by SKLA
For a couple of minutes they walked in silence, and Joey, to his own surprise, found himself slipping into a state of mysterious contentment. To walk next to a bigger, older, stronger brother was a comfort. It almost didn't matter what you thought of him, it only mattered that he was there, like a roof, like a wall, like anything big and solid that protected you or surrounded you.
"I'm sorry I didn't come see ya before I left," said Joey. "I shoulda."
"Don't matter," said Gino, waving the apology away with a red flash of his cigar. "But kid, ya shoulda gone to see Pop. I think ya hurt his feelings."
"Maybe I wanted to."
"Hey, ya wanted to, ya wanted to. But that don't make it right."
And they walked. Gino's shoes plowed over the sand with the heavy assurance of wide tires. His thick chest blacked out a broad swath of the Atlantic. The women, walking with the grim purpose of after-dinner exercise, had gotten almost out of sight.
"Ya know," said Joey, gesturing back toward the twinkling bulk of the Flagler House, "I been wanting to see this place since the first day I got here."
Gino exhaled some smoke and said nothing.
"I think Pop used to come here with my mother."
Gino stiffened and bit down on his cigar, but Joey didn't notice. The younger brother was drifting into memory and into trust, two places he didn't often visit.
"Yeah," he went on, "I'm pretty sure this is the place. I don't remember the name, but my mother useta describe it to me. Said it had the big dining room with the hanging-over porch. Said it had its own beach, private from the others—"
Gino stopped walking and stood with the yellow moonlight on his shiny dark hair. "Joey, I don't really wanna hear where my father went to catch some pussy."
Joey did not know he was about to hit his brother. He didn't notice that the cigar had dropped out of his hand and was glowing dull red on the beach, and he didn't feel his arm draw back, coiling to throw a punch. He was about as surprised as Gino when his fist slammed into the stronger man's gut, finding the soft triangle at the bottom of the ribs.
The air came out of Gino as from a ruptured football, a popping whoosh followed by a long wheeze. Helplessly, he doubled up and stayed that way for the endless moment of wondering if his lungs would ever again remember how to breathe. He struggled to lift his head, and strained his eyeballs upward to look at Joey with the befuddlement of a bystander who finds himself winged.
Joey stared down at him and felt no remorse, only fear. Gino could beat the hell out of him, easily. He'd seen Gino fight, with his fists and his feet and his elbows, he'd seen him use the top of his head to knock out other men's teeth, and the thought of it gave Joey a sickening awareness of cigar smoke turning to brown juice at the back of his throat.
But Gino didn't go for him. He straightened up slowly, arched his back, and threw his arms behind him to stretch his chest. "Fuck you do that for?"
"You don't talk about my mother that way."
"Talk about your mother? What is this, Joey, the fucking schoolyard? Talk about my mother. What are you, a fucking baby?"
Joey locked onto Gino's hard narrow eyes, and Gino was the first to quit the stare. "Awright," he said. "Awright. I shouldn'ta said it. But Joey, let's you and me decide on something right now. We don't talk about my father and your mother, O.K.? We just don't talk about it."
Joey shifted his feet in the caked sand and nodded. He couldn't have said why he'd raised the subject anyway. He didn't need Gino to tell him never to raise it again.
"Now where's my fucking cigar?" said Gino. He scanned the moonlit beach and found his corona smoldering a couple of yards away, where it had blown out of his mouth. He went to retrieve the smoke, and as he dusted the sand off it, his face took on an expression that was almost like genuine approval. "Joey," he said, "you're a crazy little fucker. I mean, to hit me, man, you gotta be fucking nuts. I mean, crazy."
— 20 —
Just before five the next day, Bert d'Ambrosia came walking down Duval Street in a seersucker shirt of mint-green and cobalt-blue stripes, colors that vibrated in the orange light of late afternoon. Unseen, and with his nervous chihuahua quivering against his chest, he watched Joey from half a block away, saw him dance toward his prospects, lean toward them as if he could somehow stretch his being to surround them, smile the salesman's hungry smile, and launch into his pitch. Eight hours of that, Bert thought. It must take a hell of a lot of energy. You had to show a lot of animation. That's what people responded to, animation. Like show biz. You wanted to get people on your side, you had to put out for them. And the street was hot. As March advanced, the sun climbed higher in the sky and sliced more relentlessly between the shimmering roofs. The cars and the scooters shot their hot blue puffs at sidewalk level, you felt them on your shins.
