Florida Straits (15 page)

—
20 —

Just before five the next day, Bert
d'Ambrosia came walking down Duval Street in a seersucker shirt of
mint-green and cobalt-blue stripes, colors that vibrated in the
orange light of late afternoon. Unseen, and with his nervous
chihuahua quivering against his chest, he watched Joey from half a
block away, saw him dance toward his prospects, lean toward them as
if he could somehow stretch his being to surround them, smile the
salesman's hungry smile, and launch into his pitch. Eight hours of
that, Bert thought. It must take a hell of a lot of energy. You had
to show a lot of animation. That's what people responded to,
animation. Like show biz. You wanted to get people on your side,
you had to put out for them. And the street was hot. As March
advanced, the sun climbed higher in the sky and sliced more
relentlessly between the shimmering roofs. The cars and the
scooters shot their hot blue puffs at sidewalk level, you felt them
on your shins.

"Joey, why don't you wear shorts at
least?"

"Oh, hi, Bert," Joey said. He swept off his
repaired sunglasses and raked a forearm across his sweaty brow.

"No, I'm serious," said the old man, as if
Joey had suggested he wasn't. "You'd be a lot more
comfortable."

Joey gave a noncommittal shrug. He felt he'd
given in enough already. He had the pink shirt, the sneakers. He'd
broken down and bought a smugly cheap plastic watchband like Zack
Davidson's. But shorts, that was where he drew the line. Where he
came from, only dorks wore shorts. He could picture them. Dorks in
shorts waiting for the bus on Astoria Boulevard. Dorks in shorts
collecting deposit bottles in shopping carts. Dorks in shorts, with
baseball caps, lumbering in overweight packs toward Shea Stadium.
Nah, forget about it. These were losers with hairy knees and goofy
socks. Even Bert— Joey didn't like to think anything bad about
Bert, but face it, Bert looked a little dorky in his shorts. Too
much empty space around his shrunken thighs. Too much skin for the
amount of meat that was left. But O.K., with old guys it didn't
matter as much. Old guys deserved some extra slack, they could look
a little dorky without totally giving up their dignity.

"Got time for a quick one?" Bert asked.

"Sure," said Joey, and they crossed Duval
Street, heading for the Eclipse Saloon.

The tavern was cool and dim, dim enough so
that Don Giovanni's oversized pupils opened wide and gleamed with a
morbid mauve glow. The bar was just starting to fill up with that
select group of Key Westers who actually worked and therefore had a
set time to begin their drinking. Cliff the bartender had
daydreamed his way through the sluggish hours and now he greeted
them with the distracted gentleness of a man just waking up from a
nap. " 'Lo, Bert. The usual? Joey?"

Cliff started in on Bert's whiskey sour
while listening for Joey's order. As far as Cliff could remember,
he never asked for the same thing twice. And the fact was that
while Joey enjoyed the ritual of the cocktail, the shapes of the
glasses, the sound of shaken ice, the sheen of frothy liquor
cascading out of stainless steel, and yes, the feel of alcohol
trickling into his blood-stream, he'd never yet found a drink he
liked more than other drinks. Which is to say, he hadn't found the
drink that fit his image, because he hadn't found his image. "Gimme
a gin and tonic."

"Salud,"
said Bert.

"Salud,"
said Joey.

The old man took a sip of foam, then wiped
his loose mouth on his cocktail napkin. "Your brother came to see
me this morning."

"Really? What for?"

Bert rested his elbows on the thick padding
at the edge of the bar and shrugged. "I'm not really sure. It was a
strange kinda visit. Like, formal. Not the kinda thing I expect
from young guys anymore. He said he was coming to pay his respects
and to bring regards from your father. And that's really all he
said."

"Hm," said Joey. He sucked in an ice cube
and let it melt on his tongue. "Was Vicki with him?"

This made Bert lean back on his barstool.
"Why the fuck would Vicki be with him? Vicki the transvestite?"

"No," said Joey. "Vicki the bimbo. This
broad he has with him."

Bert looked relieved. "No, he was alone.
Very alone, if ya know what I mean. Like, the feeling I had, he's
down here all by himself, there's more goin' on than he can handle,
and he can't talk to anybody. He needs some answers but he can't
ask the questions. Ya know what I mean?"

"Yeah, Bert, I know whatcha mean. He tell ya
about last night?"

