If she was wrong she would tell Ed later, I was wrong.
But she knew she wasn’t wrong. She didn’t know how she knew it but she did—going back in her mind, knowing she hadn’t given Roland her telephone number. But at this moment having no idea where she could go to be safe.
16
* * *
KAREN READ ABOUT IT and saw film stories on television.
Ed Grossi’s murder featured as a gangland/drug-related killing. His body found in the trunk of a suspected drug dealer’s car at Miami International. The suspected drug dealer, Arnold Rapp, had fled; but soon after was apprehended in Detroit by fast-moving FBI agents and handed over to the Miami Police. Arnold Rapp had been charged with first degree murder—bond set at five hundred thousand dollars—and was being held awaiting trial in Dade Circuit Court, Criminal Division.
Karen ran, instinctively.
She went to Los Angeles to stay with her daughter, Julie. She told Julie about Ed Grossi, about the arrangement, about Roland. Julie seemed to listen. But they would talk and then Julie would run to the studio where she was doing voice loops for an Italian-made film or she would take milk shakes to Cedars-Sinai, to her husband Brian, who’d broken his jaw doing a stunt in a car-chase sequence.
At night Karen would sit in the living room of the house off Mulholland Drive and look down at the lights of Los Angeles.
Julie said, “I don’t know, I guess I don’t see the problem.”
Karen said, “Then I must’ve left something out. If Ed Grossi is dead, then he can’t change the arrangement, the trust fund. It goes on and on the same way, and I have to stay there the rest of my life.”
“Well, get somebody else to change it.”
“I’m afraid,” Karen said, “I have a feeling, it’s going to be in Roland’s hands.”
“Yeah? Well, then get Roland to change it. God, it sounds like something out here, dealing with these fucking producers, trying to find out who’s in charge.”
“He won’t want to change it,” Karen said. “If he does, he knows I’ll leave in a minute.”
“Well, if you like it there—” Julie said. “It’s a good address, isn’t it?”
“You mean—what? Is it fashionable?”
“Like here,” Julie said. “We’re in L.A., right? But you don’t just say you’re in L.A. Christ, L.A.? You say you live in the Hills. Or you get it across you’re in 90046.”
“I thought this was Hollywood,” Karen said.
“God, no. There isn’t any Hollywood, really. Or maybe 90069, down around where all the agents are, it’s called Hollywood, but it’s really Los Angeles County. See, if you’re in Bel Air or Beverly Hills, like 90212, you don’t even have to know your zip. But L.A.—Brian wanted to move to North Hollywood? I said, ‘Brian, 91604 is okay, but it’s not 90046 by any stretch of the imagination. It’s living in the Valley, Brian. They say where do you live, you tell them Studio City, Sherman Oaks, some fucking place like that, they think you’re in wardrobe or an assistant film editor.”
Try again. Karen said, “I like my house, yes. But do I want someone forcing me to stay there?”
“Are you asking?”
Was she? Karen said, “I told you a little about Roland. I haven’t told you everything, or what I’m afraid he’s going to do.”
“Well, at least you can talk to him,” Julie said. “The director on this great epic spaghetti picture not only barely speaks English, he hasn’t the slightest fucking idea what he’s doing. He’s got this translation for the dubbed version, it’s written by an Italian, he’s got me saying things like, ‘I hated him. I think it is swell that he was slain.’ Honest to God. I mean if you can talk to him, what’s your problem, really?”
For five days Karen phoned Vivian Arzola at the Dorado Management office. Each day she was told Vivian was not in and each time the girl on the phone refused, politely, to give her Vivian’s home phone number. On the fifth day Karen watched a brief television coverage of Ed Grossi’s funeral on national news. She saw Roland, in his blue suit, serving as one of the pallbearers, but didn’t recognize him immediately without his hat. There was no sign of Vivian in the film clip of activity outside St. Mary’s Cathedral.
Later in the evening of the fifth day Maguire called. He said he had stopped by her house every day and finally Marta had given him the number in Los Angeles.
