Tropical Depression

by Laurence Shames

  They drove. A couple minutes later, Ponte said, "So remember—the redskin signs, then we're outa there. Nothing left behind, everybody in one car."

  There was a pause. Squeak was doing arithmetic.

  " 'Sgonna be awful crowded," he piped.

  "Not with two of 'em inna trunk," said Charlie Ponte. "Very still and very quiet."

  Bruno laughed at that, he found it funny when other people died. His laugh was hoarse and breathless, Squeak caught the contagion of it and came forth with a nasal toot whose edges were thickened with phlegm. Franny listened to them laughing and wished they'd made her deaf as well as sightless.

  *****

  At twenty minutes after five, the scratched-up Lexus was on the nearly empty causeway that led to Key Biscayne. Street lamps blotted out the stars; the viscous water of the Intracoastal was flat as cooling soup. A map was open on Tommy Tarpon's knee; a thin unpleasant light from the open glove box bounced around inside the car.

  They reached the island, drove past sleeping golf courses and the gatehouses of walled estates, past marinas with tall masts clustered thickly as a bundle of sticks.

  On the ocean side they found signs for Rickenbacker Beach.

  Tommy put the map away, the Bra King drove more slowly. Timing was crucial, they could not be early.

  At 5:38 they reached the parking area. Murray pulled off the road and into the vast and vacant lot. White lines, painted in diagonals like the skeletons of fish, gleamed vaguely lavender in the starlight. Ahead, the beach was black. There was no seam between the land and water, nor between the water and the sky.

  Murray cruised. His headlights discovered three tall lifeguard chairs, each with a little rescue boat poised next to it like a dog at the feet of its master. The chairs were perhaps two hundred yards apart; in the darkness they seemed as monumental as Mayan pyramids. He idled toward the north end of the lot; he found a dark Lincoln parked just beyond the pavement, hidden in a little copse of palms. He pulled in near it, switched off the ignition. It was 5:42.

  With the engine off, the world seemed as quiet as if it had never been created. Murray tried to take a deep breath, the locked muscles between his ribs wouldn't let the air come in. He tried to speak, could not. He reached out to put a hand on Tommy's shoulder; Tommy pulled him into a quick and awkward warriors' embrace. They got out of the car.

  Fearlessly, the Indian approached the Lincoln, confirmed that it was empty. Then the two friends started walking across the beach, toward the northernmost lifeguard chair.

  Damp sand slowed their steps, the scratch of it and the faint hiss of dissolving sea foam were the only sounds. They labored closer to the platform; its spindly contours came gradually, dimly into focus, but still they saw no people. Murray peered out to sea. His gaze was thwarted, mocked by the humid darkness, he had no idea how far his vision penetrated before it failed.

  They plodded on. And suddenly four mismatched silhouettes popped up from behind the little rescue boat. Murray wanted to run to Franny, convince himself she still existed. But he disciplined his steps, remembered that he had to be deliberate.

  Very close now, he saw that Bruno and Squeak had guns out, the barrels glistened dully in the starlight. Franny looked brittle and dry, her eyes were sunken, the sockets sharp and bony.

  Charlie Ponte said, "Hello, Chief. Hello, asshole."

  Murray said to Franny, "Are you all right?"

  She looked at him and nodded, the nod was very small.

  The thugs stood with their backs to the ocean; Murray stealthily stared past their shoulders. Ponte reached into his silver zippered jacket, pulled out a stapled sheaf of papers and a pen, handed them to Tommy.

  "Sign this," he commanded.

  Tommy knew his job. "I'd like to read it first," he said, though in the dimness it would have been a struggle.

  "There's nothin' to read, Tonto. We run the casino, you get twenty grand a month. Like we agreed. Now sign the fuckin' thing."

  "Don't," said Franny.

  Bruno turned toward her, his gun at the level of her forehead. "Shut up, Mouth," he said.

  Murray, in a trance of panicked bravery, grabbed the big man's arm. "Don't fucking touch her."

  "Shut up alla yas," said Ponte. "Sign the fuckin' papers, Chief."

  The Indian fumbled with the pages.

  "It won't make any difference," Franny said.

  "I said shut up. He signs right now or everybody's dead."

  Murray peered toward the horizon. There was beginning to be a boundary between the sea and sky, a lifting. He wanted badly to believe he saw vague but moving shapes against the paler black.

