"Bert," said Joey, surprised and grateful to be visited, "I got nothing but time. Come on in." For a fleeting moment he was embarrassed about receiving a guest in his bathrobe and slippers, and about the naked body in the pool and the pretty men in their pink and turquoise silks. But the feeling passed. This was the Keys; this was home now. It was the land of take-it-or-leave-it and no apologies. "Did I tell you I lived here?"
"Carlos did," said Bert, walking slowly along the gravel path between the jasmine and the banana plants. "The bolita guy. He had you followed. You didn't know that?"
Rather than admit it, Joey changed the subject. "I didn't know you talked to Carlos."
"Carlos talks to me," the older man corrected. He stopped walking and gave Joey a soft little slap on the cheek, a mix of affection, scolding, and warning. "Joey, I'm telling you to relax down here, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't pay attention, eh?"
"Yeah, Bert. You're right. Bert, this is Steve. Steve, this is Bert, an old family friend."
"Morning," Steve said. Then he smiled. Sunlight glinted off his moist freckled forehead and red mustache.
"Whatcha reading?" Bert asked.
Steve turned the paperback over and looked at the cover to remind himself. "Japs," he said. "Submarines." Then he smiled.
Joey led the way into the cottage and motioned Bert onto a settee in the Florida room. Shafts of sunlight sliced in through the louvered windows and threw stripes across the sisal rug. "Coffee, Bert?"
"No, Joey, no thanks. Siddown. This is kinda serious. Joey, you been in touch with your old man since you left?"
Joey was halfway into his chair when he became certain that Bert was about to tell him his father was dead. Icicles scratched at the inside of his chest, and his forehead started instantly to pound. Bert read his face.
"Joey, no, it's nothing like that. He's O.K., he's fine. But tell me, you been in touch with him?"
Joey sprang back from his flash of guilt and grief with a moment of bravado. "Shit, Bert, I left New York to get away from him."
"Come on, Joey. No bullshit now. Just yes or no. You been in touch with him or not?"
Joey was stung by the older man's sternness, and there was a note almost of whining in his answer. "No, Bert, I haven't. I swear. Fuck is this about?"
Bert leaned forward, put his dog down on the rug, and dropped his voice to a raspy whisper. "A coupla guys come to see me last night," he said. "Guys based in Miami. They weren't in a good mood. In fact, they were ready to whack somebody. Joey, tree million bucks in Colombian emeralds has been lifted off of Charlie Ponte's crew, and it was pretty definitely an inside job. People get dead over that kinda thing."
"Three million bucks," said Joey. His own stash had dipped below four thousand, and the poorer he got, the more big numbers impressed him. "Jesus. But wait a second, Bert. If it was Charlie Ponte's crew, I don't see what it's gotta do with my old man."
Bert the Shirt sat back slowly and seemed unwilling or unable to talk until his shoulder blades had made secure contact with the cushion. "Probably not your father directly. But maybe some of his boys. Joey, it's this same old problem with drugs. Biggest fucking mistake our people ever made was not making a clear policy and sticking to it. Either dominate the business or don't fuck with it."
Bert paused to lick his teeth. Outside, palms rustled and water splashed. The air smelled of iodine and limes.
"But anyway," the old man continued, "Charlie Ponte's crew, they're inna coke trade. They're not supposed to be, it's unofficial, but they are—it's like an open secret. Your father's people, supposedly they're not. But no offense, Joey, your father's crew has this like superior attitude—"
"I hear ya," Joey cut in. "I ain't offended, believe me."
"Yeah, well, to them," Bert went on, "it's like the guys that are in drugs are outlaws, outsiders. They don't respect 'em, they think of 'em as fair game, like as if they weren't friends of ours.
"So, what happens with Charlie Ponte is this. He's expecting a two-million-dollar shipment from the Colombians, and the shipment is seized by the Feds. Charlie doesn't even get a look at it. So now he's pissed. He's got dealers without product, his business is disrupted. But the Colombians, they're so fucking rich it's unbelievable. Their attitude is like, 'Oh well, that shipment was only a few million. Kiss it goodbye.' The main thing to them is to keep the account active. So they want Charlie to be happy. So they say to him, 'Look, you were expecting two million in product, we'll give ya tree million in emeralds. Keep it as collateral, sell it off, it's up to you.' It's like a token of goodwill."