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  “Well, I guess so. But then some snitch sees Cochise walking in a place with a golf bag full of electric razors and that’s it. We were picked up, you know, before anything was paid.”

  “I don’t know anything about it, so don’t ask, okay? But I’ll see where we stand with the porpoise. You say porpoise or porpoises, plural?”

  “Either way,” Maguire said.

  “Nice clean animals,” Marshall said. “Give me a call in a couple of days.” He turned to go back into the courtroom.

  “What about the Pattersons? You think you can get ’em off?”

  “I don’t lose if I can win,” Marshall said. He paused, hand on the door. “It’s too bad they didn’t pull the kind of dumb stunt you did, leave some snapshots in the car. I’ll see you.”

  Andre and Grover Patterson drew 20 to life.

  A few days before they were sentenced, Maguire gave Andre’s wife a list of things to tell Andre and two questions, in particular, to ask him, when she went in to see him on visitor’s day.

  She came out of the Wayne County jail, Maguire waiting, and they walked the three blocks south to Monroe, Greektown, for a cup of coffee.

  Andre’s wife said, “Yeah, he understand. You out and he’s in, that’s all. That dumb, stupid man”—shaking her head, sounding tired—“he’s always in. Must miss his friends at Jackson so much, got to get back to them.”

  “You tell him I got a job waiting for me, but I want to do something first?”

  “Yeah, I told him.”

  “I’m gonna write to him all about it. And give you his money? You tell him that?”

  “I told him.”

  “Good.” Maguire sipped his coffee. “And you asked him the man’s name? He told me once, but I wasn’t sure. I might’ve got it mixed up with somebody else.”

  “Yeah, the man’s name is Frank DiCilia,” Andre’s wife said.

  “That’s it.” Maguire nodded. Right, Frank DiCilia. He knew it was something like Cecilia or Cadelia. Years ago the name had been in the papers a lot.

  “And how about where he lives? Or where I get in touch with him?”

  “His home’s in Florida—”

  “Is that right?” Maguire perking up. “That’s where I’m going, Florida.” Maybe it was a sign, things beginning to come together without a lot of sweat and strain. “Where, Miami Beach?”

  “Fort something. Fort Laura—”

  “Fort Lauderdale.”

  “Yeah, Fort Lauradale.”

  Jesus, it was a sign. That’s where he was going for the job. The man was right there. No special trip required. It would give him time to think about it, how to approach a man like Frank DiCilia. Show him the clipping from the paper, TRIO ROBS COUNTRY CLUB, identify himself as one of the defendants—

  “But ain’t no way you gonna see him,” Andre’s wife said.

  “What do you mean? Why not?”

  “The man died about a week ago,” Andre’s wife said. “Andre say he heard about it. You didn’t?”

  4

  * * *

  SOME OF Roland Crowe’s buddies were still sloshing around back there in the swamp, driving air boats, guiding hunting and fishing parties, poaching alligators, making shine; some others were doing time at Raford and Lake Butler. Bunch of dinks.

  Roland had been that entire route and had poured cement for five years before going broke and learning the simple secret of success in business. Deal only in personal services. Not things. No lifting, no heavy work, no overhead, no machinery to speak of. Look good, listen carefully, take a minimum of shit, live close to the Beach and always make yourself available to people who called and said, Roland, there’s this man owes us money. Or, Roland, we believe this man is going independent on us. Or, we believe he’s telling us a story . . .

  Like the guy laying-up at Hallandale, Arnold Rapp. Financed him like a half million dollars, and he says the Coast Guard confiscated the shipment, nine tons of Columbian.

  Say, Come on, Arnold, for true? Holding him out the window by his ankles.

  Get that done, then stop by Lauderdale on the way back and say hi to the DiCilia lady. Look the situation over, lay in some footings.

  First thing though, Roland spent his back pay. He bought himself four new summer suits the man told him were designed in Paris, France, and specially cut for them by this tailor in Taiwan, Republic of China. He bought himself new three-hundred-fifty-dollar hand-tooled, high-heeled boots. He bought an Ox Bow wheat-colored straw hat with a high crown and a big scoop brim that, with the cowboy boots, put him up around six-six. He bought a cream-colored Cadillac Coupe d’Ville, cash. And put two months’ rent down on an eight hundred dollar apartment in Miami Shores.

