“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 bank him for?”

“Five hundred forty grand, two and a half to one.”

“Well,” Roland said, “if he’s telling a story he must’ve smoked a ton of it to get the nerve, huh?”

“Ask him,” Grossi said. “The other matter, Mrs. DiCilia, Vivian’ll tell you.” He reached over to punch a key on the intercom box. “Vivian, Roland’s coming out.”

Like that, their business over with. There was no, “How was Lake Butler?” or “Thank you, Roland,” for keeping his mouth shut, standing up to that asshole judge and drawing a year and day reduced to six months for contempt of court, having to live up there with all them niggers and Cubans.

Roland said to Ed Grossi, “Oh, how’d I make it up at Butler? Well, just fine, Ed. I kept my hands on my private parts, broke a boy’s arm tried to cop my joint and came out a two hundred and five pound virgin. I lost some weight on that special diet of grits and hog shit they got.”

Ed Grossi said, “Vivian’s waiting for you.”

“He’s going to take so much and then fire you, you know it?” Vivian said.