“Wow. Hello. Why’d you do that?”
“Just because I wanted to. I’ve wanted to for weeks.” She was backlit as she stood there. The fuzzy blue fibers of her sweater glowed in the light from the stage. “And I think maybe now you’ll finally get my name right.”
25
“C arlo, just one question,” Charlie Ponte said. He was long over his germ-spreading fever, feeling spry and feisty once again, and was now dressed in his more usual silk shirt and alligator shoes. Biscayne Bay and the Miami skyline panned behind him as he paced deliberately in front of his enormous twenty-second story windows. “If you don’t wanna throw more money at this thing, then why the hell should I?”
“It’s not that I don’t want to,” said Costanza. He was sitting on the edge of a living room chair, just sort of perched on it, not leaning back, trying not to crease the cushions. It was a posture appropriate to his position here: subservient and supplicating. He hated being in that posture but he knew the rules, having seen the game by now from many different angles; he knew what was expected from the player in the more powerful position and also the player in the weaker one. So he perched and he spoke softly. “It’s that I can’t. I’m tapped out, Charlie. I’m really close to broke.”
Hearing this, Max stole a sideways glance at Rocco. The two of them, along with Ponte’s pair of bodyguards, were standing in a foyer just off the living room, eavesdropping on their bosses’ conversation while they carried on some casual chit-chat of their own. Football, strip clubs, the hot waitress in the diner down the street; that kind of chit-chat. But when Max heard that their employer might be going broke, his first thought was of tulips. Tulips in that breathlessly suspenseful moment just before they opened, when the waxy tips of the petals were just barely starting to back-bend. A really good florist should be able to tell which flowers would ripen into fabulous blooms and which would be only so-so. The great ones would be reserved for steady customers. It would keep them coming to the shop. But did he, Max, have the skill to single out the really special tulips? This might be crucial if Costanza went broke and he and Rocco got fired soon. Could be the best thing that ever happened, the sign that they’d been waiting for…
“What about your genius chemist?” Ponte was saying while continuing his lap around the living room. “Why doesn’t he pony up some shekels for a change?”
“Because he doesn’t have a pot to piss in,” Carlo said.
“Big executive, pharma honcho, now he needs a bake sale?”
“His trial cleaned him out, Charlie. What the lawyers didn’t get went to reimbursing Medicare. Expensive, those fraud cases. And, in fairness, Shintar never said he’d put in dough. That was mainly my responsibility, with some backup cash from you plus your influence in, let’s say, expediting the liquor licenses and discouraging competition. Shintar’s contribution was his expertise.”
“So what’s up with his fucking so-called expertise? His little bliss pill that was gonna be the biggest thing since Valium? That was gonna pay us back a thousand-fold on our investment?”
“Well, that’s the problem. He decided he doesn’t want to make it.”
This stopped Ponte’s pacing in its tracks. His face screwed down into an incredulous expression. He grabbed a standing lamp for emphasis. “Doesn’t want to?”
“Look, he’s eccentric and he’s stubborn.”
“He’s a fucking lunatic, is what he is.”
“Are you expecting me to disagree? Okay, he’s a lunatic. But chemistry-wise, he’s all we got.”
“And why does this diva prima donna lunatic suddenly not wanna make the bliss pill like he promised?”
Costanza squirmed a bit, tried to do so without disturbing the furniture too much. “He says it’s too tame, too mild. Says it wouldn’t sell.”
“Bullshit. A new high always sells. Even if it’s exactly like the old high. Human nature, Carlo. New drug on the street, people hear about it, people want it.”
“Not arguing. But I don’t know how to make this magic pill, and neither do you. Shintar does but doesn’t want to. And in the meantime, he’s moved on to something altogether different.”
“Different, like better? Is that what we’re talking about here, Carlo? Buying him a little more time to make an even better product? If that’s what we’re talking about, I might consider—”
“Unfortunately, it’s not what we’re talking about. What we’re talking about is that now he wants to make a drug that kills people.”
“Say again?”
