Florida Straits(41)

Or they'd wear an ugly dress. Or crappy jewelry. Ya know what she said to me one time, your mother? She said, 'Bert, it's like painting a picture and then watching the paint wash off inna rain.' Isn't that a sad thing? I remember it all these years. So that's why she switched over to corpses. Do the job once, the job stays done. Family, friends, they get their viewing, then, boom, the lid comes down and it's straight off to God. She was, like, a perfectionist, your mother. I got a lotta respect for that."

Joey squeezed his glass and tried to smile. The bar had filled up, and he felt the nearness of bodies at his back. Cliff had sloughed off his grogginess and was rattling two cocktail shakers like a pair of maracas, taking another order at the same time, and giving off the animal contentment of the fully occupied man. Joey took a momentary vacation in the rattle of the ice and the mounting buzz of saloon noise, gave himself a respite from having either to talk or to listen. When he returned, he was able to put his hand on the old man's shoulder. "Thanks, Bert. It's nice of you to tell me that."

"Sure, kid," said the Shirt. "But now I gotta tell ya somethin' that ain't so nice." He took the orange slice out of his drink, nibbled the flesh from the skin, and, from long habit, glanced over his shoulder to see who might be listening. But in Key West no one ever was.

"After your brother left this morning, I didn't have a good feeling about things. So I made some calls. Coupla days ago there was a sit-down. In Brooklyn. Charlie Ponte, your father, coupla other big guys. Ponte says he's running outta patience about this bullshit with the emeralds. He says it to your father. Your father says whaddya want from me? Ponte flat out accuses him of being involved. Your old man denies it and gets very hot. Ponte says, 'O.K., if you're onna level and wanna avoid a lotta headaches, you got no reason not to make a deal with me.' "What's the deal?" your old man asks. 'The deal is this,' says Ponte. 'I find the guys who have my stones, I whack 'em. No questions asked, and no retaliation.' And your father agrees."

"He agrees?" Joey repeated. It was all he could think of to say.

Bert raised a qualifying finger. "The guy I got my information from, it's, like, secondhand. I don't know if he agreed 'cause he couldn't go back on what he'd already said. Or if he's got something up his sleeve. Or if he really believes his crew is clean. I don't know any of that. But yeah, he agreed. They kissed on it. It's settled."

The noise of the bar seemed suddenly to rise up like a wave, and as if from underneath it Joey heard himself mumbling dully. "So if it's Gino, he ain't even protected."

"Nope."

"And if he ends up gettin' clipped, the old man's gonna feel responsible."

Bert just shrugged.

"Does Gino know about the sit-down?"

"I'm not sure," said Bert the Shirt. "But I sorta doubt it. I mean, the way he seems to be doing everything by himself, I think he's stayin' outta touch."

"Maybe I oughta tell 'im."

Bert reached down and rubbed Don Giovanni's chin. The gesture seemed to help him think. "Well, I don't know. Maybe. But how could you tell 'im without openin' a whole canna worms? Like, how much else d'ya know? Like how come ya didn't let on before? And besides, Joey, once ya get involved, your ass is inna same sling his is."

"But Jesus, Bert, if Ponte has a green light to clip 'im—"

The Shirt held a big, wrinkled hand in the younger man's face. "Joey, lissena me. A lotta what we're talking here, it's guesswork. Ya know, we're assumin' Gino's involved. Maybe he ain't. Maybe he's a lot smarter than we give 'im credit for. Maybe everything'll be fine. But if it turns out he's in this kinda trouble, don't imagine for a second you can help 'im. You can't. So don't be a schmuck."

"Bert, hey, he's my brother."

"Joey, brothers die too, what can I tell ya? If your brother Gino has the stones, make your peace with it and write 'im off. I'm telling you like a father."





— 21 —

"I mean, really, Sandra, how does it look? They're here, what, more than a week already, and we haven't had 'em over. It's not right."

"You want to have 'em over?" Sandra asked.

They were lying side by side on lounges near the pool. It was Sunday afternoon, the only time of week that all the compound residents tended to be at home. Steve the naked landlord was waist-deep in the water. Peter and Claude were sitting at their little table, having herb tea and scones in their undies. Wendy and Marsha, chaste, fuzzy, and bookish in one-piece bathing suits, traded sections of the New York Times. Luke, in deference to the sociable Sunday gathering, had taken his headphones off his ears and looped them around his neck. Lucy the beautiful Fed was quietly swimming laps in a pair of boxer shorts.