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  “You gonna look at it?”

  “I know what it looks like,” Roland said. “You’re doing good, Arnie. Keep it up.”

  “You know I’m gonna pay you, right?”

  “Sure, I do.”

  “Well, how about—you know, since this isn’t strictly speaking a shylock deal—we make a different kind of arrangement.”

  “Like what, Arnie?”

  “See, the way it is, I keep paying the vig, how’m I ever gonna get to the principle?”

  “Beats the shit out of me,” Roland said.

  “You know what I mean? I didn’t borrow the money. I’m only paying the man back his investment.”

  “Yeah? What’s the difference?”

  “It’s different. You got guys borrow money from you, they know going in what the vig is. But this was a business deal.”

  “They’re all business deals,” Roland said, “but vig’s vig and the amount owed’s something else. Didn’t they teach you that at school, Arnie?”

  “I tried to explain it to Ed—”

  “I know you did. And he told you to talk to me,” Roland said. “It’s the same way, a man, a guy owns one of the biggest hotels on the strip, he borrows money, he pays the vig. Every week. He’s got a problem, he comes to me with it. Man with a restaurant right here in Hallandale, shit, half a dozen appliance stores over on federal highway, picture show, bunch of motels—they all pay the vig, Arnie. They understand it’s the way you do business.”

  “Right, shylock business, I understand that.” Arnold moving around, bit his lip. “But this is different.”

  “And I ask you how-so?”

  “I didn’t borrow the money, Ed invested it.”

  “But you lost it, so you have to pay it back.”

  “I didn’t lose it—”

  Roland had his palm up, facing Arnold. “We ought to agree on something here.”

  “Okay, I lost it.”

  “Now then,” Roland said, “when you come to paying back, what’s the difference? Paying back is paying back, whether it’s money you lost or money you borrowed. See, your losing it—we give you money, we don’t ask you what you’re gonna do with it, like the bank. You can flush it down the toilet if you want. Long as you pay it back.”

  “Okay,” Arnold said, “I owe you five hundred and forty grand. I can pay you back in time, you know that. But I can’t if I keep paying the fucking vig. Look, ten weeks from now, fifty-four thousand a week, man, where the fuck am I? I will’ve paid out five hundred forty grand, right? And I’m still not into the fucking principle. I’m never into it. You know what I got to do? I mean to get what I’m paying you.”

  “I don’t know,” Roland said, “ask your mommy for it?”

  “I got to deal in hard shit, man, and that’s a totally different business. Get into that Mexican brown, nobody even likes it, I got to keep a line coming through here and beg, implore, dealers to take the shit. That’s what I’m into now, myself, that’s all.”

  “Your little friends,” Roland said, “where’d they go?”

  “Who knows. Fuck ’em. I said to Ed, okay, then back me again on the Colombian thing. Three times, three loads, you take my cut as well as your own, I’m paid off.”

  “And he said?”

  “Shit, you know what he said.”

  Roland buttoned his suitcoat and switched the canvas bag from his right hand to his left, ready to go.

  He said, “It’s hard out here in the world of commerce, ain’t it, Arnie?”

  But rewarding to those who put their nose to the grindstone and their ear to a box-full of cassette tapes, the way Roland did for twenty-four hours and fourteen minutes spread over three days, listening to something like one hundred forty-six different cassettes.

  And ninety-nine percent nothing. Somebody called the weather every day. The lady called her hairdresser once a week, this queer who scolded her and acted impatient. (What’d she take that kind of shit for?) She talked to some people in Detroit a few times; nothing. She talked to her daughter Julie in Los Angeles; listened to her daughter bitch about work and her husband fooling around, the daughter talking away, never asking how her mother was doing. (“Hang up,” Roland would say to himself. “Whyn’t you hang up?”) There were calls to Marta, short conversations in Spanish. Then a woman calling from the Miami Herald a couple of times, wanting to interview her, take some pictures of Mrs. DiCilia at home, Mrs. DiCilia saying not now, some other time.

