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  All that going on in his head inside the summer cowboy hat. Hey, prince—Roland grinned.

  “What’s funny?” Karen said.

  “Nothing. I was thinking of something.” Then serious. “See, the problem, this place is pretty exposed, out here on a point.”

  “I don’t see a problem,” Karen said.

  “What I mean, the place is tempting. Be easy for somebody to get in here, maybe clean out your jewel box.” Roland kept staring at her with a grin fixed on his mouth.

  “We have security service, it’s around here all night,” Karen said.

  “Yeah, well those rent-a-cops aren’t worth—they’re mostly older retired fellas.”

  “What I don’t understand—you walked all around—what exactly you’re looking for.”

  “Any evidence somebody’s been setting the place up,” Roland said. Was she too thin? Naw, her hips looked a nice size, nice round white curve there. “See, I was originally from over in the Everglades. Used to track, hunt a lot, so I got a fairly keen eye for reading sign.”

  Karen studied him. She said then, “Would you like something cold?”

  “Sure, that’d be fine.”

  She looked over her shoulder. “Marta? Bring out a couple of vodka and tonic, okay?” And continued to look that way until Marta was in the house. Turning to Roland again, Karen said, “Mr. Grossi didn’t ask you to come here.”

  Roland sank into a canvas director’s chair and stretched out his boots, crossing his ankles—fairly close now with kind of a side view of her.

  “He didn’t?”

  “Is this your idea, or did someone send you?”

  “My idea, in a way.”

  “What do you mean, in a way?”

  “Coming here is my idea, but I wouldn’t be here, would I, if it wasn’t for the situation.”

  “What situation?”

  “Your being a widow, the way things’ve been going and all.” Roland teased her with his grin, like he knew more and was holding back. They were getting to the good part quick, and he was enjoying it. This woman sure wasn’t dumb.

  “What situation exactly are we talking about?” Karen said.

  “I’m not allowed to tell.”

  “But you’re going to, aren’t you?” Karen said. “Or you wouldn’t be here.”

  She was aware of a curious feeling, wanting to urge him to explain, but knowing she didn’t have to. She could sit back, and it would come out. She could show indifference, and he would still tell her.

  Roland was squinting with a slight grin. “You figured that out, huh? I’m not just inspecting the premises.”

  “Well, otherwise you wouldn’t have mentioned it,” Karen said. “You’re certainly not a little kid.”

  “No, I’m not little,” Roland said.

  “Sometimes little kids say, ‘I’ve got a secret, and I’m not gonna tell you what it is.’ What you said was, you’re not supposed to tell.” Patient, speaking to a child.

  Roland shook his head. “Uh-unh, I said I’m not allowed to tell.”

  Karen smiled, hanging on. “I guess there is a difference, isn’t there?”

  “But I’m gonna tell you anyway,” Roland said. “I don’t think it’s fair you living like this, not knowing.”

  Marta was coming, Gretchen tagging along.

  Karen was aware of another strange feeling, enjoying the suspense, waiting to learn something, wanting to make the feeling last, afraid the revelation would be something she already knew, or suspected. But right now an interesting, close-to-unbelievable situation, entertaining this backcountry gangster, who sat with his cowboy hat tilted low and his long legs stretched out comfortably as the maid served cocktail-hour vodka and tonic.

  You can handle it, Karen thought. And you can handle Roland. Mr. Crowe. Out of a minstrel show.

  She had handled—up to a point—someone much more potentially dangerous than this guy who worked for Ed Grossi but seemed to be venturing out on his own. Roland wanted something, that was obvious. Playing a nice-guy role that was about as subtle as his electric-blue suit.

  Marta left them.

  Roland was leaning forward playing with Gretchen on the ground, saying, “Yeah, you’re a nice little Gretchie. You’re a nice little Gretchie, ain’tcha, huh? Ain’tcha?”

  “What is it you’re going to tell me?” Karen said.

  “Hey, Gretchie, come on, Gretchie, don’t bite me, you little dickens. That ain’t nice to bite people.”

