So all in all, it had not been going well for Joey, and as he sat poolside in his shaving robe and sunglasses, he pondered the narrowing range of his options. The bitch of it was that at every moment it seemed to him that he was very close to getting something started. All it took was for the first piece of the puzzle to fall into place. An income opportunity- any income opportunity-would allow him to go out and hire some muscle, and he'd be set. Or if he could somehow get some muscle behind him, the income opportunities would create themselves.
But how did you start? And how low could you go? Already Joey had faked car trouble on U.S. 1 so he could flag down a supermarket truck and propose to the driver that maybe a few hundred pounds of sirloin steak should fall out the back; the teamster had answered by producing a crowbar from under the driver's seat. Next, Joey had casually broached the question of insurance with the proprietor of a local surf-and-turf emporium; the restaurateur said he would check his policy and came back from the kitchen whispering to a pair of slathering Dobermans with stud collars. No one in Key West seemed the slightest bit afraid of Joey, and he found this disconcerting. It made him secretly suspect that even in New York no one had been afraid of him, only of the yeggs he ran with.
"Sandra," he asked one night in bed, "do you think I'm like, what's the word, intimidating?"
Sandra Dugan was not a woman of wide sexual experience, but the most basic of intuitions told her that if you cared about a guy, you didn't giggle at him when you were between the sheets. Instead, she seriously appraised his face. It was boyish, no getting around it. The blue eyes were lacking in threat, the half-curly hair was lamblike in spite of Joey's efforts to keep it slick and tough. Only the cleft in the chin suggested the possibility of violence, and the cleft in the chin was barely visible. "No, Joey," she said, "I wouldn't call you intimidating." Then, to soften the blow, she asked a somewhat disingenuous question. "But why would you wanna be?"
Joey measured his need to talk against the tenets of his code. He couldn't say he wanted to look scary so he could shake guys down. "Ya know," he said, "just so I could, like, persuade people to do things for me."
"People do what they want," said Sandra. "You want people to do things for you, Joey, you have to make them want to."
But what Joey wanted was for people to hand him large amounts of cash. This didn't happen by making nice. It happened by… well, Joey was close to admitting he didn't know how it happened. And in the meantime here he was, snuggled up in the sack, helplessly going broke. In the meantime he was feeling more guilty every day that Sandra was earning and he was not. No, he had to keep pushing.
But why? Where was the justice in it, the sense? Joey thought about Steve. He didn't push. All he did was stand bare-assed in the pool all day. And, unlikely as it seemed, Steve was in his quiet way a big shot. He owned the compound. He was a landlord in a town where rents were through the roof. How had it happened? Did he start off rich, or once do something very smart? Joey had to admit he didn't have a clue how most people made their livings, couldn't figure the logic that made the legitimate world keep turning. If he could figure it out… well, hell, he had his own angles to worry about.
And there were plenty of them he hadn't looked into yet. There was bed linen for the hotels and table linen for the restaurants. There was construction, union or otherwise. There was garbage. He just had to keep up his initiative. He'd get some sleep, drink some coffee, catch some sun; then, when he was feeling rested and looking prosperous, he'd drag his desperate ass downtown and try again.
–
Cliff, the daytime bartender at the Eclipse Saloon, smiled weakly and stifled a yawn. This was the sleepy time, coming up on four p.m. The lunch rush was over, the waitresses were smoking and yakking across the empty dining room as they filled the ketchup bottles and topped off the saltshakers for dinner. The bar was vacant except for a couple of lushes who'd been there since breakfast and the occasional regular who stopped by for one pop and some air-conditioning. Late afternoon was also when the dullest strangers wandered in, baffled tourists traveling alone, salesmen who needed a quick belt before opening the swatch book one more time. They always wanted to talk, these solitary ones. They talked about ex-wives, their time in the navy, the clogs in their fuel injectors. They talked about autumn in New England, winter in the Rockies, springtime in Amarillo, about everyplace they ever remembered being happy, but not happy enough to stay there. Now here was a guy who wanted to talk about garbage.
"So how does it work down here?" Joey asked, nursing his tequila. "Is it city, or private, or what?"
"You pay the city," said Cliff, "and the city contracts it out."
"Ah," said Joey. Cliff didn't want to sound bored, and Joey didn't want to sound disappointed. But if garbage money went right to the town, hell, that was like socialism. How could you slam if the cheeks got mailed straight to city hall, if there were no private carters to squeeze? It killed initiative. "And there's no one who's, like, independent?"
