Gold Coast

10

MAGUIRE LOOKED UP THE NUMBER, then had to go over to the TV set to turn down the volume. “Okay? Just for a minute.” Aunt Leona sat watching Barbara Walters talking to Anwar Sadat; she didn’t say anything.

It was ten to seven.

“Hi. It looks like I’m go

“That’s all right,” Karen said. “Listen, why don’t we make it some other time then?”

“The car’s not that important,” Maguire said. “I wanted to pick you up, but if I can’t-we can meet somewhere, can’t we?’

There was a pause.

“I guess we could.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I was trying to think of a place.”

“You sound different,” Maguire said.

“Where do you want to meet?”

What was it? She sounded tired.

“If I don’t call you back by… seven-thirty, how about if we meet at the Yankee Clipper? Is that all right?”

“Fine.”

“You don’t sound very enthusiastic about it.”

“Really, that’s fine. I’ll see you there.”

“About eight, if I don’t call-”

She had hung up.

Jesus Diaz wore a clean yellow sportshirt and his white poplin jacket to go to 1 Isla Bahía. At twenty after seven he rang the bell at the side door. Marta let her brother in without a word, left him to wait in the kitchen several minutes, returned and handed him the day’s cassette tape.

“What’s the matter?” Jesus said.

“Your friend Roland, what else.”

“He’s not my friend.”

“The pimp, he came today and attempted to rape her.”

“How do you know?”

“I heard it, how do I know. He broke the bed. Two hundred years old, he broke it jumping on her.”

“Maybe she wanted him to,” Jesus said.

“Go,” Marta said. “Get out of here.”

Roland was on the balcony of his eight hundred-dollar-a-month Miami Shores apartment that had a view down the street to the ocean, drinking beer with his boots off, feet in blue silk socks propped on the railing. He let Jesus Diaz in, took Ralph Stanley and the Clinch Mountain Boys off the hi-fi and plugged in his tape player-recorder.

“Lemme have it.”

They listened to a woman’s voice say, “Dorado Management… No, I’m sorry, Mr. Grossi has left for the day.”

Jesus saw Roland wink at him; he didn’t know why.

Another woman’s voice said, “Hello?”… “Clara, is Ed there? It’s Karen.”

No, Ed had gone to some kind of business meeting. Roland thought they might talk awhile, but Karen asked her to have Ed call and that was it.

Then the next voice, a man’s, said, “Hi. It looks like I’m go

Roland listened and played it again. He said, “Son of a bitch.” Looked at his watch and then at Jesus Diaz. “Yankee Clipper. Go see who he is.”

“It’s only the first time. Maybe it’s nothing,” Jesus said.

“How you know it’s the first time?”

“I don’t know his name. Like the other ones on the phone.”

“Follow him then. See where he lives, look it up in the city directory.”

“Maybe he rents a place.”

“Jesus Christ,” Roland said, “then find out where he works. You understand what I mean? Follow the dink till you find out about him. Let me know tomorrow, and I’ll tell you what to do.”

Jesus Diaz wanted to ask something about Mrs. DiCilia, but he didn’t know how to say it. So he left to go to the Yankee Clipper.

They sat next to each other at a banquette table facing the bar and the portholes back of it that presented an illuminated, underwater view of the hotel swimming pool.

Karen said, “I just realized why you come here.”

“I’ve never been here before.”

“The windows, like in the dolphin tank.”

“You’re changing the subject again.”

“No-I just noticed it.”

“I’m not dumb-” Maguire stopped, reconsidering. “I mean I’m not that dumb. This afternoon you’re very relaxed, you talk, you’re interested. I call you-since then you’re like a different person. More like at your house the other night. No, different. You’re quieter. But tense like you were then, something on your mind.”

“Okay, I have something on my mind,” Karen said. Sitting next to him, she could look at the bar, the portholes, the people in the room, without obviously avoiding his eyes. Or she could look down at her menu open against the table, resting on her lap. “That happens, doesn’t it? A minor problem comes up, something you have to work out.”

“I don’t think it’s minor,” Maguire said.

“There’s a man at the bar, the one in the white jacket. I think I know him,” Karen said, “but I can’t remember where.”

Maguire raised his hand to the waitress, impatient, trying to appear calm, glancing at the guy sitting sideways to the bar-him?-then looking up as the waitress came over. “Two more please, same way.”

“That was two Beefeater on the rocks?”

The waitress checked their glasses, leaving Karen’s.

“Beefeater and a white rum martini.”

The waitress turned away and he said to Karen, “Look, I don’t care about the guy at the bar-”

“I know who he is,” Karen said. “Marta’s brother.”

“Okay,” Maguire said. “I don’t care about Marta’s brother. I don’t want to look at the menu yet, I just want to know what’s the matter. Even if it’s none of my business. The other night you hint around like you want to tell me something. You show me a gun, you want to know how to use it. I’ll admit something to you. I purposely didn’t ask you the other night, because how do I know what I’m walking into? I’ll tell you something else. I’ve been arrested nine times and not one conviction. I mean not even a suspended. All kinds of sheets on me, but no convictions. The last time, I promised-I even prayed, which I hadn’t done in, what, twenty years. Get me out of this one and I’ll never… get in trouble again. I’ll dedicate myself to clean living and not even talk to anybody who’s been in that other life. So the other night-you don’t mind my saying, with your husband’s associations and all, here’s Frank DiCilia’s wife wants to know how to use a gun. She must have all the protection she needs, her husband’s friends still around-what does she want a gun for? See, that’s where I was the other night. But now I’m asking you what the problem is. I don’t know why, maybe this afternoon did something. You came to see me, you were very warm and open. That’s another thing. I feel something with you. I feel close, and I want to help you if I can.”

“You were different this afternoon,” Karen said. “You seemed almost shy.”

“I don’t know, maybe I was a little self-conscious in my camp outfit, you seeing me there. But now I’ve got my outfit on I feel good in. See, I’m me in this outfit. Tan and blue, it doesn’t matter that it’s cheap or what anybody thinks of it, I feel good in it, I feel like the original me before I ever screwed up or wasted time. Does that make sense? I don’t know-”

“I should’ve worn mine.” Karen was looking at him now, smiling. “You were fu

“And now I’m frustrated,” Maguire said. “I want to know what’s going on.”

The martini made her feel warm, protected. Still looking at him she said, “You have blue eyes,” a little surprised.

“See?” Maguire said. “We’re both from the east side of Detroit, we’re both sort of Catholic and have blue eyes. What else do you need?”

“There’s a man,” Karen said, and paused. “I think he’s going to ask me for money. Quite a lot of money. And if I don’t give it to him, I think he’s going to kill me.” Still looking at him. “You tell me what else I need.”

“Me,” Maguire said.

Jesus Diaz ordered another Tom Collins, his fifth one, the bartender giving him the nothing-look again, not saying “Here you are,” or “Thank you, sir,” or anything, not saying a word. The bartender looked like a guy named Tommy Laglesia he had fought at the Convention Center ten years ago and lost in the fifth on a TKO. If the bartender did thank him or say something like that, the bartender had better be careful of his tone. Jesus would take the man by the hair, pull his face down hard against the bar and say, “You welcome.”