There was a pause, the boat's twin engines popped and purred, water lapped against the hull. Gino moved a notch closer to the impossible knowledge that he was about to die. "That fuckin' Ponte," he said. "That midget cocksucker."
Bo tried to produce a smoke ring, but the breeze tore it instantly to shreds. "Now Gino," he said, "don't be bitter. Ya gotta think about the psychology of it. You gave Ponte the chance ta make an enemy and the chance ta make a friend. He figured the Fabrettis are comin' up, the Puglieses are goin' down—"
"The Puglieses are fucked," Pretty Boy put in. "They're history." He spat out a tobacco fleck.
"Ponte made a choice," said Bo. "That's nothin' ta get mad at."
The boat slipped under the Rickenbacker Causeway, past the golf-course end of Key Biscayne. Gino caught a whiff of lawn, of soil, he tasted dry land at the back of his throat, and the flavor carried with it the unspeakable poignance of childhood memories. He again tried on the thought of death and was instantly filled with a great and all-forgiving tenderness toward himself. Things should not have turned out this way for him; it wasn't fair. He'd been gypped somehow, given a bum steer somewhere along the line. The bunglings and the lies that had brought him here—he divorced himself from them, they were not his fault.
Beyond the marker at Northwest Point, the sea grew featureless and infinite. The earth smells vanished, overwhelmed by the tang of iodine and salt and kelp and fish. The first stars were coming out. Pontes thug goosed the engine and brought the sleek hull up on plane; the mushroom anchor clattered as the boat bounced from crest to crest, and Gino scavenged through his aching brain for a way to save himself.
After a time, he shouted above the motor noise. "What if I tol' ya that Ponte's choice, us or the Fabrettis, it don't make a fuckin' bit a difference, the whole goddam thing is comin' down?"
"I'd tell ya ta shut the fuck up," said Pretty Boy.
Bo thought a bit more deeply about the comment. "Gino," he said, "just 'cause you're havin' a bad day, it don't mean—"
"What if I tol' ya," the captive cut in, "that while we're sittin' heah inna middle a the fuckin' ocean, the biggest ratout in history is gettin' ready ta be sprung?"
"Calm down, fuckface," Pretty Boy told him. "You're bleedin' all over ya'self."
The powerboat slammed on. The water now was indigo, it rose and fell with the heavy evenness of open ocean waves. Perhaps two miles up ahead, the fuller surge of the restless Gulf Stream could be glimpsed beneath the brightening stars.
Gino flexed his cuffed arms and prattled desperately on. "Your boss," he screamed. "If someone was gonna blow his world right open, ya don't think he'd wanna know? Ya don't think he'd be grateful to the guys that brought de information?"
Pretty Boy and Bo still clutched their cigars, but it was too windy to smoke them now; the ash had blown away and the tips glowed a hellish red. The two thugs leaned forward in front of Gino and held a silent conference by the light of the smoldering tobacco. Gino held his breath. Then Pretty Boy said, "Fuck 'im, he's jerkin' us around."
Bo didn't disagree. They leaned back again. Gino took a deep breath of salty air and hoped he wouldn't start bawling.
The cigarette reached the heavier chop; spray hissed up along its sides. Ponte's thug cut the engines and the mighty boat became a raft, a cork, a passive thing being cradled by the ocean. In the sudden silence the stars seemed nearer, the teasing slap of water on the hull was terrifying in its mildness.
"Stan' up, Gino," said Pretty Boy.
Shakily, he did so. His handcuffs chattered with his fear; the chain hung over his buttocks and down his legs like an obscene mechanical tail. Almost gently, Bo took him by the shoulders and turned him around. He grabbed the chain and fitted the clip to the eye of the anchor. It locked shut with a dry and bell-like ping.
Ponte's thug looked on, his feet spread wide for balance, his arms crossed on his chest. In the tone of an expert adviser, a connoisseur, he said, "Trow him in first, den de anchor. Udder way, ya yank his arms off, the body's still layin' there."
The boat bobbed and slowly spun, the astonishing power of the current could be felt right through the fiberglass. Bo puffed on his cigar. "So Gino, ya wanna jump or ya want we should t'row ya?"
The captive looked down at the water. It was black. He couldn't see into it one inch. He wet his pants; the piss ran down his leg like tears. His ribs compressed around his burning lungs and he might as well have been already drowning. Past the locked sinews of his throat he managed to squeeze a weak whisper. "Someone's writin' a book."