Gold Coast

  ELMORE

  LEONARD

  GOLD COAST

  Contents

  The Extras

  Chapters:

  1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25

  About the Author

  Praise and Acclaim

  Books by Elmore Leonard

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  For Bill Leonard

  * * *

  1

  * * *

  ONE DAY Karen DiCilia put a few observations together and realized her husband Frank was sleeping with a real estate woman in Boca.

  Karen knew where they were doing it, too. In one of the condominiums Frank owned, part of Oceana Estates.

  Every Friday afternoon and sometimes on Monday, Frank would put his spare clubs in the trunk of his Seville—supposedly to play at La Gorce, Miami Beach—and drive north out of Fort Lauderdale instead of south.

  There were probably others, random affairs. Frank did go to Miami at least twice a week to “study the market” and play a little gin at the Palm Bay Club. He could have a cocktail waitress at Hialeah or Calder. He visited the dogtracks regularly, the jai-alai fronton once in awhile. Cruised for gamefish out in the stream with some of his buddies; went bonefishing in the Keys, near Islamorada, several times a year. Frank could have something going anywhere from Key West to West Palm, over to Bimini and back and probably did. The only one Karen was sure of, though, was the frosted-blonde thirty-six-year-old real estate woman in Boca.

  Frank’s actions, his routine, were predictable; but not his reactions. If she confronted him, or hinted around first, with questions like, “Do I know her?” or, “Are you going to tell me who she is?”

  Frank would say, “Who’re we talking about?”

  And Karen would say, “I know you’ve got a girl friend. Why don’t you admit it?”

  And Frank would say—

  He might say, “Nobody told you I have a girl friend and you haven’t seen me with anybody that could be a girl friend, so what’re we talking about?”

  And Karen would say, “The real estate woman in Boca,” and offer circumstantial evidence that wouldn’t convict him but would certainly put him in a corner.

  He might deny it out right. Or he might say, “Yeah, sometimes I go to Boca. Not that it’s any of your fucking business.”

  Then what? She’d have to get mad or pout or act hurt.

  So Karen didn’t say a word about the real estate woman. Instead, she drove her matching white Caddy Seville up to Boca one Friday afternoon, to the big pink condominium that looked like a Venetian palace.

  She located Frank’s white Seville in the dim parking area beneath the building, on the ocean side, backed it out of the numbered space with the spare set of keys she’d brought, left Frank’s car sitting in the aisle, got into her own car again and drove her white Seville into the side of his white Seville three times, smashing in both doors and the front fender of Frank’s car, destroying her own car’s grille and headlamps and drove back to Lauderdale. When Frank came home he looked from one matching Seville to the other. Karen waited, but he didn’t say a word about the cars. The next day he had them towed away and new matching gray ones delivered.

  Weeks later, in the living room, she said, “I’m getting tired of tennis.” And said to the dog, sniffing around her feet, “Gretchen, leave, will you? Get out of here.”

  “Play golf,” Frank said. He patted his leg and the gray and white schnauzer jumped up on his lap.

  “I don’t care for golf.”

  “Join some ladies’ group.” Gently stroking the schnauzer.

  “I’ve done ladies’ groups.”

  “Take up fishing, I’ll get you a boat.”

  “Do you know what I do?” Karen said. “I exist. I sit in the sun. I try to think up work for Marta and for when the gardener comes—” She paused a moment. “When we got married—I mean at our wedding reception, you know what my mother said to me?”

  “What?”

  “She said, ‘I hope you realize he’s Italian.’ She didn’t know anything else, just your name.”

  “Half Italian,” Frank said, “half Sicilian. There’s a difference. Like Gretchen here”—stroking the dog on his lap, the dog dozing—“she’s part schnauzer, part a little something else, so that makes her different.”

  “You don’t get it, do you?” Karen said.

  “Get what? She’s from Grosse Pointe. I lived in Grosse Pointe one time. What’s that? You buy a house.”

  “She wasn’t being a snob. At least not when she said it.”

