Sunburn(25)

In some peculiar way Gino was infuriated, humiliated not to get belted. My dad can lick your dad. The childhood taunt had for him become the first article of a lifelong creed; it shook him to his roots, made him quail inside, when his father declined to kick ass. He pushed his thick chin forward and egged the old man on. "A deal, Pop, is ya give somethin', ya get somethin'. Fuck we get for givin' up the locals?"

Vincente's mouth was slack, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes looked waxy. His voice was soft, it sounded like someone dancing on sand. "A little peace a mind," he said.

There was a pause. For Gino, the answer might as well have been Chinese; for Joey, silent in the background, hardly breathing, it seemed no more than obvious; and it was strange but natural that the two brothers' understandings were so different. A father didn't really teach his sons; his life threw lessons in the air like scraps to gulls, and different mouths latched onto different morsels.

After a moment Gino went on the attack again. "So Cholly Ponte, he tells me he's already payin' tribute ta New Yawk, ta the Fabrettis, he doesn't have to pay double."

"He's right," Vincente said.

"Maybe," said Gino. "But what I'm thinkin', this deal you made wit' Carbone, it died wit' Carbone."

Vincente shook his head, and the sinews in his stringy neck rose and fell on either side. "The deal's between the families."

Gino waved away that notion. "Messina, that geek, I don't see what it's got ta do with him."

Vincente had nothing to add. He sat there very still.

"Listen, Pop," said Gino. "Here's what I wanna do, and I want ya ta back me on it. I wanna go ta Ponte, tell 'im things are back the way they were, he pays us again."

The Godfather put his hands flat in front of him and leaned a little closer to his son. He cocked his head; the angle put his eyes in shadow. "Gino, you fucking deaf? The deal stands. Leave it alone."

Gino sucked his gums. He looked down at his lap, watched his meaty fist flex and unflex against his thigh, felt his palm grow slick with oily sweat, but he was taken by surprise when his hand flew up in the air and came down hard, made a bruising, stinging sound against the cool stone of the desk. When he spoke, outrage and helplessness were wrestling to a strangled stalemate in his throat, his voice was pinched and shrill. "Pop, you're lettin' people walk all over us, they're losin' respect, you're lettin' 'em take what's ours—"

Vincente raised a single finger and spoke in a voice that seemed to rumble up from underground. "Ours?" he said. "Gino, listen a me. Ya live long enough, an' if there's anything left ta run, maybe someday you'll be running things. But that day ain't heah yet. So do like I tell ya. Stay outa Miami. Keep outa Cholly Ponte's way. And fuhget about that fuckin' union  . Ya got that, Gino?"

Gino didn't answer. He sat there hangdog, brooding, taking weird solace from the pins and needles in his smarting hand; the sting was some evidence of action, proof of contact, some rub against his father's strength. He wrapped that aching hand around his glass and sucked the bourbon down; too bad if his old man didn't like it.

The silence went on too long, too long even for family, and finally, from the shadows, Joey Goldman said, "Pop, ya said there was somethin' ya wanted ta talk t'us about."

Vincente raised a heavy salt-and-pepper eyebrow, managed the beginnings of a small smile devoid of pleasure. He'd almost forgotten. It was supposed to be an evening of talking to Arty, his writer, an evening of cleaning out, of shedding garbage, not taking garbage in. Air whistled in the old man's nose, came out as a hissing grunt. "Another time," he said. "I'll tell yuhs another time. I had enough aggravation for one night."





16


The next morning a cold front came through, one of those unwelcome reminders that not even Key West was totally removed from the embarrassing and frozen continent above it, that appalling people and rotten news and lousy weather could still plop down from the mainland like droppings from some gargantuan internal beast. The wind veered till it was due north and carried foreign smells of pine and granite. Smeared and moody clouds raced through the sky; fronds and leaves tore loose from trees and landed in roiled swimming pools.

The Godfather, drained from the conversations of the night before, stayed in bed till Joey and Sandra had gone to work. Then he rose, washed, dressed. Drinking coffee, he looked out the window. The chill and the gloom reminded him he had some calls to make. He went to Joey's study, sat down at the limestone desk. Usually circumspect about the telephone, here Vincente felt secure. This was Florida, not New York. His son Joey had a spotless record; he was a respected businessman. No judge would sign off on a warrant to tap the phone. Besides, what did Vincente have to talk about that was so awful? Petty things, administrative things. Things where a few soothing words and a couple dollars could keep the peace. Of a mobbed-up shop in the garment district: Our guy gets six-fifty and car? the Godfather would say; So give their guy six-fifty and a car. On a rigged construction bid in the Bronx: Bring the steel down three percent, you'll make it back on the cement.