Welcome to Paradise

by Laurence Shames

  Nicky Scotto sucked his teeth, said with confidence, "You're gonna tell us."

  She didn't.

  Nicky plucked his clothing and tried a different tack. "This new asshole—you like 'im? I mean, I get the feeling you and him are hangin' out together now."

  Katy said nothing. Al soothed his quivering dog.

  "Listen, Kitty—"

  "Katy."

  "Katy," Nicky said. "Lemme put this very simple. Someone named Big Al is gonna die tonight. It can be the other one, who frankly is a useless scumbag, or it can be this guy you seem to like. I'm givin' you the chance to decide. Take a minute. Think it over."

  He produced a toothpick from a jacket pocket, chomped it. Chop drove. He loved to drive; he could drive all night.

  Katy looked at Al. It was too dark to really see his eyes. She saw his pitted cheek, one corner of his mouth. She liked his face but she couldn't bring herself to speak.

  Nicky got impatient. He said to Squid, "Show the lady we're sincere."

  Squid licked his lips and reached his hot, damp arm around her back; the hollow of his armpit cupped her flank. The gun was in his hand and he pressed the muzzle into the soft place behind Al Tuschman's ear. Contextless, obscene, it dented the flesh, traced out the seam between the skull and jaw. She felt Al tighten, felt his breathing stall. Squid cocked the hammer. The click seemed very loud.

  Her shoulders sagged. She said, "Okay, okay."

  The gun stayed where it was.

  "Last I know, he's at the Conch House."

  Squid withdrew his arm. Nicky almost smiled. The toothpick danced between his teeth. He looked at Chop.

  Chop said, "That sucks."

  "Whatsa matter?"

  "Can't grab 'im there," the driver said. "Big fancy busy place. Tons a people. Guards."

  Nicky plucked at his itching trousers. Chop serenely made left turns, right turns. Al touched Katy's knee with a hand that wasn't steady.

  After a silence, Squid's voice had the harsh, damp rasp of a kazoo. "So she brings 'im to us."

  Nicky looked at him.

  "Come on," he said. "Two days ago they were an item. Big tall sexy babe like this, she lures 'im down."

  Katy closed her eyes, forced herself to inhale.

  Nicky considered. "We do 'im there?"

  "Too closed in," said Squid. "Grab 'im's all we do."

  Chop turned in the direction of Duval Street.

  Squid swallowed, then kept talking like Al and Katy weren't there. "We give 'er an hour. She doesn't bring 'im down, the new Romeo is dead. We're no worse off than now."

  Al Tuschman held his dog against his stomach. The quiet residential streets turned garish as they neared Duval. Neon flashed; the humid air took on blue and orange grains. Chop wove among mopeds and bicycles and pedicabs until he found the Conch House's garage.

  He pulled in between a low ceiling and an oily concrete floor under evil, maddening fluorescent lights. He passed up some open spaces, crawled along until he saw a dark gray Lincoln with a New York plate that said BIG AL.

  "Sonofabitch," he muttered. He parked across an aisle and a couple of slots away. He lowered the windows and switched off the engine. The air stank of exhaust.

  With the motor off it was ungodly still. Nicky pushed back his sleeve and checked his watch. He spoke to Katy but pointed his gun at Al. "Ya got an hour, sweetheart. Smile pretty."

  She kissed Al Tuschman on the cheek and climbed out of the car.

  34

  Katy was still wearing her pink shorts and lime-green top and high-heeled sandals, and the concrete floor felt very hard against her feet.

  She walked stiffly to the elevator and tried to clear her head. She knew some things she wished she didn't know. She knew that thugs were liars, that there was not the slightest guarantee that she and Tusch would go free if she produced Big Al. She knew, as well, that she could probably escape, alone. Men like this—the truth was that, for all the jealousy and posing, women didn't matter to them; their deepest passions—hate, revenge, a pathetic need to be respected—were reserved for one another. With lack of regard came an insulting form of safety; she knew that she could simply disappear. And she knew she wouldn't do it.

  She rode up to the top guest floor, approached the suite she'd shared with Big Al Marracotta. She tried to practice what she would say to him, but no words would come; there was nothing to rehearse. He would want to touch her, of course, reassert his claim. She shivered at the thought. She paused a moment at the door, then knocked.

