"Don't try," the old friend said.
He bent down gingerly, gathered up his brittle dog, and turned to go. There were certain imperatives that went with the decorum of the moment, and Bert and Vincente both knew what they were: There could be no further talk, no hesitation, no looking back.
The retired mobster walked resolutely around the swimming pool and across the yard, maintaining his dignity as best he could while slipping between the rainspout and the oleanders. It was not until he was crunching across the driveway that he realized he was terrified.
His fear did not have primarily to do with confronting Aldo Messina, though he knew that could be dangerous. People had tempers; you never knew when they might take offense. The rules, even back when the rules were obeyed, had been hazy when it came to messengers, ambassadors.
But Bert was frightened mainly because of something else. He was frightened with an old man's quiet panic at the thought of leaving home, venturing out of his routine, sallying through bustling and unfriendly places. Terminals with baffling signs and corridors long as the stroll between the ocean and the Gulf. Devious escalators with oily treads, trampling crowds moving murderously as tidal waves, felonious cabbies and traffic lights that didn't give you time enough to cross the icy street.
He was seventy-six years old, and he hadn't been to New York in a decade. Now that he thought of it, he hadn't been anywhere. He hadn't packed a suitcase, hadn't even looked at his ancient winter clothes hanging in their dusty and forgotten garment bags. Somewhere at the bottom of his closet, buried amid his late wife's undiscarded shoes, was a carpeted carrier for Don Giovanni; the thought of the befuddled dog cooped up inside it, whimpering and cold, caused the old man anguish.
But he'd as much as promised he was going, and he would go. He nestled his chihuahua more closely against his nervous stomach and walked slowly home to begin the daunting chore of making his arrangements.
32
In the windowless bathroom of number 308 at Key West's Gulfside Inn, Mark Sutton's ankle weights dangled from the shower-curtain rod like salamis in a deli window, his hand squeezers lay on a shelf beneath the medicine chest, and two of his extra-support jockstraps were draped over the faucet in the tub. A mildewed towel had been crumpled up to seal the crack below the door, and by a dim red light the avid young agent was printing the film he'd shot that morning. Exacting with his wooden tongs, he placed an eight-by-ten of Debbi Martini—on roller blades in the company of a known mafioso—in the basin of developer; the image congealed like cooling Jello. He washed it in fixer, then clipped it onto a wire to dry with the others.
When he emerged from his portable darkroom, he saw Ben Hawkins standing at the window in his jockey shorts, smoking a cigar and sourly contemplating the vista: a parking lot; a dreary procession of rented cars on U.S. 1; then, behind a sparse row of yellowing and scraggly palms, the shallow rocky water of the Gulf. "So wha'dya get?" he asked without much interest.
"Some good shots of the girl talking with d'Ambrosia," Sutton said. "Nice and sharp, even with the sun behind them."
Hawkins said nothing for a moment, just puffed on his cigar. He was bored. He had no stomach for grabbing Delgatto on RICO. Murder one, sure—but he would have bet his pension that the break in the Carbone case would come from somewhere else, that his time in Key West was being totally wasted because of politics and bureaucratic waffling. And meanwhile he was partnered with this hyperactive righteous tyro.
"Mark," he said at last, "let me ask you something about those pictures. Is there such a thing as a card you wouldn't play—in the name, say, of mercy, or gallantry, or just wanting to see someone have a second chance?"
The agent with muscles didn't seem to understand the question. He came up on the balls of his feet and said, "Look, if she's violating her probation—"
"You an agent or a parole officer?" Hawkins asked.
"The information's there to be used," said Sutton. "It's in the computer. I don't see any reason not to—"
"Come on, Mark. She made a mistake. What's it got to do with Delgatto? With the Mob? What's it have to do with anything?"
"It's about leverage."
"Straight from the textbook, Agent Sutton. Very good."
Stung, the younger man flexed his fists and thought ungenerous thoughts about his partner's attitude. Was it the age thing or the black thing that made him so unambitious? "Look, we have a job to—"
"You think that girl's a menace to society?"
"Ben, she has a drug charge on her record. She's Gino Delgatto's girlfriend. She's a guest in the same house as the Godfather, for chrissake. She's supposed to have no contact with criminals, and she's with criminals all the time. If there's a way for us to use that—"