“In the Hills,” Karen said. “Nine-oh-oh-four-six.”
“What?”
“Do me a favor, will you? Tell Marta to save the Miami papers. But don’t call her.”
“You think I’d do that? Listen, how come you haven’t called me?”
“I didn’t have your number. But that reminds me,” Karen said, “do you know how to find phone numbers?”
“You look in the book.”
“Unlisted ones. I need Vivian Arzola’s number. Or maybe you could find out where she lives.” Karen spelled the name for him. “She works for Dorado Management but hasn’t been there all week. It’s very important. Okay?”
“Vivian Arzola,” Maguire said.
She asked then, “Have you seen Roland?”
“Only on TV.”
“Yes, I saw it too.”
“When’re you coming home?”
“Tomorrow,” Karen said. There was a pause. “Do you miss me?”
She sat by herself in first class, no one in the seat next to her; wore sunglasses much of the time; sipped three martinis and California red with her roast fillet; was polite to the flight attendants though she side-stopped conversation; read a book, The Kefauver Story, by Jack Anderson and Fred Blumenthal, which she had found in Frank’s office, and reread a Xeroxed copy of an article from the June, 1951 issue of American Mercury, entitled “Virginia Hill’s Success Secrets,” she had got from the Fort Lauderdale Public Library. She thought of Cal Maguire. Don’t tell him obvious things: like not to call the house or how to do his job. Be nicer. She thought of Roland Crowe and thought of Julie’s line in the Italian film, changing the tense and applying it to Roland so that it came out, “I hate him. I think it would be swell if he were slain.”
17
* * *
THE QUESTION IN MAGUIRE’S MIND, coming up more frequently now: What was he getting out of this?
He would recall and hear again the sound of Karen’s voice on the phone. Almost impersonal. Nothing about being glad he’d called. Then asking if he missed her. Not saying she missed him. He had said, “You bet I miss you, a lot.” He should have said, “Well, I think I do, but I’m not sure.”
Friday, the day she was coming home—his day off—he drove to the DiCilia house again, left the Mercedes over by the garage doors, next to Marta’s car, and rang the bell at the kitchen entrance.
Marta seemed surprised. “She isn’t home yet.”
“I came to see you,” Maguire said. “You got any coffee on?”
In the kitchen that was like a restaurant kitchen, pans hanging from a rack above the table, he had to ask Marta to sit down. He could see she was aware of being alone with him in the house. “You know I’m her friend,” he said. “You know I want to help her.”
“Yes,” Marta said.
“And you want to help her, too.”
“Yes, but she said not to give anyone the number where she was.”
“No, that was fine. I talked to her, and she’s glad you did. She just forgot to mention it was okay to tell me.” Forgot to mention—Christ. “She’s got a lot on her mind”—looking for a way to get to the point—“but you know she’s very grateful you told her about the tape recorder and all.”
“I had to,” Marta said. “It bothered me so much.”
“Has Roland been back since she’s gone?”
“Two days ago he came. He asked me where did she go. I told him I didn’t know.”
“Yeah? What’d he say to that?”
“He walked all over the house like he owned it, looking around in places he shouldn’t.”
“He take anyt
hing?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“But you’re not sure,” Maguire said.
“He might have, yes. But I don’t know.”
“You told him you didn’t know where Mrs. DiCilia was. Then what’d he say?”
“He threatened to do something to me.” Marta hesitated. “So I told him, California.”
“That was okay,” Maguire said. “He’s been listening to phone calls, he could’ve figured it out that’s where she’d go. That’s okay.” He sipped his coffee and sat back, showing Marta he was at ease, not worried about it. “What I’d like to do, if I could, is talk to your brother.”
“My brother?”
“From what I understand— See, she told me everything you told her. How he’s quit, doesn’t work for them anymore, all that. But I was wondering, maybe he could tell me a few things about Roland, the people he works for. Like Vivian Arzola. You know Vivian?”