  Look good and you feel good. He picked up Jesus Diaz and drove up to Hallandale.

  “I bet what it is,” Roland said to Jesus, “I bet anything Arnold is a boy went to about five colleges, traveled all over, got busted a couple of times, has his rich folks bail him out and he thinks he’s a fucking outlaw. You think I’m wrong?”

  “No, you right,” Jesus Diaz said. He was comfortable in the air-conditioned Cadillac, he didn’t want to argue with Roland.

  “See, they get together, these snotty boys like Arnold? They think shit, they been to college, dumb guineas financing the deal don’t know nothing. Tell ’em the load went down the toilet and keep the money.”

  “Maybe so,” Jesus Diaz said.

  “No maybe. These little shitheads’re pulling something.” Jesus Diaz did not reply and Roland said, “You don’t believe it?”

  “I believe it if you want me to,” Jesus Diaz said. He knew he should keep still, but he didn’t like Roland’s bright-blue pimp suit or the big Lone Ranger hat touching the roof of the car. He said, “Why they in business then? They make more selling it, don’t they?”

  “They do sell it, you dink,” Roland said. “But they tell Grossi they lost it, and he’s out his dough.”

  “They believe they can get away with that?” Jesus Diaz said.

  “Jesus,” Roland said, not meaning the little Cuban but the other Jesus. “You should never’ve gone in the ring, you know it? I think you got your brains scrambled.”

  Jesus Diaz agreed with that in part. To look like Kid Gavilan and fake a bolo punch wasn’t enough. After thirty-seven professional fights, several times getting the shit beat out of him and almost losing an eye, he could still see clearly and think clearly and knew this man next to him was a prehistoric creature from the swamp—man, from some black lagoon—who wore cowboy hats and chulo suits and squinted at life to see only what he wanted. Maybe he could punch with Roland and hurt him a little, but before it was over Roland would kill him. Roland’s fists were too big and his nose and jaw were up there too far away.

  Jesus Diaz, looking up at the green freeway sign as they passed beneath it, almost there now, said, “Hallandale.”

  “Yeah?” Roland said. “Hallandale. You can read English, huh?”

  What Jesus Diaz would like to do, take the man’s cowboy hat from his head, reach over and grab it and sail it out the window.

  This one, they should keep him locked up someplace with his mouth taped.

  Then let him out to do the work, yes, because no one walked into a room and faced people the way Roland did.

  Into 410 of the Ocean Monarch high-rise condominium on the beach, Jesus Diaz behind him, into the big living room of the apartment with the expensive furniture, where the four young guys were sitting with their beer cans and music and the smell of grass—a heavy smell even with the sliding door open to the balcony.

  Arnold Rapp, the one they came to see, let them in, looked them over, turned and walked back to the couch. Jesus Diaz closed the door behind them. He liked the loud funk-rock music. He didn’t like the way the four young guys were at ease and didn’t seem to be scared. Yes, stoned, but it was more than that. They lounged, sitting very low in the couch and the chairs, no shoes on, each with long hair. They looked like bums, Jesus Diaz t
hought, and maybe Roland was right. Rich kids, yes, who didn’t give a shit about anything. Man, a place like this, view of the ocean, swimming pool downstairs in the court—these guys laying around drinking beer like they just came off a shift, not offering anything, waiting, like Roland was here to explain something or ask for a job. That was the feeling.

  Roland said, “Your mommy home?”

  They grinned at him. Arnold said, “No, no mommy, just us kids.”

  Roland said, “Well now—who’re your little friends, Arnie?”

  Arnold said, “Well now”—imitating Roland’s cracker accent, getting some of the soft twang—“this here is Barry. That there’re Scott and Kenny.”

  The young guys—they were about in their mid-twenties—snickered and giggled.

  The one called Barry, trying the accent, said, “And who be you be?”

  It broke them up, “Who be you be.” The guys laughing and repeating it, Jesus, who-be-you-be. They thought it was pretty funny.

  Roland walked over to the hi-fi. He brushed the stylus off the record and the funk-rock stopped with a painful scratching sound.

