Florida Straits (3 page)

"I mean, Sandra baby, I got no waya being
sure, but like, the way it feels, I think maybe I was conceived
down here."

—
4 —

"Joey, you believe in omens?"

He cracked an eye and glanced in the
direction of the voice. Sandra was standing in the open doorway of
their dank room at the Farthest South Motel, and Key West's morning
light was searing white behind her. He put a slightly mildewed
pillow on his head. "Wha?"

"Omens, Joey. You believe in 'em?"

"Nah," he said. The sound came out from
under the pillow like a bubble from underwater.

"Good," Sandra said. " 'Cause a coconut fell
on the car and smashed the windshield."

"Ah fuck."

"Don't curse, Joey. Try at least."

He rolled over onto his back, the pillow
still covering his pulsing eyeballs. "Sandra, I'm not even awake
yet, and you tell me my goddamn car is trashed. Lemme curse."

"It's only the passenger side. The glass
didn't even fall out. It's just, ya know, smashed. Looks kinda like
a spider-web. Sit up. I brought coffee."

Joey groped for his sunglasses on the night
table. He slid them on, then opened his eyes. The tinted lenses
didn't blot out the fuzzy dots of mold where the ceiling met the
walls.

Sandra had brought with her a copy of the
Key West
Citizen
, already folded to the real estate ads.

"Expensive," she said, bouncing the eraser
end of her pencil off her lower lip.

"So what else is new?" said Joey. He had
around nine thousand dollars cash with him, which was all the money
he had in the world. No bank accounts, no social security, nothing
written down. But, he told himself, capital was not the key to his
business, vision was, and vision he had. He didn't have the details
worked out, that much was true, and in fact his plans had gaps as
yawning as those in Henry Flagler's railroad. Still, in his mind he
could see the grand sweep, the structure. He'd lay the groundwork
himself. It would be tough making the connections, mapping out the
turf, but it had to be done. That would take a month or two. After
that, his boys would handle things. Of course, he didn't know
exactly who these boys would be. But they had to be out there, they
always were. Street guys, soldiers, guys who maybe had a little
gambling action, a string of girls, some pull with the restaurants,
but who needed someone a little savvier, who thought a little
bigger, to get things organized. That's what Joey would do:
organize. And once things were set up, he'd live the genteel and
quiet life of a Boss. Guys would come to him, say Hello, Joey—no,
make that Hello, Mr. Goldman.

He'd gesture them into a chair, and they'd
be flattered to be asked to sit. Then, discreetly but not without a
certain ceremony, they'd hand over money. This part Joey could see
quite clearly: Sometimes the money would be in neat white
envelopes, other times in rumpled paper bags. The transactions
would take place at a spotless glass table, under a palm tree, by a
swimming pool.

"Sandra, these places have pools?"

"Yeah, Joey." She narrowed her light green
eyes and gave a sigh that was midway between exasperated and
amused. "For thirty-five hundred a month, you get a pool."

"Marrone,"
said Joey. "These are
houses?"

"Yeah. There's also condos, but they seem to
rent by the week. About fifteen hundred."

Joey hid his face in his Styrofoam coffee
cup. "Well, it'll be no problem once I get things going."

"Right," said Sandra, "but it's a little bit
of a problem right now. I'll call a broker."

"Yeah, call a broker," Joey said. He knew
how these things worked. He wiggled the earpieces of his shades and
spoke in a worldly tone. "The prices they print, Sandra, they never
expect to get 'em. We'll make 'em an offer."

—

"Your offer's been refused," the broker
said, hanging up the phone. "Sorry." He had a gray crew cut, capped
teeth, one small diamond earring, and an almost priestly air of
truly wanting to help. He'd shown them four houses and three
condos. They'd all been too expensive, and not one owner seemed
willing to negotiate. Now Joey and Sandra were back at the real
estate office, sitting on aluminum chairs while the broker riffled
through his box of properties. "You have to understand," he said.
"It's season. The town is really full just now."

Joey pulled on his lip. "We seen seven empty
places in an hour," he said. "How full can it be?"

The broker just smiled. "If a pool is a
priority for you, maybe you should consider a compound. There's a
nice little two-bedroom cottage available on Packer Street.
Eighteen hundred a month."