Marta shook her head. “No, only the name.”
“Or maybe your brother could tell me something about Roland that might help us. You never know.”
“I could talk to him,” Marta said.
“Could you call him? See if he’ll meet me somewhere?”
“I think he may have gone to Cuba. Or he’s going, I don’t know.”
“So maybe we don’t have much time. You want to call him now? No, you can’t do that, call from here.” Maguire waited, letting Marta come up with the idea.
“I could go somewhere and call him. The drugstore by the causeway.”
“Hey, would you do that?”
“Only the man’s coming to fix the bed. He was suppose to come yesterday.”
“Nuts.” Maguire waited, thoughtful. When he’d given it enough thought, he said, “Why don’t I stay in case the guy comes?” He paused, beginning to grin. “I know where the bed is.”
Karen had walked from the patio into the house that night, was gone only a few minutes, and returned with a gun wrapped in tissue paper and forty-five new one hundred dollar bills.
He assumed she had put the gun back, somewhere in the bedroom— (He had thought of it lying with her in the broken-down bed. In one of the nightstands? In the dresser? Or behind the wall of mirrors in the closet?)
And assuming there were more new one hundred dollar bills hidden somewhere— (Lying in the bed he had thought of the money, too; first beginning to wonder what he was getting out of this.)
Maguire stood in the bedroom, alone in the house, Marta gone to phone her brother.
He had not told himself he was going to take the money; because at this point he could say, What money? You don’t even know it’s here. No decision to steal had been made. What he was doing—he told himself—was taking advantage of an opportunity. Seeing where he stood. Surveying the situation. So that if, in the end, he did have to grab something and run as an act of survival, for traveling expenses, it would be something portable and not the Louis XVI bergère or the Peach-blow vases he’d have to wrap in newspapers and pack in a crate.
Where would she keep a lot of money?
In a safe.
But there was no safe in the bedroom or in the closet. In the top dresser drawer he found a box of jewelry, unlocked, with some fine-looking pieces he assumed were real; though he’d never made a study of jewelry.
Next to the jewel box was the Beretta, still wrapped in tissue paper, loaded, a cartridge in the chamber. He rewrapped the gun, put it back in the drawer and told himself, okay, he knew where it was if he needed it, if he ever had to come running upstairs looking for a weapon.
But he was thinking mostly of 45 one hundred dollar bills, Series 1975, with consecutive serial numbers. Clean money, he assumed: thirty of the bills accepted at the post office without question when he’d bought the money orders. New but almost five years old, dating back to . . . Frank DiCilia. And thought of stories of how the wise guys always kept a lot of cash hidden away but handy, a stake, in case they ever had to run, their idea of traveling money. Sure, there had been a guy in Detroit, the feds had gone in with a search warrant, looking for something else, and found a couple hundred grand in the basement, hidden under the guy’s workbench. Andre Patterson had said, Hey, ‘magine hitting a man’s house finding something like that? Pick out one of those old Eyetalian guys supposed to be retired. Andre couldn’t even talk Cochise into it.
But the man dead, and happening to come across his stake, that was something else.
Except it could be anywhere in the house. Assuming it was here.
Maguire tried the door leading into the next room. Locked. He went into the hall and tried the outside door to the room. Locked. And thought, What’s going on? Jewelry in an unlocked bedroom; the next room, the mystery room, locked. He remembered something, went back into the bedroom to the dresser, poked around in the top drawer again and found a half dozen keys, most of them to suitcases, one for a door lock.
He tried it, felt it slide in and turn, and stepped into what had been Frank DiCilia’s office at home. He saw the desk, the typewriter, the file cabinet—
He saw the photographs on the wall.
Photos of Karen. Enlarged photos or photostats, blowups of snapshots taped to the wall, blowups of newspaper photos in bold black and white.
