Joey slid off his sunglasses, wiped his forehead, and watched the Minnesotans recede into the crush of Duval Street. They'd be back, of that he had no doubt. Not that they'd take the tour. No. They'd be back because tourists who walked Duval Street in one direction always walked it in the other. It was that, or swim to the motel. Sometimes people bantered on the return trip, pretending they were still considering. Sometimes they crossed the street a half block away to avoid a second pitch. Now and then they got hostile. People reacted in different ways to being charmed. Human nature.
Take the Minnesotans. Joey, as per Zack's advice, was studying up, trying to read them. They'd seemed perfect prospects. Fifty or so, wedding rings, family types, normal. The woman wore green pants with an elastic waistband whose puckers quickly stretched to accommodate her fallen bottom; the man had a fishing hat with a trout fly in the band. Joey, who had no wife, no children, belonged to no church, no civic associations, had never been farther inland than downtown Philadelphia, had never caught a fish, and had been part of the legitimate economy for nine days now, tried to imagine their life. The wife, he gathered from a certain softness around her mouth, didn't work, and probably felt a little bad about it, now that all four kids were gone. The husband was an assistant vice president in. . . in. .. What the hell did people do in Minnesota? What did they have up there, cows? O.K., a place that made cheese, something like that. So of course he liked to fish, to get away from the cheese smell. The wife, well, she mostly liked to do stuff at home, stuff with thread, that's where she really felt confident. Joey wanted to think that after they'd walked away, she said to her husband, What a nice young man. It must be hard just to talk to strangers like that. But the husband, he'd want to show that he was the worldly one, he knew what was what. Once they get you inside, it's hard sell, Martha. Real hard sell. This fella Bill, he was once in Puerto Rico, and one of these fellas got him to go inside, and four hours later. . .
"Hey, New York, how ya doin'? Your friends are gonna hate ya when they see that tan, ya know. But that's why you're here, right? So your friends'll hate ya? Looks good. Use that sunblock, though, don't be a wise guy. What parta New York ya from?"
The fellow in the Yankees baseball cap just kept walking, urged along by his ladyfriend, who was tugging at his elbow. Across Duval Street, shadows were lengthening in front of T-shirt shops and narrow stores selling frozen yogurt. The first early drunks were starting to bob and weave, and the steady hum of noise was occasionally punctuated by a tattooed grotesque in a sleeveless leather shirt going by on a Harley.
"Hello, folks, you enjoying our beautiful weather today? What are you, Japanese, Hawaiian, what?"
"Hello, folks, how's Key West treatin' ya today? Hey, that is a fabulous hat you have. How they get all that fruit to stay in there like that?"
"Hello, folks, great afternoon, huh? You been puttin' your time in onna beach, I see. Those blisters'll be gone in a coupla days, don't worry. But hey, since you're outta commission anyway, how'd ya like ta see the Clem Sanders Treasure Museum ..."
"Hello, folks. Hey, what's with the crutches? ..."
"Hello, folks, awesome weather, huh? Hey, you really go to Harvard, or you just wear the sweatshirt?"
"Hello, folks, gorgeous day, isn't it?"
"Yes, ittis," said a small, white-haired lady in crisp khaki pants. She put a lot of bite into her t's, and Joey was so surprised that someone actually answered him that he found himself leaning forward on the sidewalk, his arm stuck out in a hooking gesture, his smile frozen, momentarily unable to speak.
"Ittis, indeed," said the husband. He was a silver and pink old fellow who didn't seem to like the sun. He wore a Sherlock Holmes cap with one brim for his forehead and another for his neck, and his plaid shirt was neatly buttoned at the wrists.
Joey knew immediately that these were people who would take the tour and would never in a thousand lifetimes buy a time-share at Parrot Beach. But that was not his problem. They wanted the meal ticket. They wanted something to do. Probably more than anything, they wanted to sit down.
"Where you folks from?"
"Ottawa," said the lady. She bit the t's.
"Zat in England?"
They thought Joey was kidding. They laughed politely. Joey felt suddenly the way he sometimes used to feel when trying to get a girl to go to bed with him.
All parties wanted the same result, for all intents and purposes the matter was settled. Yet there were certain forms and rituals that needed to be adhered to, still the awkward business of maneuvering her into the bedroom or onto the couch. So Joey spieled, and the nice old couple from Ottawa played along. A Harley-Davidson roared by, trailing a string of mopeds like a goose with goslings. Sunlight flashed off the tin roofs of downtown Key West. Finally, when all the ceremonies had been observed, Joey led the nice couple up the path to the Parrot Beach office. They would sign the guest book. They would admire the scale model. They would ride the shuttle bus to the property, sip fresh-squeezed orange juice, let themselves be hammered for a while by the sales staff, and Joey Goldman would get his forty bucks, forked over from the mysterious coffers of the legitimate world.