully and handed it to her.

  Karen said, “What is it?” In the soft glow of torchlight she could only read the headline. ARMED TRIO ROBS COUNTRY CLUB.

  “That was myself and two associates,” Maguire said. “Your husband offered to pay us fifteen hundred each to go in and hit the place. Make them look dumb or give it some bad publicity, I don’t know. We did the job, but we never got paid.”

  Karen said, “Deep Run Country Club, Bloomfield Hills.”

  “That’s the one.”

  “It happened when, last August?”

  “Right. The sixteenth.”

  “We visited Detroit in August—no, it was July,” Karen said. “Frank played golf there a few times as a guest. He liked the club, so he applied for a membership.”

  “And they turned him down,” Maguire said. Karen nodded. “I thought maybe you’d been insulted out there. You know, something personal.”

  “What do you think Frank DiCilia being turned down is, if it isn’t an insult?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. But how come if you were living here at the time?—”

  “Why can’t he have a membership in Detroit? That’s what it’s like to be rich,” Karen said. “So what is it you want, fifteen hundred dollars?”

  “Each, for the three of us. The other two guys were convicted. They’re in Jackson, but I’ll see they get theirs.”

  “You got off?” She seemed interested.

  “It’s a long story, and if you’re already bored—” Maguire said.

  Karen said, “That’s all you want?”

  “That’s all we got coming.”

  “You could’ve said . . . ten thousand.”

  “And you could’ve known about the deal,” Maguire said, “depending on what you and your hubby talked about. It was a straight fifteen hundred apiece, no sick pay or retirement benefits.”

  Now, yes or no? Waiting for her to make up her mind. She didn’t seem as edgy. She said let’s have another drink and that surprised him. The maid appeared and left, and when she appeared again Karen was asking him if he lived in Florida or was he visiting.

  He told her he worked at Seascape. “You know, the porpoise show? Practically around the corner from here.”

  “I’ve passed it,” Karen said. “You really work there?” Sounding interested and a little surprised. “Get the porpoise to jump through hoops, that kind of thing?”

  “We get ’em to do everything but mate in midair,” Maguire said.

  “They won’t do that for you?”

  “I think they go to a motel. Five months, I’ve never seen one of ’em even, well, get aroused.”

  Now she was studying him and didn’t say anything for a moment.

  “Amazing.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t like it either,” Maguire said. “People watching.”

  “No, I mean that you work there,” Karen said. “And you seem to know antiques—What else do you do?”

  “Rob country clubs,” Maguire said, “and have a hard time collecting. I’m enjoying the drink and the chat, but just for my peace of mind, are you gonna honor your husband’s obligation or what?”

  Karen said, “Honor his obligation—” and seemed amused now. “Is that what it is, honoring his obligation?”

  “You can call it whatever you want,” Maguire said, “as long as we’re both talking about the same deal.”

  “Do you do this sort of thing often?”

  “What sort of thing?”

  “Rob country clubs?”

  “That was the first time.”

  “But you�
��ve robbed other places.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Do you carry a gun?”

  “Why?”

  “I’m curious, that’s all.”

  “Do you fool around?” Maguire said.

  “What?”

  “Do you pick up guys, take ’em to bed? Or you just ask a lot of questions about their personal life?”

  “I believe you came to me,” Karen said. “You’re the one that wants something.”

  “And if I’m not polite and answer your questions I can go fuck myself, huh?”

  Karen didn’t say anything. She got up, walked from the patio to the house and in through the French doors.

  Maguire waited. Shit. Thinking again of the old man sitting on top of the mountain in his loincloth.

  In the light of eternity, is it better to take a bunch of shit with the hope of getting paid, or—

  Karen came back to the patio carrying something in each hand, something wrapped in white tissue paper and, in the hand she extended to him, a packet of bills. He couldn’t believe it. New one hundred dollar bills. They were sticking together, only about an inch of them, they were so new.