He wasn’t sure if they were all of Karen and then saw, that yes, there were shots of Karen alone, when she was much younger and not as good-looking as she was now, but with the same serious, secretive look. Karen in hats, Karen in dark glasses. Karen in summer dresses, bathing suits, wide-brimmed hats and dark glasses. Like a much younger Karen playing dress-up. There was one of a heavier Karen, which he realized, after a moment, wasn’t Karen. It was someone else. A woman in a black wide-brimmed hat and dark glasses, black dress, and a fur stole. Dark glasses, though the picture had been taken inside, he was sure. There were several other shots of the woman he had not noticed before, mixed in with Karen’s photos, blownup grainy photos like the one of Karen in the sunhat and bikini taken on the seawall. Karen’s photos and those of the other woman were mixed together on the wall so that when he looked at the entire display he could believe they were all of the same person. Karen.
What was going on?
Maguire turned to the file cabinet. The key was lying on top. Then he looked at the wall of photos again.
If you did something like that, he thought, put up about a dozen pictures of yourself and a few of somebody who didn’t look like you but did in a way, the expression, the dark glasses—trying for a certain look maybe? Going back to earlier pictures and finding the look there? An attitude? Why would you do it?
He opened the file cabinet—it was unlocked—began fingering through folders, papers. He came to a manila envelope, a big one, tightly packed, opened the fasteners, looked in and said, out loud, “My oh my.” He took the envelope to the desk that was covered with newspaper pages, clippings, negative photostats—Karen in reverse; but didn’t stop to look at them. Six packets of new one-hundred-dollar bills slid from the envelope. Five thousand dollars in each of five packets, five hundred in the sixth one. Twenty-five thousand five hundred dollars, 1975 Series bills, the same as the ones Karen had given him—right out of the sixth packet.
He thought of something. That the room had been locked because of the photos, not the money. He was sure of it.
He thought of something else. It was decision time. There it was, twenty-five grand, the most money he had ever seen at one time. Take it and run.
Or leave it.
Or lock it in the trunk of the Mercedes, which wouldn’t be taking it because it was her car. The rationale: protecting it from Roland. But having it ready to grab.
Shit, if he was going to take it, take it.
He heard a sound, somewhere downstairs, a door slamming.
Marta came out from the kitchen to see Maguire in the front hall, at the foot of the stairs.
“I found him. My brother says okay. He’ll meet you at Centro Vasco on Southwest Eighth Street. You know whe
re it is? Maybe about Twenty-second Avenue, in Miami.”
“I’ll find it.”
“But he doesn’t see how he can help you.”
“I’ve been trying to remember where I saw you before.”
“At the fish place.”
“No, I mean before that. Ten years ago,” Maguire said.
He thought about it, looking past Jesus Diaz to the tables of people talking, having lunch at Centro Vasco, almost all of them Cuban.
“I know. The Convention Center, over on the Beach.”
“Sure, I was there plenty times. I used to work out at the Fifth Street gym.”
“You fought a guy by the name of Tommy Laglesia. He was doing something, I forgot what; everybody could see it but the ref.”
“Butting me, the son of a bitch kept butting me in the face, the fucking ref don’t say a word.” Jesus straightened and leaned on his arms over the table. “You saw that, uh?”
“Yeah, it’s funny—I used to go to fights, but not so much anymore.”
“No, well, who’s there to see?” Jesus said. “You saw that, uh?” He drank some of his beer, settling back again. “You know the other day—I didn’t want to do nothing to you.”
“No, I know you didn’t,” Maguire said. “But the other guy—I had to try and hit first, you know, try and get an advantage.”
“Man, you hit him all right. He had to get stitches.”
“I wish it’d been what’s his name, Roland.”
“Yeah, I wish it, too.”
“Had enough of him, uh?”
“Man, forever.”
“Have you seen him?”
“Last week. Then I see him on TV, but that’s all. I don’t work for him no more.”
“Who else does?”
“Nobody. He’s by himself.”
“I was wondering,” Maguire said, “with Grossi dead, what do you think might happen?”