Authors: Elmore Leonard
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 gonna worry about it,” Jimmy Cap said. “What else you got?”
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 funny lately. You notice?”
“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.
Roland was grinning at her.
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.” Grinning then, seeing Gretchen the schnauzer skidding across the hall floor at him. “Hey, Gretchie, hey Gretchie, how you girl? How’s my girl, huh? You want some of this, Gretchie? No, you don’t. This ain’t for little doggies, this here is for—shit, where you going? Get her Gretchie!”
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 running, Marta in white panties, nothing else, running across the patio and past the swimming pool. Roland following after her, waving something white, Roland calling out, the words not clear. Karen raised the window. “I’m gonna get you, yes, I am, sugar, gonna eat you up.” Roland stopping as Marta stopped, out on the lawn, and came around warily, holding her hands in front of her, beginning to circle back toward the
house, facing Roland now, screaming again as he dug in and lunged toward her.
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?”
“Twenny-two.”
“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 grinned, adjusting his hat, fooling with it. He said to Karen, “There you are. They want to hear the dirt.” Roland’s gaze moved to the police officers. He said to them, “You know who this lady is, Mrs. DiCilia? Was married to Frank DiCilia, good friend of Ed Grossi, recently passed away.”
(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 ex
plain
ing 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?
Roland, in the front doorway, watched the white Lauderdale police car with it’s red bubble, drive over the bridge to Harbor Beach Parkway. He’d pulled it off, made his point.
Roland said over his shoulder, “I knew you were up there watching. You enjoy the show?”
No answer from her.
The cops had eyed his Cadillac and right now were probably calling the Communications Center to punch the code on his license number. Those guys were going to shit when they got the report; but they wouldn’t come back now without a heavy charge and backup.
Karen, standing behind him in the hall, said, “Are we going to talk?”
Roland turned, closing the door. He studied Karen, trying to make up his mind about something.
“You’re different’n before. You know it? You’re a lot calmer. I don’t mean you’re ever excitable, but there’s something different about you. You got something bothering you you’re holding in?”
“You talk a lot,” Karen said, “but you never get to the point.” She turned and went into the living room.
Roland followed her, looking up at the high-beamed ceiling, impressed with the size of the room every time he came in here.
“I believe I owe you a few bucks. I broke some plates.”
Karen said, “Tell me what you want.” She stood by the fireplace. She felt like moving but didn’t want to pace in front of him.
Roland eased into a deep chair. His hat brim touched the cushion of the backrest and he hunched forward a little.
“What’re you offering me?”
“How about twenty-five thousand?”
“Cash? In new hundred dollar bills?”
Karen stared at him.
Roland stared back. He said, “How come you got all those pictures upstairs?” He pulled his Ox Bow down closer to his eyes so he could rest his head against the chair.
“Did you take the money?”
“No, it’s there. I figure it’s for cigarettes and bird feed, uh?”