Elmore Leonard - Gold Coast

It took Maguire nearly ten minutes of looking through every drawer, the closet, and the bed to convince himself the gun, the one Jesus knew was in the room, wasn’t.

Andre Patterson would look at him and shake his head, Man, the people you associate with. Say to Andre, But look. What do they have to do? Practically nothing. Andre would say, That’s exactly what they doing. Nothing. Where they at?

They’ll be here.

In the meantime, run upstairs and get the gun. Before Karen comes home. Wherever Karen went.

Maguire turned off the lamp, felt his way out to the front hall and moved up the stairway. Gretchen had gone off somewhere.

When Roland saw the house dark it made him wonder for a moment. How come? Then accepted it as he crossed the yard toward the house. They went to get Vivian, that’s why. Both of them.

But at the French doors, about to put the rubber-padded butt of the shotgun through the glass, seeing it busted already, he said, No, they didn’t.

Somebody was home, and he bet he knew who it was, too. Somebody besides little Gretchen panting, trying to climb his leg. Roland sat down in the Louis XVI chair to pull off his cowboy boots, whispering, “You like to smell my feet, do you, huh? Come on up here you little thing. I don’t like to do this, Gretchie, no I don’t, but I got to.” He put his hand over Gretchen’s muzzle, clamping it over her nose and mouth and held the squirming furry body until it shuddered and became limp.

Roland went through the hall to the living room, looked in, came back past the stairway and paused. Was that a sound up there? Like a drawer being shut? Roland went through the back hall to Marta’s room-no Cubans hiding under the bed-came out and turned into the kitchen. There was a soft orange glow on the telephone to show where it hung on the wall. Roland got an idea. He’d memorized Frank DiCilia’s private number once. Now, if he could remember it-

Maguire closed the top drawer. He opened, looked through and closed every drawer in the dresser. He looked in the drawers of the two nightstand tables. He looked under the pillows and the mattress. Shit. Andre Patterson would say, Get your ass out, boy.

No, be cool. Where would she put it?

He went back to the dresser and got the key to the next room out of the drawer. It was possible-she’d decided to put the gun back with Frank’s stuff, his papers, his money. Maguire unlocked the door and went in. No light showed in the window; the draperies were closed. He turned on the desk lamp. Straightening then, his eyes went to the photographs on the wall, the shots of Karen.

The telephone rang.

Maguire jumped and Andre Patterson, watching, would say, See?

The telephone rang.

Maguire went over to it sitting on the desk and looked at the number in the center of the dial. Not Karen’s number, a private line.

The telephone rang.

He’d wait for it to stop. And then thought, What if it’s Karen? If she knew, somehow, he was in the house-

The telephone rang.

– Didn’t want him to answer on her phone and have it recorded, so-no, both lines would be tapped. That wasn’t it.

The telephone rang.

But it still could be Karen. Or Marta. It could be anybody. It could be Marta with Jesus, knowing he’d be looking for the gun. No-why this phone?

The telephone rang.

It would stop.

The telephone rang.

The telephone rang.

Shit, Maguire said and picked it up.

“How you doing?” Roland’s voice said. “You coming down or you want me to come up?”

“So this parrot went to take a piss, see, and drowned in the toilet. How you doing?” Roland said, coming out of the dark bedroom into lamplight, the pump-action shotgun leading.

“In the commode was the word,” Maguire said, sitting in the swivel chair behind the desk, trying to look calm. Where the hell else was there to go?

“I think it sounds better toilet. Where’s Vivian at?”

“I don’t know any Vivian. Vivian who?”

“Shit,” Roland said, “we gonna have a question-answer period or we gonna get to it?”

“I got nothing to tell you,” Maguire said.

“Then you might as well be dead, huh?” Roland put the shotgun on him.

“Unless you want to try a few questions and see where they lead,” Maguire said.

“I got one,” Roland said, “only one. Where’s Vivian?”

“I can’t do it like that, have it on my conscience.”

“How can you do it?”

“I don’t see a way yet.”

“Then die looking, you dumb shit. It’s up to you.”

“You want to go for two counts, is that it?”

“ Two? ” Roland said. “If I notched my gunbutt you’d get splinters running your hand on it, you dink. I don’t care about numbers. You’re just another one.”

“But it’s money what it’s all about. Right?”

“What do you make, two bucks an hour? Want to give me about a hunnert?”

“I don’t have it, no. But I know where I could get some.” Maguire looked up at the photos on the wall.

Roland glanced over and back to Maguire, then turned to look at the display of photos again.

“What’s this all about, you know? Puts up pitchers of herself.” Roland stepped closer. “And somebody else there, huh? I thought they was all her when I first seen ’em.”

“I think she comes up here and plays pretend,” Maguire said. “Get her mind off things.”

“Pretend what?”

“The mystery lady, I think. Like that other one.”

“Who’s she?”

“I forgot her name.” Maguire heard the car then.

Roland heard it, too. He came around with the shotgun. “She bringing Vivian?”

“Or cops. You gonna wait and see?”

“Stay put,” Roland said. He stepped into the bedroom.

Maguire heard a door, downstairs, open and close. He couldn’t see Roland now. But heard his voice from the upstairs hall. “Come on up, join the party.”

He could go out the window-if it opened and there was no screen to fool with. He didn’t owe Karen anything. It was the other way around, all the time he’d put in. She owed him more than she’d ever know.

But he remained in the swivel chair. Probably wouldn’t make it out the window anyway-Roland moved for a big man. So what could he do? Nothing. The hell with Andre Patterson there watching, shaking his head.

Karen was coming in, seeing him at the desk. Christ, Karen shaking her head, too. Roland came in behind her saying, “I hope we can get this cleared up, what’s going on.”

Karen took a cigarette out of a pack in her straw handbag and laid the bag on the desk.

“You have a light?”

“I used to chew, but I never smoked,” Roland said. “It’s bad for you.”

Karen took a lighter from the bag and snapped it several times. “I went to Miami for dinner. Alone.” She dropped the lighter on the desk and raised her hip to sit against the corner, picking up the handbag and resting it on her lap now as she felt inside.

“You got a match?” Roland said to Maguire.

“I don’t smoke.”

“That’s smart,” Roland said. He looked at Karen. “I believe you. It’s this dink here causing all the commotion. See, he was gonna bring Vivian here-the way I figure it-and try and get a lot of money out of you to help her get away.” He stopped. “You know why?”

Karen looked up from the handbag on her lap, pausing. “Yes, I know.”

“Then they did talk to you.”

“Not really. I found out on my own”

Maguire kept looking at her as Roland said, “Don’t believe everything you hear, it ain’t required. So he comes to the house wants to talk to you, see if he can bring Vivian, and you’re not home. So what does he do, he busts in.”