Florida Straits

by SKLA

  "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 ow
n 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."

  — 8 —

  Joey pushed open the door to the compound and breathed deeply of the jasmine and the lime. He was feeling optimistic and benign. One of the ladies was poaching in the hot tub, only her dark coarse hair visible above the roiling water. "How's it feel in there, Marsha?" Joey asked.

  "Feels great. But I'm Wendy."

  Inside their cottage, Sandra was standing in the kitchen, watching fish fillets defrost. She was just out of the shower and had a towel, turban style, on her head. She wore a short pink robe, and rivulets of water still gleamed on her pale legs.

  "Hello, baby," Joey said. "You look sexy."

  "Hi, Joey." Sandra made it a point not to echo his buoyant tone. "You sound happy. Been drinking?"

  "Come on, I had two drinks. But that's not why I'm happy. I met a guy, a guy from New York. Knows my old man. Isn't that a pisser? We had a nice talk. It was like neighborhood."

  "Good," said Sandra. "I'm glad you had a pleasant afternoon." She looked at the fish, laid out on a warped wooden cutting board. Frozen, the fillets had been silvery and smooth. As they melted, they turned bluish and flakes bent back like small barbs.

  "Sandra, hey, you like it better when I'm in a lousy mood and just mope around?"

  "No, Joey, of course not. It's just—"

  "Just what?"

  "Joey, listen. I don't mind that you're not bringing in any money right now. I really don't."

  "I think you do," he said.

  "Maybe I do," she admitted. "To tell you the truth, I'm not sure if I do or if I don't. But Joey, that's not the point. It's not like you're a freeloader. It's not like you're lazy. I know you're not. You're out there putting in time, putting in trouble. I know that. But Joey, here's the thing. You don't wanna tell me the details of what you're trying to do, fair enough, I don't need to know. But isn't it getting pretty obvious that it isn't any easier to do things your way than it is to make an honest living? So why not use that energy—"

  "Oh Christ, Sandra, we're gonna start in on this again?"

  "Yeah, Joey, we are." Sandra crossed her arms and pressed them against her midriff. Her face, already flushed from the shower, turned a shade pinker under the unsteady fluorescent light. "Joey, I'm not sure I really understand why you came down here, but I'll tell you why I did. I came down here because I love you. That's the only reason. Not to get a tan. Not to wear sunglasses. Not because I was unhappy in Queens. To be with you. I thought you really wanted to change things around and you had to go far away to do it."

  Joey examined his shoes. Sandra went on.

  "The things you were doing in New York—look, I'm not stupid, Joey. But O.K., that was New York. That was your family, those were our friends. Fine. No one ever seemed to get in trouble, and if people got hurt, they weren't the people we knew. I'm not saying I liked it, but I could live with it."

  Joey looked at the linoleum floor, at the ancient oily dust that stuck to the base of the refrigerator and hung down like a filthy beard. "So live with it and stop bitching."

  Sandra undid her turban and draped the towel over the back of a chair. "Joey, that's what I'm saying. I'm not sure I can live with it down here. Down here I can't make excuses for you. I can't say you were born into it, I can't say it's what all your buddies do. Down here you got a choice, Joey, don'tcha see that? And as far as I can tell, you're choosing the exact same stuff you were doing in Queens."

  "Oh yeah?" said Joey. He put his hands on his hips and tried to muster a tone of righteous indignation. "And just how sure are you about that?"

  Sandra picked up the cutting board and spilled off some gray water that had come out of the fish. "I'm not sure," she admitted. "How should I be sure? You don't talk to me. And I'd love to be wrong, believe me. But Joey, how does it look? Does it look like you're joining the Florida work force? No, it looks like you're hanging around waiting to win the lottery. And now you tell me you meet a guy from New York. He knows your father.