Costanza crossed his legs and grabbed an ankle. “Listen, Charlie, I spent five years shooting the breeze with Shintar up in Cumberland, but there’s something kind of basic I didn’t quite get until these past few days. The guy is not really a human being. He looks at the world and he doesn’t see people, he sees molecules, test tubes, formulas. To him it’s all just a game, an IQ test or some shit, and he wants to show how smart he is without caring where it leads. So he’s trying to make this super-complicated drug just to prove he can, and it’s not his problem that it’ll also be addictive as hell and we’ll end up with a whole new set of junkies and ODs. I wouldn’t want to bankroll that even if I had the dough. And I doubt you’d want to either, Charlie.”
Ponte scratched an ear, then wheeled around a corner of a sofa and sat down. It was his sofa, and he sat down hard and deep, not worrying if he’d muss the cushions. After a pause, he said, “And yet you come to me—”
“Yeah, but not to ask for money. Not mainly. And definitely not to make a pitch for Shintar’s killer drug. I came here mainly to figure out just what the hell to do. Who else can I talk it through with, Charlie?”
Ponte pressed his lips together, nodded, took a long glance at his guest. “You look exhausted, Carlo.”
“I kind of am.”
“How about some coffee?”
He called out to his flunkies in the foyer, and the two of them sprang into action with the espressos and biscotti. To Max, the otherwise empty tray looked naked and severe as they carried it into the living room. Would it have killed them to soften the look with a couple of hibiscus flowers or a handful of nasturtiums?
“So let’s talk about our options,” Ponte was saying as the tray was placed in front of him.
“I see only two,” Costanza said. “One would cost a lot of money and might not even work, and the other one just stinks right from the get-go. The expensive one is we forget about the lab and go all in with the rum business.”
“And compete against the giant brands, the multinational distributors? Forget that option, Carlo, it’s way out of our league.”
“That leaves the one that stinks. We cut our losses, shutter the joint, and walk away. And leave everybody who worked for us without a job.”
“Including your favorite young man, Anthony.”
“Including Anthony,” said Costanza, his voice sounding thick as he talked down into his demi-tasse.
Ponte picked up a biscotto, broke it in half, and held one piece of it right beneath his nose to get the almond smell. “I think there’s at least one option that you’re overlooking. How about we get ourselves a different chemist? One who won’t be so fucking stubborn and will make the nice little drug we started with?”
“A different chemist? Just like that? Charlie, I don’t think there’s a lot of people out there who can do what Shintar does.”
“That’s what Shintar wants us to believe,” said Ponte. “And who knows, maybe it’s even true. But we don’t need a lot of people. We need one guy who’s handy in a lab.”
“And who’s willing to work alone and in secret on a totally illegal drug that may or may not ever hit the market. It’s kind of a lot to ask.”
“You don’t think there’s plenty of people in white coats in every CVS or Walgreen’s, bored stiff counting out the same old Xanax and Viagra into the same old bottles every day? Who wouldn’t jump at the chance to do something more exciting?”
“Charlie, those are pharmacist
s. What we need is a research chemist. Cutting edge. This stuff is unbelievably complicated. When I looked at Shintar’s notes—”
“Hol’ on a second. Notes?”
“Yeah, these crazy diagrams. Geometric, like. Sprawling. Cover two, three pages.”
“Bingo,” Ponte said, finishing his espresso and slapping his small cup down onto the tray so that it made a pleasant pinging sound.
“Bingo, what?”
“Bingo, we got Shintar’s notes, we don’t need Shintar.”
“Except we don’t have Shintar’s notes,” Costanza pointed out. “He showed ‘em to me for like a second. Wouldn’t even let me touch ‘em before they went back in the safe. He’s fanatical about those notes. He’d never give ‘em up.”
“People don’t always have a choice in these matters.”
“He’d never share ‘em. He’d die before he gave ‘em up.”
Calmly, evenly, Ponte said, “Well, I guess that’s option number four.”