"Joey, why don't you wear shorts at least?"
"Oh, hi, Bert," Joey said. He swept off his repaired sunglasses and raked a forearm across his sweaty brow.
"No, I'm serious," said the old man, as if Joey had suggested he wasn't. "You'd be a lot more comfortable."
Joey gave a noncommittal shrug. He felt he'd given in enough already. He had the pink shirt, the sneakers. He'd broken down and bought a smugly cheap plastic watchband like Zack Davidson's. But shorts, that was where he drew the line. Where he came from, only dorks wore shorts. He could picture them. Dorks in shorts waiting for the bus on Astoria Boulevard. Dorks in shorts collecting deposit bottles in shopping carts. Dorks in shorts, with baseball caps, lumbering in overweight packs toward Shea Stadium. Nah, forget about it. These were losers with hairy knees and goofy socks. Even Bert— Joey didn't like to think anything bad about Bert, but face it, Bert looked a little dorky in his shorts. Too much empty space around his shrunken thighs. Too much skin for the amount of meat that was left. But O.K., with old guys it didn't matter as much. Old guys deserved some extra slack, they could look a little dorky without totally giving up their dignity.
"Got time for a quick one?" Bert asked.
"Sure," said Joey, and they crossed Duval Street, heading for the Eclipse Saloon.
The tavern was cool and dim, dim enough so that Don Giovanni's oversized pupils opened wide and gleamed with a morbid mauve glow. The bar was just starting to fill up with that select group of Key Westers who actually worked and therefore had a set time to begin their drinking. Cliff the bartender had daydreamed his way through the sluggish hours and now he greeted them with the distracted gentleness of a man just waking up from a nap. " 'Lo, Bert. The usual? Joey?"
Cliff started in on Bert's whiskey sour while listening for Joey's order. As far as Cliff could remember, he never asked for the same thing twice. And the fact was that while Joey enjoyed the ritual of the cocktail, the shapes of the glasses, the sound of shaken ice, the sheen of frothy liquor cascading out of stainless steel, and yes, the feel of alcohol trickling into his blood-stream, he'd never yet found a drink he liked more than other drinks. Which is to say, he hadn't found the drink that fit his image, because he hadn't found his image. "Gimme a gin and tonic."
"Salud," said Bert.
"Salud," said Joey.
The old man took a sip of foam, then wiped his loose mouth on his cocktail napkin. "Your brother came to see me this morning."
"Really? What for?"
Bert rested his elbows on the thick padding at the edge of the bar and shrugged. "I'm not really sure. It was a strange kinda visit. Like, formal. Not the kinda thing I expect from young guys anymore. He said he was coming to pay his respects and to bring regards from your father. And that's really all he said."
"Hm," said Joey. He sucked in an ice cube and let it melt on his tongue. "Was Vicki with him?"
This made Bert lean back on his barstool. "Why the fuck would Vicki be with him? Vicki the transvestite?"
"No," said Joey. "Vicki the bimbo. This broad he has with him."
Bert looked relieved. "No, he was alone. Very alone, if ya know what I mean. Like, the feeling I had, he's down here a
ll by himself, there's more goin' on than he can handle, and he can't talk to anybody. He needs some answers but he can't ask the questions. Ya know what I mean?"
"Yeah, Bert, I know whatcha mean. He tell ya about last night?"
"No. What about last night?"
So Joey told him about the lobster dinner and the walk on the beach. Bert threw his head back in a horsey but silent laugh and slapped the edge of the bar.
"You hit 'im? You hit 'im, Joey?"
Joey couldn't help smiling. "Yup. It was a sucker punch, but I caught him a good one."
"Jesus." Bert absently reached down and tickled Don Giovanni behind the ears. "Guyones," he said to the chihuahua. "The kid ain't bright, but he's got guyones. " And now he leaned close to Joey and dropped his voice. "But hey, you know the rules about hitting a made guy, brother or otherwise. I mean, that shit can get dangerous."