"No. What about last night?"

So Joey told him about the lobster dinner
and the walk on the beach. Bert threw his head back in a horsey but
silent laugh and slapped the edge of the bar.

"You hit 'im? You hit 'im, Joey?"

Joey couldn't help smiling. "Yup. It was a
sucker punch, but I caught him a good one."

"Jesus." Bert absently reached down and
tickled Don Giovanni behind the ears.
"Guyones,"
he said to
the chihuahua. "The kid ain't bright, but he's got
guyones
.
" And now he leaned close to Joey and dropped his voice. "But hey,
you know the rules about hitting a made guy, brother or otherwise.
I mean, that shit can get dangerous."

"I know. I know. But it's not like I had it
planned. It just happened. A guy's gotta do what he's gotta do, am
I right?"

Bert sipped his sour and his expression
turned thoughtful. 'Yeah, Joey, you're right. Only problem, though,
is that one guy does what he's gotta do, and it gets inna face of
another guy doin' what he's gotta do. Ya hear what I'm sayin'?
Like, especially with families. So O.K., Gino makes some stupid
crack about your mother. Ya gotta slug 'im. Ya gotta. But look at
it from his side. What about his mother? Ya can't just forget about
her. She's left at home with the pots and pans and the babies and
the stringsa garlic hanging from the ceiling. She goes to church
while your father goes to hotels. She worries when he don't come
home. If she bothers to think about it, she's gotta know there's
another woman and the other woman is younger and prettier and has a
better shape than her. I mean, it's no picnic for the wife."

Joey had put his hands flat on the bar and
was looking down at them as though in shame. He was starting to
feel like he hadn't knocked the wind out of Gino but out of the
little old Italian mama who was Gino's mother.

"Hey," Bert resumed, "I ain't sayin' this to
make you feel bad. It's just that, ya know, it's complicated. Ya
can't ask someone not to be a little crazy where his mother is
concerned. But Joey, your mother, you should only be proud of her.
She was a remarkable person, an artist. Yeah. That's why she went
to work at the funeral parlor. You know that?"

Joey didn't know it. In fact, he knew very
little about his mother's working life. If your job was beautifying
corpses, you didn't come home and describe it in detail to your
kid.

"It's true," said Bert. "She tol' me. Before
she worked inna funeral home, she useta work inna beauty parlor. It
drove her nuts, she said, to work so hard on these ladies, get 'em
looking just right, then they'd walk out the door and immediately
screw it up. She'd get their nails perfect, they'd put on lipstick
that didn't match. She'd get their hair just so, they'd pull a slip
on and knock it down. Or the wind would blow.

Or they'd wear an ugly dress. Or crappy
jewelry. Ya know what she said to me one time, your mother? She
said, 'Bert, it's like painting a picture and then watching the
paint wash off inna rain.' Isn't that a sad thing? I remember it
all these years. So that's why she switched over to corpses. Do the
job once, the job stays done. Family, friends, they get their
viewing, then, boom, the lid comes down and it's straight off to
God. She was, like, a perfectionist, your mother. I got a lotta
respect for that."

Joey squeezed his glass and tried to smile.
The bar had filled up, and he felt the nearness of bodies at his
back. Cliff had sloughed off his grogginess and was rattling two
cocktail shakers like a pair of maracas, taking another order at
the same time, and giving off the animal contentment of the fully
occupied man. Joey took a momentary vacation in the rattle of the
ice and the mounting buzz of saloon noise, gave himself a respite
from having either to talk or to listen. When he returned, he was
able to put his hand on the old man's shoulder. "Thanks, Bert. It's
nice of you to tell me that."

"Sure, kid," said the Shirt. "But now I
gotta tell ya somethin' that ain't so nice." He took the orange
slice out of his drink, nibbled the flesh from the skin, and, from
long habit, glanced over his shoulder to see who might be
listening. But in Key West no one ever was.

"After your brother left this morning, I
didn't have a good feeling about things. So I made some calls.
Coupla days ago there was a sit-down. In Brooklyn. Charlie Ponte,
your father, coupla other big guys. Ponte says he's running outta
patience about this bullshit with the emeralds. He says it to your
father. Your father says whaddya want from me? Ponte flat out
accuses him of being involved. Your old man denies it and gets very
hot. Ponte says, 'O.K., if you're onna level and wanna avoid a
lotta headaches, you got no reason not to make a deal with me.'
"What's the deal?" your old man asks. 'The deal is this,' says
Ponte. 'I find the guys who have my stones, I whack 'em. No
questions asked, and no retaliation.' And your father agrees."

