Vivian’s voice said, “I’m so afraid he’s going to find me. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep. God, I can’t think.”
Maguire’s voice said, “Tomorrow it’ll be over. The Miami Police’ll pick him up, you identify him, that’s it.”
Vivian’s voice said, “I’ll be so glad when it’s over.”
Maguire’s voice said, “Eleven-thirty, Vivian. See you then.”
Karen played the tape back and listened to it again, twice.
She was surprised, puzzled.
Then annoyed.
Karen ejected the tape cartridge. Holding it in her hand, she got a blank cartridge from the box, snapped the new one in position and pushed the recorder and the box back under Marta’s bed.
KAREN BATHED AND DRESSED. She had a martini in the living room while she watched the news. At a quarter to seven she went into the kitchen carrying a handbag and the keys to Frank’s Seville, in the garage.
Marta looked at her, surprised. “I was going to ask if you’re ready for dinner.”
“I’m sorry, I thought I told you,” Karen said, “I’m having dinner out.” She looked at the salad greens drying on the counter. “You haven’t started anything yet, have you?”
“No-” She seemed to want to say more.
“What’s the matter?”
“I don’t want to be alone,” Marta said, “if Roland comes.”
“I thought your brother picks up the tape.”
“Remember, I tole you he doesn’t do it anymore.”
“Well, it’s up to you,” Karen said. “But if you don’t want to open the door when he comes, then don’t.”
“That wouldn’t stop him.”
“Maybe not. It seems funny, though, to be offering you advice,” Karen said. “I tried to help you before. You had a chance to have him arrested and you didn’t.”
“Of course. For the same reason I don’t want to be alone with him. I’m scared, I don’t know what to do.”
“And I don’t know what to tell you,” Karen said. “You’re afraid to let him in and you’re afraid not to.”
“I wish things would be the same, the way it used to be,” Marta said.
“Wouldn’t it be nice,” Karen said. “So, are you going to give him the tape?”
“I guess so.”
Karen jiggled her keys, getting the one for the Seville ready. She said, “Well, I have to go,” but remained by the kitchen table, looking at Marta. “I think what I would do, I’d leave the tape for him outside the door and get away from here for awhile. Maybe a few days. You know? Instead of putting yourself in the middle of something that really doesn’t concern you.”
“Leave here?”
“Why not? What’s anyone done for you lately?”
Just in time.
Roland wheeled his Coupe de Ville into the drive as Marta was backing out, saw her brakelights flash and, before she knew it, was pressed against her rear bumper.
Out of the car Roland said, “Hey, don’t leave on my account. Where we going?” He looked toward the open garage doors and at the house, up at the second-floor windows, as though he might catch someone watching him.
Roland picked up the envelope with his name on it-ROLAND, in big blue letters-from the steps and moved aside to let Marta unlock the door.
“There’s nobody home,” she said.
“Don’t look like it,” Roland said. “I ain’t gonna play house with you today, sugar, I want to use your telephone.” He dialed the one in the kitchen, waited, said, “Son of a bitch,” and hung up. “Where’s Karen at?”
“She went out to dinner.”
“Who with?”
“Nobody. Alone.”
“ ‘Less she’s meeting him, huh? Let’s go in your bedroom and listen to this one,” Roland said, holding up the envelope. “Many calls today?”
“Only a few,” Marta said.
Minutes later, in Marta’s room, after playing the tape and hearing nothing, Roland said, “I’d say that’s less than a few. Or else this here’s the wrong one.”
“I took it out of the machine,” Marta said.
“And I know you wouldn’t lie to me,” Roland said, straightening up from the recorder on the chair, standing close to Marta, the bed behind her. “Would you?”
“I have no reason to lie,” she said.
“You got a nice body, you know it?”
Marta stood rigid, her head turned away from his chest.
“But I don’t have time just now to make you happy. Your tough luck,” Roland said, going into the kitchen. He picked up the wall phone and dialed again.
This time he said, “You dink, where you been?”
Lionel’s voice said, “I was in the toilet a minute.”
“Drinking beer-how many you have?”
“I’m sitting here, I have to do something,” Lionel’s voice said, the sound of a salsa beat behind him.
“Hang on a sec.” Roland looked at Marta. “Go on out in the living room.” He waited until she was in the hall before saying to Lionel, “Get in your boat and bring it up to Bahía Mar.”
Lionel’s voice said, “Man, it’s gonna be dark soon.”
“I hope so,” Roland said. “I’ll meet you there by the gas pumps in about a hour.” He started to hang up, then said, “Hey, Jesus say his sister told him or what?”
“No, he didn’t say anything about his sister,” Lionel’s voice said. “He say it was Vivian.”
Roland held the phone away from him, away from the Caribbean jukebox music behind Lionel. Sure as hell-the sound of a car starting up outside, revving up, then banging something and a terrible sound of metal scraping metal.
“Shit,” Roland said. “You be there.” He banged the phone into its cradle and ran out of the kitchen to the side door.
Marta had her car turned around on the lawn; she cut across the drive and was screeching away, leaving the front left fender of Roland’s Coupe de Ville all torn to hell.
The Palm Bay waiter said to Karen, “The gentleman at the bar would like to join you for a drink, if he may.”
Karen looked from the booth she was in to a man with gray-styled hair and a paisley jacket. Half-turned from the bar he raised his drink to her.
“Does he know my name?” Karen said.
“Oh, yes. He said, ‘Ask Mrs. DiCilia.’ ”
“Tell him he’s mistaken,” Karen said.
The waiter smiled. “You don’t want a drink with him?”
“I said tell him he’s mistaken.”
“Very good,” the waiter said.
When the man with the gray-styled hair came over, Karen said, “I don’t know you. I don’t intend to. Would you go away, please?”
“If you’re alone, no harm in having a drink, a nice chat-”
“Beat it,” Karen said. She stared up at him until he mumbled, “Sorry,” and went back to the bar.
See? Nothing to it.
The look was important. Icy calm, unwavering; the tone quiet, somewhat bored. Maybe a little more work on the tone, keeping the voice low.
Maybe another one would come along. The rescuers-
The Maguires.
Maguire was going to stick his neck out all the way, showing off, and never be heard of again. The natural-born loser. She could try to prevent it, within reason; but if he insisted on playing the rescuer, then she’d have to let him. Karen Hill DiCilia was at the Palm Bay Club the night it happened. Or she was home, but it wasn’t exactly clear what had happened, Karen Hill’s part in it. Karen Hill seemed cooperative. Yes, she knew the deceased, was acquainted with him. But Karen Hill obviously knew more than she was telling.
The waiter came over and said, “If I may disturb you, please. The gentleman at the table by the window-?”
Karen looked over. “Does he know my name?”
Marta drove all the way to Jesus’ apartment on Alhambra, Coral Gables, and got in after she proved to the manager she was Jesus’ sister and not some girl who wanted to rip him off. God, all the things there were to go through and worry about-walking back and forth in Jesus’ living room, walking to the kitchen, walking to the front window, looking out at the street and the cars going by, some with their lights on already, the time passing so fast, rushing her and not giving her a chance to think. She got the phone number from her purse, the Casa Loma, and dialed, then had to wait as the phone rang at least twenty times. When the woman answered, Marta asked if she could please speak to her brother, the man visiting Mr. Maguire. Marta could hear sounds of voices talking and an audience laughing, applauding on the phone, having a good time, as she waited again.