  “Forty-five hundred dollars,” Karen said.

  Maguire thinking, the first thing in his mind: There’s more. Right in the house.

  “Can I ask you one more question?”

  “Go ahead,” Maguire said, putting the money in his inside coat pocket. He could feel it against his ribs.

  She pulled her chair closer to his and sat down before extending the tissue-wrapped package.

  “What is it?”

  She watched him, but didn’t say anything.

  Taking it then, feeling the weight, he knew what it was. Maguire unwrapped enough of the tissue paper to see the gun, wrapped it together again and handed it back to her.

  She said, “Do you know what it is, the make?”

  “It’s a Beretta nine-millimeter Parabellum, holds fifteen rounds in the magazine. How much you pay for it?”

  “I didn’t buy it. It was my husband’s.”

  “You could get something like four hundred for it on the street.”

  “I don’t want to sell it,” Karen said, “I want to know how to use it.”

  “For what?”

  “Protection.”

  “It isn’t a good idea,” Maguire said. “People who don’t own guns don’t get shot as much as people who do.”

  “Will you show me how it works?”

  “If I don’t, what? You want the money back?”

  “The money’s yours. You’ve already earned that.” She waited.

  “It’s got a little crossbolt safety above the trigger. You push it to off, slide the top back and forward again and you’re ready to go,” Maguire said. “Which is what I’m gonna do if it’s okay. Take my money and run.”

  “You’re very direct,” Karen said, and seemed to be studying him again. “You admit some things and then you stop.”

  “It’s not that I have anything to hide,” Maguire said, “it’s the feeling I’m on the carpet, being questioned.”

  She said, “I’m sorry, I really am.” There was a silence, but she continued to look at him.

  Maguire said, “That’s okay. I guess—as you say, I walk in here, give you a story, why should you believe me?”

  “I do though,” Karen said. She seemed to smile then. “Will you tell me something else?”

  “Probably,” Maguire said.

  “What’s the difference between a porpoise and a dolphin?”

  Maguire found a note on his pillow that said, in a forward-slanting Magic Marker scrawl, “Knock if you are not mad!!!”

  He reached across the bed to the wall—to a fading garden at Versailles, green-on-yellow wallpaper—and rapped on it three times.

  Lesley came in wearing a short see-through nighty and several rollers in her hair, head somewhat lowered to gaze up at Maguire with a practiced, hurt-little-girl expression.

  “I thought you were gonna take me out to dinner.”

  “I must’ve got mixed up, who was mad at who,” Maguire said. “I had something over on the beach.”

  “I was mad,” Lesley said, “but I’m not anymore.”

  “How come?”

  “You didn’t have to talk to me like that.”

  “Did you go out?”

  “No”—pouting—“I sat there with Aunt Leona watching TV all night.”

  Poor little thing—he was supposed to comfort her, tell her he was sorry. He wasn’t annoyed or upset. In fact, he didn’t feel much of anything toward Lesley, one way or the other. He was catching glimpses of Karen DiCilia in the glow of the torch, part of her face in shadow, the light reflecting on her dark hair. Dark but not Italian-dark, the woman not anything like he’d imagined the wife of Frank DiCilia.

  Lesley said, “Are you going to bed or you gonna read?”

  It was strange, in that moment he did feel a little sorry for her, standing there in her see-through nighty and her curlers. He said, “It’s late. Might as well go to bed.”

  “You want me to get in with you?”

  “You bet,” Maguire said, getting undressed as she turned off the light and pulled back the green and yellow spread.

  “There,” Lesley said. “God, isn’t it good?”

  “It sure is.”

  “Shit, I forgot my curlers.”

  She sat up, took out the ones in back and got down there again.

  “Ouuuu, that hurts. But it’s okay. Now it’s okay. Ouuuuu, is it ever.” After awhile she said, “Cal?”

  “What?”

  “If my aunt knew we did this? She’d shit. You know it?”