  Karen decided to wait.

  Roland looked up at her, his hands still fondling the dog. “You’re not allowed to see anybody, what it is. I mean any man that might have serious or sexu’l intentions.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Karen said.

  “I’m supposed to keep ’em away from you. Any man believed to be serious—you know, not the grocery boy or something—I tell him to keep moving.”

  “Protecting the widow,” Karen said. “That’s what I was afraid of. I guess I’ll have to have a talk with Mr. Grossi.”

  “Well, there’s a little more to it.”

  “This is Ed Grossi’s idea, isn’t it?”

  “No, it’s your husband’s idea.”

  “My husband’s?”

  “He left word, no man gets near you in a serious way or as a one-nighter just fooling around or anything like it as long as you live. In other words your husband’s cut off your action.”

  Karen was frowning. “Are you serious?”

  “It’s what they tell me,” Roland said. “I’m the one supposed to keep ’em away from you.”

  “Wait a minute,” Karen said, “Frank?—” Staring at Roland, but going back in her mind—hearing it again, threatening Frank, angry, yes, but the threat less than half serious—and Frank saying in a weary voice, “Karen, Karen, Karen—” The man who could write a book on paying people back. Thinking she knew him, but, good God, not taking the time to understand exactly how literal the man was. He had allowed her to think she was an equal, wife to husband. He had allowed her to ask blunt questions and finally threaten him with her independence. And he had quietly locked her up for good.

  “Keep the woman in the house where she belongs.”

  “What?” Roland said.

  “You’re not kidding, are you?” Like coming out of shock, beginning to see things clearly again.

  Roland seemed surprised. “No, I’m not kidding.”

  “Something you dreamed up.”

  “It’s been going on, ain’t it?”

  “Yes, but—what do you say to them? How do you let them know?”

  “You mean the guys? We tell them you don’t want to see them no more.”

  “And what do they say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I mean don’t they want to know why?”

  “I ‘magine they get the point pretty quick.”

  “Do you threaten them?”

  “Well, there’s different ways. You put the boy against the wall and tell him something, he sees you mean it.” Roland grinned. “I made a point with a boy today, didn’t believe at first I was serious.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Threw him in a swimming pool.”

  “You don’t . . . beat them up or anything like that?”

  “Whatever it takes,” Roland said. “That’s how Ed says handle it. See, he respects your husband’s wish here. But he don’t want to do it himself. Fact, all he wants to know it’s in somebody’s hands and being taken care of.”

  “I’ll see Ed tomorrow,” Karen said.

  “You sure you want to do that?”

  “We’re going to quit playing games, I’m sure of that.”

  “Well, as I see it, the one you’d have to talk to’d be Frank,” Roland said. “He’s the only one can call it off. Ed, he’s respecting the wish of his dead buddy. You know how them people are. He can’t change nothing, it’s the code, or some bullshit like that.” Roland was feeling more relaxed, into it now. He liked the way the woman was
hanging on his words. “But you go to Ed, tell what you know, then he’s liable to take me off the job and put somebody else on ain’t as sympathetic. You follow me?”

  “I’m not sure. Why are you . . . sympathetic?”

  “I’m not one of them, as you can see. I work for them, but I don’t think the way they do. It’s like you’re a white woman got mixed up with these people, I come along—I didn’t take none of their oaths and shit—so I can sympathize with your situation and maybe help you out.”

  “How?” Karen said. “Not tell if I go out with someone?”

  “No, see, I’d still have to do my job. There’s people watching me, too,” Roland said. “But maybe I could ease up your situation some. Come around, talk to you. Maybe, put our minds to it, we could work something out.”

  “I’m not sure I follow you,” Karen said, following every word, watching his eyes beneath the cool-cowboy curve of the brim and knowing exactly what he was talking about.

  “I mean ease up your situation.” Roland said. “I ‘magine you might be getting a little tense and edgy sitting around here, your husband dead, no men you’re close to. These dinks you went out with evidently didn’t turn you on any.”

