Gold Coast

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 co

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 gri

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 go

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.

He would come down with Mrs. DiCilia and they would be busy attending to the woman, getting her home or someplace. And he won’t even know you’re angry at him, Vivian thought. The son of a bitch. He can ride up here all the way from North Miami without saying a word. But now when it was her turn to be mad, the son of a bitch wouldn’t even know it.

Vivian again backed up the car to the street ramp.

Go get something. Let him be waiting when she got back, Oh, have you been waiting long? I had to get some gas, since you don’t keep any in your car.

The gauge indicated half full. But he wouldn’t know that. Or go get a cup of coffee instead of waiting here like a chauffeur. Say to him, When do I get my hat and uniform?

Looking down the aisle, perhaps sixty or seven-ty feet, she saw the cowboy hat come out of the elevator.

She said, Oh God-

She hesitated. Ed could have sent Roland down to get her.

Roland was looking around, looking this way now. Staring, not sure if it was the right car. Then waving-Come on!-taking several steps into the aisle.

Vivian started up, with the Cadillac in reverse, and had to mash her foot on the brake to stop it-Roland coming toward her now-and had to look down at the automatic shift lever to get it into “Drive”-Roland ru