  There was no answer. She knocked again. Hearing silence in return, she bit her lip and pictured him at the rooftop bar. Pictured him with such intensity as to put him there, because, if he wasn't, there was no way she'd find him in an hour. She went back to the elevator.

  It was crowded on the rooftop. Smoke swirled. A piano player labored bravely against the giggling and the clank of ice and the whirring of the blenders. Katy, a woman alone in pink shorts and heels, pushed through the clustered bodies at the bar; a hand brushed against her buttocks. She broke through to the rank of small tables that edged the room, that owned the pricey windows. Waitresses careened with endless trays of fritters. Couples drank from salted glasses. And there, at a dim table in the corner, a sweating silver bucket poised in front of him, sat Big Al Marracotta by himself.

  Katy, unseen, studied him a moment before she approached. He looked not just small but diminished, shrunken, like something revisited from childhood. His helmet of hair seemed unnatural, puppetlike. There was a hint of the primitive and stupid in the sensual looseness of his mouth. She braced herself and moved toward him.

  He looked up from his glass and saw her when she was several steps away. The distance gave him time to select a pose. He was beaten down, defeated, and if he let it show he might know the sweetness of being comforted. But no way would he let it show. He stretched his neck inside his collar, stuck out his stubby chin.

  "'Lo, Al," Katy said.

  He turned his head way up to look at her. "You're back." He was surprised and yet it sounded smug.

  "Ask me to sit down?"

  He gestured toward a chair. "Where ya been?"

  Sitting, she said, "Needed some time alone. You shouldn't have hit me, Al."

  He might have said he was sorry. He was sorry. He said, "Didja come here to start another argument?"

  She glanced at the champagne bottle. Big Al gestured for a waitress to bring another glass.

  "I came," she said, "to see if maybe we should try again." She crossed her long legs. The edge of the tablecloth touched her skin just above the knee.

  Al felt a twinge in his pants. He looked away like he was giving the proposition careful thought. He'd told himself he was through with Katy, especially when it seemed that she was through with him. Besides, without the market, who knew if he could even afford her anymore? But in the meantime she was tall, she was young, she was here.

  The waitress brought a glass and poured for both of them. To Katy's relief, that drained the bottle.

  She let Big Al play hard to get. She put her hand on his wrist. "I have an idea," she said. "Let's go someplace new, forget about what happened here, start fresh. A couple days in South Beach, maybe. Whaddya say?"

  Big Al pursed his lips. He was struggling up from dismal depths, and the only way he knew to climb was to step on someone else. He said, "So ya realized when ya had it good."

  Katy tried hard not to wince, used her glass to hide her face. "Yeah, Al. I realized."

  He tipped his flute up to his sloppy lips, tapped out a final drop, pretended that he'd come to a decision. "Okay," he said. "Let's go downstairs."

  She pictured the giant bed, smelled again the rank sheets and sour pillows. She turned coy to mask a sudden panic. "Okay," she said, "but just to pack."

  "Right. Whatever. Sure."

  "I mean it, Al. I don't wanna be here anymore."

  He gestured for his tab and signed it. They rose and moved through the crowd toward the elevator.
People looked at them—the slick and cocksure guy with the tall and chesty babe—and Big Al Marracotta felt almost back on top again.

  *

  Downstairs in the stifling and hellishly lit garage, Nicky Scotto plucked his sleeve and checked his watch. "Three quarters of an hour gone," he said. "The bitch ain't comin' back."

  In the rear seat of the Jag, Squid Berman swiveled toward Al Tuschman. "Guess you didn't impress her much."

  Al said nothing, petted his dog. He was very afraid but as time wore on and adrenaline subsided, his fear lost its jagged edge and became a smooth, round weight that was simply there, a background noise. Tentatively resigned, he found himself thinking almost calmly of morbid, dreadful things. What would become of Fifi if he got killed? Would she end up in some adoption agency full of horny, uncouth mutts in cages floored with filthy shredded newsprint? What about Moe Kleiman? Corny, generous old Moe—would he somehow blame himself?