"What's a compound?" Sandra asked, and in
the question was a note of dread. She was trying to choke down
panic, a fear that she'd made a terrible mistake in quitting Anchor
Bank, a terrible mistake in coming to Florida, and could easily
make the worst one yet in picking a place to live.
Compound
.
The word sounded military, or southern. Would it be Quonset huts
and navy brats, or tar paper shacks with door-less refrigerators
and hound dogs in the yard?

"Oh," said the broker, "it's very Key West.
A compound is a cluster of small houses, fenced off from the
street, usually built around a pool and Jacuzzi and barbecue that
everybody shares."

"Doesn't sound very private," Joey said. He
didn't much like the idea of the neighbors standing around roasting
wienies when the boys came to deliver cash. But of course this
first place was just temporary. Once the enterprise got rolling,
they'd move to one of the rambling, hedged-in establishments in the
pricey corner of town.

"You give up some privacy," the broker
conceded. "But less than you might think. How long you been in Key
West?"

"One day," Sandra said, a little sheepishly.
She seemed to understand already that Key West was one of those
places where people, for lack of much else to say, bragged about
how long they'd been there. You couldn't get much lower on the
social ladder than one day.

"Well, you know," the broker said gently,
"one of the things you'll discover is that no one really cares what
anybody else does down here. The island's too small and the
weather's too hot to get bothered. Believe me, a more tolerant town
you're never going to find."

—

"Doesn't look like much from outside," Joey
said. He was standing under a scorching sun in a narrow gravel
driveway, between a rank of plastic garbage cans and a row of rusty
mailboxes with names scrawled on pieces of adhesive tape.

"That's the whole idea," said the broker.
"Laid back. Unpretentious. Very Key West. But watch."

He punched in a combination and pushed open
a wooden door cut into the grape-stake fence. Instantly the
temperature dropped five degrees and the baked, dusty smell of the
street disappeared. The compound was a small private jungle of
palms and ferns, jasmine bushes and banana trees, bougainvillea and
hibiscus. Right in the middle, like the old village well, was a big
sunken hot tub, and to the left of it was a free- form pool ringed
with pale blue tile. A man was standing waist-deep in the water. He
had his elbows propped on the edge and was reading a paperback. In
front of him were three cans of Bud in foam rubber sleeves and an
ashtray full of butts.

" 'Lo, Steve," the broker said to him.
"Whatcha reading?"

Steve turned the book over, as if he had to
look at the cover to remind himself. "Nazis," he said. "Buzz
bombs."

"Ah," said the broker. "Well, this is Joey
and Sandra. They'd like to see the place."

"Help yourselves," said Steve. Then he
smiled. "If you're interested, we'll talk. This is where I do most
of my business." Then he smiled. He never smiled while he was
talking, only after. You could count the beat, waiting for the
teeth to come out from under the wiry red mustache.

The house was small but bright and airy.
Sisal rugs. Ceiling fans. A Florida room with louvered windows. Bad
paintings of seashells and water birds.

"And it's got an outdoor shower," said the
broker.

"I usually shower inside," said Joey. "I'm
funny that way. Whaddya think, Sandra?"

Her answer was without excitement but very
definite. "It's by far the best for the money. I think we should
take it."

"You think he'll come down on the rent?"
Joey asked the broker.

The broker shrugged. "Compounds cater to,
well, it's a special market. Ask him."

Outside, Steve had lit another cigarette and
moved on to the next beer down the line. "How d'ya like it?" he
asked. Then he smiled.

"It's charming," Sandra said.

"Yeah," said Joey; "lotta charm. Very Key
West. But about the rent..." He paused, hoping Steve would take
over. Steve just sipped some beer. "I mean, it's a little
small."

"Cozy," Steve said. "But you've got the
grounds and the pool. And we've got a nice group of folks here.
Over there"—he turned and pointed to a trellised cottage half
hidden by vines—"that's where Peter and Claude live. They're
bartenders. Work nights at a place called Cheeks. Over here"—he
gestured toward a bungalow tucked away behind the hot tub— "that's
Wendy and Marsha's place. They have an antique store. And back
there"—he did a little pirouette—"that's Luke and Lucy. He's a
reggae musician and she's a mailman. Nice people. Considerate."

