"What it all comes down to," he concluded, petting the head of his comatose dog, "is that it don't mean diddle what we did before. Now is now, what's left of it. Ya get old, things level out."
"Yeah," said Sam, "I think that's true."
"Prime a life," said Bert, "things are all uneven. This guy's rich, this guy's poor. This guy's a bigshot, this guy's a pissant. Old, it gets equal again, like wit' little kids. Ya need other kids ta play with, that's all. We're just a coupla kids in Florida."
Sam thought that over, made a futile attempt to smooth his fluffy hair. "Except," he said, "in my mind I'm not a kid. In my mind I'm not retired even now. I still think. Try to. I try to think of something useful. Nothing comes, but in my heart I'm still inventing."
Bert toyed with the mustard-colored placket of his shirt. "Okay, ya put it that way, I guess I'm not retired either."
Sam looked at him a little funny.
"I mean," Bert explained, "ya retire from work but ya don't retire from habits. A certain way of looking at the world, a way of reading people, situations. Comes in handy sometimes."
"That's what I want," said Sam Katz.
"What's what you want?"
"Still to come in handy. Be of use."
"That's a luxury," said Bert.
"Dream up some idea, put together some gizmo that still might come in handy."
"Ya never know," said Bert.
"That's right," said Sam. "I never do."
Bert reached across the table, tapped Sam's wrist with his gnarled and spotted fingers. "A great idea, a useful gizmo, it could pop into your head at any second."
"Oy," said Sam. "Things pop out. They don't pop in."
"Stay with it, Sam. Ya never know. Besides, what choice ya got?"
Chapter 10
It was twenty after seven, and Lazslo Kalynin was inspecting himself in the full-length mirror on the inside of his bathroom door.
He hooked his fingers in the corners of his mouth and stretched his cheeks out wide to look for specks between his teeth. He tilted back his head to search out errant nose hairs. He leaned in close to examine his pores, to root out clogs, and preempt the occasional pimple.
When he had dealt with minor flaws, he turned sideways to appraise the bigger picture, trying to imagine how a casually passing stranger might perceive him. He came away pleased with his stylish haircut, manly but hip; with the rich sheen of his blue silk shirt, the understated chains beneath it; with the hug of his jeans, whose fly was cinched together not with a zipper but a rank of cool steel buttons. When Suki undid them, she would be greeted, titillated, by a swath of flame red briefs.
Content with his person, he strolled through the apartment, whose every primped pillow and dimmered light switch said seduction. Ludmila, the Belorussian housekeeper, had not only done the dinner preparations, but had left big vases of fresh flowers on the dining table and next to the sofa. The Gibson guitars, acoustic and electric, were strewn here and there with a studied carelessness. The Harley posters were straight on the walls. A six-pack of CDs had been loaded up with music designed to showcase Lazslo's sensitivity, his many moods.
At 7:35 the doorbell rang.
Lazslo patted his hair and checked the tuck of his shirt before sweeping open the door—and then he tried not to show his disappointment when he saw how Suki looked. He'd imagined she'd be all made up, her full mouth red and beckoning, wearing something slinky, showing hints, at least, of perfumed cleavage. In fact she'd left her blue eyes unadorned, her lips unpainted; she wore no scent, and her loose concealing blouse was buttoned resolutely to the neck. If Lazslo's brain registered the message, his glands negated it at once. She was teasing, he decided, continuing her strategy of being hard to get
He was standing in the doorway, leaning at an angle he thought was very sexy, blocking passage with his arm against the jamb. He said hello and gave a meaty smile. Unyielding, he stayed there in the portal, and they both knew he was trying to exact a toll of contact before she could pass into the apartment. She managed a weak greeting, thinking What an asshole.
Not for the first time but nearly for the last, she wondered how far she could push her luck with this preening brat, and just what the hell she was trying to accomplish, as she arched like a gymnast to slip past him without their bodies touching.
"Fred," said Pineapple, "ya know what I sometimes wonder about?"
They were sitting on the seawall just south of Houseboat Row. The sun had been down an hour or more but there were still faint gradations in the sky, hints of pink rays being smoked out into negatives. Fred didn't take the bait and Pineapple went on: "Luck."