Florida straits kwm-1

by Laurence Shames

  The news was sufficient to spoil the evening. Gino Delgatto had a gift for that kind of thing. Every face clouded over, although each for a somewhat different reason.

  "Why's 'e here?" asked Bert, wondering how much, if anything, Joey had told Sandra of the family business that was, strictly speaking, none of her business at all.

  "He says he's on vacation." Joey had had just enough to drink so that he heard his own voice from the inside of his eardrums, and he didn't like the steely sound of it. "Says he figured he might as well come down and pay a visit."

  "You believe that?" Sandra asked.

  Joey took a heavy breath that had a tough time coming in and going out again around a bellyful of steak. "Yeah, right. I believe it. He's here to fuck things up for me."

  "Joey, don't-"

  He cut her off quick and hard. "And don't tell me not to curse."

  "That isn't what I was gonna say," she came right back. "Don't fucking let him, Joey. That's what I was gonna say."

  Part II

  — 16 -

  The first thing Joey noticed about his half brother Gino Delgatto-noticed from thirty feet away-was that his new girlfriend had enormous breasts. They started about three inches below her shoulders, then billowed out and down but mostly out, tapering only slightly as they went, with the jolly, bouncy, cozy taper of small blimps. You could have run raft trips down her cleavage. Measured against these monumental bosoms, the girlfriend's features could only appear ungenerous and pinched, the eyes smallish in spite of all the tricks to make them bigger, the narrow nose barely equal to the job of sucking in air, the mouth, for all its caked-on lipstick, as austere as a mail slot. Gino did not think to introduce her. He would as soon have introduced a new settee. Instead, he watched Joey approach their booth at the Eclipse Saloon, and when he was still far enough away so that the remark needed almost to be shouted, said "What's with the pink shirt, Joey? Ya look like some kinda fairy."

  Joey walked faster toward his brother's table, not because he was eager to get there, but because he wanted to close the space between them before Gino could fill it with any more embarrassments. "That's not the kinda thing ya say down here," he said.

  Gino didn't seem to notice he'd been scolded. In his world, there were people above you and people below you. If someone above you set you right on something, your whole soul immediately changed to accommodate the advice. This was education of a profound but brittle sort. If someone below you made bold to criticize, you could shrug it off or hit him, but usually neither was necessary. Opinions from below just didn't register.

  "And the pink shirt," Joey went on, "is what I work in."

  "Oh yeah," said Gino. "You work." To show that the idea amused him, Gino smiled. It was an odd, abrupt smile that squeezed his eyes and stretched his mouth so wide that the flesh of his cheeks piled up like drifted snow. But there was no humor whatsoever in the smile, and it seemed like Gino struck the expression only because he'd seen it on other people. "Well, siddown, siddown."

  He motioned Joey into the booth next to the girlfriend, and still he didn't introduce her, so Joey introduced himself. He would be sitting thigh to thigh with her, breathing in her perfume that smelled like a rose garden on a very humid day. He ought to know her name at least.

  "I'm Vicki," she said, and she held out a hand whose long red fingernails jabbed into Joey's wrist as they shook. Hearing the name, he could not help taking a quick confirming glance at this Vicki's semi-credible boobs. Their top acre jiggled as she slid across the booth, and he felt reassured that they were made of flesh.

  "Had lunch?" asked Gino. He had a frozen daiquiri in front of him and a menu at his elbow.

  "Don't have time," said Joey. "Gotta get back soon."

  "My brother the executive," said Gino.

  "Someday, maybe. Or maybe not. So what's up with you?"

  Gino shrugged. His elbows were on the table and his beefy forearms framed a triangle of his wide and powerful chest. There was a definite resemblance between the two half brothers, but everything about Gino was thicker, coarser, more rough-hewn, as if he'd been sprung from the mold and sent on his way while Joey had continued to be carved and whittled, losing in strength what he gained in elegance. Where Joey's neck was thin but graceful, Gino's was sturdy but squat. Where Joey's gait was modest but springy, Gino's was imposing but earth- bound. And while Gino had a handsome face, it was a handsomeness that existed on the very edge of the ugly. His black eyes were bright and hard, but at moments they fell into a beady stare that suggested a birdlike unintelligence. His strong square nose, with its ample nostrils, could have been lifted directly from a Roman statue yet was only a hair's breadth away from being hoggish. His mouth was as lippy and sensual as his girlfriend's was unpromising, yet sometimes in the effort of forming words it appeared blubbery and almost lewd. 'Things are pretty much status quo with me," he said. "But hey kid, I got a bone to pick with you. How come you didn't come see me before you left New York?"