  “I guess,” Maguire said.

  “We’re watching TV? She goes on and on about in Cincinnati she’s at a picnic with this guy named Herman or Henry or something and how he grabbed her and kissed her. God, it was like it freaked her out, and she was my age. In the guy’s car. I want to say to her, ‘Aunt Leona, you ever go down on him?’ She’d actually shit, you know it?”

  “I bet,” Maguire said.

  “No, she was twenty-three. It was just before she got married. But not to Herman. My uncle’s name was Thomas. That’s what they called him all the time, Thomas. I can’t imagine them doing it. Can you imagine Aunt Leona doing it?”

  “No,” Maguire said.

  “She’s in there snoring away, all this beauty cream on. You should see her.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Well, I better get my ass beddy-by. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Night,” Maguire said.

  “Don’t play with it too much,” Lesley said.

  “I won’t.”

  The door closed.

  He could see Karen DiCilia in shadow and firelight, the clean-shining dark hair, features composed. Karen DiCilia, Karen something else, Karen Hill originally. He’d found out a few things. If she could ask questions he could, too. And then she had asked a few more. Calvin, is it? Yeah. Calvin doesn’t go with Maguire. It should be Al instead of Cal, Aloysius Maguire, a good mick name. Well, Karen doesn’t go too well with DiCilia, does it? And the good-looking woman saying, No, it should never have gone with DiCilia.

  Sometimes we’re bored, willing to try something new and different. Change for the sake of change.

  Maguire saying, Right.

  Sometimes, then, we’re too impulsive, we make up our minds too quickly.

  True.

  Sometimes we talk too much, say things we don’t mean.

  Very true. (Talking, but what was she saying?)

  And we get into a bind, a situation that offers few if any options and then we’re stuck and we don’t know what to do.

  Maguire saying, Uh-huh.

  Maguire almost saying, If you want to tell me what you’re stuck in, what the problem is, why don’t you, instead of beating around?

  Almost, but not saying it. Because what if she told him? And expected him to help her out in some w
ay; man, with the kind of people who’d been associated with her husband and were probably still hanging around—Then what, chickenfat, sit there and grin at her or get involved in something that’s none of your business?

  This was a very good-looking woman. The kind, ordinarily, it would be a pleasure to help out and have her feel grateful. This one, he was pretty sure, could be warm and giving.

  But right now she was in some kind of no-option bind and had a keen interest in firearms . . . while Maguire had a vivid memory of the six by eight cells in the Wayne County Jail and what it was like to go to trial facing 20 to life.

  So he had said, when it was his turn again, “Well listen, Karen, it’s been very nice talking to you,” and thanked her again and got out of there.

  Lying in bed he began to think, But maybe she just needs somebody to talk to. Somebody she feels would understand her situation. Or keep the local con artists away. It didn’t necessarily have to be anything heavy. What was the risk in talking to her, finding out a little more?

  She was a good-looking woman.

  He wondered how old she was.

  He wondered how many more new one hundred dollar bills there were in her house.

  8

  * * *

  ARNOLD CAME FROM THE BEDROOOM carrying a yellow canvas bag that had a zippered flap on the side for a tennis racket. Roland was on the balcony looking over the rail, holding onto his cowboy hat due to the wind off the ocean. Arnold stared at Roland’s back, at the bright-blue material pulled tight across the shoulders.

  Roland turned. As he saw Arnold watching him, he said, “How’s Barry?”

  Arnold walked over to the coffee table and dropped the bag. “Fifty-four thousand,” Arnold said.

  Roland came in from the balcony. “I asked you how’s Barry.”

  “He’s in traction. He’ll be in traction six months. Also his kidney and his spleen’s fucked up.”

  “Tell him if he’s gonna dive, he should do it in the deep end,” Roland said. He moved past Arnold to the canvas bag and picked it up. “Wouldn’t think paper’d be this heavy, would you?”