  We know what that means. It's just like the old neighborhood—"

  "But Sandra," Joey cut in, "you're missing the whole point, which you woulda got if you let me talk insteada jumping down my throat before I'm even inside the goddamn door. The guy's from New York, yeah. And if you must know, he's family, that's true. But the point is that even he says you can't run a New York-style business down here, ya gotta go with the local style. Now, coming from him, I believe it. I mean, the man is a professional. So that's why I'm happy, Sandra. It's like a new idea, like a light bulb lighting up. And I have this feeling that this guy Bert and I are gonna do some things together."

  "Legal things, Joey?"

  Joey widened his dark blue eyes. "Now it's gotta be legal? A minute ago it just had to be different from New York. For Chrissake, Sandra, quit while you're ahead."

  She looked at the fillets on the cutting board. They were still oozing gray water and had taken on the glazed translucence of someone's eyeballs when they have a cold. "That fish looks lousy."

  "Yeah, it does," said Joey. He approached it as though it might be carrying a grave disease and gave it a clinical poke with his index finger. "Feels all mushy." He sniffed at his hand. "Doesn't smell terrific either. Could be like spoiled."

  He went to the sink and started washing up with dish soap. He was fastidious about his hands, Joey was, aside from being finicky about his food.

  Sandra sighed and ran her fingers through her short blond hair. "What's gonna be with you, Joey? Well, come on, let's go out. I get paid tomorrow.

  — 9 —

  Bert the Shirt d'Ambrosia did not look terrific in his Bermuda shorts. Loose skin gathered around his knobby knees as at the neck of a Chinese dog, and on his right thigh, clearly visible through the sparse white hair, was the scooped-out pink scar of an old gunshot wound. His dark nylon socks ended three inches above his ankles, and the brown mesh shoes made his feet look bigger than they really were. But the old mobster was saved from dowdiness by the splendor of his blue silk shirt. It had horn buttons and the shimmer of the tall sky just after sunset. There was navy piping around the collar and a monogram on the chest pocket.

  "Boo," said Joey Goldman.

  Bert looked up in no great hurry. He was sitting at a poolside table at the Paradiso condominium, playing solitaire under a steel umbrella. "Was a time," he said, "you couldn'ta got the jump on me like that. Now? What the fuc
k. I'm just an old guy playing cards."

  "You got a watchdog," Joey said. Don Giovanni, his wet nose twitching, cowered beneath the old man's chair.

  "Fucking dog isn't worth shit. But siddown, Joey. I'm glad you came by."

  The younger man pulled up a white wrought-iron chair and eased himself into it. "Nice place." The Paradiso had three pink towers that bristled with balconies and framed a big pool and a pair of tennis courts; the Atlantic Ocean was across the street. Through Joey's tinted lenses, the water was a milky green not much darker than the color of celery.

  "It's not too bad," Bert said. "They don't have bocce, that's the only thing."

  "Well," said Joey, and he left it at that. The old man turned up an ace, waved it in the air, and kissed it. "Bert, I was thinking about what you said the other day."

  Bert cocked his head but said nothing. He was at the age when things he'd said forty years before left a more reliable track than things he said five minutes ago. Fortunately, he'd developed the knack of looking sage while waiting to be reminded what he'd been so wise about.

  "Ya know," Joey went on, "about how ya gotta come up with, like, a Florida caper, something that makes sense for where we're at."

  "Not where we're at. Where you're at." The Shirt put a black seven on a red eight.

  "Whatever," Joey said. "Anyway, it makes a lotta sense. Except. . . except. Except, Bert, I can't for the life a me figure out what the angle oughta be. The last two nights, I couldn't sleep. I got outta bed and went outside. It's like three inna morning, and I'm sitting under a palm tree like a fucking lunatic, telling myself, Think Florida, think Florida. But I just come up with stupid fucking things. Suntan lotion. Baby alligators. This kid I knew in like second grade—he had a pencil sharpener that looked like an orange. Said Florida on it. So how the fuck am I supposed to make a living off of baby alligators and stupid-ass souvenirs? Bert, I'll be honest with ya. I'm balancing neatly onna ballsa my ass down here. I ain't made a nickel. My girlfriend's getting fed up and I can't say I blame 'er. I gotta get something started or I'm in deep shit."