  Tommy flipped through to the last page of the contract, found the dotted line, shook his wrist free of his shirt cuff. He raised the pen, moved it to the paper, and dropped it on the beach.

  "Fuckin' jerk," said Squeak.

  With a quick and unseen foot Tommy buried the pen in the sand.

  Ponte's thugs squirmed and shuffled in their pointy shoes. They were primed to kill, the delay was as infuriating as sex withheld.

  Tommy crouched, felt around, buried the pen a little deeper. Ponte cursed under his breath. His thugs rocked on their avid knees, slapped the muzzles of their guns against their palms.

  The eastern sky was purple now, against it Murray saw what he'd been waiting for. He bit his lip then squatted next to Tommy and fumbled in the sand, tried to keep the thugs' attention fixed on the ground in front of them. Against the rush of blood in his ears, he thought he could already hear the plunk and whoosh of oars. Dimmer still came the tiny whir of an electric motor, a small propeller turning with such exquisite slowness that the blades would barely blur.

  The two friends were still crouching, feeling for the pen, when the first floodlight exploded into life.

  "What the fuck?" said Ponte, wheeling, then crossing his arms in front of his face as if fending off a splash of acid.

  The floodlight sent a blue-white fireball across the beach, everything it touched stood out stark as bone, movements were jerky as a flip-book. For a moment the thugs were blinded, then they thought that maybe they had lost their minds. A Viking ship was landing.

  It had a high prow, painted gold and carved in the shape of a scaly serpent; many pairs of slender oars were powering it slowly so that its keel now scraped along the shore. Working the oars were forty women wearing horned and furry helmets, and pastel bras with built-in nipples.

  Squeak looked at the women, saw bare midriffs, cleavages smooth as the seam on plums, and said, "Jesus Christ Almighty."

  Next to the Viking ship was a powerboat whose cockpit was piled high with lights and booms and cameras.

  Ponte saw the cameras, counted more bodies than his troops had bullets, and whispered hoarsely, "The pieces, stash 'em."

  The lovely Vikings disembarked, sashayed up the beach in tiny skirts made out of pelts. Instinct told the mobsters to turn their backs on the floodlights that tracked the oddly clad women and made them gleam like excited angels carved in soap. As the thugs cringed, the models joined hands and formed a wavy line that led on toward the Bra King.

  "Sign the fucking contract," Ponte said again, but the command was whiny now, despairing, forceless, Tommy Tarpon just shot him a look that was solemn, judging.

  Barely noticed, giddy with hope, Franny Rudin took her shirt off.

  It so happened she was very small on top, she didn't care for bras, she wore an undershirt, boyish but for a tiny pink bow that lay against her sternum.

  She made a dash and joined the Vikings. They opened ranks for her, welcomed her into the chain.

  Ponte's collar was pulled up to his ears, he stood hunched and stupefied in the breaking dawn.

  The bosomy Vikings surrounded Murray and Tommy, pulled them away from Bruno and Squeak like cowboys cutting steers.

  From the power boat, through a raspy bullhorn, came an authoritative voice: "Beautiful. Now put the crown on him."

  Moving at a ritual pace, the Viking
Queen approached the Bra King, bearing his foil-covered cardboard trademark. Murray, the pulse still slamming in his neck, lowered his head to receive the honor. But before the model could anoint him, Franny gently but firmly took the crown away. Murray, soupy-eyed, looked at her; she pursed her lips, paused a moment, put on a disbelieving pout that was almost a smile, and crowned him.

  They moved in a protective circle back to the boats. The Vikings climbed aboard their ancient ship. Murray and Franny and Tommy scrambled onto the power boat.

  An engine fired—not the small electric motor, but a beast of many horsepower. Towing the Vikings in their bras, the boat roared off just as the sun lifted from the sea, striping the sky with pale bands of red and green and yellow.

  Charlie Ponte, looking jaundiced in the sallow dawn, said to no one in particular, "That didn't happen."

  Squeak said, "Jesus Christ Almighty."

  The little boss moved toward Bruno, backhanded him across the cheek. "Ya see what happens, ya bring me a fuckin' woman?"

  When the boats were out of gunshot range, they slowed, and Murray said, "Vikings? Ya send me Vikings? I asked for pirates."

