Gold Coast

“You’re a beauty,” Maguire said. “You got the maturity of about a five-year-old.”

“Keep thinking it,” Lesley said, “walking to work every day.” She turned, letting the towel come open, giving him a flash as she went into the bedroom.

There you are, Maguire thought, walking up the street toward A1A. The kind of question you’d climb all the way up the mountain to ask the old man sitting there in his loincloth.

In the light of eternity, is it better to sell out and ride or stand up and walk?

And the old man would look at him with his calm, level gaze and say-

He’d say-

Maguire was still trying to think of an answer, standing on the oceanfront corner, when the girl visiting from Mitchell, Indiana, picked him up, said, “Heck, it’s nothing,” and went out of her way to drop him off at Harbor Beach Parkway.

7

AN APPRAISER FRIEND OF MAGUIRE’S, a guy who bought and sold pretty much out of his backdoor, once said to him, “You walk out with a color TV, you realize the mirror hanging on the wall there, gilded walnut, might be a George II? Early eighteenth century, man, worth at least three grand.” Maguire went to the library, looked through art books, made notes and lifted a copy of Kovel’s Complete Antiques Price List from the reference shelf. In his work-during the short periods he was into B and E, usually to pick up some traveling money-he’d come across a few antiques and art objects of value.

But nothing like the display in Mrs. DiCilia’s sitting room. He was looking at a Queen A

Marta stopped. She said, “Yes?”

“How’s it going? You like it here?” Always friendly to the help. “I think it’d be a nice place to work.”

Marta, still surprised: “Yes, it is.”

“But I wouldn’t want to have to dust all this,” Maguire said.

The maid left, but the little gray and white dog remained, watching Maguire apprehensively, ready to bark or run.

“Relax,” Maguire said to the dog and continued looking around the sitting room.

Bird cage table, not bad. Worth about seven and a half.

Pair of slipseat Chippendale chairs in walnut. Now we’re getting there. Seventy-five hundred, maybe eight grand.

Hummel figurines, if you liked Hummel. Fifty bucks each. A couple that might go as high as a hundred and a quarter.

Plates-very impressive. Stevenson, Enoch Wood’s shell-border pattern. Six, seven thousand bucks worth of plates on one shelf.

And yes, Peachblow vases, the real thing. Creamy red-rose and yellow. Jesus, with the gargoyle stand. Name your price.

A picture of Pope Pius XII. The Last Supper. And some real paintings, old forests and misty green mountains, a signed Durand, an Alvan Fisher, nineteenth-century Hudson River school. A few others he didn’t recognize-sitting down now as he studied the painting-

And jumping up quickly to look at the chair-Jesus, feeling the turnings of the arms. Louis XVI bergère, in walnut. Pretty sure it was a real one.

He sat in the chair again, carefully, and began thinking about the woman who lived here and owned this collection. Before, he had pictured a dumpy sixty-year-old Italian woman in the kitchen, rolling dough, making tomato paste, a woman with an accent. He’d lay it out to her: Your husband owes us money. She’d pay or she wouldn’t, and he could forget about it.

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 gri

“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 ru

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.