  Now it was Joey's turn to shrug. To answer the question properly would have taken a lot more time than he had, probably the rest of his life in fact, and Gino wouldn't get it anyway. "Lot to do," he said. "And you know how it is, once you decide to go somewhere, ya just wanna get onna road. But how'd you decide to come to Key West?"

  "Like I said, just a vacation. As good a place as any to catch a tan, and this way I get to see you."

  Joey pulled his eyes away from his half brother and looked around the Eclipse on the pretext of scouting up a waitress. He found one and ordered a club soda. But all the while, he was reflecting on what a lousy liar Gino was. Or rather, Gino was a barely adequate liar, given the very low ambitions of his lying. A top- notch liar was satisfied with nothing short of convincing. An imaginative liar could spin out a story whose amusingness made up at least in part for the fact that you were being jerked around. But Gino didn't have enough imagination to make up a good story, or enough shame to give a damn if you knew he was lying in your face. It was just his way his way-one of his ways-of letting you know you would get nothing from him.

  "Well, it's nice you came," said Joey, deciding to answer lie with lie. "So what'll you do while you're here."

  "Ya know," said Gino. "Hang around. Eat. Do some shopping."

  The word galvanized Vicki like a pinch on the nipple. "Shopping's lousy here," she suddenly piped up. "I never seen a town where all they got is T-shirts. All up and downa street."

  "So you'll buy T-shirts," Gino said.

  Vicki pulled her thin mouth into a pout. "Inna Bahamas, at least there's duty-free. Ya know, like perfume, jewelry-"

  "Shut up," said Gino. "We ain't inna Bahamas."

  "You could take a tour of the condo," Joey said, and regretted it before the words were out of his mouth. But he had a long history of misspeaking around Gino, out of discomfort. Besides, it was already getting to be a salesman's reflex with him to tell people they should have a look at Parrot Beach.

  "That might be fun," said Vicki.

  Gino didn't look like he thought so. He had no interest in Florida real estate. Or maybe what he had no interest in was what his kid brother was doing with his time.

  So Joey backpedaled. "Nah, forget about it. It's not that inneresting, and besides, you hafta qualify."

  "Whaddya mean, qualify? What kinda bullshit is qualify?" As a great sprinter comes to full speed in a single stride, so Gino Delgatto had the knack of coming to full belligerence in a single word. He was always ready to take umbrage at the merest suggestion that he might not be good enough for something.

  "Like, for one thing," Joey said, "you need a credit card. You got a credit card, Gino?"

  "Course I got a credit card. What kinda jerk travels these days widdout a credit card? I got a Gold Card. Dr. somebody. From Westchester, I think." And Gino smiled, not the stiff, forced grin but an easy smile of true delight. He was stealing. He was happy.

  "And a license," Joey said.

  "I got Bald Benny's old license," Gi
no said. "You know that."

  Joey sipped his club soda. He was almost enjoying the conversation now. Should he point out that it might be awkward when Gino was asked to show both IDs, or should he leave his big brother with the mental challenge of figuring it out for himself? In the meantime he glanced at Vicki. Not much of a vacation for her, he figured. No shopping, no condo tour, no casinos with big-name entertainment. Did she withhold sexual favors when she was ticked off? Joey hoped so.

  Gino at length came to the end of his analysis. "Yeah, I guess it would look, like, strange."

  "Too bad," said Joey. "I coulda made forty bucks offa you guys."

  "Hey, you strapped?" said Gino, and predictably, he reached into his pants pocket. Joey had seen him do it hundreds of times. He did it as naturally as other guys took their dicks out to pee. A single motion, the fat, spiraled wad of bills appeared, and Gino was once more master of the situation.

