Welcome to Paradise (9 page)

He passed the office, and the desk clerk
called to him in a tone of mock politeness. By now it was war
between the two of them. The passive, insolent employee smirking
behind a charade of cheerful service. The disgruntled guest whose
grumbling would have to ripen into bodily assault if he ever hoped
to express his full dissatisfaction.

"Important call for you this morning," said
the clerk. He handed Al a slip of paper, serenely confident that it
contained bad news.

Al read it and his headache instantly got
worse. Sun Motors in Miami. He asked the clerk for the phone.

The clerk moved grudgingly away to
eavesdrop.

He heard Al say, "What?... Stolen?...
Hijacked?!... What kind of craziness is hijacked? . . . Now, wait a
second. I deal with the public, too. So let's make sure we have
this clear . . . we're not saying
we'll
work it out. We're
saying
you'll
work it out. Right?"

Al slammed the phone down, pushed it across
the desk in the direction of the clerk hard enough so that its
rubber feet squeaked against the varnish. "What the hell kind of
town is this?" he said.

The clerk allowed himself a hint of a smile.
"Most people find it a very pleasant and relaxing town."

Al ran a hand through his hair. The motion
pulled a throb behind it, as if something were stuck and crawling
between his scalp and skull. "And another thing," he said. "Someone
put lobsters in my room last night."

The clerk fingered the row of studs above his
eyebrow. "You mean orchids."

"Whaddya mean, I mean orchids?" Al demanded.
"If I meant orchids, I'd say orchids. I'm saying lobsters."

"Lobsters," the clerk said numbly.

"Lobsters," Al repeated. "In my room. Now
they're in the pool."

"Mr. Tuschman. You shouldn't put lobsters in
the pool."

"I didn't put them in. They ran in. They dove
in. They're dead."

The clerk scratched his shaved head.

"And what's this crap about orchids?" Al
asked him.

"Orchids?"

"Yeah, orchids. I said lobsters, you said
orchids."

"Right. Someone came last night to deliver
orchids."

"And you let him in my room?" said Al.

"I didn't let him in your room. He said he'd
leave them by the door."

Al Tuschman bit his lip. "This guy, what did
he look like?"

The clerk bit his lip, too. "He looked like
... he looked like . . . who remembers? A delivery man. Apron.
Paper hat."

Al drummed his fingers on the counter,
thought that over. At last he said, "Where I'm from, florists don't
wear paper hats and aprons. Seafood guys wear paper hats and
aprons."

"Gee," said the clerk, "I never thought of
that." He stifled a yawn.

Disgusted, Al Tuschman turned to go. Halfway
to the door, he was struck by something else. "Don't you ever leave
here?" he asked the clerk. "Don't you ever sleep?"

"Rents are high. Not everyone appreciates,"
he whined, "just how hard we work."

*

"Batt'ries included
,?'
' asked Big Al
Marracotta.

The clerk shrugged then took back the latex
gizmo, tried to figure out how to unscrew the base. The gadget was
not as technologically advanced as the ones in
Sex Trek,
but
it had a raffish design and a certain ingenuity. Katy Sansone
rolled her eyes.

"Yeah, batteries are in there," said the
clerk. He sniffled, ran a finger under his nose, then added, "Or
you can use the crank."

"And the hot water goes in here?" said
Al.

"Hot water, margarine, whatever."

"Would feel good, no?" said Al. He'd taken
the thing back and was cranking it in Katy's direction so that it
wiggled like a spastic cobra.

"Al," she said, "isn't it a little
early?"

In fact they'd just had breakfast. The porn
store had been open fifteen minutes. The clerk's first cup of
coffee still stood on a display case filled with ticklers and
extenders and things with leather straps.

"All of a sudden you're inhibited?" Big Al
teased. He flashed that surprising boy-devil grin, the grin that
moved his hair and showed the small gap in his teeth. "Like
amore's
only for the dark of night?"

"I guess I didn't realize it was
amore
," she said. "Seemed more like Roto-Rooter. I'm going
to the beach."

"The beach?" he said. "We been through
that."

"Right," said Katy. "You don't like sand and
riffraff. So you go to the pool. I'll see you in a couple
hours."