  “All right, what did she mean I’m Italian? What was she? Hill, maybe it was shortened from Hilkowski. Are you a Polack maybe? What’re we talking about?”

  “What she meant,” Karen said, “the way you lived, what you were used to. You’d probably be set in your ways. You’d have your man things to do, and I’d have to find woman things to do. And she was right, not even knowing anything about what you really did, or might still be doing, I don’t know, since you don’t tell me anything.”

  “I’m retired.” Frank said, “and you’re tired of playing tennis and sitting around. All right, what do you want to do?”

  “Maybe I’ll just do it and not tell you,” Karen said.

  “Do what?” Frank asked.

  “Not tell you where I go or who I see. Or make up something. Tell you I’m going to play tennis but I don’t, I go someplace else.”

  “Stick to tennis,” Frank said. He stopped stroking Gretchen. “You have a very hard time coming right out and saying something. You want to threaten me, is that it? Because you’re bored? Are you telling me you’re gonna start fooling around? If that’s what you’re saying, say it. A man comes to me and gives me some shit out the side of his mouth. I tell him that’s it, get the fuck out or talk straight. Now I’m much more patient with you, Karen, you’re my wife and I respect you. You’re an intelligent, good-looking woman. I tell you something, I know you understand what I’m saying. I’m not dumb either, even though I didn’t go to the University of Michigan when I was younger or one of those. Especially I’m not gonna look dumb, like have people point to me and say, ‘Yeah, that’s the guy, his wife’s ballin’ the tennis pro, the dumb fuck’s paying the bill,’ anything like that. No—you get bored and a little irritable, okay, use your head, work it out some way. But don’t ever lie to me, all right? Or threaten me, like you’re gonna pay me back for something. I know all about paying back. I could write a book about paying back then look at it and realize I left a few things out.”

  “My mother was right,” Karen said. “You can do anything you want, but I can’t.”

  “Your mother— You’re a big girl,” Frank said, “you were a big girl, what?, forty years old when we got married. You should know a few things by forty years old, uh, what it’s gonna be like married to a half-Italian with varied and different business interests. You know what it’s like? In the Bible. You got this house, eight hundred grand—sightseers come by the Intercoastal in the boats, look at it, ‘Jesus Christ, imagine living in a place like that.’ You got the apartment in Boca on the ocean. You got clothes, anything you want to buy. Servants, cars, clubs—”

  “Go on,” Karen said. “I have a dog—”

  “Place in the Keys. Friends—”

  “Your friends.”

  “I’m saying it’s like in the Bible, you got anything you want to make you happy. Except there’s one thing you’re not allowed to do, and it’s not even unreasonable, it’s the natural law.”

  “What is?”

  “A wife’s faithful to her husband, subject to him. It’s in the Bible.”

  “If I don’t tell you what I’m doing, I’m being unfaithf
ul?”

  “What do you want to argue for? Haven’t I been good to you? Jesus Christ, look around here, this place. The paintings, the furniture—”

  “Your first wife’s antiques.”

  “I don’t get it. Five years, you don’t say a word—”

  “Five and a half,” Karen said.

  “Okay, there’s some very rare, valuable pieces here. I happen to like this kind of stuff,” Frank said. “But anything you don’t like, sell it. Redecorate the whole place if you want.”

  “Keep me busy.”

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  Saying she was bored and irritable—while he went off to visit his girl friend in Boca, a real estate woman. Five and a half years of playing the good wife and now having the Bible thrown at her.

  Karen made a mistake then, but was too angry to realize it at the time.

  She gave Frank an ultimatum. She said, “No more double standard. If it’s all right for you to fool around, it’s all right for me to fool around. I may not want to, but I’ll do it, buddy, as a matter of principle and you can see how you like it.”

  Frank seemed tired. He shook his head and said, “Karen, Karen, Karen—” and began stroking the dog again.