The bartender caught himself yawning and pretended instead to be swallowing a sneeze. "I think the problem is using the dump. We've got this huge land-fill here. People call it Mount Trashmore…"
Across the U-shaped bar, a white-haired gent was gesturing for a cocktail, and Cliff took the opportunity to escape.
In a moment he returned, and his manner toward Joey had become just slightly deferential. "Bert would like to buy you a drink," he said, nodding toward the old man. "And if you have a minute, he'd like to talk with you."
Now, the Eclipse Saloon was a serious drinking establishment, the edge of whose bar was heavily padded with vinyl-covered foam rubber so customers could rest their elbows or their heads for long periods of time. Joey suddenly felt his arms sinking helplessly deeper into the upholstery, and he realized that his strength was being sapped by an idiotic gratitude that had put a lump in his throat. For weeks he'd been pushing, pushing, pushing. He'd thrust himself on people, taken the lead in every encounter. Everybody had either shied away or been ready to fight. This-O.K., it was a tiny thing, a free drink, but except for the occasional cup of herb tea, it was absolutely the first time in Florida that anyone had done anything for him.
He nodded a thank-you and the old gent waved him over.
He had white hair that in recent years had taken on a tinge of bronzy yellow, yellow like the color of nicotine. He was lean and tall, but with the stretched-out droop of someone who used to be taller. His eyes were black, deep-set, and just a little too close together around a bent and monumental nose.
"Hello, Joey," he said. "Siddown."
The recognition should have made him very edgy, but Joey was so hard up for company that he barely let himself be bothered. "How you know my name?"
"This is a small town, Joey. Guy shows up, drives around in an El D with a New York tag, starts asking about bolita, starts talking to truckers, it gets noticed, people talk. And me, I'm a guy people talk to. No particular reason. Except I'm around, I'm available, I listen."
There was something strange about Bert's voice, something that Joey could not immediately place. Then he realized what it was. Bert sounded normal to him. "You from New York?"
"Yeah. Brooklyn. President Street."
"Whaddya know. Me, I'm from-"
"Astoria," Bert put in. "Right around Crescent Street."
Joey gave an uneasy little laugh. "You tryin' to make me, like, paranoid?"
"Joey," said the old man. He leaned back on his stool to give his young companion a chance to see him whole. "You really don't remember me? I guess I've really fucking aged."
Joey scanned the old man's long and loose-skinned face, and meanwhile Bert went on. "And if ya don't mind my saying so as an old family friend"-he pointed to the earpiece of Joey's sunglasses looped over his shirt pocket-"carrying your glasses that way, it makes you look like a pimp."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," said Bert. "And speaking of which, if you're gonna pimp, try females. You might do better."
"You know about that." It wasn't a question, and Joey no longer sounded surprised.
"Small town, Joey. Very small town. But hey, that goes for every town. New York's the same. Joey, your father's a friend a mine, a business friend. And I knew your mother. A lovely woman. Plus which, I knew you, Joey, when you were a little kid. Four, five years old. Too little to remember, I guess. I useta see you inna park. You had the curliest hair of any kid there. You don't remember?"
The old man's lips were full and always moving, as if his teeth didn't set too comfortably in his gums. His ears were close to his head but big and soft, with fleshy lobes. His shirt was immaculate, with a pattern of white diamonds embossed on a white background, the starched wings of the collar as straight and even as the tail fins of a plane. "Bert," said Joey. "Bert." He screwed his face into deep-memory mode; then it unwound into a tentative smile. "Bert the Shirt?"
The old man give a quick and furtive glance around the virtually empty bar. " Piano, piano, Joey. That's not a name I'm known by anymore. It's just Bert d'Ambrosia, retiree."
"Bert," Joey repeated, like the name tasted good in his mouth. "Sure I remember. My mother liked you. Said you were a gentleman. And you always had hard candies in your pocket." Then Joey's face darkened and by primitive reflex he recoiled. "But hey, I thought you were dead."
"I was," said the old man casually, pulling the cherry out of his whiskey sour and nuzzling the fruit off its stem. Taking his time, he licked the froth from his lips and smiled.
Old people took a grim delight in talking about their ailments and operations, about their arteries hardening and their brains softening, their ankles swelling and their field of vision shrinking. In Florida these small epics of collapse and decay had become both an art form and a competitive sport, and Bert the Shirt d'Ambrosia had polished his delivery to the point where he was seldom beaten in the ghoulish contests. He had the best material, after all. Arthritis, phlebitis, prostate trouble, even cancer-these things couldn't hold a candle to a guy who'd actually died.
"Yeah, Joey, I was fucking dead. Scientifically, electronically dead. Morto, capeesh? Yeah. This was about eight years ago.
