"Me?" said Sandra. As if by reflex, she reached up toward the high collar of her blouse. "Joey, I'm the original prude, you know that. I blush if someone sees my slip. But if other people wanna take their clothes off, I got no problem with that."
"I dunno," said Joey. "And I'm not crazy about the idea of living with a Fed right here."
"Who's a Fed?"
"What's 'er name? Lucy."
"Joey, she's a mailman."
"A Fed's a Fed. You think they don't all work together? They all wanna know your business. Right away it's the IRS, the FBI."
"Joey, admit it. You're just uptight about the naked part."
He languidly dug a toe into the compound's white gravel. "Awright, I admit it. I didn't bring you down here to hang around a bunch of guys with their dicks out. Am I weird? No, I'm not weird. Sandra, this is a weird town."
"You're the one who wanted to come here," she said. "I was perfectly happy to stay in Queens. Say what you want about Queens, Joey, at least people don't go around with nothing on."
Joey raised his hands up around his temples. It was a gesture of surrender but also a warning that he didn't want to hear any more. "So, Sandra, you're telling me you wanna live in this freakin' nudist camp?"
"I'm telling you we haven't seen anything better we can afford. I'm telling you I don't wanna go back to some depressing motel that stinks of mildew. And I'm telling you that if we don't make a decision, I'm gonna scream."
Joey tapped his foot; the gravel dust did not come off his black loafer. Then he walked back to the pool.
"So, Steve," he said. "We're innerested. But eighteen hundred—it's a little steep for us. Take fifteen."
Steve looked at the broker. The broker looked at Steve.
"Fifteen if it's year-round," said the naked landlord. "If you'll sign a full-year lease."
"Deal," said Joey. He felt like he'd gotten away with something, and it cheered him up. Three hundred bucks off just for signing a stupid piece of paper.
"I'll get the lease," Steve said, but Joey stopped him with a gesture before he could wade to the stairs. Underwater was bad enough. He wasn't ready for full frontal in the glaring light of day.
"We'll go get our car and stuff," said Joey. "We'll sign the papers after."
— 5 —
On a breezy morning at the end of January, Joey Goldman stood in front of his bathroom mirror and tried to figure out how best to display his sunglasses on those rare occasions when he wasn't actually wearing them. Some guys, he'd noticed, hooked them around their second shirt button, and let them hang straight down. This was stylish, Joey thought, but maybe, well, a little feminine. Of course, he could simply drop them in his breast pocket, but then they were invisible, he got no benefit at all. Maybe the suave compromise was to put them in the pocket, but with an earpiece looped outside.
Joey spent about ten minutes on this problem, and told himself he wasn't killing time, he was working on his image, which after all was an important aspect of his business. He wasn't hiding out inside the compound, inside the cottage, behind the bathroom door. Or maybe he was. Had he ever in his life had a more frustrating few weeks? He couldn't say for sure.
He hadn't made a nickel, and it was a damn good thing Sandra had right away found a job. Seems there was a shortage of bank tellers in south Florida, and considering what they were paid, that was not surprising. Her salary at Keys Marine was just enough to halve the pace at which they were going broke.
Meanwhile Joey had a lot of time to himself, to think, to organize, to set things up. But all he'd really accomplished was laying down the base coat for a glorious tan. That, and meeting the neighbors.
The neighbors were very Key West, and Joey, who was not, had a tough time figuring out how he was supposed to feel about them. Take Peter and Claude. They couldn't have been nicer or more welcoming, but they were, after all, queer. Claude was blond, very tall and thin, and walked like he was modeling mink coats. Peter had bleached his hair but kept his eyebrows dark, as if trying unsuccessfully to look sinister. They worked late, and would emerge from their cottage around two P.M., wearing sarongs. They'd offer Joey herb tea and cookies that didn't snap, they bent: Key West was a humid place. Then they'd ask him questions about the theater, the opera, downtown clubs, stuff like that. Questions about New York, but not the New York Joey knew. Joey couldn't deny that he appreciated the company, the chitchat, but he also couldn't deny that there was something faggoty about herb tea, about a drink where you could see the bottom of the cup. He couldn't tell if he was pretending to like Peter and Claude but didn't, or pretending not to but did.