  Then the dinks started calling about the middle of February. Dinks asking her to go out. Dinks calling again and saying what a fun time they had. “Hey, that was a ball, wasn’t it? Delightful.” Laughing like girls. One dink giving her his golf scores for the week. This other dink boring the shit out of her (and Roland) with all these stock market reports. Another one, the only thing he talked about was his Donzi cigarette boat and off-shore racing, Miami-Bimini, Miami-Key West, how big the waves were, implying what a fucking hero he was out there at the helm. (Roland said to the voice on the tape, “You dink, I’d blow your ass off with a Seminole air boat. Put you smack on the trailer.”) From the sound of them, it couldn’t have been too hard to scare them off. The lady didn’t know how lucky she was, saved from listening to them dinks.

  Then the woman from the Miami Herald again wanting to interview her; DiCilia saying all right. Then a call from some Palm Beach magazine, the Gold Coaster, something like that, and Mrs. DiCilia agreeing to talk to them.

  Then more conversations with Ed Grossi in May. (Roland would sit up and pay attention to these.) Then Ed inviting her to his office.

  There, that was up to where Roland took over the tape concession and started getting them directly from Marta or Jesus Diaz. Nothing interesting yet, not the kind of information he was listening for.

  Then the one, her call to Ed chewing him out. “I never want to see that man here again.” Not loud, but a good bite in her tone. “Keep that animal away from here.” (Animal? Hey now.) Then saying, “Why didn’t you tell me yourself? Why did I have to hear it from him? Keep him away from this house. You understand?” (Roland saying, “Hey, take it easy, Karen.”)

  He listened to the end. Then played it back and listened again. No sir, nothing about his proposition. Not a word. Blowing off steam, but not telling the whole story, was she? Keeping a possibility open. Roland grinned.

  The next few tapes, nothing of interest. One he thought at first was going to be good.

  The woman talking to the operator, asking for the number of Goodman and Stern in Detroit, telling the operator it was a law office. (Uh-oh.) Then talking to a guy named Nate. Nate telling her it had been too long and how sorry he was he couldn’t make Frank’s funeral and was there anything he could do for her. Then Karen asking him if the name Maguire and Deep Run meant anything to him. Long pause. The guy, Nate, saying yes, he believed they handled it. Why? Karen saying it wasn’t important but she’d like some information about Maguire if they had it on file. She had met him, she said, and something about Maguire wanting a job recommendation. This guy Nate saying, after another pause, well, he’d have somebody named Marshall something put a report together and send it to her. But he’d advise her to use discretion and touch base with someone at Dorado, someone close by. And how was everything else down in the land of sunshine?

  “Hot in the day, cool in the evening,” Roland murmured to himself. Dink lawyers, you never knew what they were talking about.

  Another tape. Another conversation with Ed Grossi. Ed back from his trip. That would have been yesterday. Roland paid attention, listening carefully as Karen asked Ed about a trust fund, wanting to know what bank it was in. Ed told her.

  KAREN: You said in bonds, I know, but I’ve forgotten the name.

  ED: Miami General Revenue, at six percent.

  KAREN: Don’t I get records, something on paper? How do I prove they’re mine?

  ED: Well, as I told you, the bonds are in the name of the administrator of the estate, Dorado. The yield, the inte
rest—what’d I say, two and a half?

  (“Here we go,” Roland said.)

  KAREN: Two hundred and forty thousand.

  ED: Yeah, goes into the trust and the bank deposits it, or they credit it to your account, twenty thousand a month. Yeah, that’s it.

  (ROLAND: “That’s it all right. Man, that is it.”)

  KAREN: But I don’t have anything that describes me as the beneficiary, or whatever I am.

  ED: You’re getting the money, aren’t you?

  KAREN: Yes, but I’d like something on paper.

  ED: I’ll have Vivian get you a copy. We’ll get you something, don’t worry about it. How’s everything else? Clara says she wants to get together with you sometime.

  KAREN: That’d be fine. (Long pause) Ed . . . look, we’re going to have to talk about this other thing. When can I come to your office?

  (Roland, writing figures on a pad of paper, looked up.)

  ED: What other thing?

  KAREN: Ed, for God’s sake. Maybe this happens in India or Saudi Arabia, but not Fort Lauderdale, Florida. You can’t simply ignore it.

