Elmore Leonard - Gold Coast

Roland said, “Your mommy home?”

They grinned at him. Arnold said, “No, no mommy, just us kids.”

Roland said, “Well now-who’re your little friends, Arnie?”

Arnold said, “Well now”-imitating Roland’s cracker accent, getting some of the soft twang-“this here is Barry. That there’re Scott and Kenny.”

The young guys-they were about in their mid-twenties-snickered and giggled.

The one called Barry, trying the accent, said, “And who be you be?”

It broke them up, “Who be you be.” The guys laughing and repeating it, Jesus, who-be-you-be. They thought it was pretty funny.

Roland walked over to the hi-fi. He brushed the stylus off the record and the funk-rock stopped with a painful scratching sound.

Arnold straightened up. “Jesus Christ, what’re you do ing?”

“Getting your attention,” Roland said.

Barry was still grinning. He said, “Who-be-you-be, man?” And one of the others said, “He’s the who-be-you-be man. Comes in, who-be-you-bes your fucking records all up.”

“No, I’m the man’s man,” Roland said. “Sent me to ask you what happened to his five hundred and forty thousand dollars, I believe is the figure.”

“It’s in the municipal incinerator,” Arnold said.

The one named Barry said, “We already told it, man. Ask him.”

Roland tilted up his Ox Bow straw. He walked out to the open balcony with its view of the Atlantic Ocean and leaned on the rail a moment.

Jesus Diaz stood where he was in the middle of the room, watching Roland, hearing the young guys say something and giggle. Something like, “Hey, partner” and something about riding here on a fucking horse, and another one saying, “A fucking bucking bronco, man,” and all of them giggling again.

Roland came back in. He said to Arnold, “How about you tell me what you told him.”

“Coast Guard picked up the boat in international waters and brought it into Boca Chica,” Arnold said. “He knows all that. The pot went to Customs and they burned it up.”

“Pot went to pot,” Barry said.

“The crew, the three guys, were turned over to Drug Enforcement,” Arnold said. “Your man is out the five hundred forty grand and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“It’s a high fucking risk business,” Barry said, “any time you get two hundred percent on your investment, it’s got to be.”

“Two and a half,” Arnold said.

“Right, two and a half,” Barry said. “You know it’s high risk going in, man, if you’re not stupid.”

Roland walked over to where Barry was lounged in his chair. He said, “Is that right, little fella? You know all about high risk, do you? Stand up here, let me have a look at you.”

“Jesus Christ,” Barry said, sounding bored. “Why don’t you take a fucking walk?”

Roland pulled Barry up by his hair, drew him out of the chair and an agonized sound from Barry’s throat, telling him to hush up, turned him around and got a tight grip on the waist of Barry’s pants that brought him to his toes, Levis digging into the crack of his ass.

Jesus Diaz reached behind him, beneath his jacket-to the same place Roland was gripping the young guy’s pants-and brought out a Browning automatic, big .45, and put it on the other three guys, sitting up, maybe about to jump Roland.

Roland said, “See it?” without even looking, knowing Jesus had the piece on them. “Now tell me about high risk,” Roland said to Barry, walking him toward the open balcony, the other three guys rigid, afraid to move. “You want me to tell you?” Roland said, bringing the young guy to the opening in the sliding glass doors. “Fact I’ll show you, boy, the highest risk you ever saw.” And ran him out on the balcony, gripping him, raising him by his hair and pants and grunting hard as he threw the young guy screaming over the rail of the fourth-floor balcony.

Someone in the room cried out, “Jesus-no!”

There was silence.

Jesus Diaz held the gun on them, not looking at the balcony.

Roland stood at the rail, leaning over it, resting on his arms.

When he came back in adjusting his hat he said, “That boy was lucky, you know it? He hit in the swimming pool. He’s moving slow, but he’s moving. People gonna say my, what do those boys do up there? Must get all likkered up, huh?” Roland paused, looking at Arnold and Scott and Kenny sitting there like stones. He said, “Now, who-be-you-be, who be’s gonna answer my question without getting smart-aleck and giggling like little kids? You see what I do to smart little kids, huh. Next one, he might hit the concrete, mightn’ he?”

“The name of the boat in the paper was Salsa ,” Arnold said quietly. “The same one I hired, I know, because I saw it in Key West two weeks ago.”

“And the Coast Guard cutter hauled it in was the Diligence ,” Roland said. “Same thing I’m gonna use till you pay us back the five hundred and forty thousand. You can take your time, Arnie, we’re reasonable folks. Long as you understand the vig’s fifty-four grand a week, standard ten percent interest.”

Arnold began to nod, very serious. “We’ll pay you, don’t worry.”

Roland said, “Do I look worried?”

He said to Jesus, in the car, driving away from the beach, “I told you, didn’t I, them dinks’d pull something.”

“But they weren’t lying to you,” Jesus Diaz said. “It was the same boat was picked up.”

“Oh my oh my, you don’t understand shit, do you?” Roland drove in silence to the federal highway, US 1, went through the light and pulled over to the curb. “Out you go, partner.”

Jesus looked around. “What am I supposed to do here?”

“Hitch a ride or take a cab, I don’t give a shit. I’m going up to Lauderdale.”

Roland was looking at himself in the rearview mirror, squaring his new Ox Bow wheat-colored straw.

“HE SAY HE’S A FRIENDof Mr. Grossi,” Marta said. “Mr. Grow. You supposed to have met him one time before.”

“Grow?” Karen said. She felt Gretchen’s tongue on her shoulder. The dog had come out with Marta.

“Yes, Grow,” Marta said.

Lying on her stomach, Karen looked at the watch close to her face. Quarter to five already. It amazed her that time did go quickly. Time now to-what? Go in and dress. She didn’t remember a Mr. Grow from anywhere. Turning, getting up from the lounge, Karen held the bra of her bathing suit to her breasts, fastened it, then reached for the phone on the umbrella table and dialed a number, Ed Grossi’s private line.

“Ed? Karen.” She paused, listening a moment. “Everything’s fine… No, no problems. Listen, do you know someone, a man by the name of Grow?… Yeah, that’s what I thought. That must be it… No, I don’t know what he wants. Is he a friend of yours?” Then listened to Ed saying well, yes, in a way. Roland Crowe was an employee. He’d probably stopped by to see if there was anything she needed, maybe take a look around-“For what?” Like a security check, Ed said, that’s all. But listen, if the guy was imposing, taking up her time, tell him to get lost. That bluntly. Not someone whose feelings Ed Grossi cared about. “Thanks,” Karen said. And Ed said sure, anytime.

Quiet Ed Grossi, trying to sound himself, but a little disturbed. By what? Her call, perhaps interrupting him? Or the fact Roland was here. Whoever Roland Crowe was. A man who worked for Ed Grossi but wasn’t Italian or Cuban.

“Ask him to come out,” Karen said. She reached for a white cotton robe as Marta went back to the house.

Roland walked along the seawall to the point of land where a boat canal joined the Intercoastal. He stood for some time looking across the broad channel to the homes on the far side, then turned and seemed to study the DiCilia house: the million dollar layout that resembled a California mission, tan brick and clay tile roof; red pyracantha bushes forming borders, screening the swimming pool and brick patio.