Gold Coast

He heard a sound, somewhere downstairs, a door slamming.

Marta came out from the kitchen to see Maguire in the front hall, at the foot of the stairs.

“I found him. My brother says okay. He’ll meet you at Centro Vasco on Southwest Eighth Street. You know where it is? Maybe about Twenty-second Avenue, in Miami.”

“I’ll find it.”

“But he doesn’t see how he can help you.”

“I’ve been trying to remember where I saw you before.”

“At the fish place.”

“No, I mean before that. Ten years ago,” Maguire said.

He thought about it, looking past Jesus Diaz to the tables of people talking, having lunch at Centro Vasco, almost all of them Cuban.

“I know. The Convention Center, over on the Beach.”

“Sure, I was there plenty times. I used to work out at the Fifth Street gym.”

“You fought a guy by the name of Tommy Laglesia. He was doing something, I forgot what; everybody could see it but the ref.”

“Butting me, the son of a bitch kept butting me in the face, the fucking ref don’t say a word.” Jesus straightened and leaned on his arms over the table. “You saw that, uh?”

“Yeah, it’s fu

“No, well, who’s there to see?” Jesus said. “You saw that, uh?” He drank some of his beer, settling back again. “You know the other day-I didn’t want to do nothing to you.”

“No, I know you didn’t,” Maguire said. “But the other guy-I had to try and hit first, you know, try and get an advantage.”

“Man, you hit him all right. He had to get stitches.”

“I wish it’d been what’s his name, Roland.”

“Yeah, I wish it, too.”

“Had enough of him, uh?”

“Man, forever.”

“Have you seen him?”

“Last week. Then I see him on TV, but that’s all. I don’t work for him no more.”

“Who else does?”

“Nobody. He’s by himself.”

“I was wondering,” Maguire said, “with Grossi dead, what do you think might happen?”

“What do you mean, what might happen? To who?”

“Mrs. DiCilia if Roland, you know, is go

“I don’t know. He don’t work for Mr. Grossi no more. Why would he?”

“Well, he sees a rich lady, all alone-”

“She got friends of her husband there. Mr. Grossi wasn’t the only one.”

“Yeah, maybe Vivian Arzola. You know where she is?”

“No, I don’t know. She got a place in town; another place, I hear about in Keystone, but I don’t know where.”

“You know her phone number?”

“No, I don’t know it.”

“Mrs. DiCilia’s anxious to talk to her.” Maguire paused. “She have family in Miami?”

“No. Wait, let me think,” Jesus said. “Yeah, I took something to her mother once for Vivian. She lives in Homestead. Vivian gives her, you know, the support.”

“What kind of car does she drive?”

“Vivian? A white one with like a flower or something on the ante

“You want to help Mrs. DiCilia find her?”

“I think I’m going to Cuba.”

“If you don’t go, I mean. She’ll pay you whatever you think it’s worth.”

“Maybe I could do it,” Jesus said.

“Sure, Cuba’ll be there. You know where Roland lives?”

“Miami Shores. A place on Ninety-first Street called the Bayview.”

“He live there alone?”

“Man, you think anybody would stay with him?”

“You want to go see him with me?”

“I don’t think so. Not even stoned.”

“How about with a gun?”

Jesus’ hand was on his glass of beer. Looking at Maguire he seemed to forget about it.

“You ever do things like that?”

“If I have to.”

“Yeah? Is that right?” Jesus continued to study Maguire. “Mrs. DiCilia, she want it?”

“She wants it, but she doesn’t know she wants it, if you understand what I mean.”

“She don’t want to think about it.”

“Something like that. But she’ll pay you to be on her side, whatever you think it’s worth,” Maguire said. “Like five thousand, around in there? It’s up to you.”

“Around in there, uh? Let me think about it,” Jesus Diaz said.

18

AFTER ED GROSSI’S FUNERAL, relatives and close friends came to Grossi’s house on Hurricane Drive, Key Biscayne, to give Clara their sympathy and help themselves to a buffet. The friends and relatives who had not been there before, and even many who had, took time to walk up the street to 500 Bay Lane to see where Ed Grossi’s neighbor, Richard Nixon, had lived. They came back saying shit, Ed’s place was bigger.

Roland didn’t care anything about historical sites. He got a plate of fettucini with clam sauce, a big glass of red and some rolls, and went over to sit with Jimmy Capotorto in the Florida room that was full of plants hanging all over, like a greenhouse.

Roland said, “It’s a bitch, huh, something like this? Man, you never know.”

Jimmy Cap had finished eating. He was smoking a cigar, looking out at the Bay, five miles across to South Miami. He asked Roland if the cops had talked to him.

Which was what Roland wanted to get over with. He said, “You kidding? Man, I’m the first one on their list. That Coral Gables Discount deal-shit, they picked me up before they even thought of you.” Reminding Jimmy Cap, just in case.

Jimmy Cap said, “They tell me, say it was a setup, you know that. I say how do I know that? They say, this Arnold Rapp, he shoots Grossi and puts him in his own fucking car, come on, and leaves it at the airport? I say I only know what I read in the Herald.”

“They give me the same shit,” Roland said, “I didn’t say it to them but I’ll tell you, which you probably know anyway from Ed. This Arnie was a pure-D queer. I mean you look at him cross he’d piss his pants. I’d go over there to collect, have to shake him a little sometimes? He’d bust out crying. I’d say, Jesus Christ, you dink, cut your crying and pay up, that’s all you got to do. See, he was a nervous little fella ‘sides being a queer. It doesn’t surprise me at all he fucked up, left Ed in his car. By then all he was thinking to do was run.”

“Who fingered him?”

“I don’t know for sure, but I believe it was a dink name of Barry used to work for Arnie. He got hurt and maybe he was pissed off, believed Arnie should’ve been the one hurt. See, it’s hard to figure how these queers think.”

“Don’t do business with college boys,” Jimmy Cap said.

“Hey, I told Ed that, the exact same words. Little fuckers, life gets hard, they go to pieces.”

“Well, I’m not go

Here we go, Roland thought.

“Nothing important. Well, that DiCilia arrangement, you want to count that.”

“Jesus, I don’t want to even hear about it,” Jimmy Cap said. “You handle it. Pay her off, forget about it. I don’t give a shit where she lives.”

“Let me look into it,” Roland said. He dug into his fettucini, waiting to see if Jimmy Cap had anything else to say. No, it didn’t look like it. Roland then said, “Vivian’s been acting fu

“I didn’t see her at the funeral,” Jimmy Cap said.

“You haven’t seen her around?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“She’s in mourning or hiding or something,” Roland said. “Nobody’s seen her in a few days. She hasn’t called or anything?”

“What would she call me for?”

“I just wondered. I don’t know what’s wrong with her. She’s been starting to act strange.”

“Fuckin’ Cubans,” Jimmy Cap said, “who knows? They’re all crazy.”

“I was thinking,” Roland said, “she’s liable to start bitching about this DiCilia arrangement. I mean when she finds out I’m handling it.”

“Fire her,” Jimmy Cap said. “I never could figure out what Ed saw in that broad anyway.”

“Well, I’ll see,” Roland said. “I guess if I have to, I’ll get rid of her.”

Marta could not see Roland’s face through the stained glass window in the door, but she could see his hat. She didn’t want to open the door. But if she didn’t, he could go around to the patio side, break something to get in. She didn’t want to tell him Mrs. DiCilia had come home today and was in her room unpacking. But he would find out himself if he wanted. There was no way to stop him. It was too early to be picking up the tape: four o’clock in the afternoon. Marta opened the door, trying to be composed.