  "The notice you give me," said Les Kantor, putting down the bullhorn. "I did the best I could."

  "So what happens now?" said Franny.

  Murray went to scratch his scalp. He'd forgotten he was still wearing the Bra King crown, the fake gold foil scratched his wrist. "I dunno," he admitted. "I haven't thought that many jumps ahead."

  FOUR

  35

  At North Key Largo the models put their shirts on and were loaded into a bus back to South Beach. The Viking ship was dispatched to the Miami prop shop where it had been rented.

  Then Les Kantor steered the power boat to a small marina looking out across Card Sound, and, by pink light through lavender clouds, he and Murray and Franny and Tommy sat down to breakfast among the fishermen. Murray still had his crown on, he forgot about it till the waitress looked at him funny, then he put it on the table next to him.

  They sat on a wooden deck above the water, squinting at a day that seemed a whole new era, an age away from what they'd just escaped. It was wonderful, miraculous almost, this mundane business of having breakfast, feeling safe, being able to order what you wanted. Franny had juice, melon, a double stack of unbuttered whole wheat toast.

  "So how's the footage?" said the Bra King, washing Prozac down with coffee. "Ya think it's any good?"

  "The footage stinks," Les Kantor said. "Forget about the footage." A fastidious man, he was eating a Danish he'd cut into four pieces; he paused to wipe cherry glaze from his salt and pepper mustache. "Only good thing about the footage, it gives us something to show the IRS, we deduct the whole thing as a business trip."

  "You're beautiful, bubbala," Murray said. "Always thinking."

  "And what about you?" said Kantor. "You thinking, Murray? You thinking about giving up this casino mishigas and coming home?"

  The Bra King mulled that over, glanced sideways at Tommy, watched a cormorant tuck its narrow head and dart down for a fish. "Coming home? Ya mean New York? Nah, Les. That's over."

  "But Murray," said his ex. "This casino thing. You can't still want—"

  "It doesn't matter what I want," Murray interrupted. "I've been noticing that lately. It matters that we get this settled."

  Tommy was eating sunnyside-up eggs. The yolks were high and perfectly jelled, they reminded him of Vikings. "It's not settled yet," he thought aloud.

  "No, it isn't," Murray agreed. "We got Franny back but now they're mad. We made 'em look dumb."

  "They are dumb," said the Indian.

  Les Kantor finished up another wedge of Danish, wiped his fingers on his napkin. "Look, a woman was kidnapped, for Chrissake. Why don't you go to the police?"

  Murray fingered his fake gold crown, resolutely shook his head. "Call me a shitty citizen, I think that's a lousy bet. Maybe Ponte's got 'em in his pocket. Maybe LaRue pulls strings. Maybe they're just incompetent, they piss around long enough for us to disappear."

  Franny's appetite was suddenly gone, she put down a piece of toast edged with crescents the shape of her teeth.

  "We can't go back to Key West," Tommy Tarpon said.

  "No," said Murray. "I guess we can't. They'd find us in a—"

  "That's not what I mean. Your car's still on Biscayne."

  This seemed one more exasperation than the Bra King could process. He slapped his coffee down, a little of it spilled into the saucer. "Car's been nothing but aggravation. Well, fuck it, it's just a car. "

  "He's right though," said Les Kantor. "Key West wouldn't be safe."

  Murray thought that over, looked out at scudding pelicans, gently bobbing boats. He grabbed a toothpick from a plastic holder and said, "Shlemazel."

  Les and Franny nodded as though the comment were neither more nor less than obvious.

  "Shlemazel?" Tommy said.

  "Shlemazel," Murray repeated, louder, so it would be easier to understand. "A guy with lousy luck. Like, other people, they come to Florida, they get a beautiful tan, their blood pressure goes down. Me, I come to Florida, I lose my car, I plunk down twenty grand for a penthouse I'll get murdered if I go to."

  "Ah," said Tommy. "Kamana wamputi"

  "Meaning?" asked Les Kantor.

  "He who falls from horseback into dung."

  "That's Murray," Franny said. Absently, she again picked up a piece of toast, nibbled at the crust. "So where are we gonna go?"

  *****

  "Fuck you, Bahney."

  The senator was not awake yet, had reached for the clamoring phone on the Tallahassee nightstand without even cracking an eye. He said, "What time is it?"