"You remember what the papers called the I-Beam Trial? Big-ass fucking trial. RICO. Construction racketeering, shit like that? They pulled in everybody. All the families. Some guys they booked, some guys they just subpoenaed. Big publicity splash. Well, a few guys didn't wanna go to court, remember? They faked angina, fainting spells, whatever.
"Me," Bert went on, "I went. I wasn't indicted. They were just yankin' my chain. I figured fuck 'em, they wanna put me on the stand, I can take the heat. Big mistake, Joey. I get to court, there's a million reporters on the steps, the prosecutors are in their best suits, cameras are in my face. I start not feeling good. I get clammy, my arms start to tingle. I get this tightness in my chest, and all I can think of is that it's like a fucking meatball rolling toward my heart. I'm thinking, Shirt, you asshole, all those big-ass steaks, all that booze, all those cigarettes, all that tension-now you're gonna die right here on the six o'clock news.
"I can hardly talk. I whisper to my lawyer, 'Hey, Bruce, I think I'm havin' a heart attack.' He laughs. He thinks I'm fuckin' around. 'Hey, that wasn't the plan,' he says. "You wanted to appear.' Then he notices I'm turning blue.
"So now I'm on a stretcher, they're carrying me back down the courthouse steps. My eyes are closed, and I can still see flashbulbs going off. And it dawns on me, the one good thing about dying. I went to court to play the big man, show everybody I wasn't afraid. Now I couldn't give a fuck what anybody thought. They wanna think I'm a common criminal, they wanna think I'm a coward, fuck does it matter? You live, you die. I should care what these assholes thinka me?
"By the time they get me to the ambulance, I'm pretty out of it. I hear the siren, but it seems like really far away. I know I'm movin', but it's like bein' on a boat more than drivin' downa street. They stick this oxygen mask over my face, and the oxygen has like a blue smell, an electric smell. It makes me think of when I was a little kid and went to Rockaway and there was a big-ass summer thunderstorm. The air smelled like that after lotsa lightning. I thinka that, my mother onna beach with me, and I start to cry.
"They told me after, I was unconscious by the time we got to St. Vincent's. They put me on a whaddyacallit, a monitor, were rolling me through the hall, and that was that."
"That was what?" Joey asked, his elbows deep in the padded bar, his drink getting watery in front of him.
"It," said Bert. "That was it. I died."
"Unbefuckinglievable," said Joey.
"Yup. They told me after, I was dead for like forty seconds. They jump-started me with this cattle prod kinda thing. I twitched like a goddamn spastic, then I started breathing again.
"So anyway, I stood inna hospital three weeks. They hadda check for brain damage, shit like that. When ya die, ya know, it affects the mind sometimes. And I'll tell ya something weird. The only parta my brain that was affected? I can't carry a tune no more. I can't even sing Happy fucking Birthday. And I useta love to sing.
"So I did some thinking. I decided I wanted out. Yeah, outta the family. I mean, enough was enough. My nerves were shot. So when I got home, I went right to the top, right to Scalera. Joey, that man was a prince. He invited me to his house. I took a copy of my EKG with me.
"So he gives me a glass of anisette, and he says, 'Shirt, what's on your mind?'
"So I unroll the paper on his dining room table and I say, 'Frankie, you know what this is?'
"He looks at it, it's like a graph, ya know, and he says, 'Looks like the fuckin' stock market.'
"I say, 'No, Frank, it's my life. And you see this flat part over here? This is where I died.'
"And he says, 'Jeez, Bert, I'm sorry.'
"So I says, 'Don't be sorry, I'm O.K. now. But Frank, the way I look at it, I've given my life for this thing of ours. I was solid and loyal to the end.'
" 'I knew you would be, Bert,' he says. 'But what are you getting at?'
" 'Frank,' I say, 'I feel like I deserve something for dying.'
"Now, this makes Scalera a little nervous because, as fine a human being as he was, he didn't like to part with money. He was a little, ya know, cheap, let's face it. So he says, "Whaddya want, Bert?' but his voice isn't quite as friendly as before.
" 'All I want is to be allowed to walk away,' I tell him. 'I want your blessing to retire.'
"So now he's relieved that I'm not asking for cash. But he's still nervous because what if it gets around that it's O.K. to quit, and good earners start walking away? 'Jeez, Bert,' he says, 'I'd like to say yes, but it'd be, like, a precedent. I mean, O.K., you're a special case, you died. But what if the next guy says to me, Hey, I got shot, or, Hey, I got my knees smashed in. I mean, where would I draw the line?'
