Gold Coast (7 page)

He said to Lesley, “You want to turn that down a little?”

Lesley said, “Who’re you calling, your hot date?”

“I don’t have a hot date.”

“I thought you were going out.”

“Turn the music down, okay?”

Maguire gave the operator the Detroit number and waited. He felt nervous. He wished Lesley would quit watching him.

“Aren’t you gonna clean up?”

“You want me to leave, say so.”

“I get back, I’ll take you out to dinner.”

In the phone, Andre Patterson’s wife said, “Hello?”

“Okay?” Maguire said to Lesley. “Go on, get cleaned up.” Then into the phone:

“Hi, this is Cal Maguire. How you doing?” He had to listen while Andre’s wife told him she was piss-poor, if he really wanted to know about it, having
trouble getting her ADC checks, had her phone disconnected for a while. Maguire said yeah, he’d been trying to get hold of her, calling information. He said, “Listen, you know the deal at the club? . . . The country club, Andre and I and Grover. I asked you the man’s name? Remember? . . . No, I’ve got it. What I was wondering, you know, Andre said the man was paying them back for something? At the club, something happened there to the man. I wondered if Andre ever spoke to you about it . . . If he mentioned to you what it was happened out there. Like maybe the man’s wife was involved, you know, maybe she was insulted or something and that’s what got the man upset.” Christ, upset—willing to pay them forty-five hundred to go out there and hit the place. “Uh-huh, yeah, that’s right . . . But he never said anything about the man’s wife, huh? . . . No, I was just wondering. Hey, well listen, tell Andre I’m gonna write to him, okay? . . . Fine, I’ll be talking to you.” Shit.

“Very mysterious,” Lesley said, holding a beach towel wrapped around her. “Who’s Andre?”

“Friend of mine.”

“What’d somebody get upset about?”

Maguire said, “I know it’s your aunt’s phone and you’re letting me use you car and all, but how about if you keep your nose out of my personal business, okay?”

“Yeah,” Lesley said, “well, how about if you
keep your ass out of my car, you want to get snotty about it.”

“You’re a beauty,” Maguire said. “You got the maturity of about a five-year-old.”

“Keep thinking it,” Lesley said, “walking to work every day.” She turned, letting the towel come open, giving him a flash as she went into the bedroom.

There you are, Maguire thought, walking up the street toward A1A. The kind of question you’d climb all the way up the mountain to ask the old man sitting there in his loincloth.

In the light of eternity, is it better to sell out and ride or stand up and walk?

And the old man would look at him with his calm, level gaze and say—

He’d say—

Maguire was still trying to think of an answer, standing on the oceanfront corner, when the girl visiting from Mitchell, Indiana, picked him up, said, “Heck, it’s nothing,” and went out of her way to drop him off at Harbor Beach Parkway.

AN APPRAISER FRIEND OF MAGUIRE’S,
a guy who bought and sold pretty much out of his backdoor, once said to him, “You walk out with a color TV, you realize the mirror hanging on the wall there, gilded walnut, might be a George II? Early eighteenth century, man, worth at least three grand.” Maguire went to the library, looked through art books, made notes and lifted a copy of
Kovel’s Complete Antiques Price List
from the reference shelf. In his work—during the short periods he was into B and E, usually to pick up some traveling money—he’d come across a few antiques and art objects of value.

But nothing like the display in Mrs. DiCilia’s sitting room. He was looking at a Queen Anne desk—four drawers, stubby little pedestal legs, worth at least four grand—when the maid came in again, a dog following her, and told him to please be seated, Missus would come to him very soon. A sharp-looking Cuban girl, nice accent. Maguire said
thank you and then, as the maid was leaving, “How you doing?”

Marta stopped. She said, “Yes?”

“How’s it going? You like it here?” Always friendly to the help. “I think it’d be a nice place to work.”

Marta, still surprised: “Yes, it is.”