Big Al fidgeted, took a moment to decide if
he was mad. He felt a little silly with the pleasure unit in his
hand and his girlfriend leaning toward the door. Plus, he didn't
like her tone. A little bratty and ungrateful. Then again, some
spunk, some spirit—it kept things fresh, a little bit on edge.
"Fine," he said at last. "I'll see ya later."

Half surprised to be sprung, afraid that Al
might quickly change his mind, she pivoted on her tall shoes and
bolted from the store.

Breaking out into the clean, hot sunshine of
the sidewalk, she inhaled the smells of softening asphalt and
sunblock spiced with coconut, and realized all at once that she
hadn't had a moment to herself in days. Just to walk at her own
pace; to look at what she chose to look at; to breathe.

She walked fast for half a block, as though
pursued, then started to relax. Slowing, using her own eyes, she
saw and did small things that exhilarated her beyond all proportion
to their actual significance. Twirled a postcard rack; smiled at
plump twins in a stroller. Took a color brochure from a young woman
hawking snorkel trips; listened hungrily as she rhapsodized about
coral and striped fish. Paused at a booth promoting sunset sails,
and let herself imagine that someday she would be aboard a
sailboat. Why not? If she were on her own? Or had a friend to
travel with?

Or was with a different sort of man?

There, she'd thought it. For a moment it felt
great to think it, but then the feeling backfired, and she felt
disloyal, guilty. Undeserving. How shallow could you get? Three
minutes out of Big Al's grasp, and already she was fantasizing life
without him. After him. Like he'd died. While she was still riding
on his ticket, blowing his money, sharing his bed. It was
wrong.

Then again, what was wrong with wanting to be
treated right?

Okay, she thought—she'd made certain choices,
choices that she wasn't very proud of. Well, so what? Did that mean
she was disqualified forever from a little happiness, a little
dignity? Wasn't she allowed at least to wonder if there were still
men in the world who weren't married, and weren't outlaws, and
weren't maniacs? Men who might see in her something more than a sex
toy to be visited by other sex toys?

She strolled past T-shirt shops and jewelry
stores and new construction. She wished she could do life over;
then quickly shuddered at how much trouble that would be; then
admitted with something like relief that there was nothing to be
done except to go from here.

At an open stand she leaned across a cool
chrome counter and ordered up an ice cream cone—vanilla with
chocolate jimmies. Her mouth watered as she watched it being made,
and she licked it happily as any kid as she headed toward the
beach, wondering how long she could dare to stretch these clean,
empty hours that were her own.

Squid Berman, happy and fulfilled, had just
awakened from a beautiful and long night's sleep.

He'd needed it. Two nights ago he'd hardly
rested, then he'd done an endless stakeout across the street from
Paradise. He'd still been there, skulking in the button- wood
hedge, when Big Al and the thick-haired woman wobbled home together
from the bar. He was still there some fifteen minutes later, when
the woman, furious and suddenly sober, stormed right out again.

Now he was leaning on a pointy elbow,
underneath a tortured sheet, and telling Chop about it.

"Ya shoulda seen the kisser on 'er!" he was
saying. "Freaked or what? A masterstroke! I ruined it for 'im,
Chop. I ruined it for 'im good."

Chop couldn't get that excited about it.
Wacko mischief that no longer involved cars. He was thinking about
the silver Lexus. Rip out the seats and you had a fine vehicle. He
scratched his neck. Something was making him irritable. Probably
that it was clearer all the time that Squid was enjoying this gig a
whole lot more than he was. Grudgingly he said, "So what next?"

Squid thought. Thinking made his mouth water;
he swallowed and his bony Adam's apple shuttled up and down his
neck. Truth was, he didn't know what next, knew only that it had to
top what he had done so far. This was the unremitting pressure on
the artist, the thing a lunk like Chop would never understand.
"Jeez," he said, "lemme savor this one for a while."

"Isn't time," said Chop.

Squid frowned. He knew the other man was
right. There was never time. The next hurdle was always in your
face before your feet had even reconnected with the ground.

Without getting out of bed, the bandy man
bore down, started thinking once again. His eyes bulged, water
pooled beneath his tongue, and he dug deeper into the cackling
mysteries of making someone miserable.