"Well," Bert continued, "to me it's pretty obvious where he should draw the line: death. When a guy dies, he can quit. How much clearer could it be? But hey, he's the Boss. I'm not gonna argue. I just wait."
"So he asks me, 'Where you wanna retire to?'
" 'The Florida Keys,' I tell him right away. I mean, I been thinkin' about it the whole time I was inna hospital."
" 'Hm,' he says, 'that sounds nice,' and it was almost like the Godfather was envious of me. You know why, Joey? 'Cause I was ready to walk away, ready to leave everything behind. That's the only thing people really envy. Remember that, kid. 'Well, Bert, I'll tell you what,' he says. "We can't call it retirement. But you go to Florida with my blessing, and we'll say you're my eyes and ears down there. We need information, contacts, we'll call on you. How's that?'
" 'Frankie,' I say, 'that's great. God bless you.' So here it is eight years later, Joey, and here I am." Bert lifted his hands and his eyes toward the ceiling, but whether he was thanking heaven for his resurrection or simply locating himself in space it was impossible to tell. "Six years ago I had a triple bypass, and today I feel as good as an old fart can expect to feel."
Joey took a sip of his tequila. "Unbefuckinglievable, Bert. Afuckingmazing. So have they called on you?"
The old mafioso leaned closer and Joey caught a whiff of his bay rum after-shave above the booze-and- washrag smell of the bar. "Joey," he whispered, "this is why I wanted to talk to you. This is what I'm trying to tell you. There's been nothing for them to call on me about. In the early years, yeah, every three, four months they'd ask me to check up on something, but it was usually something in Miami. These New York guys, ya know, they got no sense of geography. I'd say to them, 'How the fuck should I know what goes on in Miami? Miami is as far from here as Brooklyn is from Baltimore.'
" 'Oh yeah?' they'd say. "Where's Baltimore?'
"But Joey, since Scalera got whacked, I hardly get called at all. Once in a great while maybe. But our friends are just not active down here, Joey. This is what I'm telling you. And why aren't they? 'Cause there's a whole different mix of people down here- Cubans, military, treasure hunters, smugglers-and a whole different set of scams. Your father knows that, Joey. Your brother Gino should know it."
"I'm not working for my father," Joey said. "And I'm not working for Gino. I'm here on my own."
Bert sucked down the last of his whiskey sour and considered. "On your own? This I didn't realize." He cocked his head, pursed his loose lips, then blew some air between them. "On your own. O.K., Joey, you got balls, you got ambition, I respect that. But Joey, what you're trying to do-you don't just show up someplace and act like you're a goddamn franchise, like you're opening a branch office of the Mob. Whaddya think, it's like fucking McDonald's? Maybe you can sell the same hamburger on every street corner in America. With scams it's different. You wanna operate here, you gotta come up with something local. Ya know, a scam that fits the climate."
Now, three or four times in a person's life, probably not more, something is said that really makes a difference. The moment, the source, and the need to hear that thing all line up perfectly, and the comment ends up seeming not only like the listener's own thought but his destiny. Joey drained his glass and ran a hand through his hair. "You're right, Bert," he said. "I know you're right. But what should the angle be?"
The old man looked down at his watch. "Holy shit," he said. "I gotta go. I got some guys coming over to play gin rummy."
He reached down under his barstool as if retrieving a hat, and came up with a dog. It was a chihuahua with a wet black nose, bulging glassy eyes, and quivering whiskers, and it fit in the palm of Bert's fleshy hand.
"That dog was there the whole time?" Joey asked.
"Yeah," said Bert, and he stared at the animal's glassy eyes. "I hate this fucking dog." Then he addressed the dog directly. "I hate ya." He turned his glance back to Joey. "I gotta take him with me everywhere, or he shits onna floor. For spite. It's not even my dog. It's my wife's dog."
"So why doesn't your wife take care of him?"
"She's dead."
"Ah jeez, Bert, I'm sorry."
"Old news. She's been dead five years. And it was like her deathbed wish. Bert, promise me you'll take care of Don Giovanni."
"Don Giovanni?" Joey said, looking dubiously at the quaking little creature.
"Yeah. Ya know, like the opera. My wife loved the opera. A very cultured woman, my wife." Then he said to the chihuahua, "Our Carla, our dear sweet pain inna neck, Carla, wasn't she cultured?" And to Joey: "But the fucking dog, I hate the fucking dog. Cliff, put this on my tab." And he got up slowly.
"But Bert, hey," said Joey, "you're leavin' me, like, hangin' heah."
"You wanna talk," said Bert the Shirt, "come by the condo. Anytime. The Paradiso. We'll talk by the pool."