  "You're in trouble, friend."

  "What?"

  "The fuckin' tribe you were gonna deliver, you ain't delivered dick."

  Swimming up toward consciousness, sliding his shoulders higher onto pillows, LaRue said, "Charlie, I have no idea what you're talking about."

  Clarity of speech, even in the best of times, was not what Ponte was best at. Now, back at his desk in Coconut Grove, he was hammer-tongued with rage. "A hundred fuckin' grand on the casino bill, I see squat for that, ya tell me sorry. Another fifty up front for this fucking Indian. Easy, you say. Easy my ass."

  "I told you one Indian, one Jew amateur."

  "Bahney," said the mobster, a grudging regard edging into his tone, "you don't know these fucking people. You made it sound like you know them, and you don't."

  The politician made a miscalculation, tried to tweak the other man's pride. "I handed you this person, Charlie. You can't close the deal, what do you want from me?"

  "I want my fucking tribe."

  "I did what I said I'd do."

  "And I'm telling you you didn't."

  LaRue scratched his chest through silk pajamas, said wearily, "So Charlie, just what is it you'd like me to do?"

  The truth was, Ponte didn't know. He swiveled in his big chair, looked with distaste at the early morning light squeezing through his fortress windows. Then he swiveled back, listened half a second longer to the faint but irritating sound of the politician's breathing, and dropped the phone back into its cradle.

  *****

  Les Kantor, his small ears and high forehead turning bright red as the unaccustomed sun reared up toward its zenith, whisked them down the Keys in the rented power boat.

  Flaco, the old sponger, was to meet them ten, twelve miles above Key West, at a forgotten place that had once been called the Sand Key Marina. It had a falling-down dock whose planks were sprung like the keys of a mangled xylophone; its derelict gas pump was a column of rust caught in a stranglehold of vines. The place was reached by way of a winding overgrown channel that an uninformed boater would never find.

  Tommy guided Kantor through it; the sleek and gleaming speedboat scratched its way between the mangroves. Flaco was already waiting in the small still basin. His skiff looked very meager, very frail. It sat low in the water, loaded
to the gunwales with the provisions Tommy Tarpon had asked him to gather: fresh water, fruit, bread, rice, matches, line and net and fish hooks, blankets and utensils.

  "And beer?" Flaco had asked, when they'd spoken on the phone.

  Tommy had paused, and in the pause he'd tasted hops and malt, felt the tart astringent draw of a cold one on his tongue. "No," he'd said. "No beer."

  The two craft were side by side now in the sun- shot water; the grizzled Cuban, wordlessly efficient, was holding them together.

  Murray put a hand on Kantor's shoulder, thanked him.

  Kantor just shrugged. Then he said to Franny, "Look, it's none of my business, but you don't have to be as pigheaded as my partner. You could fly with me to New York, double back to Sarasota …"

  Franny stood there in the sunshine. The boat was rocking softly, somewhere a gull was screaming. Cutting loose from the danger and the craziness, cutting loose, again, from Murray—it was awfully tempting. Returning to safe, normal Sarasota; really rather dull Sarasota ... Momentarily she lost her balance, she couldn't tell if it was the motion of the boat or her own contrary leanings. She grabbed a gunwale, surprised herself by saying at last, "No, I was never one for leaving in the middle of a show. I'm staying." She boarded Flaco's skiff. Still shaking his fastidious and sunburned head, Les Kantor roared off, heading back to the safe and normal business of selling bras.

  The old Cuban waited for his wake to settle, then moved at a temperate pace toward Tommy's island, Kilicumba, that place of flies and snakes and gators, a place where nobody could find them and they could steal some time to rest and think.

  36

  When they were out in the back country, skimming through the flat and lucent water over barracuda and eagle rays and propeller scars and random tufts of turtle grass, Murray said, "This island—it's not gonna be what you expect, ya know."

  "What do you think I expect?" said Franny.

  "Ya know—a desert island. Beach, coconuts, waterfalls."

  "Murray, I've lived in Florida half a dozen years. I don't expect that, Murray."

  "Oh," the Bra King said, and he vaguely wondered why it was that everyone else's expectations of life and fate and the world in general seemed saner, more measured, and more accurate than his own. "Am I nuts?"