Gold Coast

Karen watched without moving, though she didn’t seem tense; her eyes following Gretchen to Roland, then returning to Maguire with a mild expression, Maguire thinking, what if the dog was a test and he had flunked it? Maybe that’s what dogs were for. Maybe that was the time, just now, to stoop down and play with Gretchen and try to think of doggie talk. He wondered how Karen was going to handle it, what she’d say-

But it was Roland who invited him in.

“Hey, come on’n sit down. You son of a gun, you knew it was me the other night in the bar, didn’t you?” Roland gri

“I don’t believe he has,” Karen said, a little surprised.

Roland waved his arm. “Come on in here and sit down, partner.”

Maguire walked around the couch facing the fireplace and eased into it at the end away from Roland. He looked at Karen: her eyes on him but not telling him anything; guarded, or only mildly curious. Then looking at Roland as he spoke.

“This woman had a sick parrot she kep’ in the bathroom,” Roland said. “Christ, spent weeks nursing it back to health, got it all well again and the parrot, you know what it did? Tried to get a drink of water in the toilet and drowned.”

Karen said, “That’s the story?”

“He didn’t tell it right,” Maguire said. “You don’t say the parrot was trying to get a drink.”

“What was it doing,” Roland said, “taking a piss?”

“No, it’s the way the woman told it,” Maguire said. “The idea, like this is a moving experience, she’s been waiting for somebody to come by so she can tell it. But then when she does, it’s at the wrong time. You know what I mean?”

“Christ, I know them women better’n you do.”

“I don’t doubt that. I’m talking about this particular woman. All alone, nobody to talk to.”

“Waiting for somebody to come give ‘er a jump,” Roland said. “I know exactly what you’re talking about. But what do you believe that parrot was doing in the toilet?”

Karen looked from Roland to Maguire.

“I believe it wanted a drink of water,” Maguire said, “but that isn’t the point.”

“If that’s what the goddarn parrot wanted, then say it,” Roland said. “Otherwise it don’t make sense what the parrot was doing in the toilet.”

“You tell it your way, I’ll tell it mine,” Maguire said.

Karen looked from Maguire to Roland.

“Shit yeah, I’ll tell it my way,” Roland said. “You leave out the best part. Or you could say-yeah, you could say the parrot was trying to take a piss and it drowned. That’d make it a better story.”

“You miss the whole point,” Maguire said.

“Miss the point-you dink, I lived out there with those people half my life.”

“I believe it,” Maguire said.

“What’s that mean, that remark?”

“You say you lived out there, I believe it. That’s all,” Maguire said, looking at the redneck son of a bitch sitting there like it was his house, feet up, playing with the dog. Be cool, Maguire thought. Take it easy. But Karen was watching, and he had to say something else.

He said, “You always wear your hat in the house?”

“You want to say something about it?”

“I asked you a simple question, that’s all.”

“You want to take it off me?”

“No, I think it looks good on you. Tells what you are.”

Black metal tongs and a poker hung at the end of the fireplace behind Karen.

“And what do you say I am?” Roland said.

“Let’s see. You wear a range hat and cowboy boots,” Maguire said, “and that suit”-aware of Karen listening-“I’d have to guess you’re with a circus.”

“You guessed it,” Roland said, starting to pull himself out of the chair, ignoring Gretchen jumping at his leg. “And you know what I do at the circus?”

Karen could say something now. Right now would be a wonderful time for her to get into it. But Karen watched them without saying a word.

Maguire paused.

Three steps to the black iron poker-if he could get it off the hook in time.

He said, “Let’s see. Are you one of the clowns?”

Roland said, “No, I’m not one of the clowns.” Standing now, ten feet away. “I’m the Wildman of the Big Swamp, and what I do”-moving toward Maguire now-“I take smartass little dinks that smell of fish and I tear ’em asshole to windpipe and throw ’em away.”

Karen said, “Why don’t you sit down?” But much too late.

Maguire pushed off the sofa, going for the fireplace. Roland reached him easily, swiveled a hip, caught Maguire in a headlock against his side and held him there. Roland squeezed his hands together to apply pressure, and Maguire gagged, feeling his breath cut off.

“Leave him alone,” Karen said, in a mild tone. Maguire hearing it and thinking, Christ, tell him! Make him! He couldn’t move; he tried to push against Roland, tried to reach around to get a grip on the man’s hips; but Roland squeezed, and Maguire felt himself grow faint.

“So this here’s the porpoise man,” Roland said. “Hey, partner, what do you do, play with them porpoises all day? They get you excited, watching ’em? Little shithead comes in here, starts flapping his mouth.” Roland held Maguire with one arm around his neck and began to rub the knuckles of his free hand into Maguire’s scalp. “Hey, shithead, how’s that feel? Give you a knuckle massage. I’ll give you a knuckle sandwich I ever see you around here again. How’s that feel, huh? Kinda burn, does it?”

Karen said, “That’s enough. Stop it.”

Roland took hold of Maguire’s right arm as he released him and bent the arm up behind Maguire’s back, lifting him up, raising his face that was flushed and stung, trying not to yell out but, Christ, his shoulder was about to twist out of place.

“That way,” Roland said. “Go on, toward the hall there.”

Karen watched, still at the fireplace, remembering something like this from a long, long time ago: Karen Hill watching two seventh grade boys on the school playground. The headlock; the Dutch rub, they called it then; the arm bent behind the back-

“Go on, get your ass out of here.” Roland in the hall now, giving Maguire a shove as he released him.

Maguire kept going to the front door. He saw Marta in the doorway that led to the back hall, watching him, sympathetic. Or maybe not. Maybe thinking, So much for him.

Roland called out, “Leave the car!”

Maguire was opening the door when he called again.

“Wait a minute!”

Maguire waited, looking outside at the faint, early evening sunlight, not turning around. Roland came up to him.

“I want to ask you something,” Roland said, his tone mild again. “You’re over there with them porpoises all the time-you ever see ’em do it?”

“Do what?”

“You know, do it.”

“Every night,” Maguire said.

“No shit, every night, huh? Hey, you suppose I could come over sometime and watch?”

Jesus Diaz said to the woman in the doorway, her TV on loud behind her, “I know he be coming home soon. See, I know where he is. He told me to wait for him.”

Aunt Leona said, “It’s all right with me if you wait. Sit anywhere you want.” Pointing to some old lawn chairs.

“I mean I’m supposed to wait inside his place.” In case Roland followed Maguire for some reason, Jesus wasn’t going to have Roland see him sitting here at the Casa Loma. He’d go to Cuba right now before he’d let it happen.

“Well, I don’t know,” Aunt Leona said.

“See, we old friends. I’m not going to steal nothing.”

Man, all that to get in his apartment. If it was dark he would have walked in himself. As it turned out it became dark as he sat watching Maguire’s black and white TV and drinking some of Maguire’s rum. A good-looking girl in a red T-shirt came in. Jesus stood up and said he was waiting for his friend. The good-looking girl said, “Lots of luck,” and went out. Finally, when Maguire walked in the door he looked surprised, though more drunk than surprised.