"We don't need to sit," Mark Sutton said. He leaned down, not very far, and put his palms on Arty's desk. "Do you know who Joey Goldman's father is?"
Arty sat again, considered. He'd blurted one fib already; that he could forgive himself. But two fibs made a lie, and soon there was a pattern, a universe of lies, and the thought of that put a sick taste in his mouth, a revolting taste as of biting into something rotten. "Yeah," he said. "I know."
The young agent gave a vindicated nod, then blew his nose into a red bandanna. "He's a lifelong criminal. A dangerous man. Scum."
"He sits in the shade and putters in the garden," Arty could not help answering. "Not very dangerous as far as I can see."
Ben Hawkins crossed his arms; his crisp clothes all but creaked as he changed positions. "No offense, Mr. Magnus, but you can't see very far. A few weeks ago, there was a gangland killing in New York—"
"I've read about it," Arty said.
"All right then," said Ben Hawkins. "Listen, we're here for information. You know these people. You're welcome in their house. ..."
Arty splayed his hands out on his desk. Behind him, the ancient air conditioner dribbled out a drop of condensation that splashed dully on the rotting floor. Tension was crawling up the back of his neck and making his scalp clamp down around his brain, and yet he almost smiled. He was hearing Vincente rasp and rattle on about authority. You can accept it, resist it, become it, or just shut your mouth and try to live an unbowed life as though you were free to decide things for yourself.
"Sorry," said Arty. "I like these people. You guys, I don't know you from Adam. I don't want to get involved."
"It's your duty as a citizen to be involved," said Sutton.
That made Arty scratch an ear. He was at the age when he'd just begun to notice that there were people in the world who were considerably greener, sillier, more confidently stupid than himself.
Ben Hawkins understood that his partner had laid an egg. He took another tack. "You know what the RICO statute is, Mr. Magnus?"
"Sure."
"Not a favorite law of mine. But our boss enjoys noodling around with it. Personally, I think he stretches it a little far, tries to make it reach all the way to friends of friends. Bottom line—you can't always pick where you're involved."
Arty poked his tongue around inside his cheek. To his surprise, he was feeling feisty, getting mad. "Gentlemen," he said, "my dealings with cops have been limited to my work as a reporter. So bear with me if I seem a little slow. Are you threatening me?"
Mark Sutton looked at Ben Hawkins from underneath his mat of too-neat hair. Hawkins's eyes were urging him to go easy, but of course the young agent did not. "Threatening?" he said. "No. Not threatening. Not yet. Just suggesting that it might be in your interests to cooperate with us."
He reached for his wallet, coaxed it from his back pocket, past the knotted muscles of his buttocks.
He produced a business card, let it flutter down onto Arty's blotter. "Maybe you'll reconsider."
The agents left. Arty leaned back in his chair, his wet shirt stuck to his shoulders. He picked up the card with the Bureau seal and made a move toward the wastebasket; then, without quite knowing why he did it, he dropped it into the back of his Rolodex instead.
23
Vincente was home alone when Gino and his bim came to say goodbye the following afternoon.
In a shady spot out by the pool, the father and the son embraced, but things were wrong between them, the clasp was awkward; chest to chest they came no closer than before.
"Take care, Pop," Gino said as he backed away. "I'll see ya in New Yawk."
Vincente could think of nothing to say that would not ring false, and so he only nodded.
Debbi reached out her hand, and the old man surprised them both by taking her in his arms. Perhaps he did it mainly to erase the empty feel of Gino. The hug put a catch in Debbi's throat. It had nothing to do with feelings toward Vincente, only with his uneasy gift of drawing out the truth from others.
Debbi asked him please to say goodbye to Sandra and to thank Bert for the flowers.
Gino floored the rented T-Bird in reverse, the tires spit gravel onto his bastard brother's lawn, and he headed for Miami.
On the long hot drive up U.S. 1, they saw pelicans skimming green water with their wing tips, ospreys perched on lampposts with fish still wriggling in their talons. Gino hardly spoke. Debbi figured he was being surly; it was all the same to her. But in fact he wasn't being surly. He was happy, excited, and he was hoarding his excitement, savoring it, trying with the clenched pleasure of a man withholding semen to prolong it. He was on his way to pick up thirty thousand dollars. More than that, he was on his way to claim a prize, clinch a victory that would in turn confirm him as a leader.