  Arnold straightened up. “Jesus Christ, what’re you doing?”

  “Getting your attention,” Roland said.

  Barry was still grinning. He said, “Who-be-you-be, man?” And one of the others said, “He’s the who-be-you-be man. Comes in, who-be-you-bes your fucking records all up.”

  “No, I’m the man’s man,” Roland said. “Sent me to ask you what happened to his five hundred and forty thousand dollars, I believe is the figure.”

  “It’s in the municipal incinerator,” Arnold said.

  The one named Barry said, “We already told it, man. Ask him.”

  Roland tilted up his Ox Bow straw. He walked out to the open balcony with its view of the Atlantic Ocean and leaned on the rail a moment.

  Jesus Diaz stood where he was in the middle of the room, watching Roland, hearing the young guys say something and giggle. Something like, “Hey, partner” and something about riding here on a fucking horse, and another one saying, “A fucking bucking bronco, man,” and all of them giggling again.

  Roland came back in. He said to Arnold, “How about you tell me what you told him.”

  “Coast Guard picked up the boat in international waters and brought it into Boca Chica,” Arnold said. “He knows all that. The pot went to Customs and they burned it up.”

  “Pot went to pot,” Barry said.

  “The crew, the three guys, were turned over to Drug Enforcement,” Arnold said. “Your man is out the five hundred forty grand and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  “It’s a high fucking risk business,” Barry said, “any time you get two hundred percent on your investment, it’s got to be.”

  “Two and a half,” Arnold said.

  “Right, two and a half,” Barry said. “You know it’s high risk going in, man, if you’re not stupid.”

  Roland walked over to where Barry was lounged in his chair. He said, “Is that right, little fella? You know all about high risk, do you? Stand up here, let me have a look at you.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Barry said, sounding bored. “Why don’t you take a fucking walk?”

  Roland pulled Barry up by his hair, drew him out of the chair and an agonized sound from Barry’s throat, telling him to hush up, turned him around and got a tight grip on the waist of Barry’s pants that brought him to his toes, Levis digging into the crack of his ass.

  Jesus Diaz reached behind him, beneath his jacket—to the same place Roland was gripping the young guy’s pants—and brought out a Browning automatic, big .45, and put it on the other three guys, sitting up, maybe about to jump Roland.

  Roland said, “See it?” without even looking, knowing Jesus had the piece on them. “Now tell me about high risk,” Roland said to Barry, walking him toward the open balcony, the other three guys rigid, afraid to move. “You want me to tell you?” Roland said, bringing the young guy to the opening in the sliding glass doors. “Fact I’ll show you, boy, the highest risk you ever saw.” And ran him out on the balcony, gripping him, raising him by his hair and pants and grunting hard as he threw the young guy screaming over the rail of the fourth-floor balcony.

  Someone in the room cried out, “Jesus—no!”

  There was silence.

  Jesus Diaz held the gun on them, not looking at the balcony.

  Roland stood at the rail, leaning over it, resting on his arms.

  When he came back in adjusting his hat he said, “That boy was lucky, you know it? He hit in the swimming pool. He’s moving slow, but he’s moving. People gonna say my, what do those boys do up there? Must get all likkered up, huh?” Roland paused, looking at Arnold and Scott and Kenny sitting there like stones. He said, “Now, who-be-you-be, who be’s gonna answer my question without getting smart-aleck and giggling like little kids? You see what I do to smart little kids, huh. Next one, he might hit the concrete, mightn’ he?”

  “The name of the boat in the paper was Salsa,” Arnold said quietly. “The same one I hired, I know, because I saw it in Key West two weeks ago.”

  “And the Coast Guard cutter hauled it in was the Diligence,” Roland said. “Same thing I’m gonna use till you pay us back the five hundred and forty thousand. You can take your time, Arnie, we’re reasonable folks. Long as you understand the vig’s fifty-four grand a week, standard ten percent interest.”

  Arnold began to nod, very serious. “We’ll pay you, don’t worry.”

  Roland said, “Do I look worried?”

  He said to Jesus, in the car, driving away from the beach, “I told you, didn’t I, them dinks’d pull something.”

