The handsome thug seemed unsurprised to be exiled from the group. He stood up jumpily, went to the pool table, started rolling the cue ball off the cushions.
Bert drank his water. "So gents," he said, "I'll go back ta Florida, I'll tell Vincente Gino's fine, everything is settled. 'Zat correct?"
Messina considered. Before he could speak, Gino blurted out, "Wait a second. I don't want 'im in Key West right now."
Bert listened hard to Gino's tone. It was a whine, but a strong whine, the pushy whine of a person whose desperation gave him the right to ask for things. The old man said casually, almost jokingly, "Hey, Key West is where I live. Whatsa difference—?"
Gino talked right over him. "I don't want him talkin' ta my father. I don't want 'im seein' nobody."
"But Gino," said Bert, "the whole reason I'm heah—"
"Stay outa my face, old man," said Gino. He said it with his teeth together; the voice gurgled through his throat like lava through a crater. "You're a dried-up old pain innee ass, you're just makin' everything more complicated."
Don Giovanni whimpered. Pretty Boy manically rolled the cue ball. Then Bert said, "Wha", Gino? What am I makin' more complicated?"
The closest thing to an answer was a manic snort from Pretty Boy. A moment passed. Then Aldo Messina softly said, "Gino's right."
"First time for everything," Pretty Boy chimed in.
"Y'aren't going back to Florida just yet," the boss told Bert.
"But if everything's OK—"
"Bo here's gonna baby-sit ya a day or two."
"But I promised Vincente—"
Messina cut him off, unruffled and implacable. "Bert, the questions you're asking, they're unhealthy questions. Stop it, please."
Bert sat back, licked his dry lips, petted his feverish dog. He tried to lock onto Gino's eyes but they slid away like some wet thing in a swamp. The old man recoiled in his soul from what he saw in his friend's son's shallow face—an emptiness beyond shame and the particular hate reserved for a would-be savior by a person who knew that he could not be saved.
———
"Someone to see you," said Marge Fogarty, standing in the doorway of Arty's office at around three that afternoon. "Who?"
"One of the men who was here the other day. The white one."
"Ah shit," said Arty. He had a new lover with whom he was smitten, he was having a marvelous day. Why spoil it sparring with Mark Sutton? "Tell him I'm not here."
"He says it's important."
"Of course he does. I'm out."
Marge shrugged, but as she turned to go she nearly walked into the stocky agent's rippled chest. "I distinctly asked you to wait outside," she scolded.
Sutton ignored her. "It is important," he said to Arty. "And you're in."
"You ever been sued for harassment?" Arty asked him.
At this the young cop could not suppress an impish smile. He took the question as a compliment. Three years with the Bureau, he knew how things worked: You wanted a lifetime as a street agent, you followed procedures, went by the book. You wanted to make a hot career, you took some chances, tested the limits. Instead of answering Arty's question, he said, "I have something I think you'd like to see."
Arty frowned. Marge Fogarty discreetly withdrew. Sutton approached the editor's desk, reached into the small briefcase he was carrying, and produced a glossy eight-by-ten of Debbi Martini and Bert d'Ambrosia.
"So?"
"Nice-looking young woman," said Sutton.
"A little tall for you," said Arty.
Sutton gave a quick wince, erased it by flexing muscles. "Apparently just right for you."
"Meaning?"
"We've been watching you. We've been watching her. It seems, to put it delicately, that the two of you have become an item."
"And what are you, the sex police?"
The agent crossed his arms, pushed up his biceps with his knuckles. "Mr. Magnus. . . . May I call you Arty?"
The other man just leaned back in his chair and glared at him.
"Listen," the agent resumed. "I'm not your enemy. I'm trying to help you out. Your lady-friend here—you know she's on probation on a drug charge?"
Arty tried not to look surprised. But he couldn't help glancing at the picture of Debbi, the wide and avid eyes, the smile so big it was almost goofy. Steeling himself, he said, "This is Key West, Sutton. Am I supposed to be scandalized?"
"Scandalized? No. But I thought you might be a little bit concerned."
Arty said nothing, struggled to hold his face together. A nasty glozing doubt had suddenly sprung up to mock him. Reluctant Arty. Cautious Arty. What did he really know about this woman he'd fallen into bed with? Only that she had a trusting, life-embracing gaze and an exhilarating way of shrugging. Only that she seemed the greatest thing that had happened to him in as long as he could remember.