Bert was sitting on the desk. He'd half walked to it, half collapsed on it when Charlie Ponte, shrugging, had decided it would be beside the point to kill his captives just then, and the thugs had left the shed. Outside, the big tires of their two dark Lincolns had churned loose garbage; then they were gone. Now Bert was holding Don Giovanni in his lap. The dog was licking his hands and doing pirouettes around his thighs, looking for the most comfortable place to settle in. "I ain't been so worked up since the day I died," the old man said. "I almost forgot what it was like to get that tunnel vision, to feel that pounding inna neck. But I think I'm all right now."
"Then let's get the fuck outta heah," said Joey. "One more minute and I swear I'm gonna puke."
They stepped over the remains of Vicki's beauty aids and went through the doorless frame into the orange-pink light of the dump. Overhead, cackling gulls wheeled, sharply silhouetted against the sky. A whiff of salt from the Gulf sliced through the stink of trash. Some twenty yards away on the flank of the garbage mountain, Joey's Caddy and Gino's T-Bird were parked side by side. The dented, rusted Eldorado, with its smashed windshield, corroded roof springs, cracked upholstery, and dimpled fender, looked like it had reached its consummation on the trash heap.
"Come on," said Joey, "I'll drive you home."
"What about Gino's car?"
Joey, insanely glad to have some small outlet for his disgust, approached the Thunderbird and spat on its hood. "Fuck Gino," he said. "And fuck Gino's car. Let Gino tell Hertz how their new T-Bird ended up inna gahbidge."
Then he remembered that it was probably Dr. Greenbaum who would have to do the explaining. Getting even with Gino had never been easy.
On the ride back to Key West, Joey and Bert craned their necks toward the open top of the Caddy, trying to breathe in the night air rather than their clothes. When Joey turned off U.S. 1 and onto A1A, Bert worked his loose lips for a few seconds before he managed to form some words. Then he said, "Joey. I'm, like, ashamed."
"Wha' for?"
The old man rested his long hands on his bony knees, and his dog propped its chin on the inside of his elbow. "Ya know," he began. "That I broke down, that I cried." But then he changed his mind. "Nah, fuck it, not that I cried. But that I was, like, selfish. Like, I made it sound like I care more about my dog than about your brother."
"Well, you do, Bert. I don't blame you for that."
'Yeah, but it ain't right. I mean, a human being, a relative."
"He ain't your relative," Joey said.
"Even so," said Bert. "Taunting Ponte like that. O.K., our ass was in a sling, it was a gamble. You and me, we ain't inna gahbidge. But I feel like I sold Gino out."
"Bert, hey, let's keep things like in proportion heah. Gino sold us out. Besides, he has any brains, he's half-way back to New York by now."
The retired mobster absently stroked his dog and looked out the window at the Florida Straits. There was just enough doubt in his face so that Joey said, "You think he isn't halfway to New York?"
Bert shrugged. He was barely equal to the effort of lifting his shoulders. "Me, I'm too tired to figure. My nerves are shot and I wanna go to bed."
Joey drove. A line of mild moonlight tracked the Caddy as it lumbered along the water's edge, but Joey was damned if it seemed to him that the moon was picking him out for anything special. "Shit," he muttered. Then he pushed out a furious breath. "Goddammit, Bert. I'm like finally gettin' my legs under me heah, finally gettin' a little bit comfortable—"
He shook his head, slapped the steering wheel, and left it at that.
At the front gate of the Paradiso condominium, Bert the Shirt got slowly out of the car, his dog nestled in the crook of his arm. "Joey," he said, "what's goin' on, it's all fucked up, but it ain't your problem, don't let it poison your life. And another thing—I swear to God I hope I'm wrong, but I'm apologizing in advance. If your brother Gino gets whacked tonight, I'm really, really sorry."
— 26 —
But Gino Delgatto did not in fact get whacked that night, nor did he head back to New York.
By the time Charlie Ponte and his boys retraced their steps from Mount Trashmore, Gino, for reasons known only to himself, was back at the Flagler House hotel. He'd let the valet park his second rented car, and had locked himself in his room, where he remained effectively barricaded for the next week. He saw no visitors and took no calls. He ordered room service meals three times a day, and kept his hand on his pistol in the pocket of his bathrobe when they were delivered. With dinner came a bottle of Jack Daniel's. He slept with the gun under his pillow, and kept a small revolver near the toilet.