  ED: Karen—

  KAREN: You’ve got to stop it, that’s all. If you won’t, I’ll take you to court. I’ll do something—leave here if I have to.

  ED: Karen—

  KAREN: If you think I’m going to live like this you’re out of your mind.

  ED: All right, we’ll have a talk. How about tomorrow, my office? Come on up, we’ll go to lunch.

  (ROLAND: “That’s today.”)

  KAREN: I’ll meet you at Palm Bay.

  (ROLAND: “Shit.”)

  He looked at his figures again, scratched them out and started over, multiplying, dividing, trying different ways, finally, finally then, coming up with the answer, what twenty thousand a month was six percent of. Jesus Christ, four million dollars the woman had!

  9

  * * *

  LUNCH AT PALM BAY. Ed Grossi used a Rye Krisp and a spoon on his bowl of cottage cheese. Karen listened, sipping her Bloody Mary, picking at her shrimp salad, every once in awhile shaking her head. Unbelievable. Having to threaten, almost hit him with something to get him to talk about it.

  “You serve me with some kind of cease and desist order. From doing what? Karen, this is a very personal matter. You want to get something like this in the papers?”

  “If I have to. Ed, this is my life we’re talking about.”

  Almost to himself: “People wouldn’t understand it.”

  “Of course they wouldn’t. It’s something out of the Middle Ages.” Karen leaned closer, staring at the quiet little man across the table. “He told you this in the hospital? Was he lucid? How do you know he was even in his right mind?”

  “It was before that,” Grossi said, “in my office. Before a witness.”

  “Who, Roland?”

  “No, not Roland. I said to Frank, you’re kidding. He said no, very serious. I know his voice, his tone. Nobody goes near her. I asked him why. He said I didn’t have to know that. Then Vivian came in, took some dictation. She witnessed my saying yes to him, it would be done.”

  “Vivian, your secretary?”

  “She’s more my assistant.”

  “And Roland?”

  “Somebody to carry it out, do the work.”

  “You trust Roland?”

  “He does what he’s told and keeps his mouth shut,” Grossi said.

  You don’t know him, Karen thought, but held back from saying it. “Who else knows about it?”

  “Well, Jimmy Capotorto. I told him a little, but not everything.”

  Karen frowned. “Who?”

  “Capotorto. Frank knew him. He’s been with Dorado for years; one of the associates.”

  “Who else?” Karen said.

  “That’s all.” Grossi paused. “But there are some stipulations I didn’t mention the other day that I didn’t want to get into all at once.”

  “Like what?” Karen said.

  “Well, if you move, the payments stop. You have to live in Frank’s house.”

  “Frank’s house,” Karen said. “And if I marry again—I asked you that the other day, you said you weren’t sure.”

  “For some reason it’s not a stipulation. I guess Frank assumed we’d see nobody got close to you.”

  “But there’s nothing in the agreement that says I can’t take the entire amount.”

  “Not in writing, no, but in the spirit of it, you might say.”

  “Sign the bonds over to me and let’s forget the whole thing,” Karen said.

  Grossi said nothing, looking at Karen, then at his cottage cheese, touching it tentatively with his spoon.

  “Do you know why he did it?” Karen said. “Because he was having an affair and I found out about it. With a real estate woman.” A hint of amazement in her tone. “I told him—I wasn’t even serious, I was mad—I told him if he was going to fool around, I would too.”

  “Well, he took it at face value and here we are.” Grossi seemed hesitant, working something out in his mind as they sat at his regular table in the corner of the grill room. He said, “Karen, I’ll tell you, something like this, I agree, it sounds like we’re back in the old country.”

  “But we’re not,” Karen said; firm, knowing how far she was willing to go. “Ed, you’re aware of the people in here, how they keep looking at us?”

  “You get used to it.”

  “I go to the john I get looks, I hear my name, Mrs. Frank DiCilia, yes, that’s her, people talking about me, not going to much trouble to hide it.”

  “Sure, you’re like a movie star.”

