“Is it important?”
“Life or death situation,” Roland said. He grinned, but he meant it.
Maguire said, “I’m gonna make a phone call, that’s all. I’ll be right there.”
Brad Allen said, “You come to my office right now or you’re out of a job.”
The camp director. The school principal. Tell him what to do with the job.
Maguire watched him walking away. Pretty soon, he thought. He followed Brad to the office beneath the grandstand, ten by twelve, with a wooden desk, one chair, four cement walls covered with photos of Brad Allen and dolphins—Brad & Pepper, Brad & Dixie, Brad & Bonnie—Brad feeding, patting, kissing, presenting, admonishing, cajoling dozens of different one-name dolphins that, to Maguire, all looked like the same one.
Brad, seated, looking up at Maguire standing at parade rest, said, “All right, here’s the new routine. You ready?”
“I’m ready,” Maguire said.
“Beginning of the Flying Dolphin Show, most of the people’ve just come in. Right?”
“Right.”
“You say, ‘Anybody notice that lion out there by the main entrance?’ ” Brad’s tone becoming an effortless drawl.
Jesus Christ, Maguire thought.
“ ‘We got Leo—that’s the lion’s name—to keep out undesirables, anybody that might come in and cause trouble. But the trouble is, the lion’s asleep all the time. Never moves. That’s why you might not’ve noticed him.’ Then you say, ‘Leo did cause a problem, though, one time, back when, for some reason, our porpoises were all getting sick and dying on us. Well, this fella came along and said, “What you got to do is feed your porpoises seagull meat, and I guarantee they’ll live forever.” He said he’d supply it, too. Well, we’d try anything, so we told him okay, bring some gull meat. Well, the next day he’s walking in with it, stepping over Leo, when all of a sudden about a dozen cops jumped out and arrested him. And you know what for?’ You wait then, make sure you’ve got everybody’s attention. Then you say, ‘He was arrested for transporting gulls over the staid lion for immortal porpoises.’ ” Brad Allen grinned. “Huh? What do you think?”
“Can I use your phone?” Maguire said.
“Karen, how are you?”
“Who is this?”
“You know who it is.”
“Let me see. Is it Howard?”
“Come on—”
“Don’t you know when I’m kidding?”
“Well, I thought I had a sense of humor, but I think it was just ruined for good. Like pouring sugar in a gas tank.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m at work. Listen, let’s meet tonight.”
There was a silence. Karen wondering what to say.
“At the Yankee Clipper. No, I’ll try to pick you up about eight, then we’ll go there. Okay?”
Tentatively, “Okay.” A pause. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, there’s somebody I want to see. So wait for me to pick you up.”
“I understand,” Karen said.
Jesus Diaz had taken Lionel Oliva to Abbey Hospital to get thirteen stitches in his head and four inside his lower lip. They were in the Centro Vasco the next day, in the afternoon, Jesus having something to eat, Lionel Oliva drinking beer, holding it against the swollen cut in his mouth, when Roland came in. Roland said, “What’s the matter with him?”
“He hit his head,” Jesus said.
“I want you to pick up the tape after supper and drop it off,” Roland said.
Jesus looked up at Roland and said, “I’m going to Cuba.”
“What d’ya mean you’re going to Cuba? Shit, nobody goes down there. It’s against the law.”
Jesus had, only this moment, thought of Cuba. If he wasn’t going there he’d go someplace else. “You can go there now,” he said. “I got to see my mother. She’s dying.”
“Well, shit,” Roland said, “I got things going on, I got to go up to Hallandale—” Roland was frowning; he didn’t like this. “When you coming back?”
“I don’t know,” Jesus said. “I have to wait to see if she dies.”
“Well, listen, you pick up the tape and drop it off ‘fore you go to Cuba. Don’t forget, either.” Roland turned and went toward the front of the quiet, nearly empty restaurant.
“Where did he get that suit?” Lionel Oliva said, not moving his mouth. “It makes you close your eyes.”
Jesus Diaz was still watching Roland, the hat, the high round shoulders, the light behind him as he moved toward the front entrance.
“I’d like to be able to hit him,” Jesus said. “I would, you know it? If I could reach him.”