"I know. I know. But it's not like I had it planned. It just happened. A guy's gotta do what he's gotta do, am I right?"
Bert sipped his sour and his expression turned thoughtful. 'Yeah, Joey, you're right. Only problem, though, is that one guy does what he's gotta do, and it gets inna face of another guy doin' what he's gotta do. Ya hear what I'm sayin'? Like, especially with families. So O.K., Gino makes some stupid crack about your mother. Ya gotta slug 'im. Ya gotta. But look at it from his side. What about his mother? Ya can't just forget about her. She's left at home with the pots and pans and the babies and the stringsa garlic hanging from the ceiling. She goes to church while your father goes to hotels. She worries when he don't come home. If she bothers to think about it, she's gotta know there's another woman and the other woman is younger and prettier and has a better shape than her. I mean, it's no picnic for the wife."
Joey had put his hands flat on the bar and was looking down at them as though in shame. He was starting to feel like he hadn't knocked the wind out of Gino but out of the little old Italian mama who was Gino's mother.
"Hey," Bert resumed, "I ain't sayin' this to make you feel bad. It's just that, ya know, it's complicated. Ya can't ask someone not to be a little crazy where his mother is concerned. But Joey, your mother, you should only be proud of her. She was a remarkable person, an artist. Yeah. That's why she went to work at the funeral parlor. You know that?"
Joey didn't know it. In fact, he knew very little about his mother's working life. If your job was beautifying corpses, you didn't come home and describe it in detail to your kid.
"It's true," said Bert. "She tol' me. Before she worked inna funeral home, she useta work inna beauty parlor. It drove her nuts, she said, to work so hard on these ladies, get 'em looking just right, then they'd walk out the door and immediately screw it up. She'd get their nails perfect, they'd put on lipstick that didn't match. She'd get their hair just so, they'd pull a slip on and knock it down. Or the wind would blow.
Or they'd wear an ugly dress. Or crappy jewelry. Ya know what she said to me one time, your mother? She said, 'Bert, it's like painting a picture and then watching the paint wash off inna rain.' Isn't that a sad thing? I remember it all these years. So that's why she switched over to corpses. Do the job once, the job stays done. Family, friends, they get their viewing, then, boom, the lid comes down and it's straight off to God. She was, like, a perfectionist, your mother. I got a lotta respect for that."
Joey squeezed his glass and tried to smile. The bar had filled up, and he felt the nearness of bodies at his back. Cliff had sloughed off his grogginess and was rattling two cocktail shakers like a pair of maracas, taking another order at the same time, and giving off the animal contentment of the fully occupied man. Joey took a momentary vacation in the rattle of the ice and the mounting buzz of saloon noise, gave himself a respite from having either to talk or to listen. When he returned, he was able to put his hand on the old man's shoulder. "Thanks, Bert. It's nice of you to tell me that."
"Sure, kid," said the Shirt. "But now I gotta tell ya somethin' that ain't so nice." He took the orange slice out of his drink, nibbled the flesh from the skin, and, from long habit, glanced over his shoulder to see who might be listening. But in Key West no one ever was.
"After your brother left this morning, I didn't have a good feeling about things. So I made some calls. Coupla days ago there was a sit-down. In Brooklyn. Charlie Ponte, your father, coupla other big guys. Ponte says he's running outta patience about this bullshit with the emeralds. He says it to your father. Your father says whaddya want from me? Ponte flat out accuses him of being involved. Your old man denies it and gets very hot. Ponte says, 'O.K., if you're onna level and wanna avoid a lotta headaches, you got no reason not to make a deal with me.' "What's the deal?" your old man asks. 'The deal is this,' says Ponte. 'I find the guys who have my stones, I whack 'em. No questions asked, and no retaliation.' And your father agrees."
"He agrees?" Joey repeated. It was all he could think of to say.
Bert raised a qualifying finger. "The guy I got my information from, it's, like, secondhand. I don't know if he agreed 'cause he couldn't go back on what he'd already said. Or if he's got something up his sleeve. Or if he really believes his crew is clean. I don't know any of that. But yeah, he agreed. They kissed on it. It's settled."
The noise of the bar seemed suddenly to rise up like a wave, and as if from underneath it Joey heard himself mumbling dully. "So if it's Gino, he ain't even protected."