  But this time Joey waved him off. "No, thanks, Gino. I'm not strapped. Besides, it wouldn't be the same, taking the money from you. It's a game, getting people to take the tour. The kick, that comes from figuring the game out, playing it good, and winning. Winning-you can understand that, can't ya, Gino?"

  — 17 -

  After work that day Joey drove the Cadillac to the Paradiso condominium and went looking for Bert the Shirt. He wasn't in his apartment. He wasn't under the steel umbrella by the pool. He wasn't in the screened gazebo where four old guys were playing gin.

  "Anybody know where Bert is?" Joey asked the group.

  One of the card players slowly lifted his left arm, held his wrist as far away as possible, and squinted at his watch. "Probably on the beach by now. His dog likes to watch the sun go down."

  So Joey picked his way through the traffic on A1A, slipped through the ranks of bicycles and scooters streaming along the broad promenade that flanked the road, found a gap between two joggers, and stepped onto Smathers Beach.

  An odd beach Smathers was, not like Jones Beach, Rockaway, or Coney Island. It was made of old coral, the bigger pieces resembling knucklebones, the smaller ones looking like shards and ribs from a well- picked chicken. Over the coral was a layer of imported sand that the town fathers had decided would be good for tourism. Where did it come from, this yellow-brown sand that looked like nothing else in the lower Keys? Or, for that matter, where did it go? Joey had no idea. But from day to day, and even from hour to hour, the sand seemed to sift downward through the coral, gradually disappearing into the bowels of the earth. What didn't fall through the cracks in the limestone blew unpredictably on every changing wind. One day it seemed that every grain of sand had decided to congregate up near the airport; next day the yellow-brown mass had migrated three quarters of a mile and was leaning against the fence that enclosed the private beach of the Flagler House hotel. There was only one thing you could count on about this sand: it would not be where your next footstep fell. No, your next footstep would carry you to an exposed and upturned knuckle of coral, a piece of ancient Florida history that would stab you in the arch.

  But for Joey, wearing new tennis shoes purchased with his own earned money, the torturing surface of Smathers Beach was no more a problem than the hot sidewalks of Duval Street. His feet were comfy. His feet had adapted to where he was. Too bad it wasn't as easy for the rest of him.

  He scanned the beach, looking for his friend. The sun was low, and the western horizon had taken on that perfectly neutral color where you can no longer tell if it's cloudy or clear, whether the sun will douse itself in the ocean or vanish in mid-sky, slipping into haze as modestly as a letter slides into an envelope. Joey saw no one except one guy with a metal detector and another flying a kite.

  Then, finally, he spotted Bert. Bert was sitting in a beach chair, far out on a finger of crumbly gray rock that jutted into the green ocean. His back was to the land, and he was recognizable only by his bronze- white hair; that, and the canary-yellow polka-dotted silk of his shirt.

  "Hello, Joey," Bert said when the younger man was still half a dozen steps behind him.

  "How'd ya know it's me?"

  "Dog twitched," said the Shirt, turning slowly, "so I knew it was someone. That it was you, that was a percentage play. Ya know, kid, it's not like I'm really that popular. But how are ya?"

  "Not bad, considering I saw my asshole brother today."

  Bert shook his head slowly. Family feuds saddened him, but not because he regarded them as unnatural. Just the opposite. What was more natural than that disappointment, rage, and the sense that you were being gypped should start at home? The family was where you really took a beating. You looked to the outside world for comfort not because the outside world was kinder but because it mattered so much less, it couldn't get under your fingernails. "Joey," Bert said, "lemme ask you a question. Is he really an asshole, or does it just look that way to you because of, ya know, the situation?"

  Joey looked at Bert, and at Don Giovanni nestled in his lap. The dog really did seem to be savoring the sunset. Twin orange disks were reflected in its glassy, oversized eyes, making it look like some diminutive species of hellhound. "Bert, I've had a lot of time to think it over. As God is my witness, he's really an asshole."

  Bert just nodded and never took his eyes off the sky. The sun was almost on the horizon now, at the point where its reflection seemed to jump out of the ocean to rejoin it, making it look not like a sphere but a cylinder, a giant candle slipping away.