It was only at this point, when Steve was
maneuvering around the swimming pool, that Joey realized he was
naked. Dwarfed by his big, stretched belly, his submerged private
parts looked like baby birds left home in a nest beneath an
overhanging cliff. Of buttocks he had virtually none.

"And whadda you guys do?" Steve asked. Then
he smiled.

Joey hesitated. This was not a question that
was asked among his circle of acquaintances, nor was he accustomed
to chatting with naked guys in mixed company. "Well," he said,
"Sandra here is in banking. And me, well, I do this and that."

"This and that," Steve said. "Well, that's
what most people do down here. You'll fit right in. Anyway, you
wanna think it over, think it over. This is where I'll be."

Sandra tugged at Joey's sleeve.

"Excuse us a minute," said Joey, and they
retreated to a shady alcove in back of the gas grill. Joey took off
his sunglasses and put them on again.

"I don't know about this, Sandra. I came
here to be a businessman, not a goddamn nudist. I mean, you gonna
get naked with these people?"

"Me?" said Sandra. As if by reflex, she
reached up toward the high collar of her blouse. "Joey, I'm the
original prude, you know that. I blush if someone sees my slip. But
if other people wanna take their clothes off, I got no problem with
that."

"I dunno," said Joey. "And I'm not crazy
about the idea of living with a Fed right here."

"Who's a Fed?"

"What's 'er name? Lucy."

"Joey, she's a mailman."

"A Fed's a Fed. You think they don't all
work together? They all wanna know your business. Right away it's
the IRS, the FBI."

"Joey, admit it. You're just uptight about
the naked part."

He languidly dug a toe into the compound's
white gravel. "Awright, I admit it. I didn't bring you down here to
hang around a bunch of guys with their dicks out. Am I weird? No,
I'm not weird. Sandra, this is a weird town."

"You're the one who wanted to come here,"
she said. "I was perfectly happy to stay in Queens. Say what you
want about Queens, Joey, at least people don't go around with
nothing on."

Joey raised his hands up around his temples.
It was a gesture of surrender but also a warning that he didn't
want to hear any more. "So, Sandra, you're telling me you wanna
live in this freakin' nudist camp?"

"I'm telling you we haven't seen anything
better we can afford. I'm telling you I don't wanna go back to some
depressing motel that stinks of mildew. And I'm telling you that if
we don't make a decision, I'm gonna scream."

Joey tapped his foot; the gravel dust did
not come off his black loafer. Then he walked back to the pool.

"So, Steve," he said. "We're innerested. But
eighteen hundred—it's a little steep for us. Take fifteen."

Steve looked at the broker. The broker
looked at Steve.

"Fifteen if it's year-round," said the naked
landlord. "If you'll sign a full-year lease."

"Deal," said Joey. He felt like he'd gotten
away with something, and it cheered him up. Three hundred bucks off
just for signing a stupid piece of paper.

"I'll get the lease," Steve said, but Joey
stopped him with a gesture before he could wade to the stairs.
Underwater was bad enough. He wasn't ready for full frontal in the
glaring light of day.

"We'll go get our car and stuff," said Joey.
"We'll sign the papers after."

—
5 —

On a breezy morning at the end of January,
Joey Goldman stood in front of his bathroom mirror and tried to
figure out how best to display his sunglasses on those rare
occasions when he wasn't actually wearing them. Some guys, he'd
noticed, hooked them around their second shirt button, and let them
hang straight down. This was stylish, Joey thought, but maybe,
well, a little feminine. Of course, he could simply drop them in
his breast pocket, but then they were invisible, he got no benefit
at all. Maybe the suave compromise was to put them in the pocket,
but with an earpiece looped outside.

Joey spent about ten minutes on this
problem, and told himself he wasn't killing time, he was working on
his image, which after all was an important aspect of his business.
He wasn't hiding out inside the compound, inside the cottage,
behind the bathroom door. Or maybe he was. Had he ever in his life
had a more frustrating few weeks? He couldn't say for sure.