"It's only the passenger side. The glass didn't even fall out. It's just, ya know, smashed. Looks kinda like a spider-web. Sit up. I brought coffee."
Joey groped for his sunglasses on the night table. He slid them on, then opened his eyes. The tinted lenses didn't blot out the fuzzy dots of mold where the ceiling met the walls.
Sandra had brought with her a copy of the Key West Citizen, already folded to the real estate ads.
"Expensive," she said, bouncing the eraser end of her pencil off her lower lip.
"So what else is new?" said Joey. He had around nine thousand dollars cash with him, which was all the money he had in the world. No bank accounts, no social security, nothing written down. But, he told himself, capital was not the key to his business, vision was, and vision he had. He didn't have the details worked out, that much was true, and in fact his plans had gaps as yawning as those in Henry Flagler's railroad. Still, in his mind he could see the grand sweep, the structure. He'd lay the groundwork himself. It would be tough making the connections, mapping out the turf, but it had to be done. That would take a month or two. After that, his boys would handle things. Of course, he didn't know exactly who these boys would be. But they had to be out there, they always were. Street guys, soldiers, guys who maybe had a little gambling action, a string of girls, some pull with the restaurants, but who needed someone a little savvier, who thought a little bigger, to get things organized. That's what Joey would do: organize. And once things were set up, he'd live the genteel and quiet life of a Boss. Guys would come to him, say Hello, Joey—no, make that Hello, Mr. Goldman.
He'd gesture them into a chair, and they'd be flattered to be asked to sit. Then, discreetly but not without a certain ceremony, they'd hand over money. This part Joey could see quite clearly: Sometimes the money would be in neat white envelopes, other times in rumpled paper bags. The transactions would take place at a spotless glass table, under a palm tree, by a swimming pool.
"Sandra, these places have pools?"
"Yeah, Joey." She narrowed her light green eyes and gave a sigh that was midway between exasperated and amused. "For thirty-five hundred a month, you get a pool."
"Marrone," said Joey. "These are houses?"
"Yeah. There's also condos, but they seem to rent by the week. About fifteen hundred."
Joey hid his face in his Styrofoam coffee cup. "Well, it'll be no problem once I get things going."
"Right," said Sandra, "but it's a little bit of a problem right now. I'll call a broker."
"Yeah, call a broker," Joey said. He knew how these things worked. He wiggled the earpieces of his shades and spoke in a worldly tone. "The prices they print, Sandra, they never expect to get 'em. We'll make 'em an offer."
—
"Your offer's been refused," the broker said, hanging up the phone. "Sorry." He had a gray crew cut, capped teeth, one small diamond earring, and an almost priestly air of truly wanting to help. He'd shown them four houses and three condos. They'd all been too expensive, and not one owner seemed willing to negotiate. Now Joey and Sandra were back at the real estate office, sitting on aluminum chairs while the broker riffled through his box of properties. "You have to understand," he said. "It's season. The town is really full just now."
Joey pulled on his lip. "We seen seven empty places in an hour," he said. "How full can it be?"
The broker just smiled. "If a pool is a priority for you, maybe you should consider a compound. There's a nice little two-bedroom cottage available on Packer Street. Eighteen hundred a month."
"What's a compound?" Sandra asked, and in the question was a note of dread. She was trying to choke down panic, a fear that she'd made a terrible mistake in quitting Anchor Bank, a terrible mistake in coming to Florida, and could easily make the worst one yet in picking a place to live. Compound. The word sounded military, or southern. Would it be Quonset huts and navy brats, or tar paper shacks with door-less refrigerators and hound dogs in the yard?
"Oh," said the broker, "it's very Key West. A compound is a cluster of small houses, fenced off from the street, usually built around a pool and Jacuzzi and barbecue that everybody shares."
"Doesn't sound very private," Joey said. He didn't much like the idea of the neighbors standing around roasting wienies when the boys came to deliver cash. But of course this first place was just temporary. Once the enterprise got rolling, they'd move to one of the rambling, hedged-in establishments in the pricey corner of town.
"You give up some privacy," the broker conceded. "But less than you might think. How long you been in Key West?"