  “All right, what if I stood up right now and made a speech,” Karen said. “Tapped my glass with a spoon—‘May I have your attention, please? I want to tell you something you’re not going to believe, but it’s the honest-to-God truth, every word.’ ”

  “Karen, come on.”

  “Come on where? Goddamn it, I’m not going to play your game. I’m not in the fucking Mafia or whatever you don’t call it. What do you expect me to do?”

  “Keep it down a little, all right? I understand how you feel.”

  “Like hell you do.”

  “Yes, I do.” Grossi nodding patiently. “Listen to me a minute. I acknowledge his wish, I’m thinking, Jesus Christ, nobody ever wanted something like this before. I try to remember. Maybe a long time ago, I don’t know.”

  “But it doesn’t matter, because you do whatever he says.” Karen holding on, refusing to let go. “He tells you to kill somebody—what’s the difference?”

  “Karen”—the tired voice—“what is that? You think it’s a big thing? Maybe sometimes it is, but there’s a reason for everything. The man has a reason, I don’t have to ask him why.”

  She leaned close to the table. “I told you why. Because he has this thing in his head about paying back.”

  “Listen to me and let me finish,” Grossi said. “Even when I don’t want anything to do with it, I have to satisfy my conscience I’ve done something, I’ve acknowledged, I’ve gone through the motions. You understand? Then I say to myself, okay, that’s all you can do. You can’t watch her the rest of your life. I say to myself, did he mean that long? Forever? I answer no, of course not. I get a heart attack, cancer, I’m gone. Who continues the agreement? Jimmy Capotorto? Well, if I tell him to, but what does he care? He’s got enough to think about. So how can it be forever? I say, Frank wanted to teach her a lesson. All right, there’s the lesson. Did she learn it? I don’t know. Like a teacher—did the student learn it? What can the teacher do? So, I say, it’s up to her, she knows what’s going on. She knows his wish, stay away from men even after his death. Does she want to honor his wish? I say to myself, not to you, not to anybody else, only to myself. Maybe it should be up to her now. Something between her and her husband.”

  There was a silence.

  “You have more to do than keep watch on me,” Karen said.

  Grossi nodded.

  “As
sign the bonds over and let’s stop all this.”

  “I have to think about it a little more.”

  “But you will keep Roland away from me.”

  “Don’t worry about Roland.”

  She sat quietly, aware of sounds, voices around her. She waited, wanting to be sure. Ed Grossi touched the cottage cheese again with his spoon, then put the spoon down and picked up his napkin.

  “I won’t have to go to court then,” Karen said.

  “No, you won’t have to go to court, if you give me time, let me be sure in my mind it’s all right.”

  “Thank you,” Karen said.

  Maguire’s body, arms raised, a piece of fish in each hand, formed a Y. He stood on the footrung of an aluminum pole that dug into his groin, the pole extending from a platform on a slight angle, so that Maguire’s fish-offerings were held some fifteen feet above the surface of the Flying Dolphin Show tank.

  He said to the mothers and fathers and children lining the cement rail, “Okay . . . now this double hand-feeding can be a little tricky, considering the height”—looking up—“and the wind conditions today. The dolphins could collide in midair, with a combined weight of”—serious, almost grim—“nine hundred pounds. And you know who’s gonna be under them if they do. Yours truly, standing up here trying to look cool. Okay . . . here they come. Bonnie on my right, Pebbles on my left—”

  Or was it the other way around?

  The pair of dolphin rose glistening wet-gray in the sunlight, took the fish from his hands and peeled off, arching back into the water.

  “And they got it! How about that, fifteen feet in the air. Wasn’t that great? Let’s hear it for Bonnie and . . . Peb-bles.”

  Applause, as Maguire stepped down off the pole to the platform. He got three hunks of cod from his fishbucket, quickly threw two of them out to Bonnie and Pebbles, and waited for Mopey Dick.

  Come on—

  Mopey’s head rose from the water, below the platform. A wet raspberries sound came from Mopey’s blowhole.

  “What? You didn’t like the double jump, Mopey?”

  Rattles and clicks and whines from the blowhole. The kids watching, looking over the rail, loved it.