Sunburn(45)

"And you?" Sandra resumed. "What'll you do?"

Debbi gave a shrug that brought her freckled shoulders almost to her ears. "Scrape together some money and go back home, I guess."

"Back to Queens," said Sandra. It was not a question, more like a sentencing.

Debbi nodded.

"That what you wanna do?"

"I dunno. There's my job and all."

"You care about the job? The job make you happy?"

"I like dogs," said Debbi.

"That isn't what I asked you," Sandra said.

Debbi kept quiet. She couldn't put her finger on it, but something was making her afraid again. She recalled the nasty stylishness of Bar Toscano, how glum and lonely it had made her feel. She pictured the lost souls and the creeps who stalked the night, and the world beyond her old neighborhood seemed a difficult and thankless place.

"Debbi," Sandra said, "you and I once had a talk about what it takes for a person to change. Remember?"

Debbi swallowed, looked down at the pool. She remembered. But that had been a safer subject when the person who needed changing was someone else.

"Why don't you stay with us awhile?"

Redheads blush easily, and now Debbi felt her skin grow warm, the spaces between the freckles were colored in. "Sandra, I couldn't—"

'Take a break. Give yourself some time to think things through."

Debbi inhaled, and the breath didn't seem to want to come out again. She lifted a slender eyebrow, and the eyebrow hung suspended. She remembered the nice feel of the wicker bureau, the grooves in the paneled walls. "I don't know what to say."

"Say yes," said Sandra, "and let's get you some breakfast."

———

Joey dragged Vincente on some errands and managed to stay away from home till five o'clock. But as he drove the El Dorado up the gravel driveway and underneath the carport, his stomach clamped down and started to burn, and his fingers began to tingle with the first squirts of unwanted adrenaline.

Father and son walked into the living room.

Vincente saw Debbi, glanced quickly at Sandra, and understood at once that something bad had happened, Joey's distraction instantly made sense to him. The old man held himself very straight. This was a vintage trick, an act of bravado that sometimes worked: you took the bad news full on an unbent chest, and if it didn't knock you down, if it didn't bowl you over, you were ready to straighten your collar and press forward.

Joey looked at Sandra and knew beyond a doubt there'd been no word of Gino.

For a moment no one moved and no one spoke. The ceiling fan turned very slowly; the air pushed in gentle viscous waves. Joey dropped his sunglasses in the pocket of his shirt. "Pop," he said, "we gotta talk."





26


"Hour, hour an' a half," murmured the Godfather.

"How long's it take to get from Sout' Beach ta Coconut Grove and back?"

"About that long," said Joey.

They were in his study, Vincente sitting at the limestone desk, Joey pacing in front of him. Through the glass block wall gleamed the lavender light of dusk. The Godfather reached up to fidget with an absent necktie and tried without success to find an alternative to believing his son Gino had disobeyed him. To be disobeyed—it made him angry, of course, but more than that it disgraced him; it showed that he had failed in his authority and therefore failed in his ability to protect.

"Joey, can ya think of any other—"

His son was already shaking his head, and now a kind of embarrassment was heaped on top of the old man's shame. He was losing his grip, getting soft. He shouldn't need to consult. He shouldn't need help or confirmation. It was his place to know, to act. He reached for the phone and dialed a number from memory.

After a moment the line was picked up and an oily voice said, "Martinelli's. Good evening."

"Do you have gnocchi?" asked the Godfather.

"No," said the maitre d'. "No gnocchi."

"Then lemme get a calf's head."

"How you like it, sir?"

"Eyes open, facing forward."

"Hold on," said the oily voice. "I'll put you through."

Bad music played through the phone. Joey paced. The light outside went gray. Then Charlie Ponte picked up the line.

"Yeah?"

"Where's my son?"

The voice was like a rumble underground, it seemed to come from everywhere at once. For a moment Ponte didn't answer; then he sounded knocked off stride, confused.

"Vincente—"

"Where is 'e, Cholly?"

Again there was a pause, a clinch, but this time Ponte came out of it swinging. "How da fuck should I know?"

"Don't bullshit me. I know he was there."

The Miami boss chewed a thumbnail and tried to figure out what else his adversary knew. "Yeah, he was here. And he left."