Elmore Leonard - Gold Coast

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.

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 sup pos ed to tell.” Patient, speaking to a child.

Roland shook his head. “Uh-unh, I said I’m not al low ed 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.