“When you going to Cuba?” Lionel Oliva said.
“Fuck Cuba,” Jesus said. “Man, I’d like to hit him, one time. I think I’d like a Tom Collins, too.”
Roland liked Arnold Rapp’s balcony view a whole lot more than his own. You could look straight down on the swimming pool and some palm trees or turn your head a notch and there was the Atlantic Ocean. It didn’t make sense. Here was Arnold, about to have a nervous breakdown, with the good view. Whereas Roland, who had the world by the giggy at the present time, had a piss-poor view of the ocean down a street and between some apartments.
He said to Arnold, “You don’t get outside enough. Look at you.”
“Look at me?” Arnold said. “How’m I gonna get outside, I’m on the fucking telephone all day. Now, you know what I gotta do now? Borrow money, for Christ sake, a hundred grand, guy I know in New York—if he was here I’d kiss him, shit, I’d blow him, he says he’s gonna come through. That’s what I have to do, get deeper in hock so I can buy time to put together some deals, I ought to go outside.”
“You got this week’s?” Roland said.
“What’re you talking about this week’s? I don’t owe you till Friday.”
“Couple of days, what’s the difference?”
“You kidding? Almost eight grand a day, man; it makes all the fucking difference in the world.”
“Ed don’t think you’re gonna pay it.”
“He doesn’t, huh.”
“He thinks you’re gonna get on a aeroplane one of these days,” Roland said. “He thinks we ought to settle up. So he said go on see Arnie, get it done.”
“Get what done? Jesus Christ, now wait a minute—”
Roland reached inside his suitcoat and brought out a .45 caliber Smith & Wesson revolver with a six and one-half inch barrel, one of the guns he kept stored for this kind of work.
“Now come on—Jesus, put it away.”
Extended, pointed at Arnold sitting on the couch, the big Smith covered Arnold’s face and half his body. Roland reached down to the easy chair next to him and picked up a satin pillow. He held it in front of the muzzle, showing Arnold how he was going to do it as he moved toward him, the poor little guy pressing himself against the couch, nowhere to go, looking like he was about to cry.
“I’m gonna pay you. Man, I’m paying you, haven’t I been paying? I got some money now you can have.”
“Shut your eyes, Arnie.” Roland took the pillow away so Arnie could look into the .45 muzzle that was like a tunnel coming toward his face. “Close your little eyes, go seepy-bye.”
Those eyes wild, frantic, the gun right there in his face.
“Ready?” Roland said. “Close ’em tight.”
Arnold grabbed the barrel, wrenching it, twisting, rolling across the satin couch. Roland yelled out something, his finger caught in the trigger guard, then grabbing the finger as it came free, holding it tight, the finger hurting something awful, and there was Arnold aiming the gun at him now, pointing it directly at his chest, Arnold closing his eyes, the dumb son of a bitch, as he held the Smith in both hands and pulled the trigger.
Click.
Pulled it again.
Click.
And again and again.
Click, click.
Roland grinned.
Arnold hunched over and started to cry.
Roland took the gun from him, lifting it between thumb and two fingers by the checkered walnut grip and slipped it back into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He patted Arnold on the shoulder.
“It ain’t your day, is it, Arnie? Come on out on the balcony.”
Arnold pulled away from him, his mouth ugly the way he was crying without making much of a sound.
“You dink, I ain’t gonna throw you off. We’re gonna sit out in the air while I tell you how you can get born again.”
“I don’t see why I can’t meet him someplace here,” Arnold said. He was sighing, but starting to breathe normally again.
Poor little fella, his nose wet and snotty. Roland handed him a red bandana handkerchief.
“You got Drug Enforcement on your ass, you dink. Ed ain’t gonna chance being seen with you around here.”
“I don’t see why Detroit.”
“Arnie, I don’t give a shit if you see it or not. That’s where Ed says he’ll meet you.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow, maybe the day after. You go to the hotel there at the Detroit airport and wait for a call. Ed’ll get in touch with you.”
“Yeah, but when?”
“When he feels like it, you dink.” Shit, maybe he ought to forget the whole thing and throw the dink off the balcony.
