Gold Coast Part 14

"That's a nice shot of you in the swimsuit." The same one he was looking at now, the robe hanging open, very thin waist, tight little tummy curving into the tan panties that crossed her loins in a straight line. Maguire moved in the canvas chair, reseating himself.

"It was taken here, wasn't it?"

"From a boat. I didn't know it was a news photographer."

"They're starting to move in on you."

She looked at him, but didn't say anything. Her expression almost the same as the one in the photo.

"The woman that wrote it," Maguire said, "why didn't you tell her what's going on?"

"How could I do that?"

"Why not? Get it out in the open."

"Don't you think I'd look a little stupid? The dumb widow involved in some Sicilian oath."

"Well, you're not dumb and it is is happening, isn't it? What I'm thinking, you expose Roland and maybe he'll go away." happening, isn't it? What I'm thinking, you expose Roland and maybe he'll go away."

"And expose Karen DiCilia," Karen said. "Would you like to read about yourself, involved in something like this, in a newspaper?"

"I don't know," Maguire said, "if I thought it would do the job."

"I have to handle Roland," Karen said, "if Ed Grossi doesn't." She folded the newspaper section again and shoved it into the pocket of her robe. "I gave Marta the evening off."

"Good," Maguire said.

"She didn't want to go." Karen was watching him now from behind her sungla.s.ses. "I told her we wanted to be alone. It doesn't matter now what she thinks, does it?"

"It never did," Maguire said.

He located the telephone line coming in from the street, through the mangrove trees, to the house, and pointed to the piece of metal clamped to the line, an infinity transmitter. A second line ran from the terminal point at the house to a corner window and entered Marta's room between the brick and the window casing.

In the room itself the line led to a voltage-activated recorder beneath Marta's bed. Maguire explained it-part of an acc.u.mulation of knowledge picked up along the way to nowhere; though sometimes bits and pieces came in handy.

"The telephone rings, the voltage on the line automatically turns on the ca.s.sette, and the phone conversation is recorded on a cartridge tape. Marta gives the tape to her brother or Roland and they know who you talk to, where you're going-I guess they learn all they need to know."

Karen didn't say anything. She stared at the recorder, her words in there, the sound of her voice contained within the flat cartridge, with its window and two round holes. Telling what?

"You want to give Roland a message?" Maguire flicked a switch on and off.

Still she didn't say anything.

"Get rid of Marta," Maguire said.

"Or keep her. Let them listen," Karen said. "Which is better, if Roland finds out we know about it or if he doesn't?"

"That went through my mind," Maguire said. "I let it go."

Karen looked up from the recorder. "It might be to our advantage."

"We talk," Maguire said. "I phoned-that's how they knew we were meeting the other night."

"But what do they learn, really? We could use some kind of code."

She was serious, taking off her sungla.s.ses now, her eyes quietly alive.

"The question is, what did Roland hear before," Maguire said. "Something he might've learned that turned him on, you might say, to go independent."

"What do you mean, turned him on?"

"Like money," Maguire said. He hesitated, then took a chance. "Maybe he heard you tell somebody you keep money in the house." She was staring at him now, and he looked down at the recorder again, fingering the different switches. "It's just a thought. Or he heard you talking to your accountant, your banker, somebody like that. It'd be a way of finding out what you're worth."

"Maybe he's not the only one who's interested," Karen said.

"No, your maid, her brother-"

"What do you think I'm worth?" Karen said.

"I don't know, three million, thirty million," Maguire said. "You get into those figures, I don't see much difference. But how does he get his hands on it unless it's sitting there. You're not gonna write him a check."

"He hasn't asked for anything."

"No, but he's leading up to something. We're pretty sure of that."

"You haven't asked for anything either," Karen said.

"What am I, the help? You hiring me?"

"That's not an answer," Karen said.

"Why don't I go home and get dressed," Maguire said. "We'll go out, have dinner, hold hands, look at each other. You can tell me what you want, and I'll tell you what I want. How's that sound?"

"I'll tell you right now what I want," Karen said.

Maguire picked up a pizza on the way home (Were they ever going to go out and have dinner together?), took off his s.h.i.+rt, put a cold beer on the table, and began eating, starving.

There were three rattling knocks on the front-door jalousie. Lesley came in still wearing her white shorts, no shoes, and a striped tanktop. She said, "I just got in, too; I was out all evening. Hey, can I have a piece?"

"Help yourself."

"What kind is it?"

"Pepperoni, onions, cheese, a few other things."

"Yuk, anchovies."

Like they were worms. Lesley being sensitive, delicate. He wondered when she'd ask about the car, the silver-gray Mercedes 450 SEL parked in front. She took dainty bites, holding an open palm beneath the wedge, bending over the table to give him a shot of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s hanging free in the tanktop.

"You still have Sunday's paper?"

"How should I know?"

"Aunt Leona keeps newspapers, doesn't she? Gives them to some charity drive?"

"She sells them. She's so G.o.dd.a.m.n money-hungry. Where you going?"

"I'll be right back."

Maguire went in through the manager's apartment, past Leona asleep in her Barcalounger, with a TV movie on, to the utility room off the kitchen. There were several weeks of newspapers stacked against the wall. He began looking through the first pile and there it was, last Sunday's edition of the Herald Herald, finding it right away. Sometimes that happened. He pulled out the "Living Today" section, glancing at Karen and Frank DiCilia, then took the sports section, too, and slipped "Living Today" in behind the sports pages.

