Mangrove Squeeze(7)

Suki, louder, repeated her request.

"Manager?" the old man said. "What manager? You're standing in my workshop."

Key Westers not infrequently made loopy jokes that other people failed to see the humor in. Suki decided the old guy must be kidding. She smiled and said nothing.

The pause forced him to reconsider. He blinked, glanced around at the potted palms, the cubbyholes for mail and keys. "Wait a second," he said at last. "I'm not in my shop. This is Aaron's place. My boy. Florida."

"Yes, Florida," Suki said, not quite shouting.

Sam Katz shook his head, pointed to his brain. "Worse it's getting. Mornings usually I'm good. So you want to see my Aaron?"

"If he's the owner, yes."

"A real mensch, that kid," said Sam. "His mother and me, I don't know what we did, but something we did right. He was a big deal on Wall Street, ya know. Did great. Picture in the Journal, the whole schmear. The way, ya know, they trace it. Then just gave it up. Walked away. Got tired of the pressure, the bullshit. Pardon my French."

"No problem," Suki said. "I'm from Jersey."

"I'm from the Bronx, whaddya know . .. Sometimes I think... ah, never mind."

"What?" said Suki. "What do you think?"

Sam looked down at the tiny pieces of his hearing aid. "Sometimes I think maybe he gave it up, partly anyway, to have more time for me. I shouldn't 've let him do it."

There was nothing Suki could say to that.

Sam drummed his fingers lightly on the desk blotter so that tiny screws and washers danced. "You'll wait a minute, I'll find my son."

The old man was gone a long time, long enough for Suki to wonder if maybe he'd forgotten what errand he'd set out on. Outside, bees buzzed, warblers cheeped.

Finally Aaron Katz appeared, alone, in the doorway behind the counter. Today he'd been wiring telephones, crawling under beds and nightstands to chase elusive dial-tones in and out of walls. It was frustrating work but relatively clean; without the plaster dust, his hair was curly brown, his face the ruddy color that comes not from lying on the beach but working in the sun. He wore a shirt from a past life—a business shirt of rich fine cotton, but now wrinkled along the placket and fraying at the collar, the French cuffs rolled up past the elbows. Reaching a hand across the counter, he said, "Hi, I'm Aaron."

"Suki," she said as she clasped. "With the Island Frigate."

"That's a paper?" Aaron asked.

It was not a great start, and Suki searched for a way to save face for her employer without offending a potential customer. She said, "You're new in town."

She said it gently but it made Aaron look down at his shoes. Tenure was everything in Key West, and everybody came to realize that without needing to be told. "Couple of months," he said, gesturing around him. "But I don't seem to manage to bust out of here very often."

"You're doing a great job with the place," said Suki, maybe a shade too glibly.

Aaron rallied. "Wrestling with my own incompetence," he said. "And the truly impressive incompetence of others."

There was a brief pause. They were looking at each other. Brown eyes, blue eyes. Necks and mouths and shoulders. Looking without talking was more intimate than was quite polite.

Suki said, "The Frigate's a weekly. News, reviews, opinions, politics. It's really the locals' paper."

Aaron said, "Okay, I'll subscribe."

"It's free," said Suki. "I'm selling ads."

Aaron pursed his lips. "I'm in the tourist business. If it's a paper for the locals—"

"That's why the tourists read it," Suki cut in quickly. "So they can feel like locals."

Aaron's right eyebrow shot up. He was glad to be out of New York and away from the daily yank and whine of business, but he still appreciated quickness, moxie, salesmanship. He smiled, said, "Good save."

Suki smiled back. Smiling, her whole face opened. Aaron couldn't tell if he was looking more intently now or if it was just that she was showing him more, allowing him to see. She had a disconcerting upper lip that was fuller, lusher than the bottom one. There was a slight gap between her two front teeth. She was a little fleshier than was fashionable, with the sort of fullness that put appealing creases where the shoulder met the arm. Bantering with her, Aaron had begun to feel like they were dancing—no matter that the registration counter with its silver bell loomed chastely between them—and he didn't want to stop.

He said, "What's the circulation?"

She said, "Forty thousand."

"Paper's free," he said. "How do you know?"

She bit her lip—the upper one. "The truth?" she said. "We have no idea how many get read. Forty's what we print."