Gold Coast by Elmore Leonard

for a martini with ice. Put that down: not “on the rocks” but “with ice.” Yes, very nice; sit out here on the patio of your Spanish-Moorish million-dollar home that was full of antiques and art objects and—what?
    He was going to say he was sorry for coming solate, or early—one or the other—and hoped he wasn’t inconveniencing her. But why? Why suck around?
    He said, “Besides all this, what’s it like to be rich?”
    Karen didn’t say anything.
    “Never mind,” Maguire said. “It doesn’t matter.”
    “I was thinking,” Karen said. “If you really want to know, it’s boring. I guess it doesn’t have to be, but it is.”
    “I don’t follow you.”
    “You asked me, I told you, it’s boring,” Karen said. “Next question. Let’s get to the point, all right?”
    The dog was sniffing around his foot again. Maguire crossed his leg.
    Mrs. DiCilia was on the muscle, a little edgy, yes; because she was waiting for him to pull some kind of scam. Out here for the squeeze session: probably one of a long line of guys who’d come to make a pitch, take advantage of the poor widow. The slim, good-looking great-looking widow. Maguire resented her assumption, being put in that category, somebody out to con her. The lady sitting there waiting for the pitch.
    The goddamn dog pawing his knee, scratching the material. Maguire reached down with one hand and moved the dog aside.
    Karen watched him.
    Sitting back he took the newspaper clipping out of his pocket, unfolded it carefully and handed it to her.
    Karen said, “What is it?” In the soft glow of torchlight she could only read the headline. ARMED TRIO ROBS COUNTRY CLUB .
    “That was myself and two associates,” Maguire said. “Your husband offered to pay us fifteen hundred each to go in and hit the place. Make them look dumb or give it some bad publicity, I don’t know. We did the job, but we never got paid.”
    Karen said, “Deep Run Country Club, Bloomfield Hills.”
    “That’s the one.”
    “It happened when, last August?”
    “Right. The sixteenth.”
    “We visited Detroit in August—no, it was July,” Karen said. “Frank played golf there a few times as a guest. He liked the club, so he applied for a membership.”
    “And they turned him down,” Maguire said. Karen nodded. “I thought maybe you’d been insulted out there. You know, something personal.”
    “What do you think Frank DiCilia being turned down is, if it isn’t an insult?”
    “Yeah, I guess so. But how come if you were living here at the time?—”
    “Why can’t he have a membership in Detroit?That’s what it’s like to be rich,” Karen said. “So what is it you want, fifteen hundred dollars?”
    “Each, for the three of us. The other two guys were convicted. They’re in Jackson, but I’ll see they get theirs.”
    “You got off?” She seemed interested.
    “It’s a long story, and if you’re already bored—” Maguire said.
    Karen said, “That’s all you want?”
    “That’s all we got coming.”
    “You could’ve said . . . ten thousand.”
    “And you could’ve known about the deal,” Maguire said, “depending on what you and your hubby talked about. It was a straight fifteen hundred apiece, no sick pay or retirement benefits.”
    Now, yes or no? Waiting for her to make up her mind. She didn’t seem as edgy. She said let’s have another drink and that surprised him. The maid appeared and left, and when she appeared again Karen was asking him if he lived in Florida or was he visiting.
    He told her he worked at Seascape. “You know, the porpoise show? Practically around the corner from here.”
    “I’ve passed it,” Karen said. “You really work there?” Sounding interested and a little surprised. “Get the porpoise to jump through hoops, that kind of thing?”
    “We get ’em to do everything but mate in midair,” Maguire said.
    “They won’t do that for you?”
    “I think they go to a motel. Five months, I’ve never seen one of