Gold Coast Read Free Page B

only been a widow, what, a few months. What’s the rush?”
    “Almost six months,” Karen said, “half a year. I’ve gone out to dinner a few times—Ed, I’m not jumping in bed with anybody. I’ve been out with three different men that I like, I mean as friends. We have a good time, we seem to get along. They say they’ll call tomorrow or in a couple of days, then nothing, not a word.”
    “I don’t know,” Grossi said. “Give it time.”
    “Give what time?”
    “Relax, don’t worry about it.”
    Karen waited, staring at him. “Ed, what’s going on?”
    “You mean, what’s going on? They’re businessmen, they’re busy. Maybe they’re out of town.”
    “They’re not out of town. I’ve seen them.”
    “Well, their wives found out. I don’t know.”
    “They’re not married.” Karen waited again. “Is it because I was married to Frank DiCilia?”
    “Some people,” Grossi said and shrugged. “Who knows.”
    “I’ve thought about that,” Karen said. “But they knew it, every one of them. I mean I didn’t tell them and then they stopped calling. They knew I was Mrs. Frank DiCilia. It’s my name. It didn’t seem to bother them.”
    “Well, you don’t know,” Grossi said. “A guy’s a lightweight, sooner or later it shows. He gets nervous, starts to look around; he thinks, Jesus Christ, maybe I’m over my head. You understand? Just the idea, going out with Mrs. Frank DiCilia.”
    Karen didn’t say anything.
    “If I were you I wouldn’t worry about it,” Grossi said. “You got everything. What do you need some lightweight for? Right?”
    Roland Crowe stepped over from the reception desk to hold the door open for Karen. She said, “Thank you,” and Roland said, “Hey, don’t mention it.” He stood hip-cocked in his tight pants andtwo-hundred dollar cowboy boots watching her ass and slim brown legs move down the hall. When he turned, letting the door close, all the guys in the Dorado lobby were looking at him. Roland winked at nobody in particular. Bunch of dinks, waiting around for the grass to grow.
    He went back to the desk to pick up fooling around with the little receptionist, but she told him he could go in now. Roland gave her a wink, too. She wasn’t bad looking for a Cuban. That DiCilia woman wasn’t bad looking either. He remembered her face.
    In Grossi’s office, Roland Crowe said, “Wasn’t that Frank’s woman just went out?”
    Grossi was putting a sheet of paper in his middle desk drawer. He took out another single sheet that bore a name and a street address written in ink and locked the drawer.
    “Was that who?”
    “Frank’s old lady.”
    “Her name’s Mrs. DiCilia,” Grossi said.
    Shit. Little guinea trying to sound like a hardtimer, bit off words barely moving his mouth, more like he had a turd or something in there. Roland felt sociable—back in Miami after six months at Lake Butler State Prison, busting his ass chopping weeds, eating that slop chow—he felt too good to act mean, though he visualized picking the little guineaup by his blue suit and throwing him through the window—grinning then—hearing his guinea scream going down thirty-nine floors to Biscayne Boulevard.
    “I met her one time about, I don’t know, a year ago,” Roland Crowe said, “I took something out to their house. Frank introduced us, but she don’t remember me.”
    “Here,” Grossi said, handing the sheet to Roland who frowned looking at the name.
    “Arnold . . . Rapp? What kinda name’s that?”
    Grossi’s expression remained patient, solemn. “Address’s up in Hallandale.”
    “Hiding out, Jesus Christ, in Hallandale,” Roland said. “This dink know what he’s doing or’s he one of them college boys?”
    “Arnold tells us the Coast Guard impounded the boat, turned nine tons of grass over to Customs. We see in the paper, yes, there was a boat, Cuban crew, pulled into Boca Chica two days ago.”
    “But was it Arnold’s?” Roland said. “What’d you