“But I wouldn’t want to have to dust all this,” Maguire said.

The maid left, but the little gray and white dog remained, watching Maguire apprehensively, ready to bark or run.

“Relax,” Maguire said to the dog and continued looking around the sitting room.

Bird cage table, not bad. Worth about seven and a half.

Pair of slipseat Chippendale chairs in walnut. Now we’re getting there. Seventy-five hundred, maybe eight grand.

Hummel figurines, if you liked Hummel. Fifty bucks each. A couple that might go as high as a hundred and a quarter.

Plates—very impressive. Stevenson, Enoch Wood’s shell-border pattern. Six, seven thousand bucks worth of plates on one shelf.

And
yes
, Peachblow vases, the real thing. Creamy red-rose and yellow. Jesus, with the gargoyle stand. Name your price.

A picture of Pope Pius XII. The Last Supper. And
some real paintings, old forests and misty green mountains, a signed Durand, an Alvan Fisher, nineteenth-century Hudson River school. A few others he didn’t recognize—sitting down now as he studied the painting—

And jumping up quickly to look at the chair—Jesus, feeling the turnings of the arms. Louis XVI bergère, in walnut. Pretty sure it was a real one.

He sat in the chair again, carefully, and began thinking about the woman who lived here and owned this collection. Before, he had pictured a dumpy sixty-year-old Italian woman in the kitchen, rolling dough, making tomato paste, a woman with an accent. He’d lay it out to her: Your husband owes us money. She’d pay or she wouldn’t, and he could forget about it.

But if she knew antiques—maybe he could fake it a little, establish some kind of rapport, trust . . . confidence?

The dog came over and began sniffing.

“That’s fish,” Maguire said. He didn’t stoop to pet the dog or say anything else.

Karen, in the doorway, saw this much. And the color of his pants and shirt beneath the jacket, making her hesitate a moment.

“Mr. Maguire?”

He looked up to see a slim, good-looking woman in beige slacks, a dark-blue shirt with white buttons, hand extended.

Maguire rose, giving her a pleasant smile, shaking his head a little. They shook hands politely and he said, seriously then, “You know something?”

Karen expected him to say, I’ve heard a lot about you, Mrs. DiCilia. Something along that line.

But he didn’t. He said, “We’ve got matching outfits on. Tan and blue.”

Karen said, “You suppose it means something?” Playing it as straight as he was.

“I don’t know about you,” Maguire said, “but I got all dressed up. This particular outfit is from Burdine’s, up on Federal Highway.”

“I’ve heard of Burdine’s,” Karen said, “but I’m not sure I’ve heard of you. You were a friend of my husband’s?”

“Well, we weren’t exactly close. I worked for him once.”

Karen said, “And you want to know if I’m all right? If I need anything? What else? Are you with Roland or on your own?”

“I don’t know anybody named Roland,” Maguire said.

“So you’re an independent. All right,” Karen said, “let’s go out on the patio. That’s where we hold the squeeze sessions.”

“The what?”

“Come on, I’m anxious to hear your pitch.” She walked past him to the French doors.

It had felt like a good start. But now, she wasn’t
being cool, she was ice-cold, assuming way too much. Maguire hesitated. He said, “You’ve got some very nice pieces here. The bergère, is it authentic Louis Seize?”

Now Karen paused at the doors to look back and seemed to study him a moment.

“The what?”

Maguire grinned. Was she kidding? She waited, looking at him, and he wasn’t sure.

“The chair. If it’s real, it belongs in a museum.”

“It
is
in a museum,” Karen said. She turned and walked through the doors.

Putting him on, Maguire decided. Not wanting to sound agreeable or give him anything. He followed her out to the patio, where a torch was burning and swimming pool lights reflected in the clear water, Maguire looking around, thinking, So this is what it’s like. Sit out here at night, watch the running lights, the power-boats going by on the Intercoastal.