"He agrees?" Joey repeated. It was all he
could think of to say.

Bert raised a qualifying finger. "The guy I
got my information from, it's, like, secondhand. I don't know if he
agreed 'cause he couldn't go back on what he'd already said. Or if
he's got something up his sleeve. Or if he really believes his crew
is clean. I don't know any of that. But yeah, he agreed. They
kissed on it. It's settled."

The noise of the bar seemed suddenly to rise
up like a wave, and as if from underneath it Joey heard himself
mumbling dully. "So if it's Gino, he ain't even protected."

"Nope."

"And if he ends up gettin' clipped, the old
man's gonna feel responsible."

Bert just shrugged.

"Does Gino know about the sit-down?"

"I'm not sure," said Bert the Shirt. "But I
sorta doubt it. I mean, the way he seems to be doing everything by
himself, I think he's stayin' outta touch."

"Maybe I oughta tell 'im."

Bert reached down and rubbed Don Giovanni's
chin. The gesture seemed to help him think. "Well, I don't know.
Maybe. But how could you tell 'im without openin' a whole canna
worms? Like, how much else d'ya know? Like how come ya didn't let
on before? And besides, Joey, once ya get involved, your ass is
inna same sling his is."

"But Jesus, Bert, if Ponte has a green light
to clip 'im—"

The Shirt held a big, wrinkled hand in the
younger man's face. "Joey, lissena me. A lotta what we're talking
here, it's guesswork. Ya know, we're assumin' Gino's involved.
Maybe he ain't. Maybe he's a lot smarter than we give 'im credit
for. Maybe everything'll be fine. But if it turns out he's in this
kinda trouble, don't imagine for a second you can help 'im. You
can't. So don't be a schmuck."

"Bert, hey, he's my brother."

"Joey, brothers die too, what can I tell ya?
If your brother Gino has the stones, make your peace with it and
write 'im off. I'm telling you like a father."

—
21 —

"I mean, really, Sandra, how does it look?
They're here, what, more than a week already, and we haven't had
'em over. It's not right."

"You want to have 'em over?" Sandra
asked.

They were lying side by side on lounges near
the pool. It was Sunday afternoon, the only time of week that all
the compound residents tended to be at home. Steve the naked
landlord was waist-deep in the water. Peter and Claude were sitting
at their little table, having herb tea and scones in their undies.
Wendy and Marsha, chaste, fuzzy, and bookish in one-piece bathing
suits, traded sections of the
New York Times
. Luke, in
deference to the sociable Sunday gathering, had taken his
headphones off his ears and looped them around his neck. Lucy the
beautiful Fed was quietly swimming laps in a pair of boxer
shorts.

"What's
want
gotta do with it?" Joey
asked. He tried to keep his voice low, so as not to make the
conversation communal property. But on certain subjects he could
not keep himself from becoming emphatic. "This is family, Sandra.
Want's not the issue here."

"Then what is?" She pushed herself up on her
elbows. In keeping with the compound's blithe attitude toward the
exposure of skin, she'd bought a two-piece bathing suit. Not a
bikini but a squared-off baby-blue top and bottom reminiscent of
the Gidget movies. The panties went full down to the little arc
where the leg joins the buttock; the bra had sturdy-looking straps
and built-in cups that left Sandra plenty of room to breathe.
Still, a two-piece it was, and Sandra felt pleasantly risque in
it.

"Obligation," Claude piped in. "That's the
issue."

Joey, whose back was to the bartenders,
rolled his eyes.

"I don't agree," said Peter. He wiped a
crumb of scone from the corner of his mouth. "I mean, it
starts
as obligation, sure, but then as you get older, as
people accept each other more, you realize you can really enjoy
seeing family."

Joey turned over on his lounge. In the
languor of afternoon, with the sun beating down through the palm
fronds, the act took considerable effort. "Guys, listen, you can
have your opinions and all, but with my family, things are, like, a
little different."

"Honey," said Claude, "what about with
ours?" He widened his eyes as if posing for the cover of
Vogue
. "My father's career air force. You don't think that
makes things a little weird?"