not knowing.”
Marta was coming, Gretchen tagging along.
Karen was aware of another strange feeling, enjoying the suspense, waiting to learn something, wanting to make the feeling last, afraid the revelation would be something she already knew, or suspected. But right now an interesting, close-to-unbelievable situation, entertaining this backcountry gangster, who sat with his cowboy hat tilted low and his long legs stretched out comfortably as the maid served cocktail-hour vodka and tonic.
You can handle it, Karen thought. And you can handle Roland. Mr. Crowe. Out of a minstrel show.
She had handled—up to a point—someone much more potentially dangerous than this guy who worked for Ed Grossi but seemed to be venturing out on his own. Roland wanted something, that was obvious. Playing a nice-guy role that was about as subtle as his electric-blue suit.
Marta left them.
Roland was leaning forward playing with Gretchen on the ground, saying, “Yeah, you’re a nice little Gretchie. You’re a nice little Gretchie, ain’tcha, huh? Ain’tcha?”
“What is it you’re going to tell me?” Karen said.
“Hey, Gretchie, come on, Gretchie, don’t biteme, you little dickens. That ain’t nice to bite people.”
Karen decided to wait.
Roland looked up at her, his hands still fondling the dog. “You’re not allowed to see anybody, what it is. I mean any man that might have serious or sexu’l intentions.”
“I beg your pardon,” Karen said.
“I’m supposed to keep ’em away from you. Any man believed to be serious—you know, not the grocery boy or something—I tell him to keep moving.”
“Protecting the widow,” Karen said. “That’s what I was afraid of. I guess I’ll have to have a talk with Mr. Grossi.”
“Well, there’s a little more to it.”
“This is Ed Grossi’s idea, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s your husband’s idea.”
“My husband’s?”
“He left word, no man gets near you in a serious way or as a one-nighter just fooling around or anything like it as long as you live. In other words your husband’s cut off your action.”
Karen was frowning. “Are you serious?”
“It’s what they tell me,” Roland said. “I’m the one supposed to keep ’em away from you.”
“Wait a minute,” Karen said, “Frank?—” Staring at Roland, but going back in her mind—hearing it again, threatening Frank, angry, yes, but the threat less than half serious—and Frank saying in a wearyvoice, “Karen, Karen, Karen—” The man who could write a book on paying people back. Thinking she knew him, but, good God, not taking the time to understand exactly how literal the man was. He had allowed her to think she was an equal, wife to husband. He had allowed her to ask blunt questions and finally threaten him with her independence. And he had quietly locked her up for good.
“Keep the woman in the house where she belongs.”
“What?” Roland said.
“You’re not kidding, are you?” Like coming out of shock, beginning to see things clearly again.
Roland seemed surprised. “No, I’m not kidding.”
“Something you dreamed up.”
“It’s been going on, ain’t it?”
“Yes, but—what do you say to them? How do you let them know?”
“You mean the guys? We tell them you don’t want to see them no more.”
“And what do they say?”
“Nothing.”
“I mean don’t they want to know why?”
“I ‘magine they get the point pretty quick.”
“Do you threaten them?”
“Well, there’s different ways. You put the boy against the wall and tell him something, he sees youmean it.” Roland grinned. “I made a point with a boy today, didn’t believe at first I was serious.”
“What did you do?”
“Threw him in a swimming pool.”
“You don’t . . . beat them up or anything like that?”
“Whatever it takes,” Roland said. “That’s how Ed says handle it. See, he respects your husband’s wish here. But he don’t want to do it himself. Fact, all he
Marta was coming, Gretchen tagging along.
Karen was aware of another strange feeling, enjoying the suspense, waiting to learn something, wanting to make the feeling last, afraid the revelation would be something she already knew, or suspected. But right now an interesting, close-to-unbelievable situation, entertaining this backcountry gangster, who sat with his cowboy hat tilted low and his long legs stretched out comfortably as the maid served cocktail-hour vodka and tonic.
You can handle it, Karen thought. And you can handle Roland. Mr. Crowe. Out of a minstrel show.
She had handled—up to a point—someone much more potentially dangerous than this guy who worked for Ed Grossi but seemed to be venturing out on his own. Roland wanted something, that was obvious. Playing a nice-guy role that was about as subtle as his electric-blue suit.
Marta left them.
Roland was leaning forward playing with Gretchen on the ground, saying, “Yeah, you’re a nice little Gretchie. You’re a nice little Gretchie, ain’tcha, huh? Ain’tcha?”
“What is it you’re going to tell me?” Karen said.
“Hey, Gretchie, come on, Gretchie, don’t biteme, you little dickens. That ain’t nice to bite people.”
Karen decided to wait.
Roland looked up at her, his hands still fondling the dog. “You’re not allowed to see anybody, what it is. I mean any man that might have serious or sexu’l intentions.”
“I beg your pardon,” Karen said.
“I’m supposed to keep ’em away from you. Any man believed to be serious—you know, not the grocery boy or something—I tell him to keep moving.”
“Protecting the widow,” Karen said. “That’s what I was afraid of. I guess I’ll have to have a talk with Mr. Grossi.”
“Well, there’s a little more to it.”
“This is Ed Grossi’s idea, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s your husband’s idea.”
“My husband’s?”
“He left word, no man gets near you in a serious way or as a one-nighter just fooling around or anything like it as long as you live. In other words your husband’s cut off your action.”
Karen was frowning. “Are you serious?”
“It’s what they tell me,” Roland said. “I’m the one supposed to keep ’em away from you.”
“Wait a minute,” Karen said, “Frank?—” Staring at Roland, but going back in her mind—hearing it again, threatening Frank, angry, yes, but the threat less than half serious—and Frank saying in a wearyvoice, “Karen, Karen, Karen—” The man who could write a book on paying people back. Thinking she knew him, but, good God, not taking the time to understand exactly how literal the man was. He had allowed her to think she was an equal, wife to husband. He had allowed her to ask blunt questions and finally threaten him with her independence. And he had quietly locked her up for good.
“Keep the woman in the house where she belongs.”
“What?” Roland said.
“You’re not kidding, are you?” Like coming out of shock, beginning to see things clearly again.
Roland seemed surprised. “No, I’m not kidding.”
“Something you dreamed up.”
“It’s been going on, ain’t it?”
“Yes, but—what do you say to them? How do you let them know?”
“You mean the guys? We tell them you don’t want to see them no more.”
“And what do they say?”
“Nothing.”
“I mean don’t they want to know why?”
“I ‘magine they get the point pretty quick.”
“Do you threaten them?”
“Well, there’s different ways. You put the boy against the wall and tell him something, he sees youmean it.” Roland grinned. “I made a point with a boy today, didn’t believe at first I was serious.”
“What did you do?”
“Threw him in a swimming pool.”
“You don’t . . . beat them up or anything like that?”
“Whatever it takes,” Roland said. “That’s how Ed says handle it. See, he respects your husband’s wish here. But he don’t want to do it himself. Fact, all he
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