“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 FRIEND of 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.
As Roland came this way across the lawn, Karen watching him, Gretchen ran out from the house, barking, coming to a sudden stop. Roland went down to one knee to take the dog in his hands, playfully roughing her up, saying something, repeating it, as the little gray dog licked and sniffed him.
Gretchen ran off toward the house and Roland squinted after her. Coming to the patio he said, “That’s a nice little doggie you got. What’s her name?”
“Gretchen,” Karen said.
“Yeah, she’s a nice little girl.” Squinting up at the house again, then looking directly at Karen in the canvas chair. “I thought that was some view out there, but this one beats it.” Giving her a friendly grin. “I’ve sure heard a lot about you.”
Karen touched her knee to pull the robe over her leg, but let her hand rest there.
Roland caught it, the brown hand with three little gold rings lying there idle on the brown knee. Yes sir, begin small and work up. No hurry. This woman might not even realize how bad she needed it. Like a starving person forgetting about food as the stomach began to shrink up.
Marta was hanging around back there in the shade of one of the archways, door open behind her, leading inside. Roland didn’t know if Marta was keeping an eye on him or what. Maybe told by the lady to stay close.
The lady, he figured was near his age, somewhere around forty. The maid, twenty years younger, and with a little more meat on her but not as good looking. Both of them in white. A short-skirt skimpy uniform; and the robe the lady wore, Roland bet, didn’t cover no more than a little swim suit. She might even be bare-assed under there. Two women in white all alone in this place like a Florida castle. It sounded to Roland like something in a storybook. The fair princess with some kind of a spell on her that she’d have till her prince come along and fucked her.
All that going on in his head inside the summer cowboy hat. Hey, prince-Roland grinned.