They passed Key Largo, made the un-momentous crossing to the mainland. On the MacArthur Causeway to South Miami Beach, Gino said to Debbi, "So I'll leave ya at a cafe, you'll have a drink. I'll see dis guy I gotta see, I'll come back for ya in an hour, hour and a half, we'll go straight ta de airport."
"Fine, Gino," Debbi said. She was looking out her own side window at the cruise ship docks. The mention of a drink made her realize to her slight bewilderment that she didn't feel like having one.
On Ocean Drive she got out of the car in front of a place called Bar Toscano. Gino's tires squealed and he was gone before she'd rounded the rail that stretched along the sidewalk.
Alone, he allowed himself to vent a little glee. He squeezed the steering wheel, indulged in a brief carnivorous grin, came forth with a short percussive laugh.
But by the time he drove into the parking lot at Martinelli's he was composed again.
It was with a certain gravity that he gave his name to the maitre d' at the podium, with a kind of pomp that he followed the broken-nosed bouncer past the lobster tanks and through the dining room to the kitchen. His dignity was undiminished as he let himself be patted down by the thugs in the outer chamber of Charlie Pontes office, and when the inner door was opened he stood still a moment, reviewing his posture, straightening the placket of his shirt. Charlie Ponte, in his silver jacket, was sitting at his desk. His small hands were folded, and he gave Gino a little smile.
But when Gino moved through the doorway, something went terribly wrong. There was a sudden agony in the small of his back, a splintered fiery pain arced up under his ribs. The pain made him go rigid, and when the blow came at the base of his skull he didn't roll with it, he caught it the way a house absorbs a wrecking ball, and it knocked him full length to the floor. He fell so fast he couldn't get his hands out under him; he landed on his chin and split it open. Maybe he was knocked out briefly or maybe he was just confused. The next thing he noticed was that the sole of a boot was on his neck, and Charlie Ponte, looking a great deal taller than he really was, was standing over him with his arms crossed against his stomach.
A small pool of blood was spreading away from Gino's chin, he couldn't move his head to get away from the iron smell of it. Fisheyed and nauseous, he looked up at Charlie Ponte. "Ya crossed me, ya little cocksucker. Ya set me up."
Ponte only smiled. "I didn't cross ya, Gino. I'm givin' ya a chance to keep your word."
The boot came off of Gino's neck; he crawled and rolled and managed to sit up on the floor. He saw four muscle guys—Ponte's bodyguards and two others. One of the new guys was holding the lead pipe with which he'd bashed him in the kidney; the other still palmed the sap he'd used to pummel in his brains.
Ponte went on calmly. "Gino, you distinctly said the Fabrettis were your headache, you settle New York problems." He gestured toward the new guys. "So here's your problem, Gino. Settle it."
———
Close to shore, inside the protective barrier of Key Biscayne, the waters of the Intra-coastal were flat and viscous, the surface had an oily gleam like that of cooling soup. Back to the west, the sky was red and acid yellow with the last heat of sunset; ahead, over the deep enveloping Atlantic, it was already night. Charlie Ponte's cigarette boat, piloted by one of the Miami boss's bodyguards and moving at a speed that would not attract attention, plied the clement waters, carrying Gino toward the darkness.
The doomed man sat on a wraparound settee at the stem. He was flanked by the two Fabretti thugs, who were smoking cigars and looking at the scenery: the mangrove islets, the diving birds. Gino's chin still bled slightly: a line of crimson flowed slowly down his neck; now and then a drop broke free and splattered on his chest. His hands were cuffed behind him. From the middle of the cuffs a chain hung down; at the end of the chain was a clip. In front of Gino, a two-hundred-pound mushroom anchor took up much of the cigarette's small cockpit. The anchor was designed to bury itself in the muck of the ocean bottom and stay buried for eternity. It had a metal stem with an eye to which the clip at the end of the handcuffs would be attached.
Terror made Gino feel lonely. He wanted to chat. "Where we goin'?" he asked his executioners.
The thug at his left puffed on his cigar. He was very handsome for a thug, with dark eyes, chiseled nostrils that were almost feminine, and the thick and wavy hair of a fifties crooner. His name was Pretty Boy and he ate amphetamines like candy. "You're goin' ta hell," he said.
"Out to de edge a duh Gulf Stream," put in the other thug. He was ugly but not nasty; he liked geography and had a philosophical turn of mind. A long curved scar paralleled his jawbone. His name was Bo. "Water gets nice and deep out theah," he added. "Mile deep. Maybe more. Dark blue onna map."