  She was tense, all right, watching him gradually moving in. She said, cautiously, “How do you know that?”

  “It’s my business to know. See, me and you are much closer than you realize. We got a lot in common.”

  “We do?” Karen said.

  “See, I been thinking,” Roland said. “Why would a deceased husband want to cut off his wife’s . . . activity, let’s say, less he was good and sore on account of she was messing around while he was alive.” Roland gave Karen a friendly wink. “Just wanting to have a little fun. What’s wrong with that? It’s the way we’re made, we got to keep active or we dry up, can’t even spit.”

  “That’s quite an assumption,” Karen said. “I mean that I was cheating on my husband.”

  “Nobody’s asking you to admit nothing you don’t want to,” Roland said. “It’s between me and you and the bed. I mean the bedpost.”

  “Actually Frank had no reason—” Karen began, and stopped. Why was she trying to explain?

  “It’s none of my business either way,” Roland said. “You don’t have to confess nothing to me, lady, to be born again. That’s the way I look at this setup, like a new beginning. Here you are stuck here, starting to dry up. Here I am full of notions going to waste, shit, working for them guineas. It’s like, I won’t tell if you won’t. You scratch mine and I’ll scratch yours and we’ll get something cooking here—see, once you give it some thought, realize how your dead husband and his buddy’ve got your knees tied together and there’s nothing you can do about it less I help you. You follow me? I’m giving you your big chance, lady, and it’s the only one you got.”

  * * *

  “I said to her, ‘Are you all right?’ She didn’t answer me,” Marta said. “She went to the telephone and began to speak to Mr. Grossi.”

  “You could hear it?” Jesus Diaz, her brother, asked.

  It was dark now. They were in the street in front of the house on Isla Bahía, standing by Jesus’ car, Jesus holding the cassette tape she had given him.

  “I could hear it because she was making her words very clear, not in a loud voice but with force, saying, ‘I don’t want to see him here again. Keep that animal away from here.’ Then saying, ‘Why didn’t you tell me yourself? I have to learn it from someone like him.’ Then listening to Mr. Grossi for a long time. Then saying again, ‘Keep him away from here.’ But she didn’t tell him everything,” Marta said.

  “What didn’t she tell him?”

  “Your friend Roland said he wanted to help her in the situation, do something for her to relieve her being tense. But she didn’t mention this to Mr. Grossi—I don’t know why—only that she didn’t want to see Roland again. Very disturbed, but cold in the way she said it, not screaming or shouting. I thought of the time she came home with her car smashed in front and Mister came home with his same car smashed in the side.”

  Jesus said, “All of that with Mr. Grossi is on this tape?”

  “Yes, of course. Every phone conversation today.”

  “I give it to Roland, he’ll hear it,” Jesus said. “He’ll know she told Mr. Grossi.”

  “Then don’t give it to him,” Marta said.

  “You crazy?” Jesus said.

  Roland heard about it the same evening, in Vivian Arzola’s office. Vivian telling him he was lucky Ed Grossi had already gone home. Roland looking out the thirty-ninth floor window at all that night glitter over the Beach.

  “Why?” Roland said.

  “Because maybe this time he would have killed you he was so angry.”

  Roland said, “Lady, I’m the boy didn’t testify in court against somebody, and went to Butler. You remember? I just got back yesterday. He puts me on a job, I do it the way I see fit to. Does he want another boy? That’s up to him. But don’t start talking about him doing me harm. There’s an old Cuban saying, you fuck with the bull, you get a horn in the ass.”

  “Where’d you get that suit?” Vivian said.

  Roland grinned. “You like it?”

  “It’s the worst looking suit I ever saw.”

  “That’s my sweet girl,” Roland said, coming away from the window to put a leg up on the edge of Vivian’s desk, “your old self again. What else he say?”

  “He’s going to tell you himself. Keep away from Mrs. DiCilia.”

  “But not taking me off it.”

  “Do what you’re told. Nothing more.”

  “You listen in and hear her talking to him?”

