"Some token," Joey said.
"Yeah, right," Bert said. "But these guys, the money they have, it's like you or me giving a guy a buck to park the car. So anyway, Charlie gets his emeralds. Or supposedly he does. They get dropped someplace in Coconut Grove—I don't blow where, and I don't wanna know. But a safe place, a place that's been used before, and only the Colombians and Charlie Ponte's guys know about it. And that's where they disappear from."
Joey tugged at an earlobe, then raked the back of his hand across his unshaven face. Tiny squiggles of limestone dust floated in the slashed light of the louvered windows. "Bert," he said, "maybe I'm a little slow, but I still don't see where this has to do with my father."
Bert leaned over to check on the dog, and moved it out of a stripe of sun into a stripe of shade. "Joey, there were a coupla low-level guys who were like floating between the two crews. They'd commute between Miami and New York, they'd do little errands for Ponte, little jobs for your old man. They were lookin' to get made, and they were very ambitious. They found out more than they needed to know about the drop in Coconut Grove. They ain't floatin' no more, Joey. They're lookin' at coral. Up close. And they ain't got no snorkels."
"Jesus," said Joey, and in spite of himself he almost smiled. Not that he was happy about guys getting clipped; it was just exhilarating to be near some action again, to be getting information. "So you're saying these guys brought in other guys in my father's crew?"
Bert shrugged. "These guys were angling for a button, Joey. A tree-million-dollar score earns a guy some points. But of course, scoring it from another family was not too bright."
"Maybe the spicks welshed. Maybe they took the stones back. Maybe they were never delivered."
"Could be," said Bert. "But that isn't the Colombians' style. Why would they bother?"
Bert slowly crossed his legs and drummed his fingers lightly on the arm of the settee. For the first time, he seemed to be looking around at Joey's cottage, at the bad paintings of birds and shells, the haphazard furniture made tolerable and even likable by the fact that it was rented and not owned. "Not a bad little place," he said without enthusiasm.
Joey gave a modest nod. "Well, it ain't the Paradiso. But it's fine until I really get on my feet." He shot the older man a wry glance, which was as close as he would come to admitting that that might be never.
Then there was a pause. If Joey had been watching closely, he would have noticed that Bert the Shirt was momentarily exhausted and was marshaling his strength. But Joey wasn't watching closely, he was slipping back into his obsession with figuring how to pull a living out of Florida. "And that reminds me. I was thinkin', Bert, about what you said the other day, ya know, about money comin' outta the water? If that's the way people get rich down here—"
Joey suddenly fell silent because the Shirt had put a hand to his chin and started wagging his head as if in deep sorrow or disbelief.
"Wha", Bert?"
The old mafioso looked down and spoke to his chihuahua. "This kid, Giovanni. Is he very brave, very stupid, or does he just not listen?"
The younger man only crinkled his forehead.
"I mean," Bert said to him, "what have I been telling you heah? Your father's crew is suspected of stealing tree million dollars from our own people. Two guys have already been clipped. A coupla very nasty paisans show up in Key West. Joey, why d'ya think they came heah?"
Joey just sat.
The Shirt addressed his dog. "This kid, Giovanni, he's a nice kid, but he's an asshole." Then he glared at Joey. "Asshole, they were looking for you."
"Me?"
"Joey, use your fucking head. You just happen to be about twelve hundred miles closer than anyone else to where the emeralds were. And you just happened to move down here right around the time this whole thing had to get planned. How does it look?"
Joey rubbed his stubbly chin and admitted to himself that it did not look great. "But shit, Bert, I was always the last to know what my father's crew was up to even when I was living right there. Why d'ya think I ain't there no more?"
"Why should Charlie Ponte believe that? Joey, you know how these people think. Always look for the blood ties first. You're still your father's son. Maybe you don't feel like you are. Maybe you don't have his name. But everybody knows it, just like everybody knows Charlie Ponte sells dope. So, Joey, I'm telling you like a father, watch your ass. These guys will probably come back, and they are very pissed. If I didn't stand up for you, they woulda been here last night. Just to talk. Probably. But it would not have been pleasant."