Florida Straits(17)

Joey took a sip of his tequila. "Unbefuckinglievable, Bert. Afuckingmazing. So have they called on you?"

The old mafioso leaned closer and Joey caught a whiff of his bay rum after-shave above the booze-and- washrag smell of the bar. "Joey," he whispered, "this is why I wanted to talk to you. This is what I'm trying to tell you. There's been nothing for them to call on me about. In the early years, yeah, every three, four months they'd ask me to check up on something, but it was usually something in Miami. These New York guys, ya know, they got no sense of geography. I'd say to them, 'How the fuck should I know what goes on in Miami? Miami is as far from here as Brooklyn is from Baltimore.'

" 'Oh yeah?' they'd say. "Where's Baltimore?'

"But Joey, since Scalera got whacked, I hardly get called at all. Once in a great while maybe. But our friends are just not active down here, Joey. This is what I'm telling you. And why aren't they? 'Cause there's a whole different mix of people down here— Cubans, military, treasure hunters, smugglers—and a whole different set of scams. Your father knows that, Joey. Your brother Gino should know it."

"I'm not working for my father," Joey said. "And I'm not working for Gino. I'm here on my own."

Bert sucked down the last of his whiskey sour and considered. "On your own? This I didn't realize." He cocked his head, pursed his loose lips, then blew some air between them. "On your own. O.K., Joey, you got balls, you got ambition, I respect that. But Joey, what you're trying to do—you don't just show up someplace and act like you're a goddamn franchise, like you're opening a branch office of the Mob. Whaddya think, it's like fucking McDonald's? Maybe you can sell the same hamburger on every street corner in America. With scams it's different. You wanna operate here, you gotta come up with something local. Ya know, a scam that fits the climate."

Now, three or four times in a person's life, probably not more, something is said that really makes a difference. The moment, the source, and the need to hear that thing all line up perfectly, and the comment ends up seeming not only like the listener's own thought but his destiny. Joey drained his glass and ran a hand through his hair. "You're right, Bert," he said. "I know you're right. But what should the angle be?"

The old man looked down at his watch. "Holy shit," he said. "I gotta go. I got some guys coming over to play gin rummy."

He reached down under his barstool as if retrieving a hat, and came up with a dog. It was a chihuahua with a wet black nose, bulging glassy eyes, and quivering whiskers, and it fit in the palm of Bert's fleshy hand.

"That dog was there the whole time?" Joey asked.

"Yeah," said Bert, and he stared at the animal's glassy eyes. "I hate this fucking dog." Then he addressed the dog directly. "I hate ya." He turned his glance back to Joey. "I gotta take him with me everywhere, or he shits onna floor. For spite. It's not even my dog. It's my wife's dog."

"So why doesn't your wife take care of him?"

"She's dead."

"Ah jeez, Bert, I'm sorry."

"Old news. She's been dead five years. And it was like her deathbed wish. Bert, promise me you'll take care of Don Giovanni."

"Don Giovanni?" Joey said, looking dubiously at the quaking little creature.

"Yeah. Ya know, like the opera. My wife loved the opera. A very cultured woman, my wife." Then he said to the chihuahua, "Our Carla, our dear sweet pain inna neck, Carla, wasn't she cultured?" And to Joey: "But the fucking dog, I hate the fucking dog. Cliff, put this on my tab." And he got up slowly.

"But Bert, hey," said Joey, "you're leavin' me, like, hangin' heah."

"You wanna talk," said Bert the Shirt, "come by the condo. Anytime. The Paradiso. We'll talk by the pool."





— 8 —

Joey pushed open the door to the compound and breathed deeply of the jasmine and the lime. He was feeling optimistic and benign. One of the ladies was poaching in the hot tub, only her dark coarse hair visible above the roiling water. "How's it feel in there, Marsha?" Joey asked.

"Feels great. But I'm Wendy."

Inside their cottage, Sandra was standing in the kitchen, watching fish fillets defrost. She was just out of the shower and had a towel, turban style, on her head. She wore a short pink robe, and rivulets of water still gleamed on her pale legs.

"Hello, baby," Joey said. "You look sexy."

"Hi, Joey." Sandra made it a point not to echo his buoyant tone. "You sound happy. Been drinking?"

"Come on, I had two drinks. But that's not why I'm happy. I met a guy, a guy from New York. Knows my old man. Isn't that a pisser? We had a nice talk. It was like neighborhood."