  She did have misgivings later, twinges in her stomach whenever she thought about it and realized she had actually threatened him to his face. If that wasn’t being a big girl, what was? She was relieved he never brought it up and would reassure herself with thoughts like, Of course not. Frank knew she’d never have an affair. Frank knew she had simply overstated, that was all, to make a point.

  She would replay the scene in her mind and revise it as she went along, keeping her voice in control, maintaining poise. Relying more on innuendo than outright threat. Hinting that she might fool around rather than throwing it in his face. She would recall later that the scene, the argument, had taken place May 10. A date to remember.

  On December 2, the same year, Frank was admitted to Holy Cross Hospital with an oxygen mask pressed to his face, a rescue-unit fireman pounding on his chest. He died that afternoon in the Intensive Care Unit at age sixty-one.

  Karen couldn’t believe it. Forty-four years old and widowed for the second time, having outlived two Franks, one an automotive engineer, the other with “varied and different business interests.” Aware of herself and feeling—how? analyzing it—feeling relief after the funeral and the mile-long procession with police escort to Memorial Gardens. Feeling—afraid to admit it at first—great. Free. More than that, excited. No more wondering after five years if she’d made a terrible mistake. Off the hook and looking forward to a new life.

  Then discovering within the next few months that Frank DiCilia had as tight a hold on her dead as he did when he was alive.

  She would look back. How did I get here? Trying to see a pattern, a motive.

  Restless?

  Karen Hill. A nice girl. Polite, obedient, a practicing Catholic. B-student through Dominican High and the University of Michigan, arts major. Accepted popular ideas about happiness along with a list of shoulds and shouldn’ts.

  But, looking back, did she?

  Yes, pretty much. Meet a nice guy with a future and get married, raise a family. The nice guy was Frank Stohler, Michigan ’52. Neck a lot but don’t go to bed with him until married: June, 1954, at St. Paul’s On-the-Lake. Reception, Grosse Pointe Yacht Club. Finally to bed with big, considerate Frank Stohler who never made a sound or said a word making love. Rhythm method, no Pill yet. A daughter, Julie, born September, 1956.

  The period with the first Frank was a lump of time. What did they do? Lived in two houses. Joined Lochmoor, the Detroit Athletic Club. Spent an annual business weekend at the Greenbriar. Went to Chrysler Corporation new-model show, SAE conventions. Restless. Was this her role? Played tennis, racquetball, paddleball, a little bridge, argued with Julie. Worried about her. Went to the theater or a dinner party every weekend. Refused to let Julie go to Los Angeles to study drama. She went anyway and was now appearing almost daily in As the World Turns and was good in a young bitchy part. What else?

  Death. Her father and the first Frank within ten months of each other; both cardiac patients a short time and then gone. A little over two hundred thousand dollars in life insurance and Chrysler Corporation stock. Restless. A chance to do something else, be someone else. Sold the house in Grosse Pointe and moved to Lauderdale. Why? Why not? Got a job in real estate. Boring. Quit. And was introduced to Frank DiCilia at the Palm Bay Club.

  The real and authentic Frank DiCilia out of Detroit newspaper stories about grand jury indictments and Organized Crime Strike-force Investigations, linked to perjury trials, the Teamsters, Hoffa’s disappearance.

  The widow and the widower, both eligible, both eyeing each other, but for different reasons.

  She said to herself, This isn’t you at all. Is it? Fascinated by the man and all the things he must know but never talked about. She liked his hands, even the diamond on the little finger. She liked his hair, still dark and thick, parted on the right side. She liked the dreamy expression in his eyes and the way he looked at her—Frank DiCilia looking at her—and she liked to look back at him calmly to show she wasn’t afraid. Not feeling restless anymore. She could not imagine the first wispy-haired Frank with the second dark Frank. Engineers said they were engineers and drew cross-section pictures on paper napkins of how things worked. Frank and his associates never said what they were or wrote anything down. She asked Frank DiCilia directly, “What do you do?”

  He said, “I’m retired.”

  She said, “From what?”