  And while he was on guilt, he felt terribly guilty about Katy. She'd drawn the tougher card by far. While he just sat here quietly communing with his cowardice, she was out there, acting, scheming in the face of her fear. Let the thugs say what they wanted; Al didn't for an instant doubt that she was trying her best to ransom him. That's who she was—a person who would try her best. But what if she just couldn't pull it off? What would a maniac like Big Al do if he realized she was trying to betray him?

  That was a question that made the background noise of Al Tuschman's fear rise again to a hideous jangle.

  Minutes passed. Making chitchat, Nicky Scotto said to Chop, "So we ain't got Al but we got a place?"

  Chop's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror before he answered. "Perfect place," he said. "Scoped it out this afternoon."

  There was a silence.

  Squid said to Nicky, "Ain't you hot, that suit on?"

  Nicky didn't answer that, just plucked at the hated fabric and checked his watch again. "Ten minutes," he said. "Bitch ain't comin' back."

  35

  Big Al Marracotta's hands were groping toward Katy's breasts before the door had even closed behind them.

  She seized his wrists, labored mightily to keep some playfulness in her voice. "Later," she said. "We're packing. We're going. Right?"

  "What's the hurry?" said Big Al. He freed his hands and grabbed her hips and made lewd wiggles with his tongue.

  Katy realized something in that instant. Realized that not only did he repulse her now, he'd repulsed her from the start, and that had been part of the appeal. Crazy, but no more.

  She spun away, moved toward the stand that held her suitcase. Her breath caught when she saw the violence Big Al had wrought against her things, the slashed and sundered bras and panties and stockings. "Jesus," she said. "I guess you were pretty mad at me."

  For one second he looked sheepish, then seemed stupidly proud of himself and of his rage. "Yeah," he said. "Pretty mad. Blind mad. Mad enough for anything."

  Fright climbed up her throat with a taste of salt and iron. She managed something like a smile, said, "Guess you'll have to buy me some new things up in South Beach."

  He liked that, as she knew he would. Made him feel like a sport. He licked his lips as he pictured her modeling a fresh batch of cheesy lingerie. He glanced over at the bags of sex toys. "Got some goodies to bring along."

  She tried her best to look intrigued. "Sooner we get on the road ..."

  He leered at her, and ran a hand across his crotch, and moved off to the bathroom.

  Katy lunged to the armoire, started stuffing clothes into Big Al's luggage. Cabana sets, black shirts, expensive shoes. Desperation made her wildly efficient. She went to the phone and called down to the kennel. Even moved the bags of sex toys toward the door. By the time Al Marracotta had peed and put himself away and combed his helmet of salt-and-pepper hair, all that was left to do was to gather up cosmetics. She swept tubes and bottles from the counter and announced that they were ready.

  "The dog?" he said.

  "They're getting him."

  Not one to carry his own bags or retrieve his own car, Big Al Marracotta said, "Didja call a bellman? A valet?"

  "They're all backed up," she lied. "Like half an hour. Come on, I'll carry stuff."

  She bent to lift his suitcase. He put his hand on her flexing ass. "Why so anxious, babe?"

  She bit her lip and forced her hips to move against his hand. "Come on, Al. Different place, different bed. Come on."

  She moved off toward the door. He followed. It seemed to take forever for the elevator to arrive.

  *

  Nicky Scotto checked his watch then pointed his gun at Alan Tuschman's chest. "Ah, shit," he said. "Looks like we gotta kill ya."

  Al stroked his dog and tried not to tremble. He thought he'd show himself that much, at least—get through this without quaking or crying or wetting his pants.

  "Nothin' personal," Nicky went on. "Y'unnerstand, we don't follow through, people lose respect."

  Chop made a somewhat sympathetic sound. "All over a stupid license plate. A stupid nickname."

  "Wit' all the other nicknames you mighta had," put in Squid. "Knucklehead. Limpdick ..."

  Fifty yards away, the chrome doors of the elevator opened.

  The rottweiler came out first. Penned in much too long, it strained at its leash, strained so hard it choked itself and wheezed.

  The waiting killers heard the wheezing and the tick of paws against the oily cement floor. They looked up through the sickly bluish light, and in a moment they saw Katy, listing slightly on her high-heeled shoes as she balanced a fat suitcase, and Al Marracotta, rearing back against the weight of the leash, a pair of shopping bags sagging in his other hand.

