Gold Coast

If she was wrong she would tell Ed later, I was wrong.

But she knew she wasn’t wrong. She didn’t know how she knew it but she did-going back in her mind, knowing she hadn’t given Roland her telephone number. But at this moment having no idea where she could go to be safe.

16

KAREN READ ABOUT IT and saw film stories on television.

Ed Grossi’s murder featured as a gangland/drug-related killing. His body found in the trunk of a suspected drug dealer’s car at Miami International. The suspected drug dealer, Arnold Rapp, had fled; but soon after was apprehended in Detroit by fast-moving FBI agents and handed over to the Miami Police. Arnold Rapp had been charged with first degree murder-bond set at five hundred thousand dollars-and was being held awaiting trial in Dade Circuit Court, Criminal Division.

Karen ran, instinctively.

She went to Los Angeles to stay with her daughter, Julie. She told Julie about Ed Grossi, about the arrangement, about Roland. Julie seemed to listen. But they would talk and then Julie would run to the studio where she was doing voice loops for an Italian-made film or she would take milk shakes to Cedars-Sinai, to her husband Brian, who’d broken his jaw doing a stunt in a car-chase sequence.

At night Karen would sit in the living room of the house off Mulholland Drive and look down at the lights of Los Angeles.

Julie said, “I don’t know, I guess I don’t see the problem.”

Karen said, “Then I must’ve left something out. If Ed Grossi is dead, then he can’t change the arrangement, the trust fund. It goes on and on the same way, and I have to stay there the rest of my life.”

“Well, get somebody else to change it.”

“I’m afraid,” Karen said, “I have a feeling, it’s going to be in Roland’s hands.”

“Yeah? Well, then get Roland to change it. God, it sounds like something out here, dealing with these fucking producers, trying to find out who’s in charge.”

“He won’t want to change it,” Karen said. “If he does, he knows I’ll leave in a minute.”

“Well, if you like it there-” Julie said. “It’s a good address, isn’t it?”

“You mean-what? Is it fashionable?”

“Like here,” Julie said. “We’re in L.A., right? But you don’t just say you’re in L.A. Christ, L.A.? You say you live in the Hills. Or you get it across you’re in 90046.”

“I thought this was Hollywood,” Karen said.

“God, no. There isn’t any Hollywood, really. Or maybe 90069, down around where all the agents are, it’s called Hollywood, but it’s really Los Angeles County. See, if you’re in Bel Air or Beverly Hills, like 90212, you don’t even have to know your zip. But L.A.-Brian wanted to move to North Hollywood? I said, ‘Brian, 91604 is okay, but it’s not 90046 by any stretch of the imagination. It’s living in the Valley, Brian. They say where do you live, you tell them Studio City, Sherman Oaks, some fucking place like that, they think you’re in wardrobe or an assistant film editor.”

Try again. Karen said, “I like my house, yes. But do I want someone forcing me to stay there?”

“Are you asking?”

Was she? Karen said, “I told you a little about Roland. I haven’t told you everything, or what I’m afraid he’s going to do.”

“Well, at least you can talk to him,” Julie said. “The director on this great epic spaghetti picture not only barely speaks English, he hasn’t the slightest fucking idea what he’s doing. He’s got this translation for the dubbed version, it’s written by an Italian, he’s got me saying things like, ‘I hated him. I think it is swell that he was slain.’ Honest to God. I mean if you can talk to him, what’s your problem, really?”

For five days Karen phoned Vivian Arzola at the Dorado Management office. Each day she was told Vivian was not in and each time the girl on the phone refused, politely, to give her Vivian’s home phone number. On the fifth day Karen watched a brief television coverage of Ed Grossi’s funeral on national news. She saw Roland, in his blue suit, serving as one of the pallbearers, but didn’t recognize him immediately without his hat. There was no sign of Vivian in the film clip of activity outside St. Mary’s Cathedral.

Later in the evening of the fifth day Maguire called. He said he had stopped by her house every day and finally Marta had given him the number in Los Angeles.

“In the Hills,” Karen said. “Nine-oh-oh-four-six.”

“What?”

“Do me a favor, will you? Tell Marta to save the Miami papers. But don’t call her.”

“You think I’d do that? Listen, how come you haven’t called me?”

“I didn’t have your number. But that reminds me,” Karen said, “do you know how to find phone numbers?”

“You look in the book.”

“Unlisted ones. I need Vivian Arzola’s number. Or maybe you could find out where she lives.” Karen spelled the name for him. “She works for Dorado Management but hasn’t been there all week. It’s very important. Okay?”

“Vivian Arzola,” Maguire said.

She asked then, “Have you seen Roland?”

“Only on TV.”

“Yes, I saw it too.”

“When’re you coming home?”

“Tomorrow,” Karen said. There was a pause. “Do you miss me?”

She sat by herself in first class, no one in the seat next to her; wore sunglasses much of the time; sipped three martinis and California red with her roast fillet; was polite to the flight attendants though she side-stopped conversation; read a book, The Kefauver Story, by Jack Anderson and Fred Blumenthal, which she had found in Frank’s office, and reread a Xeroxed copy of an article from the June, 1951 issue of American Mercury, entitled “Virginia Hill’s Success Secrets,” she had got from the Fort Lauderdale Public Library. She thought of Cal Maguire. Don’t tell him obvious things: like not to call the house or how to do his job. Be nicer. She thought of Roland Crowe and thought of Julie’s line in the Italian film, changing the tense and applying it to Roland so that it came out, “I hate him. I think it would be swell if he were slain.”

17

THE QUESTION IN MAGUIRE’S MIND, coming up more frequently now: What was he getting out of this?

He would recall and hear again the sound of Karen’s voice on the phone. Almost impersonal. Nothing about being glad he’d called. Then asking if he missed her. Not saying she missed him. He had said, “You bet I miss you, a lot.” He should have said, “Well, I think I do, but I’m not sure.”

Friday, the day she was coming home-his day off-he drove to the DiCilia house again, left the Mercedes over by the garage doors, next to Marta’s car, and rang the bell at the kitchen entrance.

Marta seemed surprised. “She isn’t home yet.”

“I came to see you,” Maguire said. “You got any coffee on?”

In the kitchen that was like a restaurant kitchen, pans hanging from a rack above the table, he had to ask Marta to sit down. He could see she was aware of being alone with him in the house. “You know I’m her friend,” he said. “You know I want to help her.”

“Yes,” Marta said.

“And you want to help her, too.”

“Yes, but she said not to give anyone the number where she was.”

“No, that was fine. I talked to her, and she’s glad you did. She just forgot to mention it was okay to tell me.” Forgot to mention-Christ. “She’s got a lot on her mind”-looking for a way to get to the point-“but you know she’s very grateful you told her about the tape recorder and all.”

“I had to,” Marta said. “It bothered me so much.”

“Has Roland been back since she’s gone?”

“Two days ago he came. He asked me where did she go. I told him I didn’t know.”

“Yeah? What’d he say to that?”