  “It’s recorded here,” Vivian said. “I can listen if I want. You try to lie to him, he’ll play it for you.”

  “I got nothing to hide. I told her her old man set up the deal, that’s all. So everybody understands each other. I asked her if there was anything I could do for her.”

  “I can hear you,” Vivian said, “the way you’d say it. Did she scream for help?”

  “She was nice about the whole thing. What I’m surprised at, she went and called Ed.”

  “Well, stay away from her, that’s all.”

  “Sure, that’s how he wants it. What I better have, though, are all the back tapes. You think I come to see you, it’s the tapes I need most.”

  “Why?” Vivian said.

  “You want me to do the job or not?”

  Vivian, sitting at her desk, studied him, trying to catch a glimpse of how his mind was working.

  “See, now the woman knows she’s being watched, she’s gonna be more careful,” Roland said.

  “Thanks to you.”

  “No, it’s better this way, let her know where she stands. But I got to listen to the back tapes. See, get to recognize voices if any of ’em call again and don’t use names. You understand?”

  “I understand that,” Vivian said, “but I think I better talk to Ed first. He’ll be back in a few days.”

  “He went out of town?”

  “He’ll be back.”

  “Meanwhile,” Roland said, “we’re sitting here humping the dog, huh? What I could do is return ’em before he gets back. Otherwise, something happens, Ed sees the work wasn’t done properly, he looks around for who’s to blame and, like that, you’re back in your overalls picking oranges.”

  Roland walked out with a cardboard box full of cassette tapes. Fucking Cubans, he hadn’t met one yet you couldn’t hold their job over ’em like a club and get whatever you wanted.

  6

  * * *

  IF PORPOISE WERE REALLY SO SMART, Maguire would think, how come they put up with all this shit?

  The porpoise could ask Maguire the same question. Or Lolly the sea lion.

  In the cement-block room off the show pool, Maguire and Lolly would look at each other. Maguire holding the mike to announce Brad Allen and the World-Famous Seascape Porpoise and Sea Lion Show. Lolly waiting to go on, the opening
act. Maguire wondering if Lolly ever played with her beachball when no one was around. Lolly wondering—what? Looking at him with her sad eyes.

  Maguire would announce the show, hearing his voice outside on the P.A. system as he looked through the crack in the door at the people in the grandstand.

  “And now . . . here’s Brad!”

  After the show Brad Allen would say to Maguire, “Look, how many times? You don’t say, ‘Here’s Brad,’ for Christ sake. You ever watch Johnny Carson, the way they do it? You say, ‘And now . . . heeeeeeeeeeere’s Brad!’ ”

  “I don’t know why, but I have trouble with that,” Maguire would say.

  Brad Allen was show director, star, working manager of:

  SEASCAPE

  PORPOISE SHOW

  SHARKS * SEA LIONS

  S.E. Seventeenth Street Causeway

  At Port Everglades

  TURN HERE!

  He would say to Maguire, “Are you stupid or something? I don’t think it’s that hard, do you?”

  “No, it isn’t,” Maguire would say.

  “I believe you’re supposed to be experienced—”

  “The thing is, down at Marathon we didn’t have the same kind of show,” Maguire would try to explain. “I mean it wasn’t quite as, you know, showy.”

  “Down there, did you know the names of the dolphin?” Brad always got onto that. “Could you identify each one by name?”

  “Yeah, I knew their names.”

  “Then how come you don’t know them here?”

  “I know them. There’s Pepper, Dixie, Penny, Bonzai—”

  “Robyn says yesterday you were trying to get Penny to do a tailwalk. Penny doesn’t do the tailwalk, Pebbles does the tailwalk.”

  “I get those two mixed up.”

  “The other day you thought Bonnie was Yvonne. Bonnie’s got the scar from the shark—”

  “Right.”

  “—and Yvonne’s at least two hundred pounds heavier, ten feet long, you can’t tell them apart. Work on it, okay? Take Robyn over the tank with you and see if you can name them for her. Then come back to the show pool and do the same thing. Is that too much to ask?”