"And Sandra? What'll you say to Sandra?"
"As little as I can," said Joey. He hadn't really thought about it, but he knew the answer that was expected of him. "I don't want her involved."
The old man nodded his approval. "Best that way," he said.
Joey nodded back, glanced briefly at the vacant western sky, and for just an instant felt as empty as the place the sun had been. "Best that way."
—
"So how'd it go with Gino?"
Sandra was standing at the stove, watching macaroni boil. She wasn't a bad cook, just a nervous one, an Irish girl making Italian food for a half-Jewish boyfriend who'd grown up with the finest pork products Queens had to offer. In her efforts to be organized, precise, she meddled too much with the food. She was always poking at cutlets, stirring things that didn't need stirring. She memorized recipes and timed things on her watch.
"Went O.K.," Joey said. He was looking for some orange juice and his head was in the fridge. "He's got a new girlfriend with him."
"What's she like?" Sandra bothered the broccoli.
By way of answer, Joey held his hands about a foot and a half out from his chest.
"He's consistent," said Sandra.
"Give him that," said Joey.
There was a pause. A lid lifted softly from a sauce-pan, then settled back down. Sandra had an instant's panic that the red sauce was scorching. It was not. She stirred it anyway. "Joey, why's he here?"
He leaned against the sink and hid his face in his glass of orange juice. His answer, when it came, sounded harsher than he meant it to be. "Sandra, get real willya. You think my big shot brother tells me why he does things?"
Or maybe Joey meant the answer to be harsh. Maybe he wanted to goad Sandra into pressing him. If she pressed, maybe he would tell her more, and could persuade himself he wasn't violating the code that made him wrestle with things alone but was only giving in to a woman's nagging. But Sandra didn't nag. She had her code too.
"I didn't even know your brother was such a big shot," she said.
"Well, he is," said Joey, and even as he was mumbling out the words, he was thinking how ridiculous it was: standing up for Gino practically in the same breath he was saying what a louse he was, still trying to make him a big brother instead of a big pain in the ass. Ridiculous. This whole business with family was ridiculous, and to stop himself from saying anything more, Joey filled his mouth with orange juice and walked out of the kitchen.
— 18 —
"Hello, folks, how ya doin? Crummy day, ain't it? Barely eighty-one degrees, I'd say, and hey, where'd that one little cloud come from, Cuba? Yeah, that's some kinda Commie cloud. Havana's only ninety miles away, ya know, twice as close as Miami. Yeah. Think about it. We're practically, ya know, in South America. And this beautiful condo, Parrot Beach, it looks right at downtown Havana. You think I'm kidding? Hey, get a good pair of binocs, you can watch Castro trim his beard inna morning. Really, take a tour. Takes an hour or so, and we give ya champagne, free food, a paira passes to . . ."
Joey was having a good day. He'd chalked up two commissions and it wasn't even noon. Moreover, he was gradually discovering what tens of millions of working people already knew but would not publicly admit: that going to your job was a great way to forget about your life. Patrolling his street corner, giving his spiel, he didn't have to think about the dinner he and Sandra would be having with Gino and Vicki that evening. He didn't have to worry about why Gino was in town. He could imagine himself beyond the long reach of circumstance. On these few squares of sidewalk, he was in control of things. He was confident, and more so all the time. He knew how people would react to him, knew how to play off the drunks and the yogurt eaters and the kids. Like anyone who's any good at anything, he could at moments drop out of time and move into the blessed and utterly private realm of his skill.
He was in that realm when the dark blue Lincoln pulled up.
It had come down Duval Street slow and heavy, as if it were leading a funeral, overflowing its fair share of the pavement like a fat man in an airplane seat. The car stopped in front of a fire hydrant, its tires squeaking against the curb. Two men got out. They exuded menace like a bad smell, and an open space instantly appeared around them on the crowded street. They wore blue suits that almost matched the car and almost matched each other. They were beefy in a way that made them walk with their feet wide apart because their thighs rubbed together, making wrinkles in their groins and shiny places on their pants.
"Yo, fuckface," the taller of the two said to Joey. He had the pink upturned nostrils of a pig, and his hair was raked, swirled, and peaked like something you'd see in the window of a fancy bakery.