Ring for the maid, get her with some mysterious signal, because there she was. Maguire said rum would be fine, surprised, wondering why Mrs. DiCilia was being sociable, hearing her ask for a martini with ice. Put that down: not “on the rocks” but “with ice.” Yes, very nice; sit out here on the patio of your Spanish-Moorish million-dollar home that was full of antiques and art objects and—what?

He was going to say he was sorry for coming so
late, or early—one or the other—and hoped he wasn’t inconveniencing her. But why? Why suck around?

He said, “Besides all this, what’s it like to be rich?”

Karen didn’t say anything.

“Never mind,” Maguire said. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I was thinking,” Karen said. “If you really want to know, it’s boring. I guess it doesn’t have to be, but it is.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“You asked me, I told you, it’s boring,” Karen said. “Next question. Let’s get to the point, all right?”

The dog was sniffing around his foot again. Maguire crossed his leg.

Mrs. DiCilia was on the muscle, a little edgy, yes; because she was waiting for him to pull some kind of scam. Out here for the squeeze session: probably one of a long line of guys who’d come to make a pitch, take advantage of the poor widow. The slim, good-looking great-looking widow. Maguire resented her assumption, being put in that category, somebody out to con her. The lady sitting there waiting for the pitch.

The goddamn dog pawing his knee, scratching the material. Maguire reached down with one hand and moved the dog aside.

Karen watched him.

Sitting back he took the newspaper clipping out of his pocket, unfolded it carefully and handed it to her.

Karen said, “What is it?” In the soft glow of torchlight she could only read the headline.
ARMED TRIO ROBS COUNTRY CLUB
.

“That was myself and two associates,” Maguire said. “Your husband offered to pay us fifteen hundred each to go in and hit the place. Make them look dumb or give it some bad publicity, I don’t know. We did the job, but we never got paid.”

Karen said, “Deep Run Country Club, Bloomfield Hills.”

“That’s the one.”

“It happened when, last August?”

“Right. The sixteenth.”

“We visited Detroit in August—no, it was July,” Karen said. “Frank played golf there a few times as a guest. He liked the club, so he applied for a membership.”

“And they turned him down,” Maguire said. Karen nodded. “I thought maybe you’d been insulted out there. You know, something personal.”

“What do you think Frank DiCilia being turned down is, if it isn’t an insult?”

“Yeah, I guess so. But how come if you were living here at the time?—”

“Why can’t he have a membership in Detroit?
That’s what it’s like to be rich,” Karen said. “So what is it you want, fifteen hundred dollars?”

“Each, for the three of us. The other two guys were convicted. They’re in Jackson, but I’ll see they get theirs.”

“You got off?” She seemed interested.

“It’s a long story, and if you’re already bored—” Maguire said.

Karen said, “That’s all you want?”

“That’s all we got coming.”

“You could’ve said . . . ten thousand.”

“And you could’ve known about the deal,” Maguire said, “depending on what you and your hubby talked about. It was a straight fifteen hundred apiece, no sick pay or retirement benefits.”

Now, yes or no? Waiting for her to make up her mind. She didn’t seem as edgy. She said let’s have another drink and that surprised him. The maid appeared and left, and when she appeared again Karen was asking him if he lived in Florida or was he visiting.

He told her he worked at Seascape. “You know, the porpoise show? Practically around the corner from here.”

“I’ve passed it,” Karen said. “You really work there?” Sounding interested and a little surprised. “Get the porpoise to jump through hoops, that kind of thing?”

“We get ’em to do everything but mate in midair,” Maguire said.

“They won’t do that for you?”

“I think they go to a motel. Five months, I’ve never seen one of ’em even, well, get aroused.”

Now she was studying him and didn’t say anything for a moment.

“Amazing.”

“Well, I wouldn’t like it either,” Maguire said. “People watching.”

“No, I mean that you work there,” Karen said. “And you seem to know antiques—What else do you do?”