“Then what?”
“Then you meet someplace, you tell him your deal.”
“What deal?”
“Jesus Christ, you told me to get Ed to bank a couple of more trips, and he could take it all. Didn’t you tell me that?”
“Yeah, right. I wasn’t sure.”
“Listen, Ace, I’m standing here in the middle with my pecker hanging out. You better be sure you got a deal to make him.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Roland liked that tone of confidence coming back into Arnold’s voice, the dumb shithead. He brought a folded Delta Airlines envelope out of his side pocket and handed it to Arnold.
“This here’s your flight. Tomorrow noon. You’ll be driving out to the airport in your Jaguar, huh? License ARN-268?”
“I’ll probably take a cab.”
“Drive,” Roland said, “case somebody wants to follow you, see that you go to the airport and not take off for the big swamp.”
“Something’s funny,” Arnold said.
“Okay,” Roland said, “let’s forget the whole thing, asshole. I’ll see you in two days for the vig. I’ll see you next week and the week after—”
“It’s just a little funny,” Arnold said. “I mean it isn’t that funny. Not nearly as funny as that shit you pulled with the gun. You got a very weird sense of humor, if you don’t mind my saying.”
“No, I don’t mind,” Roland said. “We were just having us some fun, weren’t we?”
14
* * *
MARTA’S BROTHER, JESUS, came for the cassette tape a little after seven o’clock, while Mrs. DiCilia was upstairs. He said this was the last time. No more.
Marta asked him if he had been drinking. He said yes, with Lionel Oliva. He said, Why are we doing this? It wasn’t a question. Why should we make life difficult for the woman? What has she done to us? Why should we want to deceive her? Still not asking questions. Marta listened. No more, Jesus said. You’re drunk, Marta said. Jesus said, How does that change it? No more. Doing this for Roland. How can a man work for Roland and live with himself? Still not a question. Marta said, All I do is hand you this. Nothing more. Jesus said, No more! You feel the same way I feel. (Which was true.) So no more. I’m leaving. Marta said, But if I leave—Jesus said, I leave to be away from Roland. You don’t have to leave. Talk to the woman. Help her for a change. Marta said, Where are you going? Cuba, Jesus said. Then why give him this one? Marta said. Because when I go to see him and give it to him, Jesus said, I may have the nerve to shoot him. Or I may not. But I think I’m going to Cuba.
Then the one named Maguire came in Mrs. DiCilia’s car at five minutes to eight.
Marta thought Mrs. DiCilia was going out with him, but they spoke outside for a few minutes and then the one named Maguire drove away. Mrs. DiCilia returned to the house and went up to the room that had been Mr. DiCilia’s office, next to the master bedroom. Mrs. DiCilia had gone to the public library today—she had told Marta—for several hours, then had returned to spend most of the day in the room.
Marta remained in her own room for nearly an hour, telling herself it wasn’t wrong to record Mrs. DiCilia’s telephone calls; it was for the woman’s protection—which is what they had told her—to keep bad men away from her. But if the men who were supposed to be protecting her were worse than the ones they were keeping away— If she knew this— Yes, then she could say to Mrs. DiCilia she had just found it out or realized it. Not confessing, but revealing a discovery. There was a great difference. For then Mrs. DiCilia would trust her and have no reason to fire her. Marta wanted to help Mrs. DiCilia. But she first wanted to keep her job.
She went upstairs to the office-room, where Mrs. DiCilia sat at the desk holding the telephone and a pair of scissors.
There was something different about the room. The white walls were bare. The framed photographs of Mr. DiCilia and other men—Mr. DiCilia shaking hands with them or standing smiling with them—were gone. They had been taken down.
Marta waited.
Mrs. DiCilia was speaking to someone named Clara, saying all right, she’d phone him the day after tomorrow, then.
There were newspapers and pieces cut from newspapers covering the surface of the desk, pictures out of the paper, pictures out of magazines, that seemed to be of Mrs. DiCilia.
Mrs. DiCilia was asking if Clara had the phone number of Vivian Arzola.
Marta, looking at the pictures on the desk and thinking, It’s being recorded. The telephone. Roland will come for the tape and—what would she tell him?
