Sunburn(36)

"Wha'd he do?" asked the Godfather.

Bert paused, looked momentarily confused. "Marrone, Vincente, I gotta paint ya a picture?"

No one reacted. The awkward silence only seemed to drive the doting dog owner onward.

"We were onna beach," he said. "I gave 'im the flaxseeds, just like Debbi said. She's a peach, that kid, I'm gonna send 'er flowers—Sandra, don't lemme forget. S'anyway, we're onna beach, walkin' along, almost sunset, and the Don goes inta his squat. I'm thinkin', Oh Christ, here we go again, another failed attempt. He hunkers down inna coral, gets comfortable, looks up at me with those pathetic white eyes. I see the muscles start strainin' in 'is sides, I'm like heartbroken. Then whaddya know? The breakthrough! I don't know who was more surprised, me or the dog. ... He shifts around a little, finishes his business, I swear ta God he smiles. Yeah, smiles! Then he starts kickin' like crazy. Sand, rocks—I mean, he's excavatin. He prances off like a fuckin' whaddycallit, a Clydesdale, like he could lick the world, the little stud."

Bert paused. The silence around him was prefect except for the soft rustling of the foliage.

"I guess ya hadda be there," he concluded, suddenly embarrassed.

The Godfather cleared his throat. "Bert, say hello to a friend of mine. Ahty Magnus, Bert d'Ambrosia."

Arty rose, smiled, extended his right hand. From his left dangled the spiral notebook, and Bert the Shirt, confused, abashed, but never altogether out of it, didn't fail to notice.

"Glass a wine?" Vincente said. "Piece a cheese?"

"Nah, Vincente, nah," said Bert. "I'm interruptin'. I shouldn'ta come bargin' in like this, but I was all worked up. I hadda tell someone."

"We're honored it was us," said Sandra. "Come inside, have a cup of coffee."

Bert shook his head. "Thanks, nah. The truth? I'm like emotionally drained, I gotta go lay down." He started turning, then hefted the chihuahua the way a butcher hefts a steak before slapping it on the scale. "But ya know, I don't think it's my imagination. The dog is definitely lighter. Ahty, nice ta meet ya."

He went into the house. Sandra and Joey followed him.

Arty settled back into his chair, put his notebook on the low metal table. The atmosphere had gotten churned up, like water when a big boat passes; he waited for the air to flatten out. He refilled Vincente's wineglass and his own; the two men batted a shy droll smile back and forth.

After a time, the ghostwriter said, "So Vincente, we were talking about authority."

A cloud crossed the moon. It seemed to carry with it a parcel of wind that rattled the aralia hedge and put choppy little ripples in the pool. "Ah," said the Godfather. "Were we?"





22


Gino was feeling so pleased with himself that he spent the night at the Eden Roc in Miami Beach and availed himself of the services of a five-hundred-dollar popsy. In the morning his eyes itched, his mouth felt woolly, and the hot glary ride to Key West was four hours of irritation. When, around one, he opened the door to his top-floor oceanfront room at Flagler House, all he wanted was to crawl into bed and complete his short night's sleep.

Debbi wasn't there, and the first thing he noticed was the vase stuffed full of extravagant roses, so red they were purple. He narrowed his eyes, lumbered suspiciously to the dresser, and read the little folded card that lay next to a fallen petal. A jolt of blind jealousy flashed through him, lighting up his gut and his muscles; the adrenaline left a glow like the tail of a comet. Had Debbi been there, he would have berated her on the spot, maybe grabbed her hair while demanding an explanation. But she wasn't there, and he was sleepy. With no one watching, no one to defend his honor to, his spasm of rage soon petered out. He drew the curtains, stripped, and went to sleep.

Around three, Debbi came up from the beach. She unlocked the door; the click and the squeak brought Gino past the last stages of his nap. His righteous jealousy woke up with him. Debbi slipped into the room, dark save for the wand of sunlight that squeezed between the panels of the drapes, and the first thing she heard was, "Who the fuck is Don?"

She was wearing flip-flops; there was sand between her toes. She stepped out of the rubber thongs and said, "Gino, what're you talking about?"

"One night I'm away," he rasped, "and you're fuckin' around. I oughta slap ya silly."

"I'm turning a light on, Gino. Cover your eyes."

She switched on a night table lamp. The yellow gleam showed Gino propped on pillows, a wrinkled sheet around him like bunting. His skin was blotched with sleep, his face was wrinkled. He looked like a gigantic hairy newborn.

"So who is 'e?" he insisted. Then he put on a fey and sour voice and quoted the little card. "You set me free. Don Giovanni. What kinda faggot poetry bullshit is 'at?"