“Now wait a second, Charlie—”
“Wait a second, what? We’re discussin’ options here. That’s all, just discussin’. But what’s the point of discussin’ if you don’t keep an open mind to consider all possible solutions?”
“Well, yeah, but—”
“Way I see it, Shintar has us in a box. He doesn’t want to make the drug. He doesn’t want to share his notes, which by the way we been payin’ him to work on while he’s been dickin’ us around and not even tryin’ to hold up his end of the bargain. So what’s that leave? I got nothin’ against the guy. Personally, I mean. But what’s that leave? I’m open to any and all suggestions. Talk to me, Carlo.”
26
“R occo,” Max was saying, “I really don’t like where this is heading.”
“Hmm?” said Rocco. They were back in their snug little place at Buttonwood Bay, sipping vodka gimlets. There was figure skating on the tube and the man with the squashed nose was pretty absorbed in it. It was the pairs competition, his favorite part.
“This talk of whacking Shintar,” Max went on. “I don’t like it.”
“It’s just talk, baby boy.”
“Until it isn’t.”
“Look at the whaddyacallit, the psychology. They’re frustrated. They haven’t been getting their way. So they start talking about offing someone. It’s how they let off steam. It’ll calm down. It’ll go away.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“It will, baby boy. It will.” His eyes flicked back toward the television. “Must be weird, skating like that in a tuxedo.”
“And if it doesn’t go away,” said Max, “who’s gonna get the call? Not Ponte’s guys. He’ll pawn it off on Carlo. And Carlo’ll pawn it off on us.”
“Triple Axel!” Rocco said. “Triple Axel, stuck the landing, found her hand again wit’out he even looked at her. Those Russians. Unbefuckinglievable.”
“I couldn’t do it, Rocco.”
“Shintar’s an asshole. An asshole and a scumbag.”
“I know he is. That’s not the point. I’d hate myself. I couldn’t do it.”
“Maxie, will you try to relax? Please? Worse that’ll happen, we have to rough him up a little bit. Make it hurt a little bit. Not pleasant, fair enough. But he’ll cough up the notes. Who wouldn’t?”
“Who wouldn’t? An obsessive nut-job with nothing to live for except those crazy diagrams, that’s who wouldn’t.”
Rocco watched the skating. The next pair wore purple tights but they weren’t quite as good. He silently gave them a seven-point-eight. The judges averaged out at eight-point-two.
Max kept fretting. “And even if he gives up the notes, you think Ponte and Carlo would just let him walk away? Knowing what he knows? He’d be a blackmail threat forever. How could they let him walk away?”
“I don’t see him as a blackmail threat,” said Rocco, one eye on the TV and his tone neither convincing nor convinced. “He’s an ex-con and he’s in too deep himself.”
Max sipped his gimlet. His pitted face had gone gray with worry and disgust, and the wan color made his skin look like gravel. “Maybe we should just quit now. Before we have to…you know.”
“We can’t afford to quit, baby boy. Not now. Not soon. Not till we build some goddamn savings.”
“Might be the perfect opportunity to get out clean. You heard Carlo. He’s almost broke. We quit before he can’t afford us anyway.”
“Maxie, here’s a little fact a life. Almost broke for Carlo is not the same as almost broke for us. Almost broke for him means he isn’t rich no more. Almost broke for us means we have no fucking money. No money means no flower shop. No money means we’d just have to find another bullshit job like this.”
Max’s voice was soft but had the haunting, clenched sound of a shriek. “So how do we ever—?”
“Get out? Get ahead? We get ahead by upping our price. And we up our price by getting a reputation. And we get a reputation by taking on a nasty job and handling it right.”
“I couldn’t do it, Rock.”
“Sure you could, if you had to.”
“No. I couldn’t. I know I couldn’t.”
“Fine, then. You know what? You don’t have to. If it comes to that, I’ll do it. By myself. As a gift. A down payment on our shop.”
“I don’t want you to.”
“Max, you’re making yourself sick over something that probably isn’t even gonna happen.”