“Rob country clubs,” Maguire said, “and have a hard time collecting. I’m enjoying the drink and the chat, but just for my peace of mind, are you gonna honor your husband’s obligation or what?”

Karen said, “
Honor
his obligation—” and seemed amused now. “Is that what it is, honoring his obligation?”

“You can call it whatever you want,” Maguire said, “as long as we’re both talking about the same deal.”

“Do you do this sort of thing often?”

“What sort of thing?”

“Rob country clubs?”

“That was the first time.”

“But you’ve robbed other places.”

He didn’t say anything.

“Do you carry a gun?”

“Why?”

“I’m curious, that’s all.”

“Do you fool around?” Maguire said.

“What?”

“Do you pick up guys, take ’em to bed? Or you just ask a lot of questions about their personal life?”

“I believe you came to me,” Karen said. “You’re the one that wants something.”

“And if I’m not polite and answer your questions I can go fuck myself, huh?”

Karen didn’t say anything. She got up, walked from the patio to the house and in through the French doors.

Maguire waited. Shit. Thinking again of the old man sitting on top of the mountain in his loincloth.

In the light of eternity, is it better to take a bunch of shit with the hope of getting paid, or—

Karen came back to the patio carrying something in each hand, something wrapped in white tissue paper and, in the hand she extended to him, a packet of bills. He couldn’t believe it. New one hundred dollar bills. They were sticking together, only about an inch of them, they were so new.

“Forty-five hundred dollars,” Karen said.

Maguire thinking, the first thing in his mind: There’s more. Right in the house.

“Can I ask you one more question?”

“Go ahead,” Maguire said, putting the money in his inside coat pocket. He could feel it against his ribs.

She pulled her chair closer to his and sat down before extending the tissue-wrapped package.

“What is it?”

She watched him, but didn’t say anything.

Taking it then, feeling the weight, he knew what it was. Maguire unwrapped enough of the tissue paper to see the gun, wrapped it together again and handed it back to her.

She said, “Do you know what it is, the make?”

“It’s a Beretta nine-millimeter Parabellum, holds fifteen rounds in the magazine. How much you pay for it?”

“I didn’t buy it. It was my husband’s.”

“You could get something like four hundred for it on the street.”

“I don’t want to sell it,” Karen said, “I want to know how to use it.”

“For what?”

“Protection.”

“It isn’t a good idea,” Maguire said. “People who don’t own guns don’t get shot as much as people who do.”

“Will you show me how it works?”

“If I don’t, what? You want the money back?”

“The money’s yours. You’ve already earned that.” She waited.

“It’s got a little crossbolt safety above the trigger. You push it to off, slide the top back and forward again and you’re ready to go,” Maguire said. “Which is what I’m gonna do if it’s okay. Take my money and run.”

“You’re very direct,” Karen said, and seemed to be studying him again. “You admit some things and then you stop.”

“It’s not that I have anything to hide,” Maguire said, “it’s the feeling I’m on the carpet, being questioned.”

She said, “I’m sorry, I really am.” There was a silence, but she continued to look at him.

Maguire said, “That’s okay. I guess—as you say, I walk in here, give you a story, why should you believe me?”

“I do though,” Karen said. She seemed to smile then. “Will you tell me something else?”

“Probably,” Maguire said.

“What’s the difference between a porpoise and a dolphin?”

Maguire found a note on his pillow that said, in a forward-slanting Magic Marker scrawl, “Knock if you are not mad!!!”

He reached across the bed to the wall—to a fading garden at Versailles, green-on-yellow wallpaper—and rapped on it three times.

Lesley came in wearing a short see-through nighty and several rollers in her hair, head somewhat lowered to gaze up at Maguire with a practiced, hurt-little-girl expression.

“I thought you were gonna take me out to dinner.”

“I must’ve got mixed up, who was mad at who,” Maguire said. “I had something over on the beach.”