*

Big Al Marracotta strolled back to the Conch
House weighed down with two big bags of goodies. He had probes and
plungers, harnesses and clips, lingerie and jellies. He had extra
batteries and a video shot entirely from underneath a glass coffee
table. He was ready for more vacation.

But back at his hotel, with Katy gone and
nothing else to do, he let his mind flit just briefly to his
business. In truth it had been days since he'd thought at all about
fish and payoffs, ice and trucks, no-show jobs and haulers'
kickbacks and soggy cartons full of halibut and crab. Now a sudden
nameless qualm made him feel that he should check in, at least, see
how things were going.

He put the goodies by the TV set and sat down
on the edge of his giant bed to place a call to Benny Franco, the
guy he'd left in charge.

This was a somewhat complicated procedure.
There was a phone in the fish market office, but it was used only
for the most mundane chitchat with outsiders. Real business calls
were routed through a pay phone bolted to the loading dock across
the yard. This meant that an underling would have to take the call,
determine if it was worth a bigger man's attention, then trudge
through slush and slime to fetch the boss. The boss, in turn, would
have to put his topcoat on, his scarf, and tiptoe through the oily
puddles.

Sitting there in Florida, Big Al remembered
how freezing cold the receiver usually was against his ear. He
dialed.

In Manhattan a guy picked up the phone, said,
"Yeah?"

"Lemme talk ta Benny."

The request made the underling suspicious.
Everyone who mattered knew that Benny wasn't there no more, had
been led away in handcuffs. He said, "Benny ain't here. Who's
iss?"

"Who's iss?!" said Al, and put a little
menace in it. "Who's iss?"

"Lefty."

"Lefty, you putz. It's Al. Go get Benny."

Lefty hesitated. He was a cautious guy and
not good at explaining things. He knew there was no percentage in
carrying bad news. He said simply, "Hey, Al. Hol' on a minute."

He left the phone dangling like a hanged cat
and trudged through the slush and slime to fetch Nicky.

"Who is it?" Nicky wanted to know before
bothering with the topcoat and the scarf.

Lefty didn't want to say the name. No
percentage setting up a meet between two guys who were never gonna
like each other. "I think y'oughta take it" was all he said.

Nicky slid into his coat and stepped outside.
The yard stank of diesel fumes and fish. Gross water seeped into
his loafers. He picked up the phone, which was achingly cold
against his ear. "Yeah?"

On his giant Key West bed, Big Al Marracotta
yanked in his eyebrows so that his salt-and-pepper helmet crawled.
Benny's voice he knew. "You ain't Benny."

"Did I fucking say I was Benny? All I said
was yeah. Who's iss?"

Big Al puffed up a little, gave his neck a
twist. Whoever this guy was, he didn't like his tone. "This is your
boss, asshole."

The words chafed Nicky badly. Boss? Big Al?
He said, "I ain't aware I got a boss."

The insolence, in turn, made Big Al wary; he
did not want to admit that he had no idea who he was talking to. He
wiggled his butt against the sheets and decided to seek more
information. "Where the fuck is Benny?"

Nicky stomped his feet to keep the blood from
freezing and tried to have a little fun. "How's the weather down in
Flahda?"

"Fuckin' gorgeous."

Nicky thought about Chop and Squid, who were
costing him several grand a day to make this guy's life a living
hell. "And things are goin' good?"

"Beautiful," said Al.

Nicky smiled to think he must be lying
through his teeth. Sure he was. Nobody ever admitted that vacation
turned out lousy.

Al had finally put two and two together.
"This Nicky?"

"Bingo."

"Fuck you doin' there?"

"Runnin' the place, that's all."

"Where's Benny?"

"Prob'ly at his lawyer's," Nicky said. "You
picked a loser, Al. Benny got indicted."

Al sprang off the bed and pirouetted.
Wistfully, he looked across the room at his trove of unsampled sex
toys. "Shit. I'm comin' home."

"Don't let it fuck up your vacation, Al."

"I'll be there tomorra."

"Al, hey, market's inna best hands it could
be in. Best hands ever. Least that's Tony Eggs' opinion."

Nicky was pleased with that remark, so
pleased that for a moment he forgot how cold he was.

Al said, "Yeah? So why'd he kick you out and
make you one more pissant onna street again?"