Elmore Leonard - Gold Coast

“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.