Authors: Elmore Leonard
“I doubt it.”
“We haven’t discussed Detroit yet,” Karen said. “Have we?”
“What’s to discuss? Have you ever been to Belle Isle? Greenfield Village?”
“How about where you went to school.” No—she shouldn’t have said that. Then, what year, getting into ages. He was younger than she was. A few years, anyway.
“I went to De LaSalle,” Maguire said. “By the City Airport.”
She had meant college; he was referring to a high school. “I know where it is,” Karen said. “I lived on the east side.”
“Where’d you go?”
“Dominican.”
“You’re a Catholic?” He seemed surprised.
“Sort of. Not the kind I used to be.”
“Yeah, I’ve fallen off myself. It’s funny, isn’t it?”
“What is?”
“I mean I’d never of thought of you as a Catholic. Even with your name.”
“Or with yours,” Karen said. “The thing that messes up yours is the Calvin.”
He was looking directly at her now.
“How old are you?”
Without a pause Karen said, “Thirty-eight. How old are you?”
“Thirty-six.”
“You don’t look it.”
“You don’t either,” Maguire said.
She should have told him thirty-six.
He said, “I told them I was thirty when I came to work here; everybody looked so young. I almost—just now I almost said I was thirty-two. Why would I do that?”
“Well, no one wants to get old.”
“But thirty-six, thirty-eight, that’s not old. I figure it’s about the best age there is.”
“It’s all right,” Karen said, thinking, Thirty-eight; what year was I born? “I don’t give it much thought one way or the other. You’re as old as you feel.”
“Right,” Maguire said. “Usually I feel about eighteen.”
“I like twenty-five,” Karen said. “I wouldn’t mind being twenty-five again. Do it right this time.”
“What would you do different?”
“Lots of things. I’d travel first, before I settled down anywhere.”
“Why don’t you do it now?”
“I may.”
“I’ve traveled,” Maguire said, “but mostly between here and Colorado. I’ve been to Mexico. Next—in fact, I was gonna get a passport.” He paused. “Then something came up.”
“Where were you going?”
“Spain. The South of France, around in there. Get a car and drive, like Madrid to Rome. That sounds pretty good.”
“I’ve always wanted to go to Madrid,” Karen said. “Málaga—”
“You’ve never been over there?”
“We used to go to the Greenbriar. Or SAE conventions.”
“Frank DiCilia did?”
“The other Frank, the first one. The second one, I couldn’t get him out of Florida.”
“Except go to Detroit now and then,” Maguire said, “if I recall you saying.”
“Eastern nine-five-two, Miami to Detroit, the dinner flight. Nine-five-three back again.”
“Well, what do you sit around in that big house for, if you’ve got the urge and you can go anywhere you want?”
“Right,” Karen said. “It’s dumb, isn’t it?”
“You want to have dinner with me tonight?” Maguire said. “Anywhere you want. I just came into some money.”
Three times Roland dropped the wrought-iron knocker against the front door. When Marta appeared, he pushed the door all the way open and walked in past her.
“Missus isn’t here.”
Roland walked through the sitting room to the French doors and looked out on the patio.
“Where she at?”
“Missus isn’t here.”
Roland came back to the front hall and crossed to look into the living room, narrowing his eyes at the size of it—the white plaster walls and beamed cathedral ceiling—as if to make the room smaller and spot her hiding someplace.
“Where is she?”
As he moved toward the stairway, Marta said, “Let me see, please, if she is upstairs.”
Roland said, “You stay here, honey. You call anybody on the phone I’ll know about it, won’t I?” He reached down as Gretchen came running across the polished floor to him. “Hey, Gretchie, how you doin’ huh? How you doin’, girl? You gettin’ much?”
Karen was thinking, Thirty-eight from seventy-nine . . . forty-one.
Lying on the king-size bed in her robe, on top of the spread, ankles crossed, resting before her bath.
