"O.K.," said the woman behind the counter. "Blue. They'll be ready by five."
On the short walk back to the Parrot Beach office, Zack regarded Joey from under his reddish eyebrows. "You wanna tell me what that was all about?"
"Nothing," said Joey. "It was about nothing. These two guys thought I was needling them, I guess."
Zack frowned. From his office window, he'd noticed the Lincoln pull up and the two men approach. He didn't hear what was said, but the two beefy fellows hadn't waited to be needled, that much was clear. "You in trouble, Joey?"
"No."
"Debts?"
"No."
"Drugs?"
"No."
"You want me to call the police?"
"No."
For a minute they walked in silence among the characters of Duval Street. A fellow in a torn undershirt with a green parrot on his shoulder. A woman with a small monkey in a diaper. Then Zack said, "You know, Claire and Sandra, they're getting to be good friends."
The remark seemed to connect with nothing, and Joey turned it this way and that in his mind, trying to see where it fit. It didn't at first dawn on him that maybe it was a backdoor kind of offer, an offer of confidence, of alliance. Joey wasn't used to offers like that. He was isolated, and isolation made people suspicious, and suspicion kept them isolated. "That's nice," said Joey. "I been hoping Sandra would make some friends."
Zack looked as if he might speak again, but didn't. He turned up the pathway to the Parrot Beach office, and Joey resumed his patrol on the corner. But he made no more commissions that day. His stride had been broken, his timing was off. And the calm place where he was alone with his salesman's skill seemed farther away than Astoria.
— 19 —
Gino Delgatto, whatever else he was or was not, was a true sport as a host.
When Joey and Sandra arrived in the grand columned dining room of the Flagler House, a magnum of Dom Perignon had already been placed tableside in a silver bucket, canapés of caviar and salmon had been arrayed on triangles of toast, and the staff had fallen into the somewhat ironic deference that accrues to the big spender. On the presentation plates of the expected guests lay pink hibiscus flowers. Gino had moved his to his bread-and-butter plate, and Vicki had placed hers between her alpine breasts, where its pistil had at first quivered then begun to droop from the excessive heat.
Gino, on best behavior, stood up as the maitre d' ushered Joey and Sandra to the table. He gave Sandra a quick hug, deciding in the first glance that, in her cream-colored slacks and cardigan, she was, as usual, not dressed up enough. Gino had known Sandra for over three years now, and had never yet managed to pin down what he thought of her. He supposed she was pretty in her way, but her way was so unshowy, so unglamorous, that Gino really couldn't tell. Sandra was practically flat-chested. Her nails were short and she didn't do much with her hair. She wore makeup but, as Gino saw it, not enough. As to her personality, she seemed to have some brains, give her that. Now and then she could be pretty funny, in a dry kind of way. But fun-loving she was not. Had Gino ever seen her have more than two, three drinks? Had he ever seen her really drop her guard and laugh? He didn't think so. In fact, she usually seemed to be the one who decided when the party was over. Probably she was good for Joey, who, after all, didn't have much going for him and wasn't likely to attract the really super babes, but still, she was a little bland, a little dull.
It did not occur to Gino that Sandra was subdued around him because she loathed him to the marrow of her bones.
But he was family, and so she returned his hug and answered his kiss on the cheek with one of her own. She shook the red-taloned hand that Vicki presented with the weirdly arched wrist of a great lady from some previous century. Then everyone sat down and started sipping champagne.
"Cheers," said Gino.
"Cheers," said Joey.
"You having a good time here?" Sandra asked Vicki.
Vicki reached toward her cleavage on the pretext of toying with the flower that was wilting there, and twisted her thin mouth into an expression of mixed feelings. "Pretty good. Weather's great. But the shopping—" She made a dismissive sound that was something like dyukh, then leaned close to Sandra as though sharing a deep and shameful secret. "It's like junky stuff. Homemade. No brand names. No designers. It's not like, ya know, elegant."
Gino emptied his glass and gave his head an indulgent shake. Like sugar daddies everywhere, he felt truly secure only when his mistress was either spending his money or talking about it. "Vicki thinks 'elegant' is a whaddyacallit, a pseudonym for 'expensive.' "