"Nope."
"And if he ends up gettin' clipped, the old man's gonna feel responsible."
Bert just shrugged.
"Does Gino know about the sit-down?"
"I'm not sure," said Bert the Shirt. "But I sorta doubt it. I mean, the way he seems to be doing everything by himself, I think he's stayin' outta touch."
"Maybe I oughta tell 'im."
Bert reached down and rubbed Don Giovanni's chin. The gesture seemed to help him think. "Well, I don't know. Maybe. But how could you tell 'im without openin' a whole canna worms? Like, how much else d'ya know? Like how come ya didn't let on before? And besides, Joey, once ya get involved, your ass is inna same sling his is."
"But Jesus, Bert, if Ponte has a green light to clip 'im—"
The Shirt held a big, wrinkled hand in the younger man's face. "Joey, lissena me. A lotta what we're talking here, it's guesswork. Ya know, we're assumin' Gino's involved. Maybe he ain't. Maybe he's a lot smarter than we give 'im credit for. Maybe everything'll be fine. But if it turns out he's in this kinda trouble, don't imagine for a second you can help 'im. You can't. So don't be a schmuck."
"Bert, hey, he's my brother."
"Joey, brothers die too, what can I tell ya? If your brother Gino has the stones, make your peace with it and write 'im off. I'm telling you like a father."
— 21 —
"I mean, really, Sandra, how does it look? They're here, what, more than a week already, and we haven't had 'em over. It's not right."
"You want to have 'em over?" Sandra asked.
They were lying side by side on lounges near the pool. It was Sunday afternoon, the only time of week that all the compound residents tended to be at home. Steve the naked landlord was waist-deep in the water. Peter and Claude were sitting at their little table, having herb tea and scones in their undies. Wendy and Marsha, chaste, fuzzy, and bookish in one-piece bathing suits, traded sections of the New York Times. Luke, in deference to the sociable Sunday gathering, had taken his headphones off his ears and looped them around his neck. Lucy the beautiful Fed was quietly swimming laps in a pair of boxer shorts.
"What's want gotta do with it?" Joey asked. He tried to keep his voice low, so as not to make the conversation communal property. But on certain subjects he could not keep himself from becoming emphatic. "This is family, Sandra. Want's not the issue here."
"Then what is?" She pushed herself up on her elbows. In keeping with the compound's blithe attitude toward the exposure of skin, she'd bought a two-piece bathing suit. Not a bikini but a squared-off baby-blue top and bottom reminiscent of the Gidget movies. The
panties went full down to the little arc where the leg joins the buttock; the bra had sturdy-looking straps and built-in cups that left Sandra plenty of room to breathe. Still, a two-piece it was, and Sandra felt pleasantly risque in it.
"Obligation," Claude piped in. "That's the issue."
Joey, whose back was to the bartenders, rolled his eyes.
"I don't agree," said Peter. He wiped a crumb of scone from the corner of his mouth. "I mean, it starts as obligation, sure, but then as you get older, as people accept each other more, you realize you can really enjoy seeing family."
Joey turned over on his lounge. In the languor of afternoon, with the sun beating down through the palm fronds, the act took considerable effort. "Guys, listen, you can have your opinions and all, but with my family, things are, like, a little different."
"Honey," said Claude, "what about with ours?" He widened his eyes as if posing for the cover of Vogue. "My father's career air force. You don't think that makes things a little weird?"
Marsha shook the Arts and Leisure section, then peeked out over the top of it and over the top of her reading glasses. "All families are weird," she pronounced. "Don't claim it as a special privilege, Joey."
Was this meant to be comforting, or was he under attack? It often happened that Joey wasn't sure. "Privilege?" he said. "The aggravation I have with my family, you think I think it's a privilege?"
"You'd think so if you didn't have any family," said Steve. He waited his usual beat, then started to smile; the smile was half formed when he seemed to realize it didn't go with what he'd said.
"My family, when I see 'em, it's a treat." This was Luke talking. It was so rare that Luke spoke that everyone looked twice to make sure of where the sound was coming from. "They're way up in Rochester. It's always snowing when I see 'em. I love 'em, my folks, but it's like I can't picture 'em without shivering."