"Lotta jerks write books," said Pretty Boy. 'Take a dive or we t'row ya."
"Someone inside," Gino rasped. "Someone who knows enough ta fuck us all."
"Yeah? Who?" said Bo.
Pretty Boy did not wait for an answer. He leaned in on Gino's flank, started bulling him toward the gunwale. "Come on," he said. "We're wastin' time. Let's drown the piece a shit and get some dinner."
The mushroom anchor dragged around the cockpit. Gino strained for balance, his locked knees screamed and his cramped spine arched like a palm tree in a gale. "You're makin' a big mistake," he croaked.
Pretty Boy bore down on him, spun him so that his wet thighs squished against the gunwale. "And you're gonna make a big splash."
"Who's writin' a book?" said Bo.
Gino smelled piss and ocean and flailed within himself for one more ounce of moxie. "I ain't talkin' heah. I'll talk on land. I'll talk to Messina."
Bo considered.
Pretty Boy yelled out, "Fuckin' shit, let's do the fuckin' job." He slammed the captive in the kidney, hacked him across the back of the neck to bend him double, was reaching now for the manacled hands that would serve as a lever to heave him overboard.
Bo grabbed his colleague by the elbows, wrestled him away. "Nah," he said. "Ya don't drown information."
Pretty Boy, panting and manic, wriggled free and glared at him. Bo paused, then tried to cheer him up. "New Yawk," he said, "same water as Miami. Whatsa difference we drown 'im tomorra or today?"
Gino didn't move, didn't breathe. The boat rocked and slowly twirled, the stars seemed to leave faint tracks as they wheeled. Finally, Ponte's guy shrugged and turned the key in the ignition. The engines thundered into life, the boat spun toward the feint and hazy lights of land, and Gino Delgatto, still chained by his metal tail, stumbled back to the stern settee and began to wonder what he'd say and how he'd say it when he stood before his enemies and ratted out his father.
Part
Three
24
The waiter at Bar Toscano had not minded when the single redhead took a first-row sidewalk table and ordered nothing but a Pellegrino water. It was early, five-thirtyish, the fashionable crowd was not yet swarming in, and the place was mostly empty. Besides, the redhead was pretty in a hokey, brassy, touristy kind of way, and it never hurt to have large-breasted females on the rail.
But something over an hour later, with the sun down and with the neon and the street-lights giving the dusk a restless dappled gleam, the South Beach regulars began appearing in their skintight leggings, their big shirts with the top buttons cinched shut around elegant necks. People were jostling for places, and now the single redhead had become a liability. The waiter wanted her to be gone.
"Anything more?" he asked her. The tone was as welcoming as a faceful of bleach.
Debbi glanced at her watch. Gino was not yet late but he was pushing it, as he often did. A tentative exasperation set in and she asked for a Campari.
She sipped it slowly, and before it was three-quarters gone, the waiter, moving sideways between the close-together tables of the now packed cafe, was back to ask if she would have another. She sighed, said yes, and the waiter flashed a sour little smile, as if politely telling her to choke on it.
The traffic was heating up on Ocean Drive. Foursomes of gorgeous men, their shirts the colors of lollipops, cruised slowly past in vintage Chevy convertibles. The occasional Rolls went by, driven usually by some devilish little fellow with a silver ponytail.
The second aperitif made Debbi feel feisty, and when the waiter once again confronted her, she shot him a look that said, Fuck you too, buddy. Over the buzz of chat and giggles, she ordered a martini, straight up, two olives, very dry.
It was getting on toward nine o'clock. Models slunk past, vacant as cats, and with a cat's knack for holding the eye while giving nothing in return. Smells of garlic and mushrooms came forward past the stink of car exhaust and the feint hint of ocean just a few hundred yards away. Debbi felt suddenly maudlin. She was getting smashed and she didn't want to be. Nor did she want to be sitting in this cafe. Places like this—they made you feel like you were missing something, yet the longer you stayed, the more you felt that what you were missing was no better than what you had, however crummy what you had might be. She called for her tab, put down a somewhat overgenerous tip, and left.
On the other side of Ocean Drive was a park.
This was still the old Miami Beach; there were slatted benches where ancient people could sit and rest their swollen ankles and brag about their grandkids. Debbi decided that's where she would wait for Gino.
She picked her way across the bustling avenue and plopped down on a bench that faced the sidewalk. She stayed there a long time. During rare lulls in the traffic she could hear the ocean. Waves broke, but the sound was less a crash than a slow boiling hiss against the sand.