Sunburn(12)

Not, Vincente thought, that this Key West stuff could really be called dirt. Key West had no dirt, only coral limestone, nubbly gray rock that didn't weigh much and had holes in it. You wanted dirt, you went to the store and bought it in a bag. Imported. A luxury item. Hell, even in Queens there was dirt. . . . Gently, the Godfather turned over a cluster of blood-red flowers and squeezed them out of their tiny plastic pot. He placed them in the hole he had dug, snugged them in with the flat of his hand. Then he took stock. He had about a dozen pots of impatiens to go, maybe eight more feet of border, and only a quarter bag of topsoil.

Still on his knees, he looked back over his shoulder and yelled across the pool. "Dirt, Joey. We're gonna need more dirt."

His son was sitting under the patio umbrella, eating cantaloupe and looking at the Sunday Sentinel, making sure the Paradise Properties listings had not been garbled beyond all recognition. "Have some breakfast, Pop," he said. "Dirt, later on, we'll get more dirt."

Vincente considered. He didn't like to stop in the middle of a job, it went against him. But the prospect of resting let him realize that his knees were hurting from the gravel, the hinge at the bottom of his back was complaining. So OK, he would take a break. He started to stand up, then realized with shame and some surprise that it wasn't going to be a simple or a graceful process. He pretended to be puttering, stacking up the empty pots; he didn't want his son to realize that his head was swimming or to see how long it took him to regain his feet. He stalled; at length he rose. Then he dusted himself off and strolled around the pool to have a cup of coffee.

———

At first glance, the Godfather was unimpressed with the Key West nursery.

"Up north," he said, "the nurseries up north, they have more stuff. Ornaments like, trellises. Fountains, ya know, like comin' outa fishes' mouths, angels peeing, that kinda thing."

"Here it's mostly plants," said Joey. "Baby trees, sometimes ya see 'em comin' right outa the coconut. And flamingoes maybe. Ya know, their feet are metal rods, ya stick 'em inna ground."

"Flamingoes?" said the Godfather. "Sandra want flamingoes?"

Joey thought it best to let the question slide, he just led his father through the ranks of encroaching palms and ferns. Hibiscus flowers tickled their forearms as they passed; miniature oranges scented the air with citrus. There was no roof at the nursery, just a fine black netting that kept the birds away and muffled the ferocious sunshine. Nor was there a floor. The bare ground was covered with chips of wood and bark that felt moist and cozy underfoot, it made you realize why bugs and mice and lice liked to live in rotted logs.

At the end of the aisle, between the palm food and the snail bait, they ran into Arty Magnus.

He was wearing olive-drab shorts and torn sneakers with no socks. His legs were long and bandy, a little bit like frogs' legs; his knees turned out just slightly and were rubbed red from kneeling in his yard. He had pieces of leaf in his frizzy hair.

"Joey," he said. He tried to put some heartiness in it, but he was thoroughly distracted. Something was eating his jasmine leaves, and he was in the grip of that dismay known to every gardener, less an anxiety than a fatalistic dread, the sure knowledge that at that very moment one's beloved exotics were being reduced to naked scaly twigs by malicious vermin of infinite appetite and implacable will.

"Arty, how ya doin'?" Joey said.

The editor was going to say something breezy and move on, but then he noticed the old man half hidden by Joey's shoulders. The Godfather. The Reluctant Godfather. Standing in a Florida nursery on a Sunday morning like any other alte cocker, a little stooped, a little bored maybe, surrounded by tagged foliage and big bags of things that would rupture him if he tried to lift them. Arty Magnus suddenly felt that he was staring. He tried to pull his gaze away, he turned his head but his eyes stayed steady like the needle on a compass. It was getting uncomfortable, then Joey shuffled his feet in the mulch and said, "Arty, I'd like you to meet my father. Pop, this is Arty Magnus."

No mention of a name, the editor noted. Incognito. Even in Key West, where in theory there was no Mafia and in fact no one read the papers. He extended his hand, and now it was Vincente who was looking harder and longer than might be thought polite. He was examining Arty's hand before he shook it, noticing the fine dark lines of embedded soil that marked out creases and wrinkles the way ink marked out fingerprints.

"Nice ta meet ya," Vincente said.

"Nice to meet you, sir," said Arty.

Feet wriggled in the tree bark.

"We're here for dirt," said the Godfather. "How 'bout you?"