Gold Coast by Elmore Leonard Page A

’em even, well, get aroused.”
    Now she was studying him and didn’t say anything for a moment.
    “Amazing.”
    “Well, I wouldn’t like it either,” Maguire said. “People watching.”
    “No, I mean that you work there,” Karen said. “And you seem to know antiques—What else do you do?”
    “Rob country clubs,” Maguire said, “and have a hard time collecting. I’m enjoying the drink and the chat, but just for my peace of mind, are you gonna honor your husband’s obligation or what?”
    Karen said, “ Honor his obligation—” and seemed amused now. “Is that what it is, honoring his obligation?”
    “You can call it whatever you want,” Maguire said, “as long as we’re both talking about the same deal.”
    “Do you do this sort of thing often?”
    “What sort of thing?”
    “Rob country clubs?”
    “That was the first time.”
    “But you’ve robbed other places.”
    He didn’t say anything.
    “Do you carry a gun?”
    “Why?”
    “I’m curious, that’s all.”
    “Do you fool around?” Maguire said.
    “What?”
    “Do you pick up guys, take ’em to bed? Or you just ask a lot of questions about their personal life?”
    “I believe you came to me,” Karen said. “You’re the one that wants something.”
    “And if I’m not polite and answer your questions I can go fuck myself, huh?”
    Karen didn’t say anything. She got up, walked from the patio to the house and in through the French doors.
    Maguire waited. Shit. Thinking again of the old man sitting on top of the mountain in his loincloth.
    In the light of eternity, is it better to take a bunch of shit with the hope of getting paid, or—
    Karen came back to the patio carrying something in each hand, something wrapped in white tissue paper and, in the hand she extended to him, a packet of bills. He couldn’t believe it. New one hundred dollar bills. They were sticking together, only about an inch of them, they were so new.
    “Forty-five hundred dollars,” Karen said.
    Maguire thinking, the first thing in his mind: There’s more. Right in the house.
    “Can I ask you one more question?”
    “Go ahead,” Maguire said, putting the money in his inside coat pocket. He could feel it against his ribs.
    She pulled her chair closer to his and sat down before extending the tissue-wrapped package.
    “What is it?”
    She watched him, but didn’t say anything.
    Taking it then, feeling the weight, he knew what it was. Maguire unwrapped enough of the tissue paper to see the gun, wrapped it together again and handed it back to her.
    She said, “Do you know what it is, the make?”
    “It’s a Beretta nine-millimeter Parabellum, holds fifteen rounds in the magazine. How much you pay for it?”
    “I didn’t buy it. It was my husband’s.”
    “You could get something like four hundred for it on the street.”
    “I don’t want to sell it,” Karen said, “I want to know how to use it.”
    “For what?”
    “Protection.”
    “It isn’t a good idea,” Maguire said. “People who don’t own guns don’t get shot as much as people who do.”
    “Will you show me how it works?”
    “If I don’t, what? You want the money back?”
    “The money’s yours. You’ve already earned that.” She waited.
    “It’s got a little crossbolt safety above the trigger. You push it to off, slide the top back and forward again and you’re ready to go,” Maguire said. “Which is what I’m gonna do if it’s okay. Take my money and run.”
    “You’re very direct,” Karen said, and seemed to be studying him again. “You admit some things and then you stop.”
    “It’s not that I have anything to hide,” Maguire said, “it’s the feeling I’m on the carpet, being questioned.”
    She said, “I’m sorry, I really am.” There was a silence, but she continued to look at him.
    Maguire said, “That’s okay. I guess—as you say, I walk in here, give you a story, why should you believe me?”
    “I do though,” Karen said. She seemed