The Godfather stirred. Flat light filtered through his eyelids. His ears hummed though the throbbing in his head had eased, flattened into a steady ache. He remembered where he was, remembered that some six decades, a little more, had passed. He'd have to tell Arty about the fig tree, the mat of grapes. He told himself, Remember ta tell Ahty.
He opened his eyes. He saw the porcelain of the commode, the open cabinet of the leaky sink he'd failed to fix. A drop fell from the faucet, mocking him.
He rested awhile, telling himself there was no reason he shouldn't stay there on the chilly floor next to the toilet. Finally he got to his knees, put things back into the cabinet, closed it up. He didn't want to leave a mess, didn't want anyone to know he'd fainted or that he'd tried to do a simple job and couldn't do it. He paused a moment more, then slowly stood and went on thin unsteady legs to his bed.
17
" 'Lo, Bert," said a voice from over his left shoulder.
The resurrected mobster, his clogged chihuahua dozing on his lap, made only a slow and grudging effort to turn around. He was on the beach, sitting in his folding mesh-weave chair; it was nearly sunset and he wasn't feeling sociable. The cold front had passed through, leaving in its wake a crystalline blue sky and a brisk wind that chased the ocean ripples back to sea. He wanted just to watch.
But, grudgingly, he turned. He saw two men, one of them an old acquaintance from New York. His name was Hawkins, and a decade or so before he'd been a most aggressive and resourceful cop, the agent who, almost single-handedly, had built the so-called I-Beam case and had subpoenaed Bert the Shirt to testify at the trial of his bosses. Bert had been walking up the courthouse steps, rehearsing the words of the Fifth Amendment, when the pressure got him and he died.
"Well, whaddya know," he said, and with no further comment he turned back toward the green ocean and the sinking orange sun.
His two visitors strolled around his chair and stood in front of him in the crumbled coral that passed for sand. Bert took a moment to size up the other guy: short, white, thick-built in a sleeveless shirt and running shorts. He said to Hawkins, black, tall, almost gangly, "Congratulations, Ben. I didn't know you had a son."
Mark Sutton's sprayed hair moved no more than a building in the wind, but his neat bland face crawled with affronted dignity. He moved his mouth, but before he could speak he doubled over and gave a wrenching sneeze.
"Salud," said Bert. "Y'ain't dressed warm enough."
The sneeze woke up his dog. It whimpered and he petted it back into its habitual half-sleep.
"This is Agent Mark Sutton," Hawkins said.
Bert ignored the introduction. "Those winter colds," he said. "I remember 'em. The mucus, postnasal drip, the way your nostrils get all crusty inside, after a few days they bleed." He put his hands behind his head, sucked in a deep breath of salty air. "Mus' be mizzable up theah."
Ben Hawkins crinkled up his stuffed nose and sniffled. "Don't gloat, Bert," he said. "Man your age, it's unbecoming."
The old mafioso motioned like he was composing a photograph, then waved the younger agent a little to the right. "Yo, Muscles, you're blockin' my view."
Sutton slid over an inch or two.
Hawkins said, "Nice shirt."
Lovingly, Bert caressed his billowing sleeve. The blouse was of a heavy, nubby linen, a forest-green background with tiny pastel boomerangs. "Good clot', good tailoring, seams ya could swing on. . . . Ya come alla way down heah to compliment me on my habbadashery?"
"Checking out the hit on Emilio Carbone," said Mark Sutton. He set his mouth in a purposeful frown and gave a slight flex to his abs.
Bert jerked in his chair, threw his hands up like in the Wild West. "How'd ya know it was me, kid? OK, ya got me fair and square."
Hawkins shook his head. "Same old Bert. Always taking credit."
Bert didn't answer, he just stared at Ben Hawkins's feet, stared at them so long that eventually Mark Sutton and Hawkins himself glanced down at them as well, looking for an answer to some mute mystery. "I was just tryin'a think," the old man said at last, "if ever in my life, even once before, I seen a black guy wearin' boat shoes."
"Vincente Delgatto's in town," said Hawkins.
"And speakin' a habbadashery," said Bert, "you, Hawkins, you think you're dressed for Key West? Creased chinos? Gingham shirt? You're dressed for fuckin' Palm Beach. Muscles heah, he's dressed for Key West. Tank top. Tight shorts. The fellas on Duval Street are gonna love 'im."
"Must be nice having an old friend around," said Ben Hawkins. "Been seeing him?"
"Nah," said Bert. "Busy schedule. Ya know, hot dates, gin rummy. Lotta women after me." He scratched Don Giovanni behind the ears and looked out across the ocean. Windblown ripples skidded southward, toward the sun. For some reason Bert found it sad to see the water move that way, receding.