  "And what's going on," Joey resumed, "I really don't like it. It's the exact same bullshit as in New York. The lying. The hiding things. All the time having to wonder who said what to who. Who's clued in, who ain't. It's like ya can't open your goddamn mouth without worrying ten different ways if you're gonna say somethin' ya shouldn't say. I mean, Bert, life shouldn't be that fucking complicated."

  Bert the Shirt, his long face rosy in the last red rays, smiled the inward smile of a patient teacher whose lesson is at last getting through. "No, it shouldn't be." He didn't want to say I-told-you-so to Joey, so he spoke to his dog instead. "Ya see, Giovanni, now he's starting to talk like Florida."

  "Yeah," said Joey, "but now I got my brother here, and he talks like the gutters of Astoria."

  "That's a problem," the old man conceded. He lifted the chihuahua off his lap and gently placed it on the warm gray rock. Then he plucked a real or imaginary dog hair from the belly of his splendid yellow shirt. "So kid, let's think this through. First off, why do you really think your brother is here?"

  Joey gave a mirthless snort of a laugh that had to do only with what he saw as the ridiculous obviousness of the question. "Bert, lemme put it this way. I can't think of one fucking time my brother ever crossed the street to say hello to me, let alone went fifteen hundred miles. So it ain't a social call. Vacation? Nah. He hates gays, he's with a broad who all she wants to do is shop-he wouldn't come to Key West for vacation. It's gotta be this bullshit with Charlie Ponte."

  "Awright," said Bert. "We agree. Now, does he know you know about Ponte, about the emeralds?"

  "No."

  "You sure?"

  Joey glanced off toward the west, at the underlit pink clouds whose edges were already dimming out to purple. "Yeah, I'm sure."

  "You tell anybody in New York?" Bert pressed.

  "One guy. My buddy Sal."

  A look of concern flickered across the old man's face, and the look triggered in Joey an instant of doubt followed by a moment of anger toward Bert for being the agent of suspicion. Mistrusting Sal would be about as painful as any possible consequence of being let down by Sal. If you couldn't rely on your family, then you could not afford to doubt your friends. "Sal's solid," Joey said, and there was defiance in his voice.

  "O.K., O.K." The Shirt raised a pacifying palm. "So what're you gonna do, kid?"

  "About Gino? I'm gonna do what I always do with Gino. I'm gonna try to stay outta his way and hope I don't get steamrolled."

  Bert reached down and absently stroked Don Giovanni behin
d the ears. "Well, your brother knows who I am. He knows I'm here. Maybe he'll look me up, maybe he won't. I hope he doesn't."

  Joey could not help laughing. "Ain't it great what a popular guy my brother is, the way he's always spreading sunshine?"

  'Yeah, it's great," said Bert. "But listen, kid, if you want my advice, or even if you don't, play as dumb as you can for as long as you can."

  Joey looked down at his feet and kicked lightly at a knuckle of coral. "That'll be easy. I mean, that'll just be acting like he expects me to act."

  "And Sandra? What'll you say to Sandra?"

  "As little as I can," said Joey. He hadn't really thought about it, but he knew the answer that was expected of him. "I don't want her involved."

  The old man nodded his approval. "Best that way," he said.

  Joey nodded back, glanced briefly at the vacant western sky, and for just an instant felt as empty as the place the sun had been. "Best that way."

  "So how'd it go with Gino?"

  Sandra was standing at the stove, watching macaroni boil. She wasn't a bad cook, just a nervous one, an Irish girl making Italian food for a half-Jewish boyfriend who'd grown up with the finest pork products Queens had to offer. In her efforts to be organized, precise, she meddled too much with the food. She was always poking at cutlets, stirring things that didn't need stirring. She memorized recipes and timed things on her watch.

  "Went O.K.," Joey said. He was looking for some orange juice and his head was in the fridge. "He's got a new girlfriend with him."

  "What's she like?" Sandra bothered the broccoli.

  By way of answer, Joey held his hands about a foot and a half out from his chest.

  "He's consistent," said Sandra.

  "Give him that," said Joey.

  There was a pause. A lid lifted softly from a sauce-pan, then settled back down. Sandra had an instant's panic that the red sauce was scorching. It was not. She stirred it anyway. "Joey, why's he here?"