Louie sat down at the foot of a bed. He didn't remember moving, but there he was. He was not a father and he had no answer for what had just been said. He couldn't lift his eyes up off his lap.
After a moment Paul went on like he was talking to himself. "She didn't hate me, why would she be doing this?"
Louie's chest and arms were damp, he rearranged his blouse. Not sure if he was chiding or trying to give comfort, he said, "You think all of this, it has to do with you?"
"You think none of it does?" said Paul Amaro. Moving slowly, heavy, he slipped between the breakfast table and a bed, sat down, shoulders slumped, across the narrow space from his brother. "Of all the guys inna fuckin' world, Louie. Coincidence she's stuck onna guy I hate the most?"
Louie brought his knuckles to his mouth, chewed on them a moment before he answered. "With love," he said, "I don't think you can look at it like that, like there's rhyme or reason."
"And what about wit' family? You think there's rhyme or reason wit' family?"
Louie had no answer, his eyes strayed toward his cast-off wig, which shone with an unwholesome luster like the pelt of something poisoned.
"I tried to make her a nice life," Angelina's father muttered. "Big house. No worries. All I did, I made her ashamed of her old man."
Louie said nothing. He thought of reaching for his brother but couldn't lift his arms to give an embrace that might have been welcomed, might have been pushed aside.
"That's why I gotta kill 'im," Paul resumed, his voice weary, trancelike. "That's the real reason. Businessman, Louie. To my daughter I was a businessman. Not a criminal, not a thug. Went ta work in nice clothes, brought home lotsa presents. Executive, like. Wit'out that fuck I mighta got away with it. To my daughter. Maybe she never woulda known."
"But Paul—" said Louie.
He got no farther. Outside the room there was the scratch of footsteps, a low rumble of knotted voices. Then a knocking on the door, loud, rude, insistent. Someone tried the knob; it turned, Paul Amaro had neglected to relock it.
Sunlight flooded in, Tommy Lucca and his three gorillas rode it like a wave. Nobody was smiling.
" 'Lo, Paul," said the man from Coral Gables. "Nice ta find you in."
Paul Amaro didn't answer.
Lucca took his shades off, his eyes flicked with mockery to the man in drag. "And who the fuck is this?"
Paul said, "That's my brother Louie."
The goons snickered.
Lucca said to Paul, "You poor bastard, you're even worse off than I thought." To the fellow in the skirt he said, "Take a hike, sis. Us men, we gotta talk."
40
Keith McCullough, hidden in deep shade across the street from Coral Shores, did not immediately recognize Uncle Louie; but he could tell a real transvestite from someone merely improvising, and the clumsy walk and crooked wig led him to look a whole lot closer. The stubby build and bowed out knees persuaded him that this was Paul Amaro's brother, and while he had no idea why he was out on the street in woman's clothing, he was encouraged. There was movement, maneuvering; the stalemate was easing.
Once inside the courtyard, Louie drew a couple of facetious whistles from men in the hot tub. But he had too much on his mind, he didn't stop to kid around. He walked around the pool, high sun scorching his wig, heels sliding over damp tiles, until he found his family. Rose and Angelina, in wet bathing suits, were lying side by side on lounges; Michael, in a towel, sat upright in a nearby chair. Ziggy lazed a little distance away, in a sulk as usual.
Rose lit up at her husband's approach, fluffed her hair where the bathing cap had squashed it down. "Louie," she said, "you must be broiling. Sit by me, I'll help you get undressed."
He perched on the edge of her lounge. She took off the wig, unbuttoned his blouse, couldn't help giggling as, for the second time that day, she unclasped the deceiving bra.
Angelina said, "So Uncle Louie, how'd it go?"
For a time he didn't answer. He was sweating, his head itched. His thoughts were going round and round. Too much had happened for one morning, he felt an exhaustion such as an animal must feel when it sheds a skin and wills a layer of wet flesh into a new one. Finally he said, "You hate your father, Angelina?"
He regretted it the instant the words had passed his lips. It wasn't fair to put her on the spot like that. He thought she flushed, but he couldn't be sure, she was very tan by now. In any case, she didn't answer, and Louie tried to erase the question by talking over it. "Try not to hate him," he said. "He loves you very much."
She looked away. At the far side of the pool, somebody splashed. From the street came the buzzing whine of rented mopeds. Rose said, "Swivel a little, I'll unzip the skirt."