“Why do you keep asking me that if you know what I’m going to say?”
Maybe cut it right there. Then say to them, Now she won’t talk to nobody. You better come see if you can handle her.
Roland liked this Oceana setup. All modern, bigger than Arnold’s place, top-floor view and that deep, square-cut bathtub in there. He just might at that run into a nice cocktail waitress. Bring her up here when he wasn’t busy with Karen. Or bring her when he was. That bathtub’d hold three easy.
Roland went over to the closet by the front door, where he’d hung his suit jacket. He lifted the big .45 Smith out of the inside pocket and laid it on the hat shelf of the closet, against the back wall. He left the suitcoat hanging in there, but kept his Ox Bow straw on, resetting it loose, straight over his eyes trooper-fashion. People would ask him, “You ever take your hat off?” He’d say, “Let’s see. Yeah, I take it off when I wash my head.” Then wait as if thinking till they said, “Well, don’t you take it off any other time?” And he’d say, “Oh yes, every Sunday I do when I go to church.”
It was eleven years ago last March, Roland had his serious hat trouble, the time he was pouring cement for the subdivision going in along the Fakahatchee Strand over by the west coast and he went into this restaurant in Naples to have his dinner. At that time he was wearing a white Stetson that was seasoned and shaped the way rodeo contestants were wearing theirs, curved high on the sides but sort of snapped down in front. Some college boys in the place, drinking beer, would look over at him eating dinner with his hat on. He knew they were making remarks, snickering and laughing, bunch of dinks wearing athletic department sweat shirts and numbered jerseys. On their way out, number 79 stopped by Roland’s table, stood there with his powerful shoulders and arms, hands on his hips, and said, “You always wear your hat when you eat?” The others, behind him, snickering some more. Roland said to 79, not looking up from his dinner, “Get the fuck away from me, boy, ‘fore you end up in the salad.” Number 79 reached for Roland’s hat, got a fork stuck in his forearm and was letting out a howl when Roland belted him across the salad bar, smashing the sanitary see-thru top and sending the boy to the hospital for stitches, nearly as many as the number on his breakaway football jersey. Roland pleaded guilty to aggravated assault, was placed on a year’s probation and paid hospital costs out of his pocket, $387, when they told him his Blue Cross wouldn’t cover it.
He was in that same Lee County Circuit Courtroom a year later and this time they got him good. They told him to take off his hat and charged him with second degree murder: brought in witnesses who testified Roland had threatened to harm a land developer by the name of Goldman, who Roland had said owed him money; had been seen arguing with Goldman, provoking a fight, which was stopped; seen driving out toward Fakahatchee with Goldman, in his pickup truck, the day before he was found in a drainage canal, shot to death. No probation this time. Roland got 10 to 25 in Raiford and served seven long years. Time to learn how to use his head and make valuable connections. Then he got out and never went back to the swamp again, outside of one time when a hotel owner fell behind on his vig and Roland drove out to the site of the Everglades jetport that was never completed, shot him and dumped him in a borrow pit a couple of alligators were nesting in. When Roland was called in for that kind of work now, he’d borrow Lionel Oliva’s quick little eighteen-foot cruiser and head out toward the Stream, throw the guy over the side and take potshots at him till he disappeared.
Ed Grossi was a different situation.
Sometimes, when Vivian would continue to insist, making her point over and over, Ed Grossi would think, Yes, yes, yes. Talk, talk, talk. She was intelligent, but she was still a woman. She had insisted on driving him to Boca Raton; so he allowed her to, giving her that much, but not saying anything to her most of the way up Interstate 95.
Vivian said, “Why are you mad?”
He said, “I’m not mad.”
She said, “I know when you’re mad, whether you admit it or not.”
He said, “If you know I’m mad, even when I’m not, then you should know what I’m not mad at.” And thought, Jesus Christ, two grown people.
Grossi was mad-no, more irritated-because Vivian had said he was getting old. (“What restaurant was it?” “He didn’t say.” And because he hadn’t asked Roland the name of the restaurant she had said, “You’re getting old.” Then had said she was sorry, but still wanted to know the name of the restaurant.)
He said now, “Let’s forget it.” Which meant they were finished talking about whether he was mad or not; though he could continue to feel irritated.
Give a woman a little, she’d try to become the boss. You had to keep her in line. As they turned into the Oceana, going down to the parking area beneath the condominium, Grossi said, “Let me off by the elevator and wait for me.”
“I want to go with you,” Vivian said.
“I said let me off by the elevator and wait.”
Sit. Fetch. Sometimes you had to treat them like that.
“Maybe she needs a woman to be with her,” Vivian said.
Grossi got out of the Cadillac and slammed the door. He had to wait for the goddamn elevator, feeling Vivian watching him. Then he was inside, the door closed, there, and he was in control again. He’d have a talk with Vivian, tell her a few simple rules. Like when a certain point is reached, keep your mouth shut, the discussion’s over. Clara gave him no trouble, but he had to listen to her talk about her garden. Karen talked about her freedom. Karen-he’d give her anything she wanted and get that settled, not have to worry about her anymore. Ridiculous, having to stop and deal with women.
Grossi knocked and Roland opened the door almost immediately, Roland holding a decorative pillow.
“I was sleeping,” Roland said.
Grossi came into the living room. “Where is she?”
“She’s in the bathroom. Sounds like she’s a little sick.”
“She sleep at all?”
“Little bit. She won’t talk to me no more.”
Grossi moved down the hall to the bathroom. The door was closed. He knocked and said, “Karen?” There was no response, no sound from inside. Roland was coming along the hall now, still holding the small pillow. “You sure she’s in here?”
“She might’ve passed out again,” Roland said. “Better look in there and see.”
Grossi turned the knob, expecting it to be locked. He opened the door carefully, not wanting to startle Karen or surprise her sitting on the toilet.
“Karen?”
He saw himself in the bathroom mirror. He looked toward the empty walkup tub. He looked back at the mirror and saw himself and Roland behind him. He saw Roland looking at him in the mirror, not quite grinning, but with an alert, knowing expression.
In his mind, in that moment, Grossi heard Vivian saying, “You’re getting old,” and his own voice saying, “Oh my God,” and heard the heavy muffled gunshot hard against him, jabbing him, and saw in the mirror blood coming out of his shirtfront and on the mirror itself, his blood sprayed there as from a nozzle, seeing it in the same moment the sunburst pattern of lines exploded on the glass, his image there, his image gone.
Roland picked Grossi up, surprised how light he was, and dropped him in the deep bathtub.
He hadn’t thought about the mirror breaking. He’d clean up the glass and the blood. Replace the mirror some other time, tomorrow maybe.
Right now he’d move Ed’s car for the time being. Put it in a lot away from here, lock it up and walk back.
Wait till real late. Then the tricky part. Drop Ed out the window to land him in the sand. Better than taking him down the elevator in a box.
Drive him down to Miami International and put him in the trunk of Arnold’s Jag, Florida ARN-268, parked in the Delta area.
Don’t forget. Put the Smith in there too, grip and trigger wiped clean of prints, but with Arnie’s partials all over the barrel.