There were small snapshots in black and white on the desk, and newspaper pictures of another woman, not Mrs. DiCilia, that had been machine-copied and looked marked and faded.
Mrs. DiCilia was saying all right, she’d try to call Vivian at the office again, and thanked the one named Clara.
Mrs. DiCilia hung up the telephone, looking at Marta. “Yes?”
“I have something I want to tell you please,” Marta said.
“Where’s a cowboy get a hat like that?”
Roland turned his head to look at Maguire on the bar stool next to him. He said, “Right in downtown Miami. There’s a store there sells range clothes.”
“Like western attire,” Maguire said. “I believe if I’m not mistaken it’s the Ox Bow model.” As advertised in the window of Bill Bullock’s in Aspen.
“You’re right,” Roland said, touching the curved brim and looking at Maguire again, a man who knew hats.
“But you didn’t get that suit there,” Maguire said.
“No, the suit was made for me over in the Republic of China,” Roland said.
Maguire shook his head. “No shit.”
“Yeah, over in Taiwan. It cost you some money, but if you’re willing to pay—”
“I know what you mean.”
“—then you got yourself a suit of clothes.” Roland’s chin rested on his shoulder, looking at Maguire. “I bet I know where you’re from. Out west.”
“How’d you know?” Maguire said, giving it just a little down-home accent.
“I can tell. Where you think I’m from?”
“Well, I was gonna say out west, too,” Maguire said. “I don’t know. Let me see—Vegas?”
Roland straightened around, looking down the bar at the display of bottles and the portholes full of illuminated water. “Bartender, give us a couple more here, if you will please.” Then to Maguire, “What’re you drinking?”
“Rum,” Maguire said.
“One Caribbean piss,” Roland said to the bartender, “one Wild Turkey. Las Vegas, huh? Shit no, I’m from right here in Florida.”
“Lemme see
,” Maguire said, “you a cattle rancher? Those brahmans with the humps?”
“Naw, I was in cement, land development. Before that I was a hunting-fishing guide over in Big Cypress. Take these dinks out don’t know shit, one end of a air boat from the other.”
“Over by Miccosukee I bet,” Maguire said.
“Near, but more west, by Turner River.”
“I drove through there one time,” Maguire said, “I stopped at this place on the Tamiami for a cup of coffee?”
“Yeah.”
“Little restaurant out there all by itself. This woman about thirty-five, nice looking, serves me the coffee and then she sits down in a chair right in the middle of the floor, I’m sitting at the counter?”
“Yeah.”
“She says, ‘I love animals. It tears me up when one gets run over by a car.’ She says, ‘I love cowbirds the most. They have the prettiest eyes.’ With this dreamy look on her face, sitting out in the middle of the floor. She says, ‘Their little heads go back and forth like this’—she shows me how they go—‘pecking away; they’ll peck at a great big horsefly.’ ”
“That’s right,” Roland said, “they will.”
“She’s sitting there—I said to her, ‘You all by yourself?’ She says, ‘Yes, I am.’ I said, ‘You live here?’ She says, ‘Yes, I do.’ I said, ‘You want to go back to the bedroom?’ She says, ‘I don’t care.’ ”
Roland hit the edge of the bar with his big hand. “Yeah, shit, I know where that’s at.”
“We go back there,” Maguire said, “she never says a word all the time we’re doing it. We get dressed, come back out, she pours me another cup of coffee and sits down in that same chair again in the middle of the floor?”
“Yeah.”
“Hasn’t said a word in about twenty minutes now.”
“I know.”
“She says, ‘We found a little parrot was hit by a car once. We nursed it, we got it well again and kept it in the bathroom so it’d be warm. But it drowned in the commode.’ ”
Roland, shaking his head, said, “Je-sus, I know her and about a hunnert just like her.” He opened his eyes and put on a blank expression, turning his head to look around slowly and drawled in a high voice, ‘Yeah, I was down to Mon-roe Station, les see, ’bout five years ago for a catfish supper.’ Fucking place’s a mile and a half down the road. Man, I had to get out of there ‘fore I got covered over with moss.”
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