Gold Coast

Roland was gri

He said, “You know, standing here I was thinking about another Cuban lady I liked to visit. She lives out the Tamiami on Beaver Road? I used to say to her, ‘Honey, I just see your street sign I get a boner.’ How you doing, Marty?”

“Mrs. DiCilia is very busy.”

“Oh, she home? Well, we won’t bother her,” Roland said, coming in. “I just as soon fool around with you anyway.”

“I have to go to the kitchen.”

“Why don’t we go your room instead?”

Both were down the back hall. Marta started that way and turned and didn’t know where to go, Roland on her then, taking her from behind and pulling her in, Roland pausing to look up the stairway.

Marta said, “Please,” and Roland said, “Mmmmm, you feel good,” heavy workman’s hands moving over the front of her white uniform, over her breasts, Roland saying, “We got a bra-zeer on under there? No, hey, we don’t have no bra-zeer on, do we? Like our little titties free.” The hands like old tree roots rubbing the white material, working down to her belly and thighs. “Let’s see if we got any panties on.” Gri

Roland reached down to take some playful swipes at the schnauzer, getting her to growl in fun, then went after Marta, hoping she was heading for the living room where he’d nail her on that big white sofa. But she ducked into the sitting room full of antiques and was almost to the French doors when he grabbed the hem of her white uniform from behind, yanked it up and heard it rip. Marta bounced off him and Roland fell hard against a wall of shelves, flung out an arm and destroyed several thousand dollars worth of Toby jugs and English china. Blueplate specials to Roland. He swiped at a Ralph Stevenson soup tureen (“View of the Deaf and Dumb Asylum”) and there went another three grand… and Marta, half out of the uniform now, going through the French doors.

Karen heard the sound, glass shattering. She thought of a window, the French doors. She thought of Roland. Then heard another shattering of glass. Or china. From the sitting room. Voices, the sound coming faintly from outside. She heard the scream and knew it was Marta. Karen turned from the wall of photographs and saw them outside, below the window. Marta ru

Karen turned from the window as if to run, to hurry. Then seemed to pause, almost imperceptibly, as she moved past the wall of photographs. She walked from the office into the bedroom, picked up the phone on the nightstand, dialed and said, “Operator, this is Karen Hill. I’m sorry, Karen DiCilia, 1 Isla Bahía. Would you call the police, please, and tell them to come right away? It’s an emergency… Yes, Fort Lauderdale.”

As soon as Roland heard the hi-lo sound of the police siren he walked away from the swimming pool and sank into a canvas patio chair. Marta remained in the pool, slightly stooped in about four feet of water. Both of them watched Karen come out of the house with the two police officers in dark brown uniforms and visored caps, both young looking and in condition, with serious-to-deadpan expressions. One of them took his sunglasses off and hooked them on his shirt pocket. No one spoke. Karen picked up a towel from the lounge chair, carried it to the broad steps at the shallow end of the pool and held it open for Marta. Roland and the police officers waited.

“Come on, it’s all right,” Karen said.

Roland and the police officers watched Marta step out of the pool and turn into the towel, pulling it around her.

“Tell them,” Karen said.

The two police officers came onto the patio, looking at the two women, glancing at Roland.

Roland said, “How you doing?”

They didn’t answer him. One of them said to Karen, “Is this the man?”

Karen nodded.

The police officer said to Roland, “Could I see your identification?”

Roland said, “Uh-unh. You got no reason to see it.”

Both of the police officers turned to Roland with their deadpan expressions and stood without moving. The one who had spoken to him said, “Stand up and turn around.”

Roland said, “Hey, cut the shit. You got a complaint? Let me hear what it is.”

“Get up,” the police officer said. “Right now.”

The other one had his hand on his gun or his cuffs, Roland wasn’t sure which. He looked over at Marta, shaking his head, then raised his hand. “Now come on. Since you didn’t see nothing-before you start acting mean, who’s your complaining witness?”

Karen said to Marta, “Tell them.”

Marta looked from the police officers to Roland.

“Tell them,” Karen said again.

“Somebody, I believe, got the wrong impression,” Roland said. “It’s all right, Marty, tell ’em. Heck, we were just playing around, weren’t we?”

One of the police officers said to Marta, “Is this man a friend of yours?”

“I believe you could say we’re a little thicker than that.” Roland looked over at Karen and gave her a wink. “All of us here. We’re old buddies. Me and Marty and Karen. Me and Marty’s brother’re very close. I see him all the time. Keep him out of trouble.”

“He’s threatening her,” Karen said.

“Hey, Marty, am I threatening you?” Staring at her from beneath the low hat brim. “Go ahead, tell ’em.”

“No, he’s not,” Marta said.

“Do you want to make a complaint against this man?” the police officer said.

“No,” Marta said.

“Was he bothering you in any way?”

“No.”

The police officer looked at Karen. Roland looked at her, too. She said, “Can I make a complaint?”

The police officer said to Marta, “How old are you?”

“Twe

“If this lady says there was an assault and it was against you, then you’d have to file the complaint,” the police officer said to Marta. “Are you afraid of this man? That he might hurt you?”

“No,” Marta said.

“Or he might hurt somebody in your family?”

Marta shook her head. “No.”

“You and him were just playing around?”

“Yes.”

The police officer stared at her a little longer before turning to Karen. “If you want to make a complaint- Or maybe you ought to tell us what’s going on here.”

Karen said, “Do you really want to know?”

Roland liked that. He gri

(Sure, they knew it. They’d have been sitting on Roland with a sap under his chin if it was some other backyard.)

“See, we have our disagreements, get into arguments like anybody else,” Roland went on, as though he belonged here, part of the family. “But if we was to start explaining everything to you, you’d be writing reports all night and on your day off… wouldn’t you?”

Roland knew he had hit the nail on the head. The police officers stood there not saying anything. What did they see? A guy chases the maid into the swimming pool and the lady of the house gets pissed off. The lady hadn’t yelled or had a fit. The lady was mad, yeah, but she seemed in control of the situation. (“Do you really want to know?”) Pretty cool about it. It took the policemen off the hook and it made Roland happier’n a pig in shit. The lady saw clearly the position she was in. Call the police and then what? Call them every day?