“I’m not sure I could still love you if you did it.”
The words seemed to stop time for a moment. On the television, the beautiful skaters were still dancing and twirling round and round, but in the living room, neither of the two men moved or breathed. Finally, barely above a whisper, Rocco said, “Even if I was doing it for you?”
“So how’d it go with lover boy?” Blake asked as he swept into the tasting room to take over for the evening shift. As ever, his eyes looked tired, but he’d had way too much coffee in a losing effort to compensate for lack of sleep, and the rest of him was jumpy. His hair was asymmetrical, the side that had been pressed against the never-quite-right pillow matted and mashed down.
“None of your business,” Rita said.
“You two an item yet?”
“Same answer, Blake. And how are you?”
“Only so-so. Spent the afternoon on dating sites. Sent out twenty-seven queries. Got two responses. Pretty sure they’re from hookers.”
He stepped around the bar and started helping with the glassware. For someone so careless about his personal appearance, he was a stickler when it came to glasses. He washed, he dried, then he held each one against the light to check for smudges. Smudges, he attacked with a fresh cloth. Nothing less than perfect went back onto the rack.
“Why do you think so few women even get back to me?” he asked after a pause. “Real women, I mean.”
“Real women?”
“The ones who don’t have 900 numbers. Why so few?”
“Well, um, no offense, but maybe you come across as a little too needy.”
“Needy. Well, of course I’m needy. Everybody’s needy. If they weren’t needy, what the hell would they be doing on a dating site?”
He attacked more glassware. His jittery rant picked up momentum.
“And since when did needy become a dirty word? Adam needed Eve. Juliet needed Romeo. I just don’t get it. Would I do better if I made it sound like okay, whatever, I am just so cool, so blasé, so aloof, I really couldn’t give a shit if you get back to me or not? In fact, on second thought, don’t even bother, as hearing from you would just add to my totally self-sufficient hipster ennui? Would that be more attractive?”
“There’s probably some middle ground in there somewhere.”
“Yeah, I guess. Some safe and non-neurotic middle ground. Maybe I’ll stumble across it sometime.” He dried and put away more glasses.
Rita wiped the counter. Then she squeezed out the cloth and draped it carefully over the faucet
in the sink. “Blake, you ever think about what you’d do if you didn’t have this job?”
“Uh-oh. Lover boy opened up about the business? Is it really that bad?”
“I never said that.”
“Not in as many words.”
“I just asked you if you ever think about it.”
“Yeah, sure, constantly,” he said. “Especially in the middle of the night. I think about all the other things I could be doing, should be doing. What my so-called education is for. What my parents hoped for me. Thinking about that stuff is like a second full-time gig.”
“So you wouldn’t be too crushed to move on?”
“Crushed? Hell, no. Listen, if I really believed this job was going to last, I probably wouldn’t have taken it in the first place. Because you and me, we’re opposites in some ways.”
“Opposites? Where we goin’ with this?”
“You leave things. It’s like the first thing you told me about yourself. I always leave.”
“I’m touched that you remember.”
“What can I say? I like you. I remember a lot of things you’ve said. But anyway, I’m sort of the opposite, one of those people who’s just not very good at knowing when it’s time to go. Some people have a knack for that. Timing, I mean. Jobs, relationships, whatever. They pick the right moment to get out. Others wait around till a moment, usually a lousy moment, picks them. They need a kick in the ass to get them out the door. Sometimes it’s the best thing that could’ve happened. So thanks for the heads-up.”
He fogged a glass with his breath and wiped away a lipstick smudge, then slid behind the counter and took his place for the evening shift.
27
C arlo Costanza sat on his rented porch, looking out at the scraggly, fruitless, and untended remains of what had once been a beautiful and orderly grove of avocado trees. The sight made him pensive, or at least it added to the pensiveness he was already feeling. Things fell apart. Everybody knew that, in an abstract sort of way; but when they fell apart for you, the abstract became as concrete as a pair of cinder blocks tied around your neck.
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