Lesley was sitting now, her chair turned away from the table, one foot on the seat, a tan expanse of inner thigh facing him. A lot of flesh there.

"Why're you so interested in the paper?"

"There's a story on the Tigers I missed."

"I think baseball's boring. Nothing ever happens."

Maguire was eating. He didn't care what Lesley thought. He wondered, though, how she'd get around to the car.

She said, "Brad's really p.i.s.sed at you, you know it?"

"Why?"

"You were supposed to stay after and work with Bubbles."

It sounded like she was talking about school.

"I forgot," Maguire said. He'd left without looking back, not wanting to see the two Cubans again.

"Brad saw you take off in the car. He goes, 'Jesus Christ, where'd he get that, steal it?' "

That was how she did it, indirectly. Maguire worked his way through another pizza wedge, not giving her any help.

"Brad goes, 'He didn't have it yesterday. He must've got it last night.' "

Maguire drank some of the cold beer: really good with the salty anchovy taste.

" 'Somebody must've loaned it to him.' Then he goes, 'But who would he know that owns a f.u.c.king Mercedes?' "

"I bet you said that, not Brad," Maguire said.

"I might've. Somebody said it."

"It's a friend of mine's," Maguire said. "I'm using it while he's out of town."

"Well, let's go someplace in it."

"I'm not allowed to take pa.s.sengers. He's afraid it'll get messed up."

"You big s.h.i.+t, you're just saying that."

"It's the truth."

"Who's is it?"

"Guy by the name of Andre Patterson."

"The one you were talking to on the phone?"

Talking about about on the phone to Andre's wife, but it didn't matter. "Right. He went on a vacation." Christ, 20 to life. He should write to Andre, tell him how things were going. He wanted to read the newspaper story again and look at the picture of Karen on the seawall. on the phone to Andre's wife, but it didn't matter. "Right. He went on a vacation." Christ, 20 to life. He should write to Andre, tell him how things were going. He wanted to read the newspaper story again and look at the picture of Karen on the seawall.

"How would he know the difference?" Lesley said. "I mean just me, not a lot of people."

"Maybe," Maguire said. "You want some more?"

"No...I feel like-" She gave him a sly look. "You know how I feel?"

"How?"

"h.o.r.n.y. Isn't that funny? I don't know why." She looked over at the bed. "You want to lie down, see what happens?"

"Your feet are dirty," Maguire said.

"My feet feet?"

"Actually I'm awful tired. You mind?"

"Jesus Christ," Lesley said, getting up. "You have a headache, too?"

"No, but I don't feel too good. I think maybe the pizza." He said, "Why don't you catch me some other time, okay?"

"Why don't you catch this," Lesley said, giving him the finger and slammed the jalousie door, rattling the frosted-gla.s.s louvers.

There were times, yes, when he didn't mind dirty feet. Or, there had been times. But going from one to the other, from the woman to the girl, he couldn't imagine ever having to try and compare them. Hearing Lesley's voice, "Brad's really p.i.s.sed at you." Serious. A crisis because he'd forgotten to stay after closing to work with the young dolphin. "Brad goes, 'What'd he do, steal it?' " Brad and Lesley, the whole setup, like a summer camp. Then hearing Karen's voice: "What do you think I'm worth?"

Karen's voice: "I'll tell you right now what I want."

Not putting it on, trying to act sultry, but straight. Looking at him without the sungla.s.ses. "I'll tell you right now what I want."

She wanted it, too. She had said the first time, "I could hardly wait." This time was like the first time multiplied, more of it, more free and easy with each other, fooling with each other in that big broken-down bed, then getting into it, picking it up, beginning to race, feeling the rush. It was as different as day and night, the girl and the woman. The girl okay, very good in fact, but predictable: the same person all the way, making little put-on sounds- "Oh, oh, oh, don't stop now, G.o.d, don't ever stop"-she must've read somewhere and decided that was how you made the guy feel good. The woman, the forty-four-year-old woman didn't fake anything. She watched him with a soft, slightly smiling look that was natural. She moved her hands all over him, everywhere, which the girl never did-as though the girl was supposed to get it and not give unless she gave as a special favor; the girl very open and, quote, together, saying, "You want to f.u.c.k?" if she felt like it; except that it had no bearing on how she was in bed-the girl not aware of the two of them the way the fortyfour-year-old woman was. The woman in the photograph. The lady in the million dollar home. The lady. That was the key maybe. The lady, with a poise and quiet tone, easing out of the role as they moved over and around each other on the bed, not being tricky about it but natural, touching, entering the special place of the slim, good-looking lady, moving in and owning the place for awhile, right there tight in the place, and the lady trying to keep him, hold onto him there. Yes, there. Now that was different. That was being as close to someone as you could get without completely disappearing into the person, gone. Man. To look forward to that for another-how many years? Wondering if it was a consideration, a possibility. Maybe not. But at least feeling close enough to be able to say, "They got your age wrong in the paper." Smiling.

"They got a number of things wrong," Karen said, "including the way it was written."

"All the questions. It was like a quiz." Kissing her shoulder, her, neck, feeling it moist. "I don't care how old you are...we are. What difference does it make?"

"None that I can think of," Karen said.