She would have been a war baby instead of a Depression baby. Forty-one and seventeen . . . fifty-eight. Graduated from high school in ’58. From Michigan in ’62. It wasn’t going to work. Unless
she was married to Frank—thinking of the first Frank—say, eleven years. That would make Julie—married, living in L.A.—about fifteen.
So don’t mention Julie. Except what if he says—
She had already told him.
The other night, listing the two Franks, yes, and a daughter—my daughter the actress. Shit. She had already mentioned Julie.
All right. She could have been married at Ann Arbor, still in school. Say, freshman year. If Julie was born in ’60, she’d be nineteen now.
Better stay away from it. Change the subject if he brings up Julie.
Somebody was coming upstairs. Marta?
Avoid talking about age or tell him the truth. What difference did it make? She wasn’t even sure why she was going out with him. She liked him; he was different; relaxed, low-key but very aware. She liked him—it was strange—quite a lot. Right from the beginning. But how did you make room for someone like Maguire? How did you explain him? Walking into the Palm Bay Club—
“Hey, look-it her waiting for me!”
Roland was in the room. She saw his hat, the color of his suit. She saw him coming, arms raised,
diving
at her! Karen screamed. She rolled, reaching for the edge of the bed, and Roland landed next to her with the sound of the frame cracking, ripping away from the oak headboard, collapsing, the
king-size boxspring and mattress dropping abruptly within the frame, to the floor.
Roland, on his elbows, close to her, hat low over his eyes, grinned at her.
“How you doin’?”
Karen screamed. “Marta!”
She tried to roll off the edge, but he caught her and held her to the bed beneath one arm across her stomach.
“Take off my hat for me.”
“Get
out
of here!” And screamed again, “Marta!”
“I told her we wouldn’t need anything.”
Roland took his hat by the brim and sailed it away from the bed. His arm came down again to grab her as she tried to twist away, free herself, and now he lowered his face to her, nuzzling it against her neck, working aside the collar of the robe. “I ain’t gonna hurt you. This hurt?” His voice softly muffled. “Feels kinda good, don’t it.” His face moving lower as he pulled her toward him to lie on her back, his face nuzzling into the robe.
Karen held herself rigid, staring at the ceiling, feeling his mouth on her, his face moving side to side, opening her robe. She could hear Gretchen in the room, license and ID tags jingling on her collar.
“We don’t have nothing on under there, do we? Mmmmmm, you sure smell nice.” He looked up then, turning his cheek to her. “Here, smell mine.
Called Manpower. Little girl in the store said, ‘For the man who knows what he wants.’ You like it?”
Karen turned her face away, the perfumed astringent scent almost making her gag. Thinking, Don’t move. Don’t fight. Breathe. His face moved lower, and she was staring at the ceiling again, feeling his mouth, feeling her heart beating beneath his mouth.
“Don’t that feel goooood? Yeaaaah, feels good have somebody holding you again, don’t it? Been a long, long time.” His mouth moving over her, voice drowsy, soft.
Thinking, Six months. Seven months. Thinking, There’s nothing you can do. Close your eyes. It could be—his mouth moving—it could be anyone. It could be someone else. But her eyes remained open.
Any
one else, for God’s sake. But it wasn’t going to be this one!
Karen rolled into him, jabbed against him as hard as she could and abruptly rolled the other way, reached the edge of the bed with her knee and one hand before he caught her again and she could feel the bulk of him, his weight, against her back.
“Where you goin’, sugar?”
“I’m getting up.”
“What for? You got to make we-we?”
“I’m going to call Ed Grossi.”
“Hey, shit, you don’t want to bother Ed. This
here’s between you and me. You feel it?” He pushed against her. “That’s what’s between us, if you wondered I had something in my pocket. You want me to tell you what it is?”
Karen didn’t answer.
“It’s my Louisville Slugger.”