  “But they weren’t lying to you,” Jesus Diaz said. “It was the same boat was picked up.”

  “Oh my oh my, you don’t understand shit, do you?” Roland drove in silence to the federal highway, US 1, went through the light and pulled over to the curb. “Out you go, partner.”

  Jesus looked around. “What am I supposed to do here?”

  “Hitch a ride or take a cab, I don’t give a shit. I’m going up to Lauderdale.”

  Roland was looking at himself in the rearview mirror, squaring his new Ox Bow wheat-colored straw.

  5

  * * *

  “HE SAY HE’S A FRIEND of Mr. Grossi,” Marta said. “Mr. Grow. You supposed to have met him one time before.”

  “Grow?” Karen said. She felt Gretchen’s tongue on her shoulder. The dog had come out with Marta.

  “Yes, Grow,” Marta said.

  Lying on her stomach, Karen looked at the watch close to her face. Quarter to five already. It amazed her that time did go quickly. Time now to—what? Go in and dress. She didn’t remember a Mr. Grow from anywhere. Turning, getting up from the lounge, Karen held the bra of her bathing suit to her breasts, fastened it, then reached for the phone on the umbrella table and dialed a number, Ed Grossi’s private line.

  “Ed? Karen.” She paused, listening a moment. “Everything’s fine . . . No, no problems. Listen, do you know someone, a man by the name of Grow? . . . Yeah, that’s what I thought. That must be it . . . No, I don’t know what he wants. Is he a friend of yours?” Then listened to Ed saying well, yes, in a way. Roland Crowe was an employee. He’d probably stopped by to see if there was anything she needed, maybe take a look around—“For what?” Like a security check, Ed said, that’s all. But listen, if the guy was imposing, taking up her time, tell him to get lost. That bluntly. Not someone whose feelings Ed Grossi cared about. “Thanks,” Karen said. And Ed said sure, anytime.

  Quiet Ed Grossi, trying to sound himself, but a little disturbed. By what? Her call, perhaps interrupting him? Or the fact Roland was here. Whoever Roland Crowe was. A man who worked for Ed Grossi but wasn’t Italian or Cuban.

  “Ask him to come out,” Karen said. She reached for a white cotton robe as Marta went back to the house.

  Roland walked along the seawall to the point of land where a boat canal joi
ned the Intercoastal. He stood for some time looking across the broad channel to the homes on the far side, then turned and seemed to study the DiCilia house: the million dollar layout that resembled a California mission, tan brick and clay tile roof; red pyracantha bushes forming borders, screening the swimming pool and brick patio.

  As Roland came this way across the lawn, Karen watching him, Gretchen ran out from the house, barking, coming to a sudden stop. Roland went down to one knee to take the dog in his hands, playfully roughing her up, saying something, repeating it, as the little gray dog licked and sniffed him.

  Gretchen ran off toward the house and Roland squinted after her. Coming to the patio he said, “That’s a nice little doggie you got. What’s her name?”

  “Gretchen,” Karen said.

  “Yeah, she’s a nice little girl.” Squinting up at the house again, then looking directly at Karen in the canvas chair. “I thought that was some view out there, but this one beats it.” Giving her a friendly grin. “I’ve sure heard a lot about you.”

  Karen touched her knee to pull the robe over her leg, but let her hand rest there.

  Roland caught it, the brown hand with three little gold rings lying there idle on the brown knee. Yes sir, begin small and work up. No hurry. This woman might not even realize how bad she needed it. Like a starving person forgetting about food as the stomach began to shrink up.

  Marta was hanging around back there in the shade of one of the archways, door open behind her, leading inside. Roland didn’t know if Marta was keeping an eye on him or what. Maybe told by the lady to stay close.

  The lady, he figured was near his age, somewhere around forty. The maid, twenty years younger, and with a little more meat on her but not as good looking. Both of them in white. A short-skirt skimpy uniform; and the robe the lady wore, Roland bet, didn’t cover no more than a little swim suit. She might even be bare-assed under there. Two women in white all alone in this place like a Florida castle. It sounded to Roland like something in a storybook. The fair princess with some kind of a spell on her that she’d have till her prince come along and fucked her.