  He said, “Industrial laundry business.”

  She said, “Are you in the Mafia?”

  He said, “That’s in the movies.”

  She visited his home in the Harbor Beach section of Lauderdale—her present address, 1 Isla Bahía—and said, “The laundry business must’ve been pretty good.”

  He said, “I’m in a little real estate, too.”

  She said, looking at the decor, the Sotheby estate-sale furnishings and Italian marble, “You could charge admission.”

  He said, “If you’re not comfortable I’ll sell it.” But did not mention it again until May, five and a half years later.

  She remembered another girl by the name of Hill, Virginia Hill, on television during the Kefauver investigations, the girl in the wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses who was the girl friend of a gangster. Karen had watched her, fascinated, wondering what it would be like.

  That was part of it. Finding out. To walk with Frank DiCilia, aware of it; to enter La Gorce, Palm Bay, Joe Sonken’s place in Hollywood and feel eyes on her. Playing a role and enjoying it. It was real.

  Julie was married to a film stuntman. She was working and couldn’t come to the wedding, but wrote a long letter of love and congratulations that ended with, “I knew you had it in you somewhere, you devil. Wow! My Mom!”

  Karen’s mother, only nine years older than Frank, came to the wedding, drank champagne and said, very seriously, “But he’s Italian, isn’t he?” Her mother went home, and Karen went home three years later for her mother’s funeral.

  What was going on? Everybody dying. The first Frank and her father, then her mother and the second Frank. Feeling close to so many people for years and then feeling alone, the survivor. Losing touch with old friends in Detroit. Living a different life. Having no one to talk to with any degree of intimacy. Anxious to meet people, have at least one close friend. Preferably a man.

  * * *

  She became more aware of the retired older people in Florida. More women than men in the high-rises that lined the beaches north and south of Lauderdale. Women driving alone in four-door sedans. Women having dinner with other women. Karen was forty-four. She said, I don’t look like those women.

  Do I?

  No, even after all the hours in the sun, tennis in the sun, lying in the sun, she was five-four, weighed exactly one hundred and five and looked ten years younger than her
age. Or maybe thirty-eight or -nine; right in there somewhere. With sort of classic good looks: dark hair, blue eyes, nice nose; facial lines that gave her a somewhat drawn look but, Karen told herself, showed character or wisdom or experience. She wore simple but expensive clothes, dressed more often, in the past year, without a bra and looked outstanding, tan and lean, in any of several faded bikinis. God, no, she didn’t look like those widows with their gaudy prints and queen-size asses.

  Okay, but then what was she doing sitting home alone? Why did the few interesting, eligible men she had met since Frank’s death show up once or twice and then seem to vanish?

  2

  * * *

  IN MAY, five months a widow—exactly a year from the time of the double-standard disagreement, the argument with Frank, the ultimatum—Karen was seated in Ed Grossi’s private office on the thirty-ninth floor of the Biscayne Tower.

  The sign on the double-door entrance to the suite said DORADO MANAGEMENT CORPORATION.

  Karen could ask Ed Grossi what Dorado Management managed and he would tell her, oh, apartment buildings, condominiums; that much would probably be true. She could ask him who all the men were, waiting in the lobby, and Grossi would say, oh, suppliers, job applicants, you know. His tone patient. Ask anything. What do you want to know?

  But if she were to probe, keep asking questions, she knew from experience the explanation that began simply would become complicated, involved, the words never describing a clear picture.

  They sat with glossy-black ceramic coffee mugs on his clean desk, and Karen listened as Grossi said, “Well, it looks like you’re worth approximately four million.”

  Karen said, “Really?” Noncommittal. She had thought it might be much more.

  “There was a tax lien that had to be straightened out, some business interests of Frank’s sold—I won’t go into all that unless you want me to.”

  Four million.

  She still had nearly two hundred thousand of her own in stocks and savings, plus the thirty-five thousand cash—in one hundred dollar bills—she had found in Frank’s file cabinet.