“You know I’m going to tell Ed,” Karen said, seeing Gretchen now, white whiskers and sad eyes looking up at her, only a few feet away. “You must be out of your mind.”
“With love,” Roland said. “Listen, come on. I wouldn’t hurt you for the world.”
“I saw Ed today.”
“You had a nice lunch, did you?”
Karen hesitated. How would he know that? She almost asked him; but it had nothing to do with right now, with Roland pressing against her.
She said, “I think you’d better talk to Ed as soon as you can. You’re going to be in a lot of trouble.”
“I don’t mind trouble. Shit, I like a little trouble. Keeps you thinking.”
She wanted to jab her elbow into him as hard as she could, but she held on, keeping an even tone as she said, “Talk to him. He’s agreed, I’m not going to be watched any more. The whole arrangement—it’s over with.”
Roland lay heavily against her, silent for a moment. “No shit, Ed’s calling it off?”
“Talk to him, will you please?”
“You cry on his shoulder or kick him in the nuts? Either way, I believe, might work.”
“Call him. The phone’s right behind you.”
There was a silence again.
“But did he check with Frank? What’s Frank say about it?”
“Let me up, all right?”
Roland took his time. As he rolled away from her, Karen was off the bed, pulling her robe together, moving across the room.
“Hold it there, sweet potato. Don’t go running off. I want to tell you something.”
“And I want you to leave. Right now.”
Roland got up slowly. “Messed up your bed, didn’t I?”
“Don’t worry about the bed. Just leave.”
“I can probably fix it for you.”
“Please, I’m asking you—”
Roland picked up his hat. He walked over to the wall of mirrors that enclosed Karen’s closet. “See, what Ed says, like half the time don’t mean diddly-shit. Ed’s getting old, little guinea brain becoming shriveled up from all that red wine.”
“Please. Talk to him yourself, all right?”
“See, but it ain’t up to Ed. What Frank DiCilia wants, it’s still like hanging out there in the air somewheres. Frank didn’t say okay, never mind. Just Ed said it. But Ed, his thinking’s all fucked up, ain’t it? So that means I have to take over.” Looking
at himself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror, setting his Ox Bow straw just right, little lower in front. “And see nobody gets close to you.” Looking at Karen in the mirror now, Karen by the foot of the bed. “You follow me? Nothing’s changed. You start seeing somebody, the fella’s likely to get one of his bones broke, and he won’t even know what for.”
Karen said, “You know I’m going to call Ed.”
Roland shrugged. “And he’ll shake his little guinea finger at me. But you know I’ll still be comin’ around, won’t I? And long as I do, I’m your big chance.”
Roland winked at her in the mirror.
MAGUIRE LOOKED UP THE NUMBER,
then had to go over to the TV set to turn down the volume. “Okay? Just for a minute.” Aunt Leona sat watching Barbara Walters talking to Anwar Sadat; she didn’t say anything.
It was ten to seven.
“Hi. It looks like I’m gonna be a little late. This girl lives next door said I could use her car; but she went somewhere. She isn’t back yet.”
“That’s all right,” Karen said. “Listen, why don’t we make it some other time then?”
“The car’s not that important,” Maguire said. “I wanted to pick you up, but if I can’t—we can meet somewhere, can’t we?’
There was a pause.
“I guess we could.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. I was trying to think of a place.”
“You sound different,” Maguire said.
“Where do you want to meet?”
What was it? She sounded tired.
“If I don’t call you back by . . . seven-thirty, how about if we meet at the Yankee Clipper? Is that all right?”
“Fine.”
“You don’t sound very enthusiastic about it.”
“Really, that’s fine. I’ll see you there.”
“About eight, if I don’t call—”
She had hung up.
Jesus Diaz wore a clean yellow sportshirt and his white poplin jacket to go to 1 Isla Bahía. At twenty after seven he rang the bell at the side door. Marta let her brother in without a word, left him to wait in the kitchen several minutes, returned and handed him the day’s cassette tape.