  A vindicated Nicky Scotto whispered, "Ya see? Ya see! Little guy. Big dog. Let's go."

  Low and silent, he slipped out of the Jag, Squid Berman right behind. Squatting down between two cars, they readied their pieces as the footsteps drew closer. They held their breath and fixed their gazes on the vanity plate at the rear end of the Lincoln.

  Big Al finally stood next to it. He put the shopping bags down on the cement and fished in his pocket for a key. He fumbled with the key, then had some trouble fitting it to the lock. He rubbed his eyes and started over. Everything seemed to be taking an unnaturally long time. At last the trunk swung open. He bent to put in the bags.

  That's when Squid and Nicky came springing toward his rumpled, helpless back.

  "Get your fuckin' hands up, Al!" said Scotto.

  Katy dropped the suitcase, stepped aside fast.

  By reflex, not yet knowing who it was that had the drop on him, the little mobster did as he was told. The leash fell from his hand. The restless but simple rottweiler, paralyzed by sudden freedom, sat down on the floor and let its tongue hang out. Squid Berman bounded close to Al, frisked him from his armpits to his groin.

  "Now turn around," said Nicky.

  Big Al pivoted, and when he saw his colleague from New York, he was a little afraid and quite pissed off, but mostly he was just confused. His confusion, like morning clouds, burned off one layer at a time, and the first thing he understood was that Katy, with her teasing talk of fresh beds, fresh lingerie, had set him up. He looked at her. "You fucking cunt."

  She felt bad for him in spite of everything. Felt bad for his wife and kids, who probably thought he was an okay guy. She couldn't meet his eyes.

  But Big Al couldn't figure out what Nicky Scotto wanted from him. Their little contest was over. He'd lost; Nicky had won. He said to his enemy, "Why the fuck—?"

  A long moment's mayhem stifled his question.

  Fifi had grown quiveringly alert in her master's lap. She smelled danger and the rottweiler. In whatever canine way she understood the battle, she was determined to do her part. She dug her paws into Al Tuschman's crotch and, before he could restrain her, she propelled herself out the Jaguar's open window.

  Paws skidding on the slippery cement, she charged at Ripper, furiously yipping all the w
hile. The chicken-hearted rottweiler half stood up, retreating slowly, quailing. Then it made an epic blunder and turned its back. Beneath the russet bull's-eye of its ass, its showy testicles dangled and swayed, the right one lower than the left. Fifi made a mighty leap and grabbed them in her teeth.

  The big dog howled and yelped and spun in tight and anguished circles. The little dog hung on, fur flying backward, legs and tail streaming out behind as though distended by the motion of some insane amusement-park ride. Ripper's scrotum stretched like pizza dough; Fifi flapped like laundry in a gale. Finally she loosed her grip, went scuttling across the floor. Ripper, whimpering and bloodied, ran limping for the exit.

  Big Al Marracotta, hands still in the air, said, "Jesus Christ! My dog!"

  "You don't need 'im anymore," said Nicky Scotto. "We're goin' for a ride."

  Al tried to keep the terror out of his voice. "Nicky, come on. You got the market-"

  "You're giving it ta me?" said the man with the gun. "That's very nice."

  "Come on, don't kid around. I talked ta Tony. I know what's what."

  Now it was Nicky who was a little bit confused. He labored not to let it show.

  "It's yours," Big Al went on. "Fair enough. I ain't happy, but congratulations."

  There was a pause. The lights buzzed. Drunken street noise filtered in. Katy sidled farther away from her former boyfriend.

  Nicky said, "Tony tol' ya this?"

  "Yesterday. Said the market goes back ta Nicky. Said my time was like a tryout. I'm pissed but that's life."

  Scotto pursed his lips, scratched his eyebrow, pulled his ear. For an instant he lowered his gun. Then he said, "Nice try, Al. Had me goin' for a second. But don'tcha think Tony woulda called me first?"

  Weakly, Big Al Marracotta said, "He didn't?"

  "You got balls," said Nicky. "I give ya that."

  Using his pistol to point the way, he gestured toward the Jag. Big Al didn't budge. Squid moved close and shoved him along.

  Chop pulled the lever that released the trunk. It yawned open slowly, like the mouth of a whale. Nicky said, "Hop in."