“What’s the matter?” Jesus said.
“Your friend Roland, what else.”
“He’s not my friend.”
“The pimp, he came today and attempted to rape her.”
“How do you know?”
“I heard it, how do I know. He broke the bed. Two hundred years old, he broke it jumping on her.”
“Maybe she wanted him to,” Jesus said.
“Go,” Marta said. “Get out of here.”
* * *
Roland was on the balcony of his eight hundred-dollar-a-month Miami Shores apartment that had a view down the street to the ocean, drinking beer with his boots off, feet in blue silk socks propped on the railing. He let Jesus Diaz in, took Ralph Stanley and the Clinch Mountain Boys off the hi-fi and plugged in his tape player-recorder.
“Lemme have it.”
They listened to a woman’s voice say, “Dorado Management . . . No, I’m sorry, Mr. Grossi has left for the day.”
Jesus saw Roland wink at him; he didn’t know why.
Another woman’s voice said, “Hello?” . . . “Clara, is Ed there? It’s Karen.”
No, Ed had gone to some kind of business meeting. Roland thought they might talk awhile, but Karen asked her to have Ed call and that was it.
Then the next voice, a man’s, said, “Hi. It looks like I’m gonna be a little late.”
Roland listened and played it again. He said, “Son of a
bitch.
” Looked at his watch and then at Jesus Diaz. “Yankee Clipper. Go see who he is.”
“It’s only the first time. Maybe it’s nothing,” Jesus said.
“How you know it’s the first time?”
“I don’t know his name. Like the other ones on the phone.”
“Follow him then. See where he lives, look it up in the city directory.”
“Maybe he rents a place.”
“Jesus Christ,” Roland said, “then find out where he works. You understand what I mean? Follow the dink till you find out about him. Let me know tomorrow, and I’ll tell you what to do.”
Jesus Diaz wanted to ask something about Mrs. DiCilia, but he didn’t know how to say it. So he left to go to the Yankee Clipper.
They sat next to each other at a banquette table facing the bar and the portholes back of it that presented an illuminated, underwater view of the hotel swimming pool.
Karen said, “I just realized why you come here.”
“I’ve never been here before.”
“The windows, like in the dolphin tank.”
“You’re changing the subject again.”
“No—I just noticed it.”
“I’m not dumb—” Maguire stopped, reconsidering. “I mean I’m not that dumb. This afternoon you’re very relaxed, you talk, you’re interested. I call you—since then you’re like a different person. More like at your house the other night. No, different. You’re quieter. But tense like you were then, something on your mind.”
“Okay, I have something on my mind,” Karen
said. Sitting next to him, she could look at the bar, the portholes, the people in the room, without obviously avoiding his eyes. Or she could look down at her menu open against the table, resting on her lap. “That happens, doesn’t it? A minor problem comes up, something you have to work out.”
“I don’t think it’s minor,” Maguire said.
“There’s a man at the bar, the one in the white jacket. I think I know him,” Karen said, “but I can’t remember where.”
Maguire raised his hand to the waitress, impatient, trying to appear calm, glancing at the guy sitting sideways to the bar—
him?
—then looking up as the waitress came over. “Two more please, same way.”
“That was two Beefeater on the rocks?”
The waitress checked their glasses, leaving Karen’s.
“Beefeater and a white rum martini.”
The waitress turned away and he said to Karen, “Look, I don’t care about the guy at the bar—”
“I know who he is,” Karen said. “Marta’s brother.”
“Okay,” Maguire said. “I don’t care about Marta’s brother. I don’t want to look at the menu yet, I just want to know what’s the matter. Even if it’s none of my business. The other night you hint around like you want to tell me something. You show me a
gun
, you want to know how to use it. I’ll
admit something to you. I purposely didn’t ask you the other night, because how do I know what I’m walking into? I’ll tell you something else. I’ve been arrested nine times and not one conviction. I mean not even a suspended. All kinds of sheets on me, but no convictions. The last time, I promised—I even prayed, which I hadn’t done in, what, twenty years. Get me out of this one and I’ll never . . . get in trouble again. I’ll dedicate myself to clean living and not even
talk
to anybody who’s been in that other life. So the other night—you don’t mind my saying, with your husband’s associations and all, here’s Frank DiCilia’s wife wants to know how to use a gun. She must have all the protection she needs, her husband’s friends still around—what does she want a gun for? See, that’s where I was the other night. But now I’m asking you what the problem is. I don’t know why, maybe this afternoon did something. You came to see me, you were very warm and open. That’s another thing. I feel something with you. I feel close, and I want to help you if I can.”
“You were different this afternoon,” Karen said. “You seemed almost shy.”
“I don’t know, maybe I was a little self-conscious in my camp outfit, you seeing me there. But now I’ve got my outfit on I feel good in. See, I’m
me
in this outfit. Tan and blue, it doesn’t matter that it’s cheap or what anybody thinks of it, I feel good in it,
I feel like the original
me
before I ever screwed up or wasted time. Does that make sense? I don’t know—”
“I should’ve worn mine.” Karen was looking at him now, smiling. “You were funny this afternoon, with your carnival voice.”
“And now I’m frustrated,” Maguire said. “I want to know what’s going on.”
The martini made her feel warm, protected. Still looking at him she said, “You have blue eyes,” a little surprised.
“See?” Maguire said. “We’re both from the east side of Detroit, we’re both sort of Catholic and have blue eyes. What else do you need?”
“There’s a man,” Karen said, and paused. “I think he’s going to ask me for money. Quite a lot of money. And if I don’t give it to him, I think he’s going to kill me.” Still looking at him. “You tell me what else I need.”
“Me,” Maguire said.
Jesus Diaz ordered another Tom Collins, his fifth one, the bartender giving him the nothing-look again, not saying “Here you are,” or “Thank you, sir,” or anything, not saying a word. The bartender looked like a guy named Tommy Laglesia he had fought at the Convention Center ten years ago and lost in the fifth on a TKO. If the bartender did
thank him or say something like that, the bartender had better be careful of his tone. Jesus would take the man by the hair, pull his face down hard against the bar and say, “You welcome.”
Shit. He was tired of looking at the empty green water in the windows, waiting for a swimmer to appear, a girl. Tired of looking around, pretending to look at nothing. He didn’t like to drink this much. But what was he supposed to do, sitting at a bar? What else would he be here for? While they sat over there drinking. Nine-thirty, they hadn’t eaten dinner yet, Jesus Diaz thinking, I’m going to be drunk. We are all going to be drunk. The two drinking and talking close together, looking at each other, talking very seriously, the woman talking most of the time, the man in tan and blue smoking cigarettes, talking a little, touching the woman’s hand, leaving his hand on hers. Like lovers. Man, he was fast if they were lovers. Jesus Diaz had never seen him before. Maybe he was an old lover from before, a lover from when she was married to DiCilia, yes, someone younger than the old man. Young lover but old friend. That’s what he must be.
Ten-fifteen, still not eating. Not touching their drinks either. Now only a small amount remaining in the sixth Tom Collins, the fucking bartender who looked like Tommy Laglesia pretending not to be looking at him. Come over and say something,
Jesus was thinking; tired, ready to go to sleep on the bar.
Almost ten-thirty. They were leaving. They must have already paid the girl without him seeing it. They were getting up, leaving!
The fucking bartender was down at the other end. Of course, talking to someone who wouldn’t stop talking. Jesus Diaz stood up on the rung of the barstool.
“Hey!”
The bartender came to him and this time he said, “Like another?”
“Shit no,” Jesus Diaz said. “I want to get out of this fucking place.”
“We’ve got to eat something,” Karen said. “Three martinis—you know what that does to me?”
“Four,” Maguire said. “It makes you feel good.”
They stood on the patio making up their minds, sit down or go back in. There was a breeze off the channel, the feeling of the ocean close by.
“No worries,” Karen said. “No, you still have them, but they don’t seem as real. Maybe that’s the answer. Stay in the bag and forget about it. Whenever he comes over, Marta can tell him Missus has passed out. So—do you feel like a drink?”
“Not right now.”
“Something to eat then? Why didn’t we eat?”
“Lost interest, I guess. I’m still not hungry.”
Maguire was looking toward the house, at the dark archway and the French doors. A lamp was on in the sitting room. He could see the back of the Louis XVI bergère. The windows of the living room were dark; the upstairs windows dark, except for one. He could feel her next to him. She was wearing a dark buttoned-up sweater now, over the dress he thought of as a long shirt, open at the neck, letting him see the beginning soft-curve of her breast when they were sitting at the table. He took her arm, and they began to walk out on the lawn toward the seawall.
“That’s one way,” he said. “Get stoned. But the other way, going to the cops—I’m not prejudiced, I just don’t see it’ll do any good. Unless he’s awful dumb.”
“He acts dumb,” Karen said, “but I’m not sure. He’s so confident.”
“I doubt the cops’d put him under surveillance. They’ll tell you they’ll serve him with a peace bond and that should do it. Like a warning, stay away from her. But it doesn’t mean anything because how’re they gonna enforce it? He comes here. You call the cops. They come and he’s gone. They pick him up, he says, ‘Who, me? I never threatened the lady.’ They shake their finger at him, ‘Stay away
from her.’ That’s about all they can do. But the way it is, he hasn’t asked for anything yet.”
“No.”
“So it’s not extortion. How do you know he wants money?”
“What else is there?”
“I don’t know,” Maguire said, “but I think he’s interested in you more than the money. Or you
and
the money.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Why not? What does he do? He worked for your husband?”
“He works for Ed Grossi, but I doubt if he will much longer.”
“Why not?”
“
Why?
After what he did?”
“He jumped on your bed,” Maguire said. “You can say he had rape in his eyes, but in the light of what he does for Ed Grossi—we don’t know but it might be very heavy work, a key job—then all he did was jump on your bed. Ed Grossi says, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll talk to him.’ And he says to Roland, ‘Quit jumping on the lady’s bed, asshole,’ and that’s it.”
“Ed’s a friend of mine,” Karen said.
“That’s nice,” Maguire said, “but in his business you’re a friend when he’s got time or if it isn’t too much trouble; unless you’re in the business with
him and you’ve taken the oath or whatever they do—even then, I don’t know.”
Karen thought about it, walking slowly in the darkness, holding her arms now, inside herself.
“What if I told Ed, I insist I be there when he speaks to Roland?”
“Fine,” Maguire said. “Then they put on this show. Take
that,
and
that.
Ed chews him out and Roland stands there cracking his knuckles. Even if Ed’s serious, he wants the guy to stay away from you, how important is the guy to Ed? Or how much control does he have over him? That’s the question.”
They stopped near the seawall, looking out at the lights of the homes across the channel.
“Are you cold?”
“Hold me,” Karen said. “Will you?”
He put his arms around her, and she pressed in against him. She felt small. He thought she would fit the way Lesley did and feel much the same as Lesley, but she was smaller, more delicate; she felt good against him. He wanted to hold her very close without hurting her. He became aware of something else—though maybe it was only in his mind—that this was a woman and Lesley was a girl. Was there a difference? He raised her face with his hand and kissed her. She put her head against his cheek, then raised her face, their eyes holding for a moment, almost smiling, and they began to kiss again,
their mouths fitting together and then moving, taking parts of each other’s mouths, no Lesley comparison now, Lesley gone, the woman taking over alone